I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122m working again. My sister-in-law, Susan, has returned to her new life in Minnesota, and the imaginary but oft-used brake pedal on the passenger side of the truck, where Diane sits? Gone. It is the dead of winter but a new year. <\/p>\n
I climb solid wooden steps and pause at the door to the red-framed real estate office. My workday is over and I laugh at my Rube Goldberg fix of this poorly installed front door. The building is out of square, the door is too, but now when someone slams it, it stays shut. At least it\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ll keep out the winter winds, and I know, Mary Ellen, the receptionist, will thank me. But Mary Ellen has gone home for a short visit to the Cotswolds, and as I push through the door, Eileen stands to greet me. <\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153You\u00e2\u20ac\u2122re here for the keys to the rental unit?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d Eileen asks.<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153I am; I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122m Michael,\u00e2\u20ac\u009d I extend my hand, \u00e2\u20ac\u0153And you must be filling in for Mary Ellen?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153No, I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122m a broker. I only work two nights a week. I was widowed and needed a job, but then I got married and \u00e2\u20ac\u00a6 \u00e2\u20ac\u0153<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153You don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t have to work as much.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Right.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
Eileen is tall and slender. Her blond hair contrasts with her red lips, and she\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s wearing a blue dress with three inches of white lace covering her bosom. A youthful style to be sure; I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ve seen my teenage son\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s friends dress this way.<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153You were widowed?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153My husband died when I turned fifty, and my youngest moved out to go to college.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Ouch. That\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s an empty nest.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153My friends complain about their kids going off to college and being alone. I tell them, \u00e2\u20ac\u02dcYou don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t know what an empty nest is.\u00e2\u20ac\u2122 \u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153What did he die of? Look, I know I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122m getting personal here. Stop me if you want.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Bill had cancer. He was diagnosed in \u00e2\u20ac\u212292 and remained healthy until \u00e2\u20ac\u212298. Then it came back – four kinds, but originally lung. When he died\u00e2\u20ac\u00a6 I can\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t describe how lonely I was. Some people say the worst thing is when a child dies, but then you\u00e2\u20ac\u2122re\u00e2\u20ac\u00a6 you\u00e2\u20ac\u2122re still in your spouse\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s arms.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
Eileen had so quickly dispensed with what I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122d always considered a given, and I didn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t know what to say. I fumbled, \u00e2\u20ac\u0153How long ago did Bill die?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Six and half years. I went back to work as an airline attendant. I had to do something. I was so lonely. Then I switched to real estate, and then I met my new husband, Jim.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153What\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s dating like in your fifties? I guess it can be exhilarating, but talk about awkward?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153It was awful. And I couldn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t find anyone. I go to a church with three thousand people and there wasn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t a guy there for me. I found Jim through Match.com.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Online. Good for you.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
I settled into a soft, gray, upholstered chair from someone\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s living room. I felt self-conscious about sitting down. It meant I was here for the duration, and I needed to explain my interest. <\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Your story is compelling for many reasons. My wife\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s younger sister just died after a long illness, and unexpectedly my wife\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s older sister\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s husband had a heart attack in the middle of the night and died. Plus, I worked for an internet website which advertised for Match.com. I know those online companies work, but I know people \u00e2\u20ac\u201c mostly older people – are leery of them.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Many of my friends were, before they heard my story. Now I sit down with them and sign them up and help create their profiles. Match.com should pay me. People think they\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ll meet an ax murderer online. They could meet one at church too. You never know.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153You go from married with children to no husband and kids that only visit? Please, again, I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122m not prying but you\u00e2\u20ac\u2122re so direct about all of this.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153When my husband died, two friends, who were also forty-nine, lost their husbands. I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122d known Jane and Rebecca through my church. We\u00e2\u20ac\u2122d organized dinners, and helped with fund raising. We were close before, when we had husbands, but after, we got much closer. We went to the movies together, we\u00e2\u20ac\u2122d take long walks together, and sometimes we\u00e2\u20ac\u2122d just hold hands. I call it severe mercies.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Severe mercies?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Rebecca, Jane and me. We\u00e2\u20ac\u2122d all lost our husbands and that\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s terrible. But without each other I don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t know how we\u00e2\u20ac\u2122d have survived. My husband\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s was the only lingering death, which is very different from Jane and Rebecca, whose spouses had heart attacks. I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122d time to prepare \u00e2\u20ac\u201c they didn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t. Jane met guys online too and is getting on with her life; Rebecca\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s stuck. I don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t know if she\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ll ever get past her husband\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s death. She reminds me of my mother. My mother was widowed at fifty-three and never remarried. I was so frightened I would become my mother.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153And your mother probably wanted you at home. Wanted the company. I have a friend who moved in with her mother.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153No, not at all. My mother encouraged me to date. But as I say, I couldn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t find anyone my age. They\u00e2\u20ac\u2122re all twenty-five or seventy-five. I was frantic.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Until you met Jim. And he moved here?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153No. He\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s from our town. When he answered my online profile, I told him I didn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t want to travel more than five miles. He said, \u00e2\u20ac\u02dcWell, you\u00e2\u20ac\u2122re in luck.\u00e2\u20ac\u2122 \u00e2\u20ac\u0153<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153And did you write a lot before you met? An online romance first?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153No, and I advise people against that. You create fantasies no one can live up to. We wrote two or three times and then we met at the restaurant, Crossroads. Jim had been widowed only six months.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153So you met for drinks or dinner?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153At the bar. We\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ve been together since. Married a year and a half now and so much in love.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Maybe this is a strange question. Do you feel odd to have moved on with your lives? I mean, so in love and so married and now so in love and so married again.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153No guilt at all – for either one of us. Our spouses are buried in the same cemetery here in town. The one on Concord Road with the perfect stone chapel visible from the street through the oak trees. When we drive by we wave and say, \u00e2\u20ac\u02dcHow\u00e2\u20ac\u2122re you doing.\u00e2\u20ac\u2122 I know they\u00e2\u20ac\u2122re both with the Lord.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Like the book The Perfect Storm, this is the perfect story. Except, well, everybody had to die first.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
“And my mother predicted it. She saw how upset I’d become at not finding a companion. She said, ‘Don’t worry, the wife of the man you’re going to meet hasn’t died yet.\u00e2\u20ac\u2122 \u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122m working again. My sister-in-law, Susan, has returned to her new life in Minnesota, and the imaginary but oft-used brake pedal on the passenger side of the truck, where Diane sits? Gone. It is the dead of winter but a … Continue reading