don’t want to wear your dirty work boots home and get the floor mats of your car muddy but toss your socks in the passenger’s seat before you put on your flip-flops so you remember to take them inside. Right? I mean … I was just blown away when I opened his trunk and found literally over fifty pairs of smelly socks in there. And the odor was horrendous. I swear to god I tasted it.”
“Exactly! Some things are just gross. And I’m not implying women aren’t gross sometimes too. I just think we’re more likely to be self-conscious about things like that or at least receptive if someone brings our attention to it. I’ll never forget the time we had a bad storm and the garbage got delayed almost a week, which meant we didn’t empty the trash container in the bathroom, and I’d had my period. A week’s worth of tampons … Craig mentioned the ‘special odor’ from under the sink, and I was mortified. Since then, I’ve taken out the bathroom trash every single day during my period week.”
The doorbell rang.
“I have to go. Someone’s at the door. Probably Finn. Bella forgets over holiday breaks that she’s not always the last one home, and she locks the door. I’ll call you later.”
“Okay. Chin up, Elsie. You’ve got this. I’m proud of you for finally telling him you want out of the marriage—even if your pre-holiday timing is shitty.”
I frowned, slipping on my robe. “I know. It just … happened.”
“Night.”
“Night.” I disconnected our call and headed downstairs as Meadow waited patiently at the door for me to answer it. “Did your bro get locked out?” I leaned down to ruffle her fur as my other hand opened the door. “Oh …” I stood straight and tightened the sash to my robe as my stomach coiled into a nauseating knot.
I didn’t expect two police officers.
Finn had been arrested six months earlier during a protest that got out of hand. I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, but my thoughts immediately went to wondering “what he did this time” to get into trouble. He wasn’t a bad kid. He just had a knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
But … it wasn’t Finn.
“Elsie Smith?” The female officer questioned.
I nodded, narrowing my eyes.
They identified themselves and asked if they could come inside.
Again, I nodded slowly.
“Is this about Finn?” I asked, shutting the door behind them.
“No, ma’am. Is your husband Craig Smith?” The male officer asked.
“Yes …” My voice cracked on that one syllable.
I knew.
I knew it before they said the words.
My heart fractured before they had a chance to do it with their news.
Blurred vision.
Ringing in my ears, making it hard to hear the words.
The room spun as bile worked its way up my throat.
“Is there anyone else home with you?”
“M-my daughter,” I whispered as the tears leaked from my eyes and all the air left my lungs.
I. Just. Knew.
“Your husband was involved in a serious collision about an hour ago. As a result of the injuries he sustained, he died. We are very sorry for your loss.”
Chapter Three
I miss him, but I don’t miss pictures of his turds.
* * *
Ten months later …
“Elsie, do you have anything to share today?” Rhonda asked. She waited all of two seconds before moving on. “How about you, Beth—”
“I do,” I said, my voice monotone, my gaze lifting to meet Rhonda’s face. A rare first.
After Craig’s accident, I spent a solid month grieving and wallowing in the fact that I was responsible for his death. Granted, I didn’t kill him with my bare hands, but he wouldn’t have been on that road at that time in that weather had I not announced my need to end our marriage.
Days before Christmas.
After the first month, I let myself slip into the anger phase. That lasted another month or so until I finally found home in the warm cocoon of denial. My grieving didn’t take the normal psychological pattern. To appease my family and friends, I joined our church’s grief group for women only. They had one for men too. Christians were fair like that. Apparently women opened up better around other women.
Not me.
I didn’t open up to anyone until … ten months later.
Months of attending the group.
Months of keeping my dead gaze to the paisley carpet.
Months of listening to other women, who had lost their spouses, talk about their regrets and pray for God to do something magical in