Thirty Three

As it turned out, Emily went alone.

Sarah called at three Friday afternoon. Her voice was weak and disappointed. “I’ve been puking all day, Em. Some sort of stomach flu.”

Emily panicked a little. Sarah was supposed to be her buffer, to bolster her nerve. Emily had, so far, managed to keep things with Trent on a very safe level, and she needed, tonight more than ever, to keep it casual. Despite her best intentions, she worried that her resistance would be low after so many days of obsessing about doing the right thing. She tried not to remember his stubbled jaw, his dimples, the sea-green eyes that cut through her defenses. Without her best friend, she expected it would be like walking into a party alone. She wasn’t ready to stave off temptation unsupported.

“What?” she asked, frantic. “What about Gravol? I could get you something stronger from the hospital; I could write you a scrip…”

“Believe me, honey, no one is more sorry than I am,” Sarah said sadly. “I have been ralphing every ten minutes for hours. I’ve tried drugs. I’ve tried ginger ale. I just can’t do it. I’d be throwing up all over your car the second we started driving. I would be no fun at all.”

“Well, crap,” Emily said. “What if we waited a couple of hours? I’m sure they won’t start playing until nine or ten…”

“It’s killing me to say this, Em, but there is absolutely no way I am letting you miss this for me. You need to go and I need to stay here and talk to the toilet bowl.”

“Oh, Sarah… I don’t know if I can do it alone!” Emily wailed.

“Of course you can, honey. You’re a grown-up. You’re a doctor for God’s sake, not a hormonal teenager trying to impress a rock star. You can hold your own in any crowd.” Sarah sounded like she was fading as they spoke.

“I’m not so sure, Sar,” Emily said, processing the prospect of finding her way to the concert and backstage by herself. That stuff had always been Sarah’s thing, anything that took nerve. Sarah was the bold one, the flirt, not Emily. Emily was the quiet, studious, just-along-for-the-ride type. “I’m…” she broke off.

“Don’t feel bad, Em,” Sarah said, mistaking Emily’s insecurity for sympathy. “I already feel sorry enough for myself. Go and have a good time. Tell me all about it tomorrow. Right now, I need to go puke again. Bye.”

Emily heard retching as Sarah’s phone clattered and the line went dead. She looked at the receiver in her hand. Now what? How was she supposed to do this on her own? Then again, it would be difficult to ‘get together’ after the show, as Trent had suggested, if Sarah was there. Sarah might feel like a third wheel, not that she ever failed to find something to do when she was out having fun. Even still, Emily thought it might be uncomfortable, and suddenly felt a little braver, knowing she wouldn’t need to worry about making sure her friend had a good time while she broke up with the man of her dreams.

In the background all day, too, had been Emily’s vague discomfiture about the entire situation. She hadn’t slept well last night, her fitful dreams full of anxiety images borne, she knew, of the continued and barely conscious sense that she was somehow betraying Thomas, even though her intentions were, she thought, honourable. In one barely-remembered dream, she was yelling at Thomas with a seemingly bottomless fury that left her trembling and soaked in sweat when she woke suddenly, confused. It was a dream she knew she’d had before, many months ago. It had occurred most frequently during the challenging time when Emily was most bitter about her widowhood, and the absence of her children’s father. It didn’t take Freud to figure out that Emily was working through her anger at Thomas’s death, and although she knew intellectually that it was a normal reaction, it nonetheless provoked significant guilt. She thought she’d got past that nightly reminder of the more unsavoury side of her grief, and the recurrence of the dream was disconcerting. She slept poorly the rest of the night, considering its implications.

Now, months after she last remembered having the dream, Emily wanted to believe she had worked through some of the anger, but the guilt remained. When she was at her lowest these days, she entertained herself by listing all the things she had to feel guilty about. Her anger at Thomas’s death, and her subsequent relief that his pain had ended, premature though the end was. Then there were the twins; fatherless in a rotten world, she worried constantly that she wouldn’t be able to compensate for Thomas’s absence, despite the stability provided by Ellen’s tireless efforts. And lately, of course, there was the prospect that someone may someday be vying for a place in their lives; someone who would invariably be compared to Thomas on some level by someone. Was it fair to put them through that? Could they even take to someone new after losing the one man that had been the solid foundation of their little world? Should they be expected to?

Of course, Emily reminded herself, and now added to her guilt list, Trent didn’t even know about the kids. Who knew? she thought. Maybe he’d hear about her ‘baggage’ and run screaming in the opposite direction, solving all her dilemmas in one fell swoop. At least it was her problem, not the kids’. It was only her heart that was broken again, not theirs. And if Thomas’s death had taught her one thing so far, it was that she could survive a broken heart. She’d had to, for Aidan’s and Ava’s sakes. No choice there. Now, though, she simply wasn’t willing to put herself in a position to have to survive another one.