Finding Jim (29 page)

Before Scott has opened the front door to leave, I stand up and shout with clenched fists, “Wait a second. Get back up here.”

He jogs back up the stairs and stands before me, hands buried in his pockets.

“What do you mean you can't do it? You proposed to me. I've taken a leave of absence from work so we can move in together and start a life together and now you bail? How can you do that?” My arms stiffen at the shrill sound of my voice.

He mumbles at his shoes. “I know. I'm sorry.”

“Go. Get out.” I wave my hand and turn away from him. The front door opens and closes. A motor putters, whines, revs and fades.

Looking to the ceiling I bawl, “Jim, please come back. I tried so hard to let go and to be with Scott. I took all of the photographs of you down. I didn't go to your family's place for Christmas. Please, come back.”

For two hours I sit on the couch, paralyzed. The numbness of grieving Jim returns, and I go to bed with thick, heavy limbs and dream of that night when Kevin and Eric came with the news.

The next day, in Scott's driveway, I visualize the possible scene. Perhaps Scott will open the door, gather me in his arms and say how sorry he is and that I am the one he loves more than anything. Finally, I knock.

Scott opens the door slowly.

“Hey.”

“Hi. Do you want to come in?”

“Yes.” Scott's dog licks my hand and wags his tail as I pass by.

I perch at the kitchen table, and Scott slouches on the couch, knees wide apart.

“I don't know what to say.” I stare at my hands. “I don't know why we can't figure this out if we love each other.” I slide my fingers along the wood grain of the
IKEA
table.

“I don't know, Sue. Given your special relationship with Jim, I didn't really feel like you accepted me for who I am.” Scott deflates as these words suck his energy.

With a few steps, I kneel before him, hands on his thighs.

“Maybe you're right. Maybe I haven't done enough to let go of Jim.” A sneering voice inside of me says, Yeah, you know Scott has seen the rest of Jim's ashes on your bedroom shelf and those clothes you keep in the closet. You even gave him one of Jim's old jackets to wear once. Shit, that doesn't seem fair, but I'm doing my best.

I choke out, “But I'll try harder. Why don't we just try living together? Forget about getting married and having kids. We'll just move in together and see how it goes.” I breathe quickly and look at him.

His face does not soften and his mouth barely moves when he says, “I'll think about it.”

I withdraw my hands to my sides and sit back on my heels. “Okay.” I couldn't have begged much more than that. Completely exposed, I use the chair to help me up, feel for my keys on the table and let myself out.

Two days later I return to work in Vancouver for the month of January. My leave begins February 1, when Scott and I were supposed to move in together. When I arrive at school, I coach myself. Okay, pull yourself together. You survived before, you'll survive this. Don't let it affect your job. I open the door to our office and Robyn turns around from writing on the board.

“Hey. How's it going, Sue?” She smiles.

“Great, Robyn, how was your holiday?” I beeline to my desk and drop my bag.

“What's wrong?” She moves toward me.

My chin quivers. I stare at my desk.

“What's wrong?” She puts her hand on my arm.

I look at her concerned face and let go. “Scott bailed.”

“Oh, no.” Her eyes fill with tears and we lean into each other at the same time.

There are outdoor trips to plan, assignments to grade and lessons to teach, but every chance I get I seek refuge at my desk with the latest book I've bought,
Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway
. I earmark every other page and underline every other word. My insides feel like an old fuzzy television screen. Sometimes I don't want to swallow, for fear that my saliva will never hit bottom. Scott is important to me, but I've been in this prison of hollowness before. Scott goes away to work for three weeks and sends one e-mail in which he reinforces his decision and signs it “Scott.” When I am quite sure that Scott has really bailed, I venture to tell other people. One friend asks me why our relationship didn't work out. I tell her, “I guess he didn't love me.” She responds sternly,

“You mean he didn't love you the way you wanted him to.” I want Scott to love me the way Jim loved me.

Dad and I walk along Jericho Beach and talk.

“I wonder why I chose to be with Scott.” The “it's my fault” voice chimes in.

“Because you were trying to continue your old life,” Dad says confidently, walking with his hands clasped behind his back.

“Yes, that's part of it,” I agree, but the rest of my response percolates in private as we walk along in silence. I try to heal old wounds. Jim's death has a cascade effect on my past hurts. I had tucked those hurts away but now they surface and demand attention. My confidence is eroded and I question my decision to leave my mother to live with my father when I was 16. I question my decision not to see my mother for eight years. I question my once-a-year relationship with my mother now. Was everything my fault?

The positive good-girl voice in me perks up. “You know, I've learned two great lessons from being with Scott: I know that my heart is able and willing to open up and love even after losing Jim, and I will not abandon myself in the name of love.”

Dad nods.

Robyn teaches more of the classes so I don't have to be in front of the students as much. The month crawls by. On February 1, the end of term, I pack up and drive to Whistler for my five-month leave of absence.

I call Scott and drop by his place. He is quiet, contemplative, resigned, as if he is waiting for me to lose hope. We go on hikes and sometimes we have sex. Afterward, I feel ill. Emptier. But I will do almost anything to avoid more loss. The monkeys in my brain hoot and holler and swing maniacally.

I coach myself. Enough of Scott. Don't use him as a distraction. You have your own work to do.

Thoughts writhe in my mind like snakes, seeking a pattern and strangling one another in the process. Why am I frantic? Because I try to convince myself that I am worthy of love. Maybe letting go of Scott represents more than the relationship. I need to start fresh and stop clinging to what is familiar. Take a break from this house Jim and I built. Jump. Make a decision and embrace it. Take responsibility for my life. There's no one else to blame. Scott is no longer a part of my life, so wish him well and move on. Don't try to change the way he feels. There's nothing wrong with me. Stop wallowing. Get on with the things I want to do: art, wilderness trips, travel. Write a book; study alternative medicine.

In my journal I write pages summarizing my relationship with Scott and who is to blame for what. I come out much better than he does. My anger subsides, my pen slows and I finish with a blessing to Scott:

I loved laughing with you, skiing with you and dreaming with you. I loved when you were tender and loving with me – when your heart was open. You are a good person: sensitive and well meaning. I'm sorry that our journey together is over. I thought we were going to grow old together. You are not a part of my life anymore and that is heartbreaking. I will try to accept that and wish you well.

I wake up the morning after writing that entry with a vivid dream about Jim and Scott fresh before my eyes and reach for my journal to write it down.

In the dream, I am at home in Whistler working on the computer. Jim and Scott are rock climbing a new route nearby that Jim and I climbed the day before. A ghostly transparent figure of Jim appears before me. By the way he looks at me I know that something is wrong. He floats away, looking back to see if I follow. My family and friends yell after me that I don't know the way, that I will get lost. But I know the way like my own heart and climb up the rock after Jim. When I catch up, Jim turns to me and motions above him. I climb past Jim, focused on each move, worried about Scott. I see Scott's body lying flat against the rock. As I approach, he turns with a resigned look, hanging from his arm that disappears into a fissure in the rock, as if he is being swallowed. His face tells me not to worry, but he looks like a child trying to be brave. I think of options: amputation … but he is buried too deep. We look at one another and it is clear that this is it. This is as far as he can go. He tells me with his eyes to go on without him. I float back down to Jim.

It's been a long time since I dreamt of Jim. It feels like we had a visit.

One sunny day, I walk to the village on the valley trail to meet Dad for lunch at the Italian trattoria. My mind wanders to images of Tuscany and me cooking with tomatoes right from the vine and smearing sauce across my apron as I juggle several pots on the stove. While I wait to be seated at the restaurant, I notice right there in the entrance several brochures for cooking schools in Tuscany. I finger the glossy photos and ponder the serendipity. When I inquire, I find that the eight-day session is out of my price range.

A few weeks pass and the woman I spoke to at the restaurant about the classes calls back to say they have had a lot of cancellations because of the impending war in Iraq, so many that she can offer me a screamer of a deal. It takes me 15 minutes to get a flight on points and confirm my dates. I Google “art schools in Europe” and enroll in a week-long studio in medieval Anversa, Italy, after the cooking course. A week does not seem long enough, and so I find another six-week art school in Aix-en-Provence, France. I will go to Italy for two weeks and then France for July.

I arrange medical insurance, travellers' cheques, buy new clothes, pack, prepay bills and call my aunt to see if she can look after Habby. The familiar pre-trip routine eats away the days until there's one week to go. One item remains on my to-do list: Jim's ashes.

On April 29, 2003, the fourth anniversary of Jim's death, I face down the wooden Haida box on the shelf in my bedroom and hike to the lookout point on the trail behind our house. “Our” house. Jim and Sue's place. Not my house. It's been four years since Jim was killed and some of his ashes are still in my bedroom. Habby bounds ahead of me. Looking out over the lake, I hold the box against my belly and stare, silent. I've run out of meaningful things to say about grief, death and love. I am empty. I need to fill myself up. Finally I open the bag inside the box and scatter the ashes like birdseed. It takes too long and I grab handfuls and toss them so that whitish grey mounds form on the ground. Near the end, I pull out the plastic bag, upend it and shake until it is empty, like I do with the cracker bag in the sink. The last of Jim's ashes. Done.

I will go to Italy and France to learn, to do things that are good for me, good for my soul. I am proud of me for taking this step. Learning can be an effective antidote to depression, disinterest in life and loneliness. I will shed an old skin, shake free of my own chains.

This trip will be good for me. I am ready for a loving relationship with someone who is available. Keep me strong, Jim. Keep reminding me of what is genuine.

Villa Delia perches on a hill surrounded by 30 hectares of olive groves, grapevines, vegetable gardens, brilliant yellow sunflowers and luscious red poppies, delicate as lips. An authentically restored 17th-century country estate, some of its olive trees are 120 years old. Pope Pius
vII
exiled here during the Napoleonic Wars.

Signor Sylvano, our host, smiles with his eyes as he shows us the grounds. He gestures at an employee bent over in the vegetable garden. “Most Italians want a small plot of land where they can put their hands in the earth.”

I nod and track the vineyards and sandstone villas with terracotta roofs floating in the distance in a haze of soft yellow hues. Dark-green cypress trees outline a tapestry of rolling hills like a fringe. The soil burns red from the long-ago heat of a volcano.

I'm in the heart of rural Tuscany.

The romantic countryside makes me feel alone. I want to nudge Jim and whisper, “Isn't this beautiful?”

Dad asked me once, “Why do you want to travel? You won't find any answers, you know.”

“I know but it's good for me,” I laughed and changed the subject. Later I replayed the conversation and had time to prepare the response I wanted to give. Travelling gives me perspective and opens my eyes to different ways of being. It reminds me of all I have to be grateful for. And being grateful helps me to love. And be loved.

I breathe in the smell of rich Italian earth and feel the warm breeze on my skin. It's beautiful, I tell myself. Life has its magical moments even though Jim is dead. Enjoy. Self-pity will get you nowhere.

My elbows brush the walls as Sylvano leads me up a narrow, winding staircase to my dark-wooded, brightly sunlit room. He sets my small suitcase down by the door.

“
Grazie
.”

“
Prego
.”

I survey the room. Sparkling white bathroom, elegant tiling, plush towels, antique washstand. Double bed. Too romantic for a widow. I picture myself snuggled under the white duvet with Jim, watching the yellow-orange sun through the oblong windows. I stand paralyzed. I'm afraid of being alone. I want to go home to the familiar. But I'm too frugal, too sensitive to what others will think, too scared of failure to bail. And on some level I know there is not much to go home to.

I slink into a dress and join four Canadian couples and one American couple for our welcome dinner: a scene out of
Babette's Feast
. It takes an hour to get through the appetizers – prosciutto, antipasto, chicken liver, melon and a classic pasta dish rolled up like a neat hairdo. For the main meal we pass around serving platters of roast potatoes smothered in olive oil, Swiss chard, tender beef strips blanketed in parmesan and pickled vegetables. The wine and conversation flow. Mostly about food. Gerda and Eric, a jolly, rotund couple from Vancouver describe in detail the family dinners they host. I laugh, slur my words a bit and steady myself on the back of the chair when I get up to go to the bathroom.