The Between Years

That was another tip I'd picked up from my grandmother. But don't think I didn't overhear a few smart remarks about it (“Hippy” and “Godless liberals” being chief among them). I swore that as much as people opened up their hearts to us, there was another population that acted like complete jerks.

    We celebrated a full communion and the priest gave an excellent sermon about how temporary our lives are. He said that one day God will create a new heaven and a new earth, which I understand more now than I had that day, but the speech still offered some reassurance. I did notice the coincidence that the same priest who'd married Randy and I was also officiating our son's funeral, but the priest and I would come to know each other much better as time passed.

    After, a reception was held in the church hall, which included finger sandwiches, coffee, tea and punch prepared by the Anglican Church Women. Later, a small reception was held at our house for family and close friends. Everyone was on their best behavior throughout, including my aunt Sheila who's known to get a little tipsy at any family gathering that offers free booze. Randy bought a few cases of beer and several bottles of wine, which I thought was practically dangling bait before her eyes, but Sheila managed to stick to ginger ale.

    For dinner, we brought in party tray pizzas and chicken wings, which seemed like the perennial meal to please any crowd in Fort Erie. I felt self-conscious about the affair since it was the first time I'd had everyone over to our little house, like I should have prepared something more extravagant. Randy's mom told me not to put myself to that kind of trouble because I'd been through enough, but I didn't want to feel helpless. I wasn't looking for sympathy either. The real problem was that, no matter how much I cleaned, the house never seemed clean enough, and I worried about what someone would think if they found even a speck on the kitchen counter.

    As it turned out, the only problem we had was fitting everyone in. Some ate in the dining room, others in the kitchen, and a few settled in the living room with TV trays. My feelings about our company changed. Having everyone in my home made me feel warm inside and, for the first time in days, I felt content, secure. Maybe there was more to receiving some doting than I'd realized.

    What worried me was what I would do once everyone was gone. The cacophony of voices and laughs that filled out house would funnel out and we would be left with silence. Sadness. The thought made me long for the “We're so sorry for your loss” comments.

    Randy did away with his tie before the pizza had arrived, unbuttoned the top of his dress shirt, and played host much better than I'd thought he would. He'd been seen as ultra-quiet (but not quite anti-social) among his cousins, and his aunts and uncles never knew how to approach him. Our guests stayed long after dinner and eventually filed out around midnight.

    After that, silence.

    Randy stretched, yawned, and rubbed my shoulders. I told him to run off to bed and let me tidy up. When he asked me if I was sure, I told him that I always meant it when I said I wanted to take care of everything. So he wandered off to bed and I collected beer bottles, wing glasses and plates that were still laden with pizza crust and chicken wing bones.

    Part of me didn't want to return my house to its normal clean state because it was a reminder that everyone was gone. If I left the place as it, I would feel like everyone had left just moments ago. I wanted to stay in the moment in which everyone was here for me, the moment in which I felt protected.

    In the days that followed, I found myself unable to tolerate a quiet house. First, the house was devoid of crying. Kenny had never been a loud baby, but all infants must wail at some point or another. And there was always something going on between diaper changes, feedings, burpings, baths, grandparents calling or dropping by, you name it. Randy and I both slept through the night for the first time since Kenny had been born.

    At night, I cleared the table, loaded the dishwasher, and prepared a few baskets of laundry while Randy sat in the living room with a book. Each time I passed him, I'd find him paused, staring into space with his thumb marking the page. I wanted to ask him what he was staring at, but I didn't dare. Even when he was deeply immersed in a book, he didn't like to be interrupted.

    Cards