His First Wife

“Well,” she said, smiling as if not one tear had fallen from her eyes, “if we’re going to work together, we may as well shower together.”

She slid off her pants and I watched as she walked naked into the bathroom. And, Lord, just like that old saying goes, “I hated to see her leave, but I sure liked watching her walk away.”

“You coming in?” she called from the shower. God permitting!

In two years, I’d learned two things about being married:

1. The worst part is fighting.

2. The best part is making up.

E-MAIL TRANSMISSION

TO: [email protected]

FROM: [email protected]

DATE: 9/11/07

TIME: 12:42 PM

Hello. I just wanted to say hi. Today is 9/11. The day Duane died. It’s a very sad day for me. I wish you were here.

E-MAIL TRANSMISSION

TO: [email protected]

FROM: [email protected]

DATE: 10/19/07

TIME: 4:51 AM

It’s my birthday. I don’t know if you remembered that or if you even care, but I wanted to let you know that I have been thinking about you and I do miss you. Whether you miss me or not, that doesn’t change how I feel.

Tonight I went out with one of my friends from work and when we were sitting at dinner I kept seeing all these couples walking around together and it made me so sad. I wanted that to be us and because of the lies you fed me, I thought that would be us. I really did love you and every day I spend without you makes me sick. I can’t eat. I’ve lost twenty pounds and while I tried to go to the classes you got me into at Perimeter, I’m too sad to be focusing on stuff like that.

I know you really don’t want to hear all of this, but I’m tired of keeping it to myself. I think we’re meant to be together. I know you know it too. You’re just being a husband out of obligation and I understand that. But I want you to know that I’ll always be here waiting for you. I feel crazy even saying that, but it really is how I feel. I need to be honest with myself right now. There’s no other man for me.

I have been alone and lonely for a long time. Even when I was married, I felt alone. I always thought there had to be someone else out there for me. Something else. When I met you, I figured I’d found it. Not just because of who you are, but what you make me want to be. How you make me feel like being more than what I am. Now that you’re gone, refusing to even return my e-mails, I feel alone again and I really don’t know how I’m going to find my way out. I’m afraid to think of what I might do. But I’m a woman who has nothing. I can’t even say that to anyone else. And it hurts me to even write it. And here I am crying again over a man that doesn’t even want to be with me . . .

Turkey

The morning after Jamison found his way back to our bed, we woke up to a full Southern breakfast, courtesy of Aunt Luchie. Homemade biscuits, gravy, eggs, bacon, grits . . . There was so much food on the table, I thought it was already Thanksgiving. Aunt Luchie, Jamison, and I sat at the table as Tyrian rocked in a swing Isabella had set up in the kitchen. It was the first time we were eating as a family, and while we were just making small talk, it felt so good to be in that space. Like we were whole for the first time in a long time.

When we finished eating, Jamison got up from the table and kissed Tyrian and me on the cheek before heading to work. He did it methodically, so practiced, as if it was something he’d been doing or thinking of doing every morning for his entire life.

“Bye babies,” he said, exiting with a hopeful smile on his face. I didn’t respond. I just smiled back and nodded.

“Wow, that was great,” I said to Aunt Luchie. I got up from the table and began helping her put the dishes away.

“Thank you, baby. I thought we could all use a little something extra on our stomachs this morning,” she said. “I think Georgia saw its first real winter night last night. It was so cold.”

Unlike my mother, Aunt Luchie didn’t see it as being necessary to be completely dressed before you sat down at the breakfast table. She was wearing a brown silk bathrobe and had a colorful scarf on her head. She looked lovely, even that early in the morning, but I don’t think I ever saw my mother at the breakfast table with something covering her head. She hated head scarves. Said they only had a place in the bedroom and made us look like Aunt Jemimas. If it wasn’t for the pictures, I’d swear my mother and Aunt Luchie were raised by different people.

“Yeah, it sure was cold,” I said.

“I had to get an extra blanket out of the closet.”