Read Online Those We Love Most by Lee Woodruff - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lee Woodruff
Ads: Link
doubt exactly what she’d seen.
7
One month after his death Maura felt the hollowed-out absence of James more acutely than she had during the funeral, or in the days immediately following, when she��d confined herself to her bedroom, shades drawn. Her mother was no longer coming daily, and Pete’s parents too had cut back on their check-ins, which was both a relief and a loss. This “after” part was almost worse, her grief sharper and more intense during the empty stretch of hours in the house while Ryan was at summer camp and Sarah napped. In those moments of acute silence, Maura would visit James’s room. She had created a ritual of lying on his bed, eyes closed, imagining him here.
She stood in the doorframe and took in the posters of her son’s sports and music heroes on the pale blue walls, the worn stuffed animal frog above his desk that had been retired when he’d become “a big boy.” Stepping over to the bookshelf, which she had sanded and painted with constellation stencils when he was four, Maura ran her fingertips across the books’ spines. She brushed a light layer of dust off the volume of Greek mythology he had cherished, the encyclopedia of dinosaurs, the Harry Potter series that she had first started reading to him and then, with each passing installment, he had begun to read more quickly himself. There were the baseball trophies, the yellow dried palm frond in the shape of a cross from this past Easter, and the porcelain piggy bank that had been a baby gift from Erin with JAMES PATRICK CORRIGAN painted on the belly and under it his height and weight. Seven pounds, four ounces. Maura blinked, dry-eyed. She lifted the bank, and the coins slid into the pig’s head. It was heavier than she’d expected. James had always been a saver.
Opening the closet door she drank in his boy scent on the baseball uniform and discarded pajamas from that very last morning. She had left his dirty clothes in the hamper so that she could retain this scent memory, and she felt him here, trace elements present in the objects of his room. But she could not yet fully admit that his smell was disappearing, being erased, the clothes in his drawers gradually assuming the generic scent of laundry detergent, mingled with the slight cedar odor of the round wooden air fresheners. With each passing week, little bits of James were slipping away and dissolving, thwarting her efforts at preservation.
There was always a point in her visitation of his room where the finality of his loss reared up and overwhelmed her. Life stopped at the edges of this room. Maura sat back down on the bed, holding her head as she let the sobs come, and then lay down, curling like a caterpillar on the thin SpongeBob bedspread.
Rascal, as if understanding her distress, moved over to nuzzle her ankles the way he did when he wanted a dog treat or to be lifted onto a lap. He yelped as she hoisted him up to James’s bed, absentmindedly forgetting to support his back with both hands. Rascal settled in the C-curve of her curled body and let out a sigh as Maura began to stroke his silky ears. The dog missed James too.
It had been James who had first noticed when Rascal seemed to struggle on the stairs last winter. Maura had guessed it might be something with his hips, or maybe his back. If only she’d known where that would lead, how something as innocuous as a visit to the veterinarian could be a catalyst for the fulcrum event in her life.
As the dog’s mobility had steadily shrunk, Rascal began to drag his back foot slightly, and she’d called for an appointment. It was probably nothing, she’d told her son, old age. Dachshunds were notorious for back and disc problems, and he was at least eight years old.
Rascal had been James’s more than any of theirs. He had begged for a dog practically since he could speak, and it had become part of the bedtime ritual. He began to step up his requests to include other times of the day, if they passed
7
One month after his death Maura felt the hollowed-out absence of James more acutely than she had during the funeral, or in the days immediately following, when she��d confined herself to her bedroom, shades drawn. Her mother was no longer coming daily, and Pete’s parents too had cut back on their check-ins, which was both a relief and a loss. This “after” part was almost worse, her grief sharper and more intense during the empty stretch of hours in the house while Ryan was at summer camp and Sarah napped. In those moments of acute silence, Maura would visit James’s room. She had created a ritual of lying on his bed, eyes closed, imagining him here.
She stood in the doorframe and took in the posters of her son’s sports and music heroes on the pale blue walls, the worn stuffed animal frog above his desk that had been retired when he’d become “a big boy.” Stepping over to the bookshelf, which she had sanded and painted with constellation stencils when he was four, Maura ran her fingertips across the books’ spines. She brushed a light layer of dust off the volume of Greek mythology he had cherished, the encyclopedia of dinosaurs, the Harry Potter series that she had first started reading to him and then, with each passing installment, he had begun to read more quickly himself. There were the baseball trophies, the yellow dried palm frond in the shape of a cross from this past Easter, and the porcelain piggy bank that had been a baby gift from Erin with JAMES PATRICK CORRIGAN painted on the belly and under it his height and weight. Seven pounds, four ounces. Maura blinked, dry-eyed. She lifted the bank, and the coins slid into the pig’s head. It was heavier than she’d expected. James had always been a saver.
Opening the closet door she drank in his boy scent on the baseball uniform and discarded pajamas from that very last morning. She had left his dirty clothes in the hamper so that she could retain this scent memory, and she felt him here, trace elements present in the objects of his room. But she could not yet fully admit that his smell was disappearing, being erased, the clothes in his drawers gradually assuming the generic scent of laundry detergent, mingled with the slight cedar odor of the round wooden air fresheners. With each passing week, little bits of James were slipping away and dissolving, thwarting her efforts at preservation.
There was always a point in her visitation of his room where the finality of his loss reared up and overwhelmed her. Life stopped at the edges of this room. Maura sat back down on the bed, holding her head as she let the sobs come, and then lay down, curling like a caterpillar on the thin SpongeBob bedspread.
Rascal, as if understanding her distress, moved over to nuzzle her ankles the way he did when he wanted a dog treat or to be lifted onto a lap. He yelped as she hoisted him up to James’s bed, absentmindedly forgetting to support his back with both hands. Rascal settled in the C-curve of her curled body and let out a sigh as Maura began to stroke his silky ears. The dog missed James too.
It had been James who had first noticed when Rascal seemed to struggle on the stairs last winter. Maura had guessed it might be something with his hips, or maybe his back. If only she’d known where that would lead, how something as innocuous as a visit to the veterinarian could be a catalyst for the fulcrum event in her life.
As the dog’s mobility had steadily shrunk, Rascal began to drag his back foot slightly, and she’d called for an appointment. It was probably nothing, she’d told her son, old age. Dachshunds were notorious for back and disc problems, and he was at least eight years old.
Rascal had been James’s more than any of theirs. He had begged for a dog practically since he could speak, and it had become part of the bedtime ritual. He began to step up his requests to include other times of the day, if they passed
Similar Books
