Finally Anna spoke of his commitment to those he loved.
She was fifty-seven and at no time in her life had she felt old and alone. Until now. Her husband wasn’t coming back. Not even the dissatisfied Chad who didn’t know what he wanted or what it would take to make him feel fulfilled; not even the worst parts of Chad were coming back.
Anna ended her short tribute by inviting her guests to stay as long as they liked, to eat and drink and laugh, as that would do Chad honor. Joe returned to the podium to propose a toast to Chad and a life well lived.
Finally, Anna could relax somewhat. She could visit with her guests, have another glass of wine. She didn’t have to take care of anyone now; her elderly mother, Blanche, had not attended and was still safe at the assisted living facility. Chad’s brother, Scott, his wife, and Chad’s sister, Janet, and her husband were all heading straight to the airport by limo in about an hour.
“Almost over,” said the raspy voice of Phoebe in her ear. Phoebe had been one of her closest friends since college and was now her clerk of court. Phoebe had arranged the catering for the celebration of life. “Would you like me to come over after this?”
“You don’t have to,” Anna said. “I’m not fragile. And I really need to get some sleep.”
“Okay,” Phoebe said. “I’ll give you a call later to check in so just turn off your phone if you’re resting. How about the kids?”
They had rushed to her side, each for different reasons. Elizabeth had needed her comfort in the confusion of her father’s death, Mike needed someone to commiserate with and Jessie needed someone to acknowledge that it was all about her. Jessie was most like her father but not quite as charming. “I’m hoping they’re ready to go back to their homes, but of course I’ll leave that to them. Bess has already fled to the comfort of her apartment where no one will upset her routine and I think I might need to be alone.”
“Then I will be nearby just in case you change your mind about that,” Phoebe said.
There was a large gathering for the celebration of life. Chad’s colleagues and hers had come and there was no cross-pollination among them. There were longtime friends and neighbors and friends of the kids. They all seemed to want to stay forever and she wasn’t sure how long they actually did because, after four hours, she said a few farewells and went home. She was the bereaved widow and was allowed to do this. For once in her life she didn’t worry about playing the perfect hostess.
She went home, Jessie in tow, and put on her jeans and a bulky sweatshirt. She put clean white socks on her feet while Jessie packed up her overnight bag.
“Are you sure you’re all right to be alone?” Jessie asked.
“I think I need to be,” Anna said. “No offense and I appreciate all your support, but I’m worn out and done with this extravaganza. I need a little quiet time to regroup. Phoebe might come by later, though I told her I wanted some alone time.”
Mike came by the house and asked, for probably the third time, if she was sure she should be alone. “Are you sure you should be?” she asked.
“I’m okay,” he said. “And I haven’t seen Jenn in three days except at the funeral. Or whatever that was.”
“Celebration of—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know what it was.” He kissed her cheek. “Call me if you need me.”
“Thanks, Mike. You’re a good son.”
She’d been home about an hour when the doorbell rang and she took a deep breath, hoping it wasn’t going to be anyone high-maintenance. It was Joe.
“I should have called,” he said. “Before I drive all the way back to Menlo Park I wanted to be sure you’re all right.”
“I’m all right,” she said. And because it was Joe, she said, “Would you like to come in for a while? Maybe have a coffee before your drive?”
“If you’re sure,” he said. “It’s normal not to know exactly what you want right now.”
“Oh, I know exactly what I want,” she said, holding the door wider. “I want to know why!”
Anastasia Blanchette Fallon was raised by her single mother, Blanche Fallon. She used to tell people she was named for Blanche DuBois from A Streetcar Named Desire, but the play was actually written several years after Blanche was born. Anna’s mother was fierce, independent, stubborn and a little rough around the edges. She had worked in every imaginable job but mostly as a waitress and, when Anna was older, a bartender, as well. She usually had two jobs since there was no husband or father or family to help them. And now Anna looked after her mother. Blanche was plagued by varicose veins, arthritis and out-of-whack discs in her back, reflective of a life of hard work on her feet.