would blow over and everything would revert to the way it was before— perhaps no better—but at least no worse.
Yeah, so why did he feel as if something really bad were just around the corner?
Wade finally glanced at the alarm clock and noted with weary relief that 4:00 a.m. wasn’t the earliest he’d showered and started his day so he might as well get moving.
As he walked to the shower and turned the water on, he purposefully shoved all thought of his family to the bottom of his mental cache. He had his own life to live and he refused to feel guilty about it.
End of story.
* * *
MORGAN O’HARE WAS an excellent example of the fact that fidgeting was not reserved for children.
“Nervous?” a soft voice inquired gently and caused Morgan to jump. A plump, older woman with graying hair smiled and introduced herself, saying, “I’m Cora. Is this your first time to our grief support circle? I haven’t seen you before and I come every week.”
“Yes, actually,” Morgan answered, hesitating to strike up a conversation with the kind stranger. She knew support groups were useful—she often referred her own clients to such groups if the need arose—but she’d been unable to get herself to commit to one for herself. Even now, she’d traveled far from her own city of Homer to Anchorage to attend a meeting because she didn’t want anyone to know that she still hadn’t gotten over her husband’s death from three years ago. Intellectually, she knew that there was no statute of limitations on grief, but people had a tendency to judge just the same. And she couldn’t afford anyone in her own sphere to realize she was struggling when she counseled people every day on how to move on from their mental obstacles. Morgan focused a bright, engaging smile on Cora and said, “My name is Melinda.”
“Melinda, such a pleasure to meet you. Grab a cookie and a seat. The circle will start in five minutes.”
“Sounds good,” Morgan said, but knew she wouldn’t stay in spite of her best intentions the moment the fake name had slipped from her lips. She’d hoped that by making the commitment to drive all the way to Anchorage, she’d find the courage to cry in front of strangers, but when push came to shove, she couldn’t. And as more time went on, how could she explain that she couldn’t talk about the death of her husband without talking about that other thing that had happened, too?
“Melinda, are you coming?” Cora waved her over from the gathering circle of people as they took their seats, and Morgan nodded and waved but began backing toward the exit.
“I’ll be right there after I visit the ladies’ room,” she answered with a bright, entirely false smile. As soon as Cora turned away, Morgan booked it out of there with her heart pounding and her palms sweating. She didn’t feel halfway normal again until she’d put Anchorage miles behind her.
“Epic fail,” she muttered, borrowing a phrase from her younger clients. And embarrassing. An instant replay bloomed in her mind and she cringed. Why couldn’t she do this? Why couldn’t she sit in that damn chair and tell her story? Share her grief? Because staying silent was easier, less painful and less messy than letting it all out. She didn’t have time to grieve any longer. Her client list was long and her practice well-established. Morgan O’Hare was a respectable authority on mental health. She’d even written a book on the subject! And she was a damn hypocrite.
Morgan managed to make it home in time for her favorite show, and after wiping off her makeup and twisting her hair in a ponytail she settled into her late husband’s recliner and clicked on the television. Let the good times roll, she thought with a sigh, wondering if there would ever come a time when she didn’t feel like a fraud living someone else’s life.
Not likely if she couldn’t get past this. David died three years ago.
She wasn’t sure which stage of grief she was stuck in because she jumped between all the stages like a child playing hopscotch. Sometimes she was hurt; other times she was angry.
No, angry wasn’t a strong enough word.
She was enraged.
But she couldn’t show that side of her grief. People understood her tears; they wouldn’t understand her rage.
Morgan rose abruptly and padded into the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator and reached for the wine but then stopped. David’s favorite brand of pinot grigio awaited her as it always did but she wanted a beer. In the early days of their marriage, David had lightly chastised her penchant for beer as low-class and had endeavored to educate her palate. She supposed he’d succeeded for she dutifully drank the finest wines and could appropriately pair wines with their courses. But she really still preferred a cold beer.
Her daddy had always said he couldn’t trust a man who wouldn’t share a beer with him.
Suffice to say, Daddy and David hadn’t been the best of friends.
Maybe her daddy had seen something she’d completely missed because she’d had hearts in her eyes.
“I wish I’d listened, Daddy,” Morgan murmured as she grabbed a beer by the neck and pulled it from the fridge. With two twists, she’d cracked the top and took a deep swig. “What do you think of that, David?” she asked to the empty kitchen. Nothing but silence answered. Great. She ought to get a cat if she was going to start having conversations with people who weren’t there.
People thought she didn’t date because she was afraid no one would be like David. Morgan always smiled and nodded, letting them go on thinking that.
The real truth? Morgan was afraid she’d find someone just like him.
CHAPTER TWO
WADE WAS DEEP in a meeting with the local county’s Native American leaders about passes for the indigenous people when his cell phone went off.
“Sorry about that,” he murmured, chagrined at having forgotten to turn it to silent for the meeting. As he went to send the call to voice mail, he saw it was his sister, Miranda. Ordinarily, he would’ve ignored the call with the intent to call her back later but given everything that’d been going on lately with his family, he excused himself, saying, “I’m very sorry but I think I should take this call. I should only be about five minutes. Help yourself to a doughnut and some coffee.” He ducked out of the conference room at the tribal center and into the hallway to answer. “Hello?”
“Wade, it’s Miranda...something terrible has happened and you need to come home right away.” Before he could launch a response, she said, “Mom’s in the hospital.”
“What happened?”
“She had a heart attack. The doctors were able to stabilize her but she’s already had surgery to have two stents put in. But it gets worse...because the first responders couldn’t get to her quickly, the heart muscle was damaged.”
“Why couldn’t the paramedics get to her?” he asked, rubbing at his forehead with his free hand. “Are the roads bad?”
“No, she was in that damn wreck of a house again and it was sheer dumb luck that she was able to call 911. But the paramedics could barely get inside the house and get to her.”
Wade remained silent
