Fueled by an endless supply of cocaine and vodka, my first husband fired a bullet through a closed door, into the room where I was standing. My response was immediate. Instinctual. No time to plan my jump from the second story window. I shoved it open and leapt into the night, hoping the tree outside would break my fall.
I tumbled down through sticks and branches. Limbs and tree bark scraped and gouged my flesh. I was wearing ballet slippers and short babydoll pajamas, and the temperature was near-freezing, but none of that mattered. I landed, hard, at the base of the tree and took off running down the backside of the property, into the wooded area beyond the house.
MY MISTAKE WAS THINKING I COULD FIX HIM.
Photo by Brenda Coffee
New Year’s Eve, Goldie, my best girlfriend in the world, died. I’m still broken-hearted. Goldie was a great dog! Smart, funny, loving. For months, I’d been preparing myself for that moment. Her back legs were weak and wobbly. She was nearly deaf and had dementia—yes, dogs get dementia—but in her final hour, she somehow found the will to summon her zest for life.
I PULLED OVER, ROLLED DOWN THE WINDOW AND SAT THERE, LETTING HER TAKE IT IN, ONE LAST TIME. AS I WATCHED HER, I PUT ON THE BRIGHT RED LIPSTICK I’D HURRIEDLY PUT IN MY PURSE.
Yesterday was the fourth anniversary of James’s death. Just when I think I’m upright and moving in the right direction, something happens to remind me he’s not here. He’s never coming back. Recently I went to my storage units in search of things to put on my office wall. While I found what I was looking for, I also found things that made me happy, nostalgic and things that made me sad.
One storage unit was full of uniform cardboard boxes that hold the contents of my life spent with James. Would you believe I’ve saved every rose James ever gave me? I have boxes and boxes, big cardboard boxes of dried roses, carefully packed in newspaper. Dried when they were perfectly formed. Beautiful buds still bound together, petal upon petal, like lovers’ hands, intertwined finger by finger.
JAMES GAVE ME ROSES FOR BIRTHDAYS, ANNIVERSARIES AND FOR NO OTHER REASON THAN BECAUSE HE LOVED ME.
Photo by Brenda Coffee
This week the world lost a great talent, director Mike Nichols. Nichols was in that small, elite group of people who’ve won an Emmy, Oscar, Grammy and Tony Award. We’ve love his films, The Graduate, Silkwood, Working Girl and The Birdcage, but he was much more. A kind and gentle family man who escaped Nazi Germany when he was seven. My heart breaks for his wife, journalist Diane Sawyer, and their family. I know what the sudden, unexpected death of a husband is like. Coming to terms with the death of my darling James was the most difficult thing I’ve ever done.
James liked to run on our ranch in the Texas Hill Country. The day after Christmas, almost four years ago, when he was late returning from his run, I knew something was wrong. I grabbed my coat, a flashlight and my cell phone and made a quick drive down the walking paths he’d cleared on the ranch. I was looking for an upright figure, so I didn’t see him laying on the other side of his tractor, hidden from view.
When I didn’t find him after the first time down and back, I called 911, and then the neighbors, and told them to bring flashlights and to hurry. My second trip I repeatedly stopped, turned off the engine and called, “James. James. James.” My voice echoed his name across the canyon, but I heard nothing in return. Maybe it was because it was nearly dark or because of the camouflage jacket he was wearing, but I’d passed right by him on both trips and didn’t see him.
“I LAY THERE FOR A LONG TIME, STARING SKYWARD AT THE LAST THING HE MUST HAVE SEEN: THE BLUE TEXAS SKY ABLAZE WITH ORANGE AND RED AND STREAKS OF PINK.”
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