I remember once when I was sick, he stood outside the bathroom door, knocking gently and asking if I was okay and if I needed anything. Eventually he came in, picked me up off the bathroom floor, and carried me back to bed. He set me down, pulled the covers up to my shoulders, kissed me on the forehead, and called one of my colleagues to get him to cover for me in the OR that day.

Months later, my difficult pregnancy came to a head when Alan was forced to watch helplessly as I fell unconscious in the delivery room and nearly bled to death in front of his eyes. I suppose he wasn’t accustomed to feeling helpless in situations like that, but this was different. I was his wife, and he wasn’t permitted into the OR when they rushed me away. He waited hours while the doctors fought to save my life, and it was a close call. I was very lucky.

I remember waking up in the recovery room. He was there at my side, weeping.

“I don’t know what I’d do if I ever lost you,” he said.

“You won’t lose me.”

“You don’t know that, Abbie. Anything can happen. I was so scared when they took you away.”

I promised him that day that I would never leave him, and he held on to me desperately.

The memory causes my eyes to fill with tears, and I cry softly in the darkness. Winston lifts his head, moves closer, and licks the salty teardrops from my cheeks. It tickles, and I can’t help but laugh at the sensation. I stroke his neck, and he settles back down at the foot of the bed.

As I recover myself, my thoughts of Alan merge into another lane. Soon, I’m thinking about the accident, and I find myself going over every word of my telephone conversation with Paula Sheridan in the hospital. I think about her hasty departure from the funeral home before anyone else arrived, and how she stood on the hilltop at the cemetery, watching Alan’s burial from a distance.

My stomach does a series of flips and cartwheels because I hate being in the dark. I need to understand what’s been going on.

Tossing the covers aside, I rise from bed and pad downstairs to grab my purse from the bench in the foyer. While Winston watches me from the top of the stairs, I rifle through the contents, finally locating Alan’s cell phone at the bottom. I try to switch it on, but the battery’s dead, so I carry it upstairs and plug it into the wall with the cord I’ve been using to charge my own phone.

It’s torture to wait for his phone to power up, so I climb onto the bed with my back against the pillows, hugging my knees to my chest, tapping the pad of my thumb against my thigh, and feeling a twinge of guilt over what I’m about to do—snoop through his phone contacts and messages when he’s not here to explain himself. Winston jumps up as well and waits patiently beside me with his chin on his front paws, the big plastic cone like a clown collar around his neck.

At last I hear the familiar chime from Alan’s phone. I pick it up and search through his contacts, but Paula’s name isn’t listed anywhere, and there are no emails under her name either. All I have is the number she called from when I was at the hospital. I look it up, and it’s not the number for Handy Hardware, but that doesn’t tell me much. She may have been using her own phone to make calls to customers. I check the call history, and there are no other calls from that number, except for one earlier in the day. If there was ever any other communication between them, Alan deleted everything.

Suddenly I feel paranoid and ridiculous. Get a grip, Abbie. Why would Alan be deleting texts and emails from the owner of the hardware store? Because you actually think there was something going on between them? Seriously?

It’s nearly four in the morning, and I know there will be no answers tonight, but I can’t go on like this. I need to understand why Paula attended Alan’s funeral. If she has some secret connection to him, she might be the one person who knows why he was drinking that night and driving in the opposite direction from where he was supposed to be going. I take a few deep breaths, then begin to type a text message to her from Alan’s phone.

Hi Paula. This is Abbie MacIntyre. I noticed you at the funeral home the other night and again at the cemetery today. Could we get together for a coffee and talk?

I press “Send,” then slide back under the covers, hug the pillow against my cheek, and wait for morning.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Alan’s phone chimes at 7:00 a.m.

Winston lifts his head, stands up on the bed, and wags his tail. I wonder if he associates the distinctive notification tone with Alan and hopes that he’s coming home.

Still groggy and bleary-eyed from sleep—because I haven’t gotten much of it over the past few nights—I reach clumsily for the phone and swipe the screen.

To my relief, a text has come in, and it’s from Paula.

I immediately tap the little yellow-and-white icon.

Hi, Abbie. I’m so sorry for your loss. I know it must be difficult, but I don’t think I can be of much help. The best thing you can do right now is take time to grieve. I wish you all the best.

I shake my head in disbelief. “I beg your pardon?”

I can’t help but feel indignant because Paula’s text reads like the biggest brush-off of the century.

I glance at Winston, whose tongue is hanging out while he pants. I think he’s expecting me to tell him that Daddy will be home at any minute. A lump forms in my throat.

“I’m sorry. He’s not coming home today.”

Winston lies down again, and I sense his melancholy. I try not to sink into an even deeper pit of despair.

Returning my attention to Paula’s text, I decide that I simply can’t let it go. I begin to type a reply.

Hi again. Believe me, I am grieving, but I also need to understand the details around my husband’s death. Could we please get together for coffee this morning?

Moments pass, slow as cold molasses. Eventually, I force myself to set the phone on the bedside table and scratch behind Winston’s ears. Otherwise I’ll go mad.

It’s a challenge to get my fingers under the plastic cone, but Winston seems especially grateful for the attention. He bows his head and nuzzles my hand, demanding a more aggressive scratch, like Alan used to give him.

I try my best, but I know it’s not the same. It’ll never be the same.

The phone chimes. I scramble to reach for it.

I’m sorry, Abbie. I really don’t think there’s anything I can do for you. I knew your husband from the store, and I felt an affinity because I remember you from high school, but I don’t know anything more than that. Who knows why things happen the way they do? Sometimes there’s no rhyme or reason. Again, my deepest condolences. Please take care of yourself. And the next time we bump into each other, I hope it’s under better circumstances.

I finish reading and feel a surge of anger from deep in my core because all my instincts are telling me that she’s hiding something. I toss the phone onto the bed, then sit forward and scratch behind Winston’s ears again until my temper cools.

“Maybe I’m just having a hard time accepting this,” I say to Winston. “Or maybe the accident knocked my brain out of whack.”

I realize that I never returned for a follow-up checkup with Dr. Sanders, and that’s something I definitely need to do.

I set up an appointment to see Dr. Sanders that morning. He asks me all the usual questions to assess a head injury, examines the abrasion on my scalp, and concludes that I’m doing fine, all things considered. He asks how I’ve been feeling overall. I confess that I’ve been excessively fatigued at times and that I find it difficult to stay awake but I can’t get a good night’s sleep either.

He says that’s to be expected, given what I’ve been through. He advises me to get as much rest as I need and not to feel guilty about taking a short nap in the afternoon if that helps.

I thank him, leave the hospital, and return to my mother’s car, where I get into the driver’s seat and grip the steering wheel with both hands. I stare straight ahead like a robot, barely blinking, because my cuts and bruises may be healing, but I’m a widow now—a widow who can’t escape the feeling that her husband may have been keeping secrets.

A sickening knot of dread forms in my belly as I contemplate this new reality, full of doubts about our relationship. And it’s not just that. He’s gone now. From this day forward, there will be nothing but an empty pillow beside me when I wake in the mornings. Alan won’t be around to book family vacations for us or fix the internet when the Wi-Fi kicks me off. I’m a complete numbskull when it comes to technology. He was always there to take care of those things and so many others.

And what about growing old? I’d always imagined we’d take care of each other when the aging process began and the inevitable health problems descended upon us—like hearing loss and not being able to see the tiny print on the pill bottles in the cupboard. Knowing us, we would have joked about it and made fun of each other. Just like my mom, we would never have surrendered our sense of humor.

But now, I’ll have to read the pill bottles myself and always keep a magnifying glass handy. There will be no one to make fun of me and make me laugh when I’m eighty and can’t find my teeth.

Suddenly I burst into tears, and I realize it’s the first time I’ve had complete privacy to sob openly, without constraint, where no one can hear me. The flood is torrential—a massive tsunami of grief and rage. I scream and cry and pound the steering wheel over and over.

Why, Alan? Why were you on the road that night, and what in the world were you up to?

Five minutes later, I’m driving to the hardware store because I’ve made up my mind to talk to Paula. I can’t begin to move forward until I do, and I need for her to understand that.

I drive all the way across town, thinking nonstop about what I’ll say to her when I arrive. My blood is fired with adrenaline because this time I’m determined not to take no for an answer. I’m going to demand that she explain why she snuck into the funeral home before the wake began and why she was skulking around the cemetery during the burial.

When I reach the store, I pull into the parking lot, find a spot, and shut off the engine.