Someone Else's Husband(16)

He motions to the bench. “Can I sit?”

“Of course.” I scooch to the side. It’s an objectively small bench.

Richard sets his briefcase between his legs after he sits. It’s expensive-looking, stylish. His wife probably bought it for him. I wonder if he told her he had to go into the office on a Saturday. If that’s where she thinks he is right now. We stay silent for a moment, Richard staring off into the distance. Once I think I see his eyes fill with tears. I should say something comforting, but I’ve never had anyone I love die. What do I know about comforting him right now? I don’t even know him all that well, even though I somehow also feel like I know what he needs to hear.

“The service must have been so hard,” I begin. “He was so young, and it was all so sudden—I still feel like I’m in shock. I can’t imagine how all of you feel.”

Richard nods and his shoulders drop. “It’s crushing,” he says finally. “I should have made him turn around when he wasn’t feeling well.”

I want to put my hand on his back, but that feels like too much. If I’m being honest, I want to wrap my arms around him. I’ve never felt such a visceral desire to comfort someone physically. And, in this situation, what else is there, really? But I won’t do that, I can’t—not with the way I feel. I clasp my hands together instead.

“You can’t do that to yourself. I mean, I understand. I’d feel the same way. But Van made the decision to stay. We were all there.” I pause. “Have you thought about going to see someone?”

He turns to look at me, his blue eyes aglow. “Like a therapist?”

I shrug. “It was traumatic. A literal trauma,” I press on. “That kind of thing can get stuck in your brain, your body. There are a lot of specific approaches therapists use to help people process.”

“You sound like you’re talking from personal experience,” he says.

Of course I am, about the trauma. Not about the therapy. That’s all stuff I’ve picked up from Noah. I shrug. “In a way. I also have a close friend who’s a psychiatrist. He deals with a lot of trauma patients. He could give me some names if you want.”

“Thank you,” Richard says. He seems genuinely touched.

“I’m still having flashbacks, and I’m not sleeping. And it wasn’t one of my best friends who died.”

“Really?” Richard looks so relieved. “I thought I was going a little crazy. It’s like a—”

“Tape on a loop?”

“Exactly,” Richard says. “I keep seeing the exact same images, some are of the— Some are really haunting. Some are just of things I was looking at before, I think.”

“For me it’s the sounds,” I say. “Everything I heard right before.”

“It’s really fucking disturbing.”

“That’s for sure.”

“It already helps, just talking about it like this. Gretchen’s not…” He’s quiet again, and I try to ignore the prickle of discomfort I feel at hearing her name. “She’s not great with feelings. She’s an amazing person. A truly good person, but she freezes up around big feelings. It’s like she gets overwhelmed or something. She’s very good at doing—you should have seen her at the gathering at Van’s house after the service. She had her sleeves rolled up in the kitchen washing dishes. She took care of the donation and ordered flowers. She’s incredibly thoughtful. But she can’t just sit with you when you’re upset. She could never bear when the children cried. She always had to do something about it.” He looks so confused. “Do you know what I mean?”

“I think a lot of people are like that. Feelings are uncomfortable. They can be too much—for people who feel too much and the ones who don’t feel enough. Maybe it’s just too painful for your wife.” I can’t bring myself to say her name, but I did take her side. And that’s something.

“She’s doing her best,” he says, then looks over at me intently. “We’re all just doing our best.”

“I don’t mind listening,” I say. “If you just want to talk. About being sad. Or feeling guilty. Or maybe about what Van was like back when you met him. The good times.”

He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped loosely together. I know from the trip that he sits that way whenever he’s considering something seriously. He was in the same position when he asked me what it felt like to paint.

It was day six. We had been sitting at Arrow Glacier Camp, altitude 16,076 feet, watching the sun disappear behind the clouds in a kaleidoscope of orange, clutching cups of tea with our knit hats pulled low.

“Why?” I replied. “Do you think you could be an artist?”

It came out a little snide, but so many people think they could easily paint abstract modern art, that a child could.

Richard laughed. “I wish. As you heard earlier from the guys, I gave it a try once upon a time, but I eventually realized there probably wasn’t much of a modern market for mediocre sketches of fruit bowls. I think I could have made a great art dealer, though, or a curator.”

“What stopped you?”

He shrugged. “I grew up,” he said. “Anyway, I don’t have that kind of creativity in me. But I have always wondered what it feels like.”