up, and told me whom he’d seen that day. I nodded and smiled and followed along even though when he was excited and it was late in the evening, that was a challenge. I paid perfect attention until he was finished with the story, and then I returned to mending the hole in Johnny’s pants, or straightening up the kitchen, or feeding the baby. Did his stories remind me of my mother and that empty chair beneath the window? Yes, but I couldn’t lose sight of the fact that my husband provided well for myself and our children. We didn’t want for anything. As far as I was concerned, Patrick could see whatever he liked.
That was the situation for years and years. At some point, I can’t recall exactly when, my husband stopped telling me about his visions. I’m not sure why. I knew the visions still existed by the shine he had in his lovely green eyes from time to time. Then, one Tuesday afternoon during Lent, Patrick died on me. I had known the end was coming because he wasn’t well enough to golf or drink. The circulation in his right leg was off, and he said his scotch had begun to taste oily and thick in the back of his throat. “God is calling you,” I said to him. “Don’t argue with me about this, because you know I’m right.”
We both smiled over that comment; it was a private joke. Patrick always claimed he married me for two reasons: one, for my father’s business connections, and two, because I was so utterly levelheaded that I was always right.
He died in his sleep of a massive heart attack. I found him when I went in to wake him from his nap. I sat beside his bed for several minutes, praying, before I made any calls. I could tell that my husband’s soul had not yet left the room, and I have come to believe that that is when Patrick gave me his gift. In that viscous, tenuous time between life and death, anything can happen. A forty-two-year-old marriage suddenly ended; I earned the new and unwanted title of “widow,” and a chill ran through a room in which every window was shut tight against drafts.
THIS AFTERNOON after lunch I’m sitting at the small table I have set up beneath the one window in my room, when the scenery outside the glass suddenly shifts. I’m watching a group of small speckled birds attack the bird feeder hung from the massive tree in the center of the lawn. Beneath the tree there is a bench where the same two men sit each afternoon with their newspapers, their canes propped against their thighs. I am enjoying this familiar sight. It’s a beautiful spring day. I’m thinking about how nice it will be to see my entire family for Easter, and how it won’t be too long now before the sun rises on that sacred morning.
First I notice that the birds are gone. I hadn’t seen them fly away, so I put my glasses on to check if the bird feeder has suddenly become empty. But the bird feeder is gone, too. That’s when I feel that tiny cringe deep inside, and I have to fight the desire to squeeze my eyes shut. Instead, I lean forward and take in what I am supposed to. The two older men and the bench, the newspapers and the canes have also disappeared.
In their place beneath the massive oak tree is a gaggle of young children. There are at least ten of them, and they range in age from nine years old to a baby who is crawling in the dirt, stopping occasionally to pull on a piece of grass. The children are laughing and chasing one another, hopping over the baby. The nine-year-old, a bright-faced girl, picks up a toddler and swings him around in circles. I’m flying, the toddler calls out, choking on giggles. The children are familiar; they are freckled and pale and Irish, and at first glance I think they are mine. There is a set of twins, just like I had, and the oldest is a girl. I lean closer to the windowpane, and my breath catches in my throat with disappointment. No, no, no. The twins are both boys, and none of these children have come from me. So, then, who are they? Why have I been stuck with them?