Sailboats

TRIGGER WARNING: Death, suggested suicide, grief.

"14 days."

"What?"

I didn't realize I'd spoken aloud. I look away from the bay, sideways at Birdie. I'd forgotten she was there.

Right. I have to answer. Seem sane, keep appearances and such.

"Since Alex--"

"Oh. Never mind. Sorry. Actually--you know--uhm, forget I asked. It's fine," she says hastily.

"It's fine," I have to remind myself means "I'm fine" from Birdie's mouth. It reassures her a lot more than it does me.

No one likes to talk about death. Especially not with the ones left behind. It's uncomfortable for obvious reasons. Made more so by my being the widow. No one wants to carry the guilt of finally snapping someone with one sentence.

We sit in silence, looking out over endless water, painted red by the sunset--as if stained by the blood of those it had killed. It's beautiful, stained with tragedy as it is. Anyone else could feel peaceful; could clear their minds. Even those who knew what had happened at this spot only 14 days ago.

"It wasn't a suicide," I blurt out. Birdie turns bright red and doesn't look at me. Clearly she believes the media; the horrible articles. She doesn't want to shatter me but thinks I must already be deluded.

"He would never--Not with the-- he was happy with his life." Was I the only one who understood this? Did nobody else know Alex? With his daughter on her way, with our brand new apartment, with our brand new life together. Why would he leave it all?

"Greta--" Birdie sits and fidgets with the grass. "Of course he was happy. No one doubts that. But things can change so quickly. He was being threatened, and..." She trails off, looking at me with a worried expression.

It isn't the first time someone has tried to tell me this. It disgusts me. Alex was smart; he knew to ask for help. He was rational in these kinds of situations. He had already gone to the police when it happened. He had been clear headed the last time I talked to him.

"I'll be back in a few hours, I think."

"A few hours?"

"I was going to go sail after I file the report; let off steam, you know? Don't worry. The police will sort out everything, and life will go back to normal. We can paint the nursery when I get back. I really can't wait to do the trees! Our baby will love that green you chose!"

But he never did come back, and life can never be normal now. And the police haven't investigated Alex's report.

Hours before he died, Alex had come to me and asked my advice.

"Someone texted me today, an unknown number, and told me I needed to give them my credit card information. They gave me a list of everything they could do to us if I didn't give it to them. What should I do? You always know what to do."

"Go to the police. They can probably track the phone number. They're probably just bluffing."

I guess it's not high on the police's list of priorities now that the victim is lost at the bottom of the sea. Bitterness coats my tongue at the thought.

"Greta! Are you okay? You've been silent for a minute at least!"

"What? Yeah, yeah, I'm-- fine."

At least he died where he was happiest. Sailing on the water. He'd been so excited to take the baby on her first ride.

"How old does she have to be before I can take her on the water?"

"Are you crazy, Alex?"

"Do you really want me to answer that?"

"3. With me holding her the whole time and you going slowly."

"Deal!"

"Greta, you really need to go home. You've been here for hours."

"I'll go in a little bit. You go. You've got better things to do than sit here with me."

I hear Birdie get up and walk away, towards her car. I forget to say good bye, or watch her leave. As much as she was trying to help by keeping me company, I just want to be alone. I want to be with Alex.

I pull out my phone. With nothing better to do, I click open our shared photo album.

Pictures of us fill the screen. The half-painted nursery. The paint swatches that he sent me to decide on the color of the trees. My first ultrasound. A video of Alex jumping up and down when the doctor told us the gender of the baby.

His unashamed happiness still makes me laugh. Something halfway between a choke and a giggle bubble up through my throat.

I slam the face of my phone into the ground. I don't want to see these pictures. The ones that remind me that I will have to raise our daughter alone, that Alex will never meet her, or see me again.

I want to yell at him for hurting me so badly, but he's gone.

He's gone.

He's--

From its discarded place on the ground, my phone rings. I stare at it for a second, confused. Who would call me? I don't have a lot of friends and have made it very clear that I'm not interested in hearing condolences.

I pick it up.

"Hello?" My voice breaks a little as I speak.

"Hello, am I talking to Greta Dumas?"

"Yes."

"I'm Officer Scheild with the police. We've recently looked through your late husband's phone, concerning a report he filed 15 days ago. He left it at the same time."

"Okay..."

"We've determined the cause of his death was not, in fact, a suicide, but a homicide. We've made an arrest, but if you'll come to the station, we'd like to ask you some questions. And hopefully give you answers."

I drop the phone. It was a murder. Alex had never chosen to leave. Never had doubts. He didn't abandon his family.

I don't realize I'm crying until the wetness starts to soak my shirt. I wipe my face and press my hand against my belly. I talk quietly to my baby, just like Alex used to.

"You never got to go sailing with Daddy. He was so looking forward to it. You'd love him, I bet. And he already loved you. Someday, when you're old enough, I'll take you sailing. We'll rent a boat and I'll teach you everything he wanted to teach you."

Maybe, when I get back to our apartment, I'll paint the trees.