My body is heavy as lead, but I manage to drag myself off the sofa and move to my desk to send Dr. Tremblay an email. I want to tell him about this latest hypnagogic hallucination.

He responds immediately to let me know that it’s unlikely I’ll ever be completely free of hallucinations during my daytime naps, but the sedative at night should at least allow me to get the sleep I require and lend some normalcy to my life.

Life.

Normalcy.

By some miracle, I survived the accident, and I have my entire future still ahead of me. I didn’t die that night, like Alan did. How lucky I was! I feel so happy and relieved I’m completely breathless.

Leaning back in my chair, I cover my face with my hands and begin to weep. These are tears of joy and gratitude—passionate tears that flow like a waterfall down my cheeks as I laugh and cry at the same time. I feel an exhilaration I never imagined I would ever feel again. I am positively euphoric, and I can’t believe how lucky I am to be alive. I feel reborn. Who ever knew that my narcolepsy could turn out to be such an unexpected gift?

The exhilaration continues into the night. I feel euphoric again when Zack skates past the center line and passes the puck to a teammate, who scores a fast goal. I cheer and clap with my mittens on, jumping up from my seat in the bleachers while the game horns blare and the other hockey parents cheer alongside me. Maureen and I high-five Gwen and Kate and shout over the boards, “Way to go, Citadel!” Rock music shakes the arena while the players congratulate each other, and the referees give the signal to start another play.

The game ends with a score of three to two, with Zack’s team coming out on top, and I feel lighthearted as I exit the arena with Zack beside me, hauling his giant equipment bag over his shoulder. I’ll definitely miss the excitement of these games when he goes off to college in the fall, but he plans to try out for the team at Western, so it’s nice to know there may be more hockey in our future. But even if there isn’t, I’m happy today.

Later that night, as I settle into bed, I scroll through messages on my phone and feel an urge to text Nathan, just to tell him about the game. Nothing more.

Hey there. Just got home from the rink. Zack’s team won and they’re going on to the finals. A good day!

Nathan responds a few seconds later. That’s great! Cheers to more good days ahead. And I’d love to see him play sometime.

Suddenly, there’s a disturbance in me, because I can’t imagine inviting Nathan to one of Zack’s hockey games. How could I introduce him to the other hockey parents who sat in chilly arenas beside Alan and me for years? What would they think of that, so soon after Alan’s death?

And how would I explain to Zack why Winston’s veterinarian—who just so happens to be a very handsome man—is sitting in Alan’s place, watching and cheering?

I don’t respond to the text. Later that night, I toss and turn in bed. I flip from side to side, thinking about my friendship with Nathan and wishing I could be a normal grieving widow who wouldn’t feel the confusing desire to send personal text messages to a man she barely knows and reveal intimate details about her marriage. And then feel guilty about it.

Why can’t I just be the kind of widow who idolizes her late husband and believes he was the best man in the world? But I’m not that kind of widow because that’s not the hand I’ve been dealt. I’m still angry with Alan, and if anything, I wish he were still here, if only so that I could tear a strip off him, tell him how badly he hurt me, and then kick him out of the house. Or at the very least banish him to the sofa until he comes groveling and begging for my forgiveness, telling me he made a terrible mistake with Paula and it’s over forever. Then I may or may not take him back.

But I probably would, because despite everything, I still love him, and I would do anything to have our life back.

The following day, I stare at my phone on my desk at work, and I can’t stop thinking about Nathan’s message: I’d love to see him play sometime.

That simply can’t happen. Not now. I’m doing well, so much better lately, but I’m not ready to bring another man into my life, even as a friend, because I need to respect these stages of grief. I need to get through it all, not just for my own sake but for Zack’s and for everyone else who loved Alan.

With a sigh, I pick up my phone and begin to type a long-winded message to Nathan:

Hi again. I have something to say, and I’m not sure how to say it. But first I want to thank you for being so kind to me, and especially for saving Winston’s life. You’ve become someone who lifts my spirits during the darkest moments, and I am grateful that you’ve been a part of my life these past few months. But I’m going to be honest. I have to confess that I feel uncomfortable with how much I like you. Sometimes I feel uneasy when we text each other because you make me feel happy, and that makes me feel guilty, because it’s only been a few months since I said goodbye to Alan, and I shouldn’t be feeling happy and excited when my phone chimes with a text message from a man I can’t help but care for. Is this making any sense? I guess you can probably tell that I’m still an emotional disaster, and I don’t want to screw up my friendship with you. I’m afraid that I will—that in a moment of weakness or insecurity or loneliness, I’ll cross a line and do something, or say something, that I’m not ready to do or say. I’m also terrified that Zack will see our messages and get the wrong idea. I need to think of him and put him first, so I can’t be forming friendships—however innocent they may be—with handsome new men. Zack wouldn’t understand it. And he’s leaving in the fall, so I don’t want to do anything that might cause upheaval in our relationship, or arguments during our last few months together. I want to help him get over the loss of his father, not create heartache or confusion for him. This is hard, because I like you so much and I enjoy talking to you. You’re like my secret happy place. But I have to think of Zack. I hope this is making sense and you don’t hate me.

I reread the message, edit a few words and phrases, and hit “Send” before I change my mind. Then I sit back and stare at my phone, wondering if Nathan has received it yet.

As I imagine him reading it, my stomach erupts into butterflies because I’ve just confessed that I like him more than I should and that I find him handsome. That was very bold, but it’s easier to be bold in a text message. I’m not sure I would have the courage to say all those things if I were standing in front of him in his office.

A little while later, my phone chimes, and my pulse quickens. I pick up my phone and begin to read.

Hi Abbie. Thanks for being so honest about how you are feeling, and don’t worry, it makes total sense and I don’t hate you. Since we’re being honest, I’ll confess that I like you too, so I can’t pretend that all our encounters have been innocent. I’ve found you attractive since the first moment I laid eyes on you sitting with Winston in my ICU. So there you have it. It’s out in the open. But I totally understand where you’re coming from and that you need to think of your son and that you’re still grieving. It’s like we said that day in my clinic—when you’re a parent, you can’t enjoy the luxury of putting your own needs first. But our kids are worth it, aren’t they? I sure do love my girls, more than life itself.

So I’ll say goodbye now. But please know that if you ever need to talk, I’m always here. Take care of yourself, and keep on hanging in there.

Nathan

When I finish reading his message, my eyes well up with tears because he has been so unbelievably kind and understanding, and I can’t deny that I feel a pulsing little thrill to hear that he finds me attractive. After everything I’ve learned about Alan and Paula, it’s nice to know I’m not a total loser. But what moves me most is the way Nathan ended his message, the same way he has ended so many others—with a door that continues to remain open.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

September

This is it—the moment I’ve been dreading for months. Zack gets on a plane today and will fly halfway across the country to start university. I won’t see him until Thanksgiving.

We’ve never been apart that long before, and he’ll no longer be my little boy. There will be no more school lunches or chauffeuring him to hockey games and parties on weekends. No more calling up the stairs to wake him on a Saturday morning, when he’d probably sleep until noon if I let him.

At least I’m not alone at the airport, saying goodbye to him. Maureen is with me because Zack and Jeremy are traveling together on the same flight to Ontario, and though they won’t be roommates, they’ll be living in the same residence at Western. Maureen and I have been consoling each other all week in anticipation of this moment.

“Do you have your wallet?” I ask Zack after we’ve checked his large suitcase and are walking toward security.

“Yes, Mom, I have everything. Don’t worry.”

“What about your toothbrush? Did you pack that?”

He stops dead in his tracks and gapes at me with horror. “Oh my God.”

Fire explodes in my stomach.

“I left it in the bathroom. What am I gonna do? We have to go back.” Then he smiles, and I realize he’s teasing me. It’s something Alan would have done.

I slap him playfully on the arm. “You’re a scalawag.”

“But you still love me.”

“Always.”

“And did you seriously just say scalawag?”

I laugh. “I think I might have.”

We reach the entrance to security before departures, and Maureen and I stop. Zack and Jeremy dig out their IDs and boarding passes to show the guard. Then they turn to hug us one last time.

“I’m going to miss you so much,” I say to Zack as I squeeze him tight and wish I didn’t have to let go, ever.

“I’ll miss you too,” he replies, “but don’t worry, Mom. We’re gonna be fine. You and me both.”

I step back and run my fingers over the collar of his jean jacket, noticing how tall he’s become. “I know. But I can’t promise I won’t worry about you. It’s my job as a mother.”