Sheila stood outside the Von Krambourg Funeral Home in Lunette, New Jersey in her carefully selected funeral clothes: a fragile navy-blue rayon crepe Wiener Werkstatte print tunic with a wide peplum and a dark blue mid-calf skirt. Tiny, stylized monkeys danced along the fabric of the tunic’s border, but Sheila didn’t think anyone would notice. Dark stockings. No hat: her long auburn hair was on full display. Even though it was a squintingly bright, warm July morning, she wore her favorite low-heeled black ankle boots, little soft leather numbers that laced all the way up. She felt her appearance was extremely important today, even more than on other days, but she wasn’t sure why. She wasn’t, after all, the main attraction.
The cobblestone façade of the Von Krambourg building looked exactly the same as it had seven years ago when her father’s body had rested there. Now it was her mother’s frail corpse waiting inside for whatever ceremony might develop. The program was still a little iffy. Someone had mentioned music, but Sheila was sure there would be an extra charge for that; no one was going to allow them to carry in a CD player. Sheila and her husband Mitch had risen at dawn and driven down from New Hampshire and were already exhausted at eight a.m. They parked near the town tennis courts when they first arrived in Lunette, far away from the funeral home, because they needed to breathe—maybe even nap if possible. Mitch said he wished he were still a smoker. Sheila said, “Don’t be weird.” She called her older sister, Isabelle, who was already at the mortuary. Isabelle said, “Would you please get yourselves over here soon, because I’m about to throw up,” so they proceeded to Von Krambourg’s with all Sheila’s youthful memories in tow. She’d grown up there. There was a ghost behind every maple tree, every store counter. She could close her eyes and still remember every bump in the pocked asphalt shortcut to the town library. She would grip her bike handlebars very tightly.
She wished she had some handlebars to hold onto now. It was possible that one of her “things” was coming on. Only her husband knew about these occurrences, and he, per their mutual agreement, referred to them as “tremors,” although of course they weren’t that. She thought it just made the whole thing easier for him to accept because it sounded health related. Actually, it was possible that the problem was health related, Sheila thought, because of all the stress she was under. Before they pulled into the Von Krambourg parking lot, she felt that the thing, whatever it was, might possibly happen imminently, and now it seemed that it definitely would. She could feel an irritating tingling in the soles of her feet. She shifted around in her seat and wiggled her toes, but it was still there. She prayed it would go away. She wondered if one had to believe in God for prayers to take effect.
Although Sheila had taken charge of some of the funeral arrangements, most notably purchasing the coffin online, there was a pregnant cloud of uncertainty ready to birth untold calamities upon all of them—she could feel that too. Above all, there was the money. Everything was about that, Sheila and Isabelle agreed. Her mother had made it extremely clear that she didn’t want an open coffin, no matter what, but, Sheila told Mitch, she did need some kind of coffin of course, and closed or open they were insanely expensive. Mitch just nodded; he didn’t feel well. He couldn’t tell if it was because of the impending family drama (good, bad, or neutral, he hated drama) or if he was really sick, but he was tending toward the latter. Or maybe, he told himself, I don’t have a fever; maybe it’s just this humid New Jersey air.
After the shock of Isabelle’s phone call last week, explaining how her mother had suddenly died, Sheila remembered seeing a really in-your-face ad on television about the ease of saving money by purchasing coffins online. She asked Isabelle if it would be okay if she looked into that, and Isabelle said sure, and that she would tell the funeral home guy to sit tight for a bit. After some googling, Sheila found a likely company, with a nice mahogany coffin at a decent price, delivery included. She sealed the deal. The coffin would arrive at seven a.m. at Von Krambourg’s, on the appointed day, guaranteed. The guarantee looked solid, and there were testimonials to that effect. Sheila and her sister were happy to be saving thousands of dollars.
But it was already almost nine o’clock, and no coffin had arrived. Sheila could see that Mitch would be of no help with this because he was sitting all by himself in a straight-backed chair, continually wiping his face with a bandanna. She called the coffin company and was told the van was stuck in a little traffic on Route 4, but the driver expected to arrive very soon. She explained all this to the funeral director. She could tell he was already pissed off for not being able to sell her an overpriced coffin himself, and he wasn’t going to take this delay in stride. He suggested snottily that she remember that her mother was “waiting for her final resting place.” She wanted to slap him. She couldn’t, though, because some cousins had just arrived, as well as a woman who’d known her mother many years ago when they were kindergarten teachers together. Everyone was too early. The service wouldn’t start until ten thirty. The cousins were busy pinning family photographs on a little bulletin board, but there were very few with her mother in them, which seemed odd. Her cousin Elspeth was wearing a Day-Glo pink polyester pantsuit. Anything goes, Sheila thought. Her mother would not have approved.
Ten o’clock and still no coffin. Sheila called the coffin office over and over again, and they sounded confident the van would arrive any minute. But the service starts soon, she told them, and it’s not as if you can just dump a body into the coffin. It had to be done properly, with extraordinary care. The funeral director, in his ill-fitting vest, was having a fit and kept muttering indistinct but surely nasty remarks. He told Sheila there was a funeral right after this one, and that “her people” could not stay overtime. She was pretty sure he was lying, since the little church-like sign outside the building showed absolutely no evidence that anything else would be going on there that day. She figured he was just aching to go home, and she couldn’t really blame him.
And then, the expected “tremor.” Sheila suddenly noticed that both her feet felt as if they were hovering about a quarter of an inch off the floor. Just to be sure, she picked up a thin section of The Newark Star-Ledger someone had left on a nearby table and pushed it under her left foot. It slid under easily. Again she prayed, this time that no one else had noticed her ridiculous flotation situation; she hoped it would have been hard to see it unless someone happened to be, strangely, staring at her feet.
These tremors had been happening for about a year. The first time, she was calling her office to say she’d be a bit late returning from a dental appointment (on her way downtown she’d seen a dress in the window of her favorite store that she wanted to investigate), when she got that weird feeling in her feet and realized she had literally glided the last few steps into the store. It was a little like ice skating, but not as pleasant. She instinctively stomped her right foot and it descended to the pavement. Then the left. Then everything went back to normal.
This time when Sheila floated, she remembered how to stop it by stomping her feet one at a time. It wasn’t as frightening as the first time, but this hovering business was something she couldn’t get used to. She didn’t understand it enough to even ask anyone about it—a doctor, for example, or even a psychic. She was simply, however minimally, occasionally airborne.
The priest arrived. He was young and smarmily friendly and dressed in a sad beige leisure suit with an elaborately embroidered religious stole draped around his neck. He looked and sounded like a young Paul Lynde. Sheila felt he was overacting. She told him about the tardy coffin and he looked scandalized, then patted her on the arm. Jesus would understand, he said. Sheila said, “I wonder.”
The casket van pulled into Von Krambourg’s driveway at ten fifteen. Everyone ran out to meet it, as if a celebrity were just arriving for a concert. From inside the van, a husky, sweaty worker pulled up the huge door from inside and stared at the reception committee. He called out Sheila’s full name, and, when she waved at him, explained to her that he couldn’t unload the coffin because, although the payment had gone through seamlessly, there was some New Jersey state technicality with the invoice that hadn’t been cleared by his office.
Sheila said nothing to the man, but walked around the back of the building in case she had to scream and called his office; they said they were sorry but there was nothing they could do—it was a legal matter. She went back out to the driveway and right up to the edge of the truck’s back doorway and called the man over. She started out talking to him in a normal voice, but very quickly graduated to yelling. She told him to unload the coffin immediately and that, if he didn’t, she would be climbing up into the van herself and pushing it out onto the ground. She said a lot of other things too and didn’t forget to mention the possibility of the police and the press. The man was terrified. He lowered the coffin expertly, gently, by means of many straps and pulleys, onto the waiting trolley the exasperated Von Krambourg employees had rolled out to the truck. They hustled the mahogany monster inside and worked their magic. In fifteen minutes, the service started.
After the brief ceremony at the funeral home and the even briefer ceremony at the cemetery, the small band of mourners repaired to cousin Elspeth’s house for refreshments. Sheila had had one brief tremor at the graveside, but, since the area was grassy, she was sure no one had seen. And then she had another in the bathroom at Elspeth’s, but it wasn’t troublesome. She and Mitch exchanged “let’s go” signals after a couple of hours, and they voiced their gratitude and farewells. Sheila promised to call Isabelle in a day or so. Isabelle would begin going through their mother’s belongings and cleaning her apartment. Mitch looked dreadful—damp and pasty—and Sheila insisted on driving them to the EconoLodge on Route 17 where they would stay the night. “How are you feeling?” she asked him.
“Maybe I just need some sleep,” he said. “These long drives take a lot out of me.”
The next morning, he still felt poorly, but after a shower and some coffee, he announced that he wanted to drive the first leg of the trip. Sheila said okay but decided to watch him carefully. Everything was fine until they stopped for gas somewhere in Connecticut. Mitch didn’t want anything to eat or drink and didn’t even want to use the restroom; he just wanted to sleep. So Sheila left him lying on the back seat of the car with her jacket thrown over him and his sweatshirt rolled up under his head. “I’ll bring you some ginger ale or something,” she said. “Do you want some aspirin? Maybe you should take some—maybe you have a fever.” She felt his forehead, but it was so hot outside she couldn’t tell. Mitch just grunted and closed his eyes.
Sheila bought ginger ale and aspirin in the gas station convenience store, as well as some snacks, just in case. She felt she was lucky not to feel sick herself. Mitch had probably eaten something at the wake that didn’t agree with him, she thought. After washing her hands in the restroom, she reached into her bag for a comb and felt the familiar tingling in her feet. “Oh no,” she thought. “Not now, please. Not now.”
But it was now. And it was bad. The strongest tremor she’d ever had, in fact, and stomping her feet seemed to do little good. After a couple of scary endless-seeming minutes, she was able to stomp herself back to normal. When she opened the bathroom door, there were three grim looking women waiting. “I’m sorry,” she told them. “I’m so sorry.” She fairly sprinted out to the car, where Mitch was fast asleep.
She had, however, locked herself out by accident, so she had to knock on the window and wake him. He sat up, opened the door for her. His face was so red and blotchy that she got scared. “Mitchell,” she said, “I think we should go directly to the nearest emergency room. I’ll go ask the attendant where it is.”
But Mitch would have none of it. He said he might look like crap, but he was actually feeling a bit better, and maybe if she would drive to the next rest stop, he might even be able to eat and drink something there. Sheila thought this was promising news. She decided not to tell him about the bathroom tremor episode.
Mitch recovered from whatever he had in a couple of days, which brought them into the weekend. He and Sheila had developed a habit of eating a somewhat hearty breakfast on Saturday mornings, and this Saturday Mitch had risen early and made French toast, one of Sheila’s favorites. When he heard her shower running, he called up to her. “Hurry down,” he said. “Not only are we having French toast, but I have a little surprise for you.”
Sheila was delighted that Mitch was feeling better and hastened her toilette. She wanted to look especially nice because later that morning she was joining her friend Belle for lunch and a movie. The two friends hadn’t seen each other in quite a while and there was a lot to discuss—Sheila’s mother’s funeral for one thing, and Belle’s impending divorce for another. “Be careful,” Mitch had said to her when she first told him that Belle and her husband were calling it quits. He winked. “That sort of thing can be contagious.” She was always surprised at the things Mitch thought were funny.
Mitch had placed a creamy white flower nipped from the gardenia plant in the living room in a tiny vase next to Sheila’s plate, which he had heaped with strawberries and two pieces of French toast made from hand-cut bread. Sheila was delighted. They ate, they chatted cheerily, and then Mitch reached underneath his chair and pulled up a long, flat box, the sort of thing that might hold a necktie if neckties were enormous. It wasn’t wrapped but was tied with a big pink bow.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I know you hate pink; I thought we had other colors of ribbon.”
“What on earth?” Sheila said.
“Just something I thought you’d like. I didn’t buy it, actually. Let’s just say I ‘procured’ it for you.” He looked flushed and giddy.
Sheila removed the bow, opened the box, and stared. For a couple of seconds she couldn’t understand what she was looking at, but then she recognized it: the embroidered religious stole worn by the priest at her mother’s funeral. It was long and heavy and a weird shade of green—“for hope,” the priest had explained in his homily, neglecting to explain what exactly was so hopeful about a funeral. The heavyweight satin, backed with stiff muslin, was covered with elaborate needlework and gobs of beads, sequins, and golden ribbony stuff. It was stunning, really, in a creepy kind of way. Sheila looked at Mitch, but she couldn’t think of a thing to say.
“I grabbed it when he was packing up to leave,” Mitch said. “It was sticking out of his little valise just begging to be nabbed.”
Sheila said, “Oh. My. God.”
“Do you like it? Take it out of the box and try it on.”
“Try it ON?” Sheila said. “What?”
Mitch was starting to pick up the vibe that maybe this wasn’t the best gift in the world. He tried very hard to please Sheila, but he often missed the mark. He found her seriously puzzling. “Oh,” he said, “I thought you would like it. You like fancy fabrics and stuff and you commented on it at the funeral home.”
“Yeah,” Sheila said. “I believe what I said was ‘get a load of that.’”
“Okay, I’m sorry,” Mitch said. “I’ll send it back to him.”
Sheila started to feel sympathetic toward her well-meaning husband. “Look,” she said. “I know you didn’t mean any harm; I really do. I’m just kind of shocked. I’m pretty sure these things cost a lot of money, and even though we’re not religious, I hate to think of those parishioners losing their contributions.” She stopped. That was bullshit, she realized. She tried again.
“It’s funny, actually,” she said, trying to change her tone. “What a nutty thing to do! I’m sorry I reacted that way at first. But yes, let’s mail it back to him, anonymously of course. You big silly!” She got up and hugged Mitch, who looked a tiny bit relieved.
“And I loved the breakfast,” Sheila added, stepping back from the hug and kissing him on the cheek. “Are we okay?”
“Um. Yes. Okay.”
“I’ll see you later, then, honey. I’m going to meet Belle. And then tomorrow we can pack this thing up and send it off, okay?”
But Mitch had already left the kitchen.
Sheila told Belle all about her mother’s funeral, the casket fiasco, and the stolen stole. Belle said, “You’re a tough act to follow,” but nevertheless delivered the juicy details of her impending divorce, about which she didn’t seem too horrified. Sheila and Belle joined hands and, in very quiet harmonies, conjured Tammy Wynette’s most famous song. They ate quiche and drank lemonade and enjoyed each other immensely. Just as they were getting up to leave, Sheila got a call from her sister. Isabelle said she’d found something fascinating in their mother’s desk when she began cleaning things out and she was going to have it scanned at a copy store and email it to Sheila in a couple of hours. Sheila said great, she was looking forward to it. Isabelle said, “You really just won’t believe it.”
After bidding goodbye to Belle, Sheila stopped off in one of her favorites shops to see if they had any interesting new blouses, but her good mood was ruined by a severe bout of the tremor. She had to stand next to a rack of white linen suit shirts for what seemed like forever before her foot stamping had any effect. She tried to shake off the dark apprehensions that surrounded her.
Driving home, Sheila wondered about Isabelle’s email. All sorts of things went through her mind, but her family had never been very original, so she thought it probably wasn’t anything scandalous like her mother confessing to an affair with her dentist or divulging that they had another sibling living in Colorado who’d been born out of wedlock before she met their father. No, it was probably just something bland. Maybe it was just the secret recipe for one of their favorite desserts. Isabelle could be easily excited.
As she was nearing her house, Sheila saw Mitch standing at the end of their driveway holding a bamboo rake, fan end up. He was wearing faded overalls, a dark jacket, and a dour expression and all she could think of was the painting American Gothic. He wasn’t as old as the man in the painting, obviously, but their countenances matched.
She pulled up close to him and rolled down her window. “What’s up?” she asked.
Mitch threw the rake over onto the side lawn and said, “Come inside. I have to tell you something before I lose my nerve.”
Sheila found Mitch sitting at the kitchen table with the palms of his hands flat on the tablecloth in front of him. He was staring at the empty chair across from him, and didn’t even look at her when she came in. “Sit down, please,” he said. Sheila felt herself rising at least a half inch off the floor, possibly the highest she’d ever floated.
She glided over to the chair across from Mitch and sat down.
“What’s going on?” she said. “You’re scaring me.”
“You’re scaring ME,” he said, jumping up and pointing under the table at her feet. “Did you think I didn’t notice that?”
“But Mitch, it’s just because I’m nervous,” Sheila said. “You know about these tremors. Just let it go for a minute and tell me what you want to tell me.”
Mitch sat back down and said he was sorry. “But Sheila,” he said, holding his head on either side as if it were going to fly off his neck. “The tremors. That’s the problem. I can’t take it anymore. It’s too weird; it’s too crazy. You won’t tell anyone about them and you’ve sworn me to secrecy and I just can’t do it anymore.” Huge single teardrops began to plop down his face.
“Okay,” Sheila said. “What do you suggest?”
“I want a divorce,” Mitch said, wiping his face on the cuff of his shirt. “I’m leaving. I love you but I’m leaving. I want a normal life, a normal wife—not someone who’s liable to sail around the room when I least expect it.”
“Are you mad because I didn’t want the stole?” Sheila said, grasping for anything at all that might distract him from this terrible idea.
“No, no, no, no,” Mitch said, smacking one hand on the table. It made a sound like a huge book slamming closed forever. “No. I don’t know why I did all that. But as soon as you pointed out to me how crazy it was, I started to realize what I’ve really been worried about. These tremors. They’re not ‘tremors,’ Sheila; we’re kidding ourselves. And I don’t know what to do about it and I can’t get you to do anything so…I have to leave.”
Sheila asked for a glass of water and Mitch brought her one. She hoped he would brush his hand across her hair or something when he gave it to her, but he just placed it carefully on the table in front of her.
“This makes me really sad, Mitch. I know I’m not perfect, but I think I’ve been a decent wife,” she said, after gulping down almost all the water.
Mitch sighed. “I know. I know. You certainly have. Truly decent. Better than that, really. Please try to understand where I’m coming from. Please.”
“I had a really bad tremor before I left Belle,” she said, “and another one just now—well, you saw it.” She took her water glass and walked it over to the sink. “Maybe you’re right,” she said. “Maybe this is all we can do.”
Because of the run-in with Mitch, Sheila had forgotten to check her emails, but she finally remembered while getting ready for bed. This will be fun, she thought; it will distract me from this sadness, this madness that Mitch has put before me. If he wants to leave, let him leave, she thought; someday he’ll realize I’m not the only oddball in this marriage. The whirr of her computer starting up gave her solace. The subject line of the email from Isabelle read, in all caps, POOR MOM.
A brief introduction from Isabelle explained that she’d found an envelope labeled, in her mother’s best cursive handwriting, “For Isabelle and Sheila after I’m Gone.” Isabelle said she realized later she probably should have waited until Sheila was there to open it with her, but she’d gotten too excited.
Dearest Isabelle and Sheila,
I love you both and what’s in this letter isn’t dark or painful, just a little strange. Or at least that’s what I think about it.
I never told this to your father, and he never found out, as far as I know. There never seemed to be a good reason to tell him. He was a good, solid man, who didn’t believe in flying saucers or anything.
So here it is: Ever since I was about twenty, I’ve had these peculiar physical symptoms that I thought you girls would want to know about. Not a disease or anything, so don’t be scared.
The truth is that I float above the ground a tiny bit sometimes. I know that sounds ridiculous, but it’s true. I’m wondering if either of you ever noticed it happening, but I suppose you would have said something about it if you had. You were both very inquisitive children, but I never heard you say anything like, “Hey, Mom, your feet aren’t touching the floor.” Ha ha ha.
I used to worry that it would also happen to one or both of you, but you never said anything about it, so I guess it didn’t. I don’t think it harmed me in any way, and I’m not sure what caused it except sometimes I thought it had something to do with being nervous or upset.
But really, my girls, that’s what happened to me every now and then. I’m actually not completely certain why I’m telling you now that I’m gone, but I just have this feeling that somebody ought to know. Maybe a reason will occur to one of you one of these days.
I had a wonderful life with you girls and your dad and I hope you feel the same. I also hope you didn’t spend too much of the tiny inheritance you got on my funeral. I always tried to teach you to be economical.
Have a good life and stay sane, ha ha.
Your loving mother,
Pat
The first thing that caught Sheila’s attention was the strange way her mother had signed the letter: “Pat,” not “Mom.” But she figured that when you’re writing this kind of a letter you might be feeling rather formal or stilted.
Then the gist of the letter sank in. No wonder Isabelle thought it was bizarre; clearly Isabelle herself had never experienced any such thing. Sheila’s heart ached a little for her mother, who hadn’t been able to share her eccentricity with anyone. At least Sheila had had Mitch.
Then she had a terrible thought. If her mother had told her about this before she died, Sheila might have had the presence of mind not to tell Mitch—and then maybe they wouldn’t be getting divorced. That would have meant, though, a lifetime of secrecy, shame, and the fear of being discovered. Sheila wondered if she should show the letter to Mitch, if it would matter to him at all. Maybe he would be more compassionate and not as scared if he knew it was just some kind of lunatic family trait.
But Mitch had always wanted to have children. They hadn’t gotten pregnant so far, but now, if they didn’t divorce, he’d always be afraid she’d give birth to a child with this freakish talent. Was it only passed on to daughters? Was it genetic, or psychic, or spiritual?
And how come neither she nor Isabelle had ever noticed this happening to their mother? Children watch their parents scrupulously. It just didn’t seem possible.
She realized she had to discuss this with Isabelle right away.
Isabelle said she was dumbfounded. How could their perpetually ordinary mother have harbored such a secret for her whole life? Or was it even true? Had their mother been suffering from a bizarre psychological disease that enabled her to experience what felt like instances of hovering over the floor? Isabelle babbled on for a couple of minutes. Sheila let her talk and then finally said, “It happens to me, Isabelle.”
“What happens to you?”
“I float. I call it a ‘tremor,’ but I literally float between a quarter of an inch and half an inch off the floor. It happened at the funeral; you just didn’t notice.”
There was silence on the other end of the call, then giggles.
“Yeah, Sheila, very funny,” Isabelle said.
Sheila said nothing.
“Okay, c’mon, really?”
“Yes. I’m not kidding. But I never had any clue that it was happening to Mom.”
“Oh God,” Isabelle said. “Me either. And it has certainly never happened to me. Do you think it will?” She sounded completely terrified.
“I doubt it,” Sheila said. “We’re both probably past the age when floating manifests.” She laughed. “Don’t be afraid, Isabelle. Even if it did happen to you, it’s not painful or anything. And nobody ever seems to notice it—or if they do, they probably put it down to bad lighting or something. You don’t have to go public. I told Mitch years ago, though. It seemed only right.”
“And he doesn’t mind?”
“I didn’t think he did. I mean, he did sometimes encourage me to see a doctor or a shrink, and it always made him a little nervous, but I never really thought it bothered him very much until recently.”
“What do you mean?”
“He wants a divorce. And he’s blaming it all on the floating.”
About five years after the divorce, Sheila decided to do something about the tremors. Mitch had agreed to a divorce settlement generous enough that she only had to work part-time, so she quit her mortgage company job and got her real estate license—something she’d always wanted to do. She sold a condominium to a lovely single man, and although he hadn’t asked her out yet, she was sure he would. She decided that, before any other relationships started up, she was going to try to get a handle on her tremors.
Starting with a psychologist seemed like the best option; if he or she couldn’t help her, she’d move on to someone who could possibly prescribe some drugs. Sheila’s first appointment with Dr. Dorinda Dooley was a huge disappointment to her. She’d wanted to start right off with the tremor problem, but Dr. Dooley (or Dr. Dolittle, as Sheila thought of her) wanted to start with a deep Freudian dive into her childhood. Sheila didn’t have time for that.
She next approached her long-time general practitioner, but he said he felt he wasn’t equipped to deal with such a difficulty and referred her to a neurologist. “Don’t worry, Sheila,” he told her. “I really doubt this is a life-threatening issue, but Dr. Janson will know how to diagnose it, and what to do next.” He also, Sheila thought, seemed rather amused, and she decided, when this was all over, to find a new GP.
Dr. Janson was kind and fascinated, but admitted he’d never seen a case like hers before. He ordered a brain scan and a lot of blood tests and gave her a lengthy questionnaire to fill out that included questions about her brand of hair spray and if she was able to drive at night. He also told her it would help if he could actually witness one of the tremors, but she couldn’t make them happen on command. In the end, he came up with nothing, but assured her she did seem to be in excellent health otherwise.
The condominium man asked her to dinner, as she’d predicted. They went to a charming bistro and drank expensive wine with their fettuccine, but Sheila became so nervous that she floated off to the ladies’ room and…he noticed. When she came back to the table, the man was pale, and had already removed his napkin from his lap and laid it carefully alongside his wine glass. “I don’t know what that was,” he said, “but please don’t do it again.” Sheila said she wouldn’t. She didn’t even try to explain, because she knew he was gone forever.
Next, Sheila decided to get a dog. She’d always wanted a big, fluffy, multicolored mutt, and she found just the creature at her local shelter. He was almost as tall as she was when he stood on his hind feet, which he did as often as he was able to find a human being with welcoming shoulders. Sheila adored him, and named him Andrew, though she wasn’t sure why. When she walked Andrew—or rather when Andrew walked her—she felt as if she had a purpose in life. He did pull too hard on the leash sometimes, though, which would frequently set off a tremor, but now Sheila just went with the feeling and sailed along behind her dog. None of her neighbors seemed to think there was anything peculiar at all about her when she was with Andrew.
One afternoon, while she was curled up on her sofa with him, binge-watching their favorite series, Mitch called—for the first time in ages. He said he was just calling to say hi, and they had a really nice chat. When they said goodbye, Sheila had a smile on her face. “That’s odd,” she thought. “Maybe he’s mellowed.”
In a couple of days, a modest but attractive bouquet arrived with a note from Mitch reading “Enjoyed our talk.” That was followed by another call, and an invitation to coffee. So Mitch and Sheila had a coffee date that turned into a long lunch. Sheila told him how she’d tried to find out what caused the tremors, and while he joined in her disappointment that there’d been no diagnosis, he was impressed that she had “at long last” attempted to solve the problem. Sheila was so irritated that he’d said “at long last” that she almost got up and left. Mitch then told her that he missed her. He’d tried not to, he explained, and hadn’t been exactly a monk for the past few years, but he still missed her. Would she consider giving it another try? Sheila was not as shocked as she thought she’d be. In truth, she’d always felt that Mitch had made a mistake pushing for the divorce, and that he’d regret it later. She said she’d think it over, which she did, for a few days. Then she called him and said, “Well, okay, but let’s go really, really slowly.” Mitch agreed.
They began to have regular lunches on Wednesday afternoons, Dutch treat at Sheila’s insistence. Mitch behaved well, she had to admit, but he talked her ear off; she barely got to tell any of her work stories or relate news of her sister and brother-in-law. On about the fourth of these Wednesday meetings, Mitch paused his monologue long enough so that Sheila could tell him about her devotion to Andrew. It took Mitch by surprise. Sheila asked what his problem was and Mitch said, “Sheila, you know I’m not crazy about dogs. I don’t like hair all over the furniture and I don’t like it when they jump up on you and I don’t like the way they smell when it’s rainy. And they’re expensive.”
“I don’t see why that matters, Mitch. I mean, Andrew lives with me, not you. You don’t even have to meet him if you don’t want to.” She was hurt. She had a sudden need to rush home and throw her arms around Andrew to protect him from this viciousness.
“Oh I know,” Mitch said. “He lives with you now. But if we got back together something would have to change.” He smiled at her. He actually thinks I believe he’s a rational being, Sheila thought. Instead of throwing her sandwich at him she decided to take a different tack.
“Well, you know, Mitch, one great thing about Andrew is that when I walk him I sometimes get those tremors. And he doesn’t care, of course—but neither does anyone else. So I believe it’s just one of the sweet services he provides for me.”
Mitch called for the check, and when it came, he plopped down enough money for the whole thing, not even asking Sheila for her half. She took that to be symbolic.
“I guess we both know what’s happening,” Mitch said, as they approached the parking lot.
“Absolutely,” Sheila said. “Good luck, Mitch. I do hope you find that perfect woman someday.” She patted him on the head, as if he were a five-year-old.
When she got home, Sheila made a cup of tea and settled in with the latest book review section of the Sunday paper. They’d analyzed a new novel called Airborne, which sounded very intriguing. It was about a highjack situation in which the female pilot succeeded in killing the deranged terrorist and saving all the passengers and their pets. Then she called Isabelle and told her about her date with Mitch. Isabelle said she wasn’t surprised. “Did you ever tell him about Mom’s letter?” she asked.
“No,” Sheila said. “I don’t think it would have made any difference.”
“Right,” said Isabelle. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m crazy for a long walk,” Sheila said. “I want to go to the bookstore. And Andrew really loves it when it’s rainy like this.”