Ripples of Grief

BEATRICE

The watery morning sunlight broke through the clouds, sending gentle, diffused beams against the open back door. The cries of seagulls mingled with the crash of the surf, close enough to the house to leave everything smelling of salt and seaweed. Seeing the sun at all these days was rare, and I savored the feeling on my face for a moment before turning and flicking on the ancient coffee pot on the counter.

A moment later, the smell of hazelnut coffee filled the tiny kitchen, tinged with ever-present sea salt. I loved this cottage by the ocean. It already felt like home, despite only having lived there for the past eight or so months. It had become a refuge and a place of comfort after Arthur’s death. I had cried so many tears here that my face felt indistinguishable from the ocean spray. He had passed not two months after moving in here, the home in which we had planned to retire and live out our days. From stress, the doctors had said. He was always stressed about work, staying up late fretting over numbers and reports. I kept telling him that the reports would still be there tomorrow, they weren’t going to fly away overnight. He rarely listened.

My rumination was interrupted by the sharp vibration of my phone on the counter. I had finally “gotten with the times,” as my grandchildren put it, and bought a smartphone. I still only really used it for calls and the occasional text. Snapmap- or whatever it’s called- was of no interest to me, nor were any of the other apps they giggled at all day. 

UNKNOWN NUMBER scrolled across the screen. I eyed it, weighing my options. I used to answer the phone and the door openly, hoping for a visit from a friend or a call from a distant relative, but my children have long since scolded me and insisted that the world didn’t work that way anymore. I wasn’t convinced until the third time I picked up the phone to a ridiculously urgent message about gift cards, or the IRS, or something like that. I ignored the remaining buzzing and poured myself a cup of coffee. They’ll leave me a message if it’s important.

DUNCAN

Who the hell leaves their back door hanging open? 

I guess it’s not as weird when they’re home. Still seemed a little too trusting, even for an old lady, such as the one I plainly saw sitting at her counter. I studied her for a moment, fascinated. She’s got a kind face and eyes so dark they’re nearly black. Something about her was strangely familiar. She reminded me of my own grandmother. I’ve learned that in the wake of grief, you see the people you love everywhere. I’ve seen my father everywhere, too. Walking down the road, in line at the supermarket, pulling out of the gas station. Dirty blond hair and blue eyes, just like mine. It was never him, of course. Maybe one day it will be. That would be better than staying stuck where I was, never knowing what happened to him.

Her eyes flicked upward to meet mine, too quickly to look away in time. She gave me a bemused, polite smile before slowly rising and shutting the door. Fair enough. I wouldn’t want to leave it open either after catching a random beachgoer getting a little too nosy. 

I squinted out at the distant waves, shimmering in the weak sunlight.

BEATRICE

A floorboard creaked upstairs. I whipped my head around, looking for Penny’s calico fur disappearing up the stairs. Movement in my periphery revealed her to be bundled into the old armchair in the living room. She let out a lazy yawn. Hmm.

Cautiously, I crept up the stairs on, well, not silent feet, but as silent as they can get in your late 60s. The small, one-room loft at the top of the stairs hid little from sight. Nothing. I sighed. I haven’t been sleeping well. I’ve also been getting more paranoid, especially with Arthur gone. A pang shot through me at the thought of him. Our marriage wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows, especially with moving to a new place, but I still missed him terribly.

A rap on the back door startled me once again. A silhouette loomed against the curtain drawn across the window. Who was that? I never got visitors anymore, since we moved to this town where we knew no one. The kids visited a couple times a year, but lived too far to make casual visits.

I cracked the door open to see a young man, maybe in his late 20s, standing on the back porch. The one who was peeking into the kitchen earlier.

“Oh, hello!” I cracked the door open a little wider, mentally hearing my kids chide me for opening it at all.

“...hi.” He looked unsure of himself, like he had lost his nerve. “Sorry to bother you… I was just walking by, and noticed this outside and didn’t want it to get ruined by the rain.” He extended my old silk shawl out to me, forgotten outside while gardening yesterday evening. I glanced upward, noting that the clouds did indeed look angrier than they had earlier.

“And, uh, sorry about earlier. I don’t have a good explanation for why I was looking into your house like that.”

“That’s alright. Thank you for bringing this to me.” Fat droplets began plinking onto the garden fence and stone pathway to the beach. He looked familiar to me, but I couldn’t place where I’d seen him before today. His lost expression was somewhat endearing, enough for me to ask, “Would you care for a cup of coffee? It’s the least I can do since you saved my shawl.”

“Oh, um, sure, thank you.” He stepped inside, pulling the door shut behind him. “I’m Duncan, by the way. I don’t believe I’ve seen you before.”

“Beatrice. Do you know everyone around here?” I asked. He shrugged. “It’s a small town, and I’ve lived here all my life, so… just about.”

“I see. My husband and I just moved here this past November.” Duncan craned his neck around.

“Oh, you won’t see him, dear.” I smiled bitterly. “He passed away in January.”

DUNCAN

I’m embarrassed into silence for a moment, then stuttered “I’m so sorry.” Latent emotions threatened to overwhelm me. I stared at the floor as Beatrice poured two mugs of coffee.

I realized where I knew her from. I had seen a photo of her and her husband in the paper. The obituaries. The couple that had not been in town long, but were still referred to as local members of the community out of solidarity.

“I remember that,” I said. She stilled, coffee pot still hovering over one of the mugs. “I saw the notice in the paper. I remember because he passed not long after my father went missing.” 

Her face was puzzled before recognition suddenly lit her eyes. She had seen me in the paper as well. This, we had in common. At least she knew what happened to her husband, even if it made me a bad person to think it.

“I remember that as well,” she said quietly. “Such a tragedy.” Her arm shook slightly as she handed me a mug.

I said nothing. What was left to say? She already had tears welling in her eyes. Both of our tragedies were too fresh. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.

I sipped from the mug as Beatrice took several deep, steadying breaths. I felt bad about my earlier comment. Even though she knows what happened to her husband, it’s clearly a small consolation.

We sat in contemplative silence for a while. The rain sounded like it was letting up, so I drained my mug and placed it back on the counter, thanking Beatrice for her time. She let me out the back door with a sad wave, still with a haunted look in her eyes. Maybe I’ll stop by every so often and check on her. She must get lonely in the house by herself.

BEATRICE

The second the door closed, the dam burst forth from my eyes. Great, heaving sobs wracked my chest. Grief can so often be sluggish, slowing everything down, but sometimes it can be white hot, burning through you at an unbearable pace. This feeling was the latter, tangled up in a thousand other threads of emotion.

I missed my husband.

And I hated him for what he left me to deal with.

Unbidden memories flowed to the surface now, threatening to crack my rib cage with the sheer force of repressed grief, guilt, and sorrow.

The day we moved into this cottage at the beach, delirious with happiness and exhaustion. Eating pizza in a bare living room like we were in our 20s again.

Decorating the house and using my “fancy new phone” to give the kids a tour. Settling into blissful, retired life.

The panicked phone call from Arthur on an early December night.

The nausea roiling in my stomach as he described how the pedestrian had come out of nowhere on his rural drive home, and the sounds of the car idling in the background.

Arthur’s quiet shame as he told me he had been so panicked and afraid, he had taken one look at the state of the pedestrian and floored it far away. Slightly more clear-headed on the phone, we both agreed he had to go back. He picked me up first, wanting a comforting presence to hold fast against the horror of the scene.

The air leaving my lungs as I took in the site of the crash. A remote ditch off of a rural back road. Dirty blond hair and blue eyes that saw no longer.

Me, screaming and hitting Arthur in the chest when he shakily suggested burying the man. No authorities. At his age, Arthur would spend the rest of his life in prison for this. We had to decide quickly. I fought with myself, but ultimately could not lose Arthur.

Little did I know I would soon lose him anyway.

The doctors told me stress had caused Arthur’s death. A stress-induced heart attack, most likely. He couldn’t bear the weight of it, and had inadvertently condemned me to bear it alone, the poisonous guilt and loneliness I have carried deep down ever since. 

It can stay buried inside of me no longer. I deserve that. Duncan deserves that.

I scrambled to the kitchen table with a sheet of paper and a pen. With a deep, trembling breath, I began to write.

“To whom it may concern…

They say hindsight is 20/20. The phrase always seemed a bit bitter to me. A subtle, chiding way of saying “You should have known better,” without actually saying it. But I do have to admit, there are many things I wish I had done differently. 

I should have known better.”