Saving Graces - Elizabeth Edwards [61]
I cannot look it in the eye. I cannot sit there with his picture before me and look at the edges of his smile, at the fold of his eyelids, or his thick soft clean hair across his forehead. I cannot sit too long with his handwriting before me, the uneven line of letters, so painstakingly drawn or so haphazardly scrawled; there is no way to tell the difference now, I cannot ask him. I cannot sit on his bed and pull out the drawer, knowing I will find the things most precious thrown beside the things that meant nothing at all. A small notecard from his sister on which she had written “Good Night, Wade. I you. Your sister,” and left it on his pillow. And he had saved it, as he had saved each thing he treasured. All the little pieces of his life up there in that room. Papers from every year tucked in folders, neatly labeled in his desk. Lists of things to do, including the last list of all, which we took from his pocket.
And what am I supposed to do without him? If I cannot face his memory, have I nothing left of him at all? This boy is the dearest thing I ever knew, and now must I ache even to say his name?
Last night I dreamed of him, which I do not often do. A shallow sleep, and a remembered dream. He got out of his car and spoke. He had heard the most awful thing about himself, but he would not tell me then, for we needed to be together first without my knowing. I searched his eyes. On his cheek there was a spot of blood, though his face had not been cut at all when he died. We drove in silence to no place at all, and I did not speak because I knew the awful thing was that he had died. And we both were silent, loving and protecting the other, holding on as long as it might last. For while we did not speak of it, he was beside me. There was no sleep afterward.
Today I opened the laptop I had not used since he and I had traveled to Washington three weeks before he died. We had gone for him to accept an award. Between events, we sat on the hotel beds, and he would tell me what to type for his junior term paper. The Development of Labor Unions During the Depression. Now the battery has run down in the laptop. So today I plugged it in. The day and date had to be reset. So I set it for April 1st, three days before he died. I pressed Enter, and I hoped that God would finally take me up on my offer to move back in time, to let me take his place. Enter. Nothing. It is still August. The rain has stopped, and the steam rises from the slate outside the study.
I don’t know how many days without him I have left inside me. When I was little I used to make-believe that I only got so many total steps in life, but I had convinced myself that steps that I took while eating a Saltine cracker would not count in my total. So I walked around with a long bag of Saltines in order to save my allotted steps for later in life. That is what I am doing now. I only have so many days in me that I can dream of him or really look at him. It uses up my life. So I live the other days by looking at the edges, the high part of his cheek near his ear lobe where the soft nearly invisible hair is short; there I can look. But I do so miss looking my boy in the eyes.
Does this make any sense? Looking at the edges because I cannot stand it if I do not look at all. Save the eyes, the freckles with a glimpse of God, for a day when I can crawl up against that shoulder. You’re so pretty, Mom. You’re such a sweet liar, son.
Where are you, merciful Lord?
Bill Chadwick, the “father” of ASG, always warned about putting on the clothes of grief. And there was, admittedly, plenty of that, as we felt sorry for ourselves. But it was our children’s loss, not ours that was the real loss. I wrote to Sharon, whose son John had died, I have seen, in the months we have shared this sad place, you carry your love for John higher than you carry your grief. It is not as common as it ought to be. But it was not unnatural, either.