Free Year After Henry by Cathie Pelletier Page A

and still pretty enough to turn a head here and there, now and then. But there was no kind father peering over her shoulder, no mother, no sister, no old friend from school days, no distant cousin, no loving grandmother. And there was certainly no Henry Munroe. The truth was that Evie was gifted enough to see the faces of everyone else’s dead, but she could never see her own, not since that first and last visit from Rosemary Ann. This was why, from the time she woke in the morning until she smoked her last joint of the night, Evie Cooper knew with certainty that she lived her life alone.

5
    Jeanie sat before the psychologist as she had been doing for two months now, each woman waiting, Jeanie for the hour to pass, the psychologist for Jeanie to say something. This had been her friend Mona’s idea, when the grief counseling sessions Jeanie had been to hadn’t seemed to help. “It’s been ten months,” Mona had said, “and you’ve not moved ahead as you should have.” Apparently, there was some schedule tacked up on some giant bulletin board that told people how long they had to mend themselves after losing a loved one, and Jeanie Munroe was way behind. A clock ticked somewhere—at least Jeanie thought she heard one. Maybe it was time she could now hear, ticking away, second by second, reminding her that life was passing by while she was still floating in some dark cloud. Life was leaking away from her, in drips and drops, while she kept herself at a safe distance. Her biggest thought these days had been for the children, for Lisa delivering a healthy new baby, for Chad living one full day in which all he did was smile, as he used to. For Jeanie herself to get through the hours to that four-pack of margarita wine coolers.
    â€œDo you sleep well?” the psychologist asked. There was a ring of impatience in her voice.
    â€œNot really,” said Jeanie. “Do you?”
    The psychologist said nothing. More time passed.
    â€œWell, that’s all for this week,” she announced, a quick glance at the tiny box clock on her desk. “Maybe next week you’ll feel more like talking.”
    â€œMaybe,” said Jeanie. She smiled at the woman, the smile she had manufactured for occasions such as this, the one she shuffled out on cue. She reached for her purse on a chair by the door and left without looking back. She heard the soft click behind her, the door’s latch catching, and that’s when she finally felt free. She had come to think of this sound as a soothing lullaby. When she felt it was necessary to visit Frances and Lawrence, she did so, still being the dutiful daughter-in-law. But when she heard that soft click at the end of an hour, signifying she was free again and could now be on her way home, she knew she’d just gotten past another hurdle and had lived to tell of it. The click at the library, when she returned all those books on How to Grieve. The click at the drugstore, each time she refilled her sleeping pill prescription. The click at Mona’s house, after she said good-bye, was a sweet sound because it meant that Jeanie could finally be alone, could nurse her sorrow in the way she saw fit. She had grown to yearn for the last click of the day, the sound of her bedroom door closing, locking out the world, locking out Chad’s sad face that had disappeared down the hallway to his own room, allowing Jeanie to fall into the pieces she had held together all day.
    Out in the parking lot Jeanie could hear children at play in the Bixley pool across the street. She stood for some time and listened, remembering the aboveground pool Henry had bought for the kids one summer when they were little. It was blue and not the sturdiest thing in town. Showing off for the kids, he had dive-bombed into it, cracking the plastic of one side and releasing all the water they had fed it with the garden hose. A full day’s work, and now the pool was busted and