How to Talk to a Widower

trying to identify the shapes of alien objects, but everywhere I look, I see the dark round barrel of Dave’s gun staring back at me, all knowing. I looked up at him last night and told him that I was ready, but now, lying here, with Russ’s low, steady breath in my ear, I realize that I was wrong. I am nowhere near ready to die. I’ve died enough. I still have some living to do. I’ve just got to start doing it a little more carefully.

39

    I OPEN MY EYES TO FIND LANEY POTTER SITTING beside my bed, looking tired and frail, her eyes swollen from crying. “Hey,” she says softly.
    “Hey.”
    “Russ went to get you some breakfast.”
    “Oh. That’s good.”
    She nods, and opens her mouth to say something, but nothing comes out.
    “Laney,” I say.
    “I’m so sorry, Doug.” She starts to cry. “I never imagined he would do something like this.”
    “I know.”
    “You might have been killed.”
    “It’s okay.”
    She leans forward in her chair. “It’s my fault, all of it. You were grieving and I took advantage of that. I was supposed to be your friend. And then, when you tried to move on, I couldn’t handle it. If something had happened to you … ”
    Something did happen to me, I think, as she sobs into her hands for a few moments, and then roots through her bag for a tissue.
    “Listen,” I say. “It was my fault as much as yours. I guess for the last year I’ve been treating Hailey’s death like a free pass. It was selfish and stupid, and I’ve decided not to do it anymore.”
    She nods and sits back in her chair. “Mike came by last night to get our story straight for the police. Thank you for that.”
    “It really was an accident, Laney.”
    She looks at me for a while, nodding unconsciously. “How did we get here, Doug?”
    I don’t have an answer for that, so I just shake my head and close my eyes, and when I open them, Russ is sitting where Laney had been, chewing on a bagel. “And he’s back!” Russ says.

    There’s been a multiple-vehicle accident in White Plains, and the CAT scan will be tied up all morning, so my discharge will be delayed. My mother comes for a quick visit and to drop off muffins before she has to disappear into the whirlwind of wedding preparations. “Where’s Dad?” I say.
    “He’s having one of his bad mornings,” my mother says, looking down at her hands.
    “What do you mean?”
    “What do you mean, what do I mean?” she says. “He woke up angry, won’t say a word to me, and when I left the house he was throwing things at Rudy.”
    “Jesus,” I say. “I guess I thought, you know, after last night … ”
    “You thought he’d snapped out of it.”
    “Yes.”
    She shakes her head, smiling sadly. “He’s always going to be like this, Doug.”
    “How do you deal with it?” I say, instantly and deeply depressed.
    She shrugs sadly. “It’s like anything else,” she says. “I just hope for more good days than bad.”
    “I’m sorry, Mom.”
    “Also,” she says, “I self-medicate.”

    The CAT scan is still tied up at noon, and I’m starting to get a little antsy. Russ has set up a wastebasket on the windowsill and we’re tossing crumpled magazine pages at it and keeping score. He’s winning because I’m injured, and also because I suck. When we run out of paper, he goes and collects all of our crumpled balls and stockpiles them on the bed for a second round.
    “Let’s play Horse,” he says.
    “I can’t leave the bed.”
    “So you’ll lose.”
    “Okay, you go first.”
    He shoots lying down on the floor behind the bed. He shoots from the bathroom. He shoots standing with his back against the far wall. “Nothing but net,” he says. He opens the door to shoot from the hallway, and Brooke is standing there, about to knock.
    “Ms. Hayes,” Russ says.
    “Hi, Russ,” she says, looking past him at me. “Is now a bad time?”
    “No, it’s a great time,” I say. “Join the party.”
    She steps tentatively into the room, looking morning fresh in jeans and a long-sleeved black jersey under a gray T-shirt.
    “I was just going on a soda run,” Russ says. “You want anything?”
    “No, thanks.”
    After he leaves, she sits down stiffly. “Are you okay?” she says.
    “Yeah. Actually, I think I might be better than I’ve been in a long time. I guess it took something like this to help me figure a few things out.”
    “Are you going to make it to the wedding?”
    “Nah,” I say. “I’m sorry about that. I was