The Provence Cure for the Brokenhearted

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Authors: Bridget Asher
because I was alive and others were dead, but because I’d caught the update in time to avoid the exit ramp that would have landed me in the thick of it.
    Later, after I’d been informed that Henry’s car had crashed, after I screamed and cried wildly and they fed me tranquilizers, I woke up in a dark room alone, and I remembered the radio reporter, the sky traffic update, and I thought of that woman I used to be, listening to the radio, passing the exit ramp, and I hated her more than I’ve ever hatedanyone in my life. It was an accident, a fluke, but he could have been saved by another smaller accident and fluke. I could have saved him. I know I could have. What if I’d let him sleep in? What if I’d stepped into the shower with him that morning and delayed him? What if I’d simply called him to tell him that I loved him and he’d pulled over to talk?
    And now, holding on to the bathroom sink, I felt that hatred again. Who was I then? Why didn’t I save him? Why did I let him go?
    The thought of how much I loved him made my chest seize. Aunt Giselle had said,
Some people get one and the other. Some people get both at the same time
. Henry and I had both at the same time, a love and a marriage. I missed him with a deep ache, desperately. I loved his soul—it lit him up from within. And I loved his body—this physical shape that carried his soul, this body I never got to kiss goodbye, that I never saw again. Not even in my dreams about Henry, which were always strangely bureaucratic. He would be stepping out of a squad car being returned to me while some voice-over narration explained that he wasn’t really dead. It was simply a clerical error. The dreams always ended before he reached me. He was gone.
Gone
. I used to beg to have him back, pleading God, but here now, I wanted simply to be allowed to touch his skin with the tips of my fingers. If I asked for just this one small thing, did I have more of a chance? Could I be allowed to have just that?
    I was crying breathlessly now—quick, sharp sobs.
    There was a knock at the door, a loud one, four hard popsof the knuckles. “It’s your mother.” She jiggled the knob. “Unlock the door.”
    I drew in a breath, turned on the faucet. “Wait,” I said, but I wasn’t sure if I’d whispered it or shouted it.
    “Let me in.”
    I looked at my face in the mirror: dark eye-makeup pooled under my eyes, my lips looking bitten and chapped, my cheeks seemingly fevered.
    My mother whispered, “Heidi, listen to me. Let me in.”
    I touched the knob, then twisted it. The lock popped.
    My mother opened the door, slipped in, and shut it behind her. She looked at me and opened her arms. I fell into them and she hugged me. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “I know. I know. It’s okay.” She held my hair in her fists.
    “Abbot,” I whispered. “I have to go check on him.”
    “He’s surrounded by family,” my mother said. “Take your time.”
    I’d left a spot of mascara on the shoulder of her dress. I pointed it out. “Sorry,” I said.
    “Who cares?” she said. “It’s just a dress.”
    “Why are you here?” I asked, pulling a tissue from the box and wetting it. Had Aunt Giselle told her I was upset?
    “I have an idea,” she said. “Your sister is upset because Daniel has an important conference call tomorrow morning. I was thinking that we could distract her. The three of us—just us girls—we could have a light brunch, here at the house—you, me, and Elysius. She would like it.”
    “That’s the idea?” I was barely listening. “Brunch?” I wastrying to wipe the makeup off my face but only managed to smear it more. This was how the world persisted. The heaviness of despair—how could it exist in the midst of mascara, zippers, brunches? It marched forward even when I was barely able to stand.
    “I’ve been watching you,” my mother said. She leaned against the door and looked weary, older than I’d seen her look in a long time. It had

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