Teddy Bear

TW: death

It’s all your fault, you know. Picture it now, I was standing at that sparkling marble counter top, sorting through the mail, when I saw it. A thin envelope addressed to Joanne Roberts.

It sat on my counter for hours while I cleaned up the kitchen, completed an online yoga workout, and took a hot shower. “Young’s Storage Company” in red letters as the header to the return address gave me plenty of info to begin searching online. “Final Notice” stamped in red across the front let me know what it was about. Still, I wanted to know the specifics.

I must confess, noticed my first night in the house there weren’t any photos of you. Not even a wedding picture. All of the decor was masculine with sharp corners. No color. Somewhere, deep down, I knew he had erased you.

But above that knowledge, I had known I was prepared to replace you.

I put on my best little red sundress and made myself lunch-a turkey sandwich, side salad, Diet Coke. Did I purposefully knock over my drink? Onto the letter? No….

Alright, you caught me. I did! Why would my husband have a letter from a storage company addressed to you?

It was easy to open the letter. But the only thing inside was a boring notice about you being behind on payments. How can a ghost be behind on payments?

I asked him all those questions over dinner. He wrapped me up in kisses saying, “I”ll sort it all out tomorrow, my dear. I didn’t want you to be surrounded by her memory. It seemed cruel. But I…I couldn’t part myself entirely from her. She always had a storage unit…to house her…stuff…so I just kept it going.” His beautiful eyes stared at the leftover gravy on his plate creating a masterpiece with the mashed potatoes.

Then, he changed the topic and complimented my dress.

Did I mention that Johnathon picked all my dresses for me? I remember that day so vividly. So…fondly…We had been walking around the mall on our third date after gorging ourselves on soft pretzels and soda pop, when he pulled me into this shop with a pretty little poppy on the sign.

We walked past the mini skirts in neon colors, past the intricately woven crop tops, and into the section at the back of the store where dresses hung on racks with signs reading: DISCOUNT. All of the tags had little red stickers on them marking their new price with the old price in block, black, print clearly beneath it so you truly understood the bargain you were getting.

Johnathon fingered through them, looked me up and down, and returned to the rack. I did the same, trying to laugh through the pain of explaining my dress size to a new guy. But Johnathon was an old hat at all of this. He was a widower, after all. 

Mom lost her mind when I told her I met a guy. You know how mothers can be. They just worry. I played it smart, though. I introduced Johnathon into the conversation, all casual, like he was a description of sunny weather. “I met a guy, Mom,” I said and her whole body shifted in the salon chair. It was such an abrupt change, her pedicurist rushed to grab towels and mop up the oily warm water she had sloshed everywhere.

She demanded details. I told her everything I could—that Johnathon was a kind man, that he was incredibly musically talented, that he led the whole church every Sunday at the College Mass in song, and, oh, yeah, he’s a widower. That detail shut her up for a bit. 

Mom begged me every week to come to church with her and Dad. I always had an excuse why I couldn’t manage to go.

Of course, the knowledge of Johnathon’s existence somehow excused all the excuses. It made it all make sense. It was that final piece of the puzzle. But I could see in her eyes that the word, “Widower” frightened her. I watched it wash over her like a wave. It crashed into her heart. It scared her with all of its unspoken realities: an age gap that requires both hands to count? kids? baggage? survivor’s guilt? would I spend my whole life measuring up to another woman?

I assured her that day that I could handle being courted by a widower. Johnathon, in his most charming state, was a master at courtship. After all, he had succeeded in the task at least once. He bought flowers, insisted on meeting Mom and Dad with wine in hand, and when he knelt down on one knee the whole world held its breath waiting for my answer. Of course it was “yes.” It had to be “yes.” Be honest: did you see the signs?

We attended the mandatory meetings with our local priest who already adored Johnathon-perhaps more than me. He even used our story in a Sunday homily about the importance of the vocation of Marriage in the Church. He said, “I was once approached by a parishioner, our beloved Johnathon, who said he was called to serve God with his voice and I simply couldn’t say ‘no.’ Just remember, if God calls you to serve, there’s nearly no way for me to deny the request.” And we all looked to the rafters. I swear Johnathon winked at me. 

His mother taught him piano. His father taught him to pick a career worth having. Which is how he had the gumption to endure college, law school, and life as a first year associate. All of these milestones belong to the first Mrs. Roberts. 

Johnathon didn’t bring her into the conversation until halfway through our first date. “Listen,” he said as he leaned across the metal table of the cafe, “I’ve done this before. I am serious about it. I want to get married again. I am called to marriage. I know you’re young. I never want you feeling rushed into it. It’s a serious commitment.” I swear he stole those words right from my father’s lips. Yet, I smiled. I nodded. I promised I could hold it together. And if I squinted, I could block out the stands of gray in his jet black hair. He laughed when I told him that joke. Wouldn’t you?

Dad takes Johnathon out golfing every weekend while Mom and I get our nails done. It started out as a habit when we were busy planning the wedding. But it turned into something more for them. They’d come back flushed and happy-giggling like school girls with secrets. They’d sweep Mom and I up in their arms and we’d all go out to eat at a fancy restaurant. And Johnathon would pull out his black credit card with that Devil May Care grin before driving me back to the four bedroom house I shared with the girls from bible study. He’d give me a peck on the cheek. I’d press my back up against the cold door and cross out another day on my calendar until graduation.

My cap and gown came in a navy blue and gold. My diploma, four years of blood, sweat, and tears, rolled up into a single sheet of fancy parchment, eventually ended up in the back of the closet. But on that day, I knew that the diploma wasn’t what I was walking out those auditorium doors with-no, I was walking out with my fiance whom my family adored as my friends crowded me shouting, “Five months until you get your M.R.S. degree!”

You would have adored our wedding day. It was so perfectly perfect in every way. Johnathon had told me that his “first wedding” was in mid June. So we decided to have a winter wedding-October 20th. We chose a Friday so that we could advertise the event as an excuse for a long weekend. He was practiced at catering tasting and planning weather based backup plans. It was easy to forget why he knew how to do it all. Johnathon’s parents, long time managers in the hospitality industry, ensured we had the very best rates for our guests and a beautiful hall for the reception.

It all went to plan-the gorgeous full mass with readings Johnathon chose so as not to repeat any from his “first wedding”, the quick trip to the local hotel where we danced the night away, and the shuttle ride the next morning out to the airport for our honeymoon. I had wanted somewhere warm, but the first Mrs. Roberts insisted on Hawaii, so I settled for a weekend in a Colorado mountain town.

We rented a two bedroom condo with a huge jetted tub. We spent most of the weekend there. But Johnathon had insisted we step out to do some shopping, to eat a good meal, and drink a good glass of wine. See, that’s the thing about Johnathon, when he’s got his eyes locked on yours, that enticing bite of elk steak balanced on the edge of his fork, you’d do anything for him. I know I did.

Do you know how long it took for Sandy to tell me all about her? The first Mrs. Roberts? My brand spanking new mother in law took me out to lunch, a month after the wedding. We ordered an apppetizer and sparkling drinks, and she launched into the story of the ghost who haunted my new husband’s heart. I didn’t even know your name until that day.

It was Joanne.

I was told Joanne was very pretty. She was a blonde with a slim waist and easy laugh. She wasn’t close to her parents so she clung to her new in-laws, coming to Sandy for advice every weekend over a glass of wine, to Leonard for help with her car troubles which seemed to pop up nearly twice a month.

That Joanne, she was apparently, spectacular. She was the girl next door-literally. Sandy set up playdates on the regular between her son and Joanne when they were in elementary too, “rescue” Joanne from her “tragic home life.” Have I mentioned that the first time I visited Johnathon’s parents, they still had the old prom photo of the king and queen proudly displayed on the fireplace mantle? In fact, Sandy walked me over to it before dessert was even served. Don’t worry, it was Joanne’s favorite: pineapple upside cake.

Johnathon told a different story of the first Mrs. Roberts. Did you know he only ever calls you, “The First?”

According to him, she was, “complicated,” and “exhausting,” and “a challenge.” He always frowned when he spoke of her and held his chin in his hands, cleared his throat, or took another sip of red, red wine. So I dropped it. Joanne was always the hot poker of our marriage.

The demand came a week after that letter. Johnathon locked eyes with me over coffee, scrambled eggs, and toast. He forbid me from going into the garage saying, “I can’t afford the payments on the storage unit. I’ve moved a box of her stuff into the garage. I don’t want you getting hurt.” I nodded and avoided that place like the plague.

Except, last Sunday, when I stood in front of the garage door for twenty minutes before using the spare key we kept hung on the hook shaped like a moose’s antlers, to unlock it. Johnathon’s car was gone since he went to the office for the day-his latest trial was scheduled for the next day so some final details simply needed arranging. He had made me breakfast. There was even a little note bearing his love.

I had been perfectly happy eating my meal. It wasn’t until I turned on the shower that I even considered the garage. See, I was comfy and cozy in a steamy shower when all the lights went out. I screamed from panic and called out Johnathon’s name several times before I vaguely remembered that our breaker panel was in the garage! So I rinsed quickly, dried more quickly, and threw on some leggings before heading outside. 

Yes, I considered calling Johnathon. Of course, I did. I even considered calling my father or father in law or mother or mother in law or knocking on the doors of some friendly neighbors. But I figured I was not just a twenty five year old, but a married woman-a wife! If I was ever to become the mother Johnathon needed me to be for our children, I had better be able to switch a breaker. 

The garage was musty, dusty, gross. Some faint lines from dust remained on our cement floor where Johnathon always parked his car. The huge freezer he received as a wedding present from my father didn’t even whir. I grimaced and examined my scene. There was my bike-the one with the big blue basket that Johnathon had surprised me with for my first birthday with him. There were all of his hunting outfits(he hated when I called them outfits, but what else would I call them)? There was his splitting ax, his felling ax, and his hand ax, hung up on the wall. There was a tent we bought for our first anniversary. It made me smile.

And in the corner were three black totes with yellow lids, piled high on against a wall. But I could still make out the silver of the breaker panel so I marched over and gently shoved them to the side. I could clearly see two switches weren’t like the others so I clicked them over. The freezer began to whir to life. I was left with a satisfied grin. 

You would’ve been proud. I hope we would’ve been friends in another life-the big sister/little sister dynamic I always prayed for.

When I went to slide the totes back, the top one fell. I was left to clean up old photo albums of Johnathon’s childhood. I had seen all of them before, but still paused to stroke the giggling face of Johnathon on his 10th birthday. Around him balloons decorated the backyard, a huge cake in the shape of a cowboy hat had lit candles, and of course the present table was overflowing. His little lips puckered as he blew out the candles. I could practically hear the squeals of excited children. 

I went to pile the tote back up, but decided to slide the two remaining totes back into place first so as not to have the third one fall again. As they were tucked back into place, I noticed the middle one wasn’t quite sealed shut, so I went to close it. And found I couldn’t. I heard the sound of Johnathon’s voice chastising me, “If you’re gonna do anything, do it right or don’t do it at all.” So I took the yellow lid off.

Before me were all of Joanne’s dresses. I recognized their bright colors from Sandy’s photos. I found my hands sifting through them, without the full consent of my mind. They felt smooth like water between my fingers and I held them up to my chest, twirling in a dusty garage all alone. At the bottom of the tote was one final dress and a teddy bear. The dress was white with a blue flower pattern. I grabbed it and grimaced with a pounding heart, noticing the stains of blood in the center of the bust line, the tear where the weapon made its entrance and exit. Any woman who has endured her monthly visitor knows the color of dried blood. There was no excuse that he could come up with. It wasn’t paint or food. It was blood. The bear bore the same markings and I fell to the garage floor.

Johnathon found me hours later. He picked me up, tut tutting as he went. He placed all of her dresses back in the box, but kept the teddy bear out. He sealed up the tote and helped me into the car. We drove in silence, the only light being from the full moon. Even if I had words, I don’t know if my throat could make them. It had gone silent after the screaming and the crying. My exhausted eyes fluttered closed and didn’t open until I could tell we had stopped, until I was certain we wouldn’t start again, until I felt Johnathon’s cool fingers stroking my hot cheek. 

He wore a sad face, like a clown without makeup. “They start out so good…so kind…so loving. They promise me…promise to be good. But then…they stop. They open letters not addressed to them. Ask questions they shouldn’t ask.” He threw the new dress at me and returned minutes later to take me by one hand. He gave me the teddy for the other one. Our footsteps sounded so loud in the dried out grass and the silence of the graveyard. Until we arrived. 

I am the second Mrs. Roberts. I am standing at your grave in my very best black heels and little black dress. My sweaty hands clutch the brown teddy bear I found in an old dusty tote, tucked in the corner of our old dusty garage. Johnathon smiles at me for the first time. He pulls out his gun. He leans in close. I close my eyes and taste his kiss one last time.