Read Online The Widow's Season by Laura Brodie - Free Book Online Page A

just a thought that had flashed across my mind.”
    “I’ve never seen my husband,” the woman added after a while. “I’ve waited for twenty years, but never a glimpse.”
    The water-skier’s widow sighed, and spoke in a quiet voice. “The only time I see Greg is in my dreams. Sometimes I’ll be talking to him, and it seems so real. Then I remember that he’s dead, and I tell him so. That always wakes me up.”
    Around her the group murmured its assent. Dreams were the widows’ common denominator, the alternate world where life and death mingled. The redheaded professor launched into Freudian implications, while Sarah recalled visions of David, floating down the river.
    She felt a hand touch her own, and turning to her left, Sarah found Adele leaning toward her, her dogwood brooch almost nicking Sarah’s shoulder.
    “I’ve spoken to my Edward many times in the past forty years. Sometimes I’ll wake up and he’ll be standing beside my bed, still wearing his uniform. And I’ll say, ‘Eddie, you go on now and rest easy. I’ll be with you soon enough.’ ”
    The old woman leaned back in her chair and chuckled, as if she had just told a marvelous joke.
    Sarah didn’t know whether to be pleased or appalled. She had almost come to accept David’s appearances as a sign of mental breakdown, a delusion sparked by her isolation. But here were these women insisting that she wasn’t crazy, she was normal. Somehow the idea didn’t soothe her; a touch of insanity was preferable to the status quo.
    She glanced over at Margaret, who was leaning against the kitchen doorway. “What do you think?”
    Margaret hesitated, apparently choosing her words more carefully than usual.
    “I think it’s going to be hard for you to have any closure until David’s body is found.”
    “Which means you think this is all in my head?”
    “I didn’t say that.”
    “But you don’t believe in ghosts?”
    Again Margaret hesitated.
    “I believe there is a lot more going on in this world than we can comprehend. Whether or not that includes ghosts, I don’t know. But I’ll say this much—if you are really seeing David, there must be a reason. Either he is somehow trying to reach you, or you are trying to reach him. Most likely the latter. There’s probably something unresolved in your mind.”
     
     
     
    It was ten o’clock when the group disbanded, waving and hugging and exchanging book titles on yellow Post-it notes. After everyone had left, Margaret retrieved a flashlight from her pantry and walked Sarah back to her house. There was only one streetlight at the start of the road, and its lavender glow faded as they walked to the end of the cul-de-sac, the beam from Margaret’s flashlight bobbing like a buoy.
    When they reached Sarah’s porch, Margaret stayed on the lawn and shined the light up the stairs as Sarah unlocked her door.
    “Thanks for inviting me,” Sarah called back. “It wasn’t so bad.”
    “Your enthusiasm is breathtaking.”
    “Tea at my house this Friday?” Sarah switched on the hall light.
    “All right; and, Sarah?”
    Sarah turned back and saw Margaret looking up at her with a slight smile.
    “If David shows up again, tell him I said hi.”

• 8 •
    Two days later Sarah was walking through the Safeway, filling her cart with bags of Skittles and SweeTarts. It was Halloween, and her shopping was motivated by guilt. Upon entering the store, she had seen Mrs. Foster hoarding enormous amounts of fruit: “The kids are having a party . . . I’m making caramel apples.” At Sarah’s vague nod Mrs. Foster had added: “Do you want the boys to stop by this year?”
    The question was meant kindly, but Sarah couldn’t help imagining Mrs. Foster three years ago, inspecting her children’s candy for razor blades and opened wrappers, and discovering a Ziploc bag of Oreos.
    “Of course, have them come. I’d love to see their costumes.” The neighborhood mothers were probably doubtful about her house