A Widow’s Awakening
Copyright © 2008 Maryanne Pope
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, audio recording, or otherwise—without the written permission of the publisher.
Pink Gazelle Productions Inc.
www.pinkgazelle.com
Calgary, Alberta, Canada
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication Pope, Maryanne, 1968-A widow’s awakening / by Maryanne Pope.
Includes bibliographical references.
ISBN 978-1-6209556-1-1
I. Title.
PS8631.O644W53 2008 C813’.6 C2008-904736-2
Cover design by Neil Gilbert at Elbowroom Design Typsetting and page layout by One Below
Printed in Canada at Friesens
The text pages have been produced on 100% post-consumer recycled paper.
For John
And don’t you know that God is Pooh Bear?
—Jack Kerouac, On the Road
Where there is great love there are always miracles
—Willa Cather
Preface
Writing is not life, but sometimes it can be a way back to life.
—Stephen King
On September 29, 2000, my husband – a Calgary police officer – died in the line of duty. We were both thirty-two at the time and had been together as a couple for eleven and a half years and married for four.
A Widow’s Awakening is a work of creative non-fiction. The people, events and my psychological reaction to them are real, however many of the conversations have been modified. The names, dogs included, are fictional – or U/C (undercover) names as they say in the police world.
Virginia Woolf once wrote that the trick to life is to be able to ‘put together the pieces.’ A Widow’s Awakening is how I made sense of the unacceptable. Right or wrong, enlightenment or insanity, awareness or post traumatic stress disorder, or some combination thereof, this is my journey through the first year of grief.
Contents
Preface
Prologue
Part I—Relationship
Part II—Religion
Part III—Reality
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Bibliography
Related Projects
About the Author
Prologue
1994
Abbotsford, British Columbia, Canada
“Know what would be cool to do someday?”
“What’s that?”
“Walk on a really long, straight road through the middle of a cornfield.”
I’d laughed. “What … like in Iowa or somethin’?”
“It doesn’t matter where, dill. It’s the experience I’m after.”
“Oh. And what would that be?”
“Freedom.”
“How so?”
“Well, in my mind I see this huge field – it doesn’t have to be full of corn, but that would work. So I’m walking along on this road but since the corn stalks are taller than me, I can’t see what’s on the other side.”
“Probably more corn.”
“Smartass. What I mean is that I couldn’t see what was beyond the cornfields.”
“Oh.”
“But I could more or less see the road ahead and if I stopped and turned around, I could see where I’ve been.”
“But why would that make you feel free?”
“I dunno.” He’d shrugged his shoulders with that little smirk on his face. “It’s just something I always wanted to do.”
PART I
Relationship
August 9, 2000
Calgary, Alberta, Canada
“What the heck are ya doin’ in there?” I ask through the bathroom door.
“Whaddya think I’m doing?
“Well, I know THAT. But why are you taking so long?”
“I always take this long,” he says. “You should know that by now.”
I sit on the edge of our bed. “But what else do you do in there?”
“If I tell ya, will you leave me alone?”
“Deal.”
“I calculate things.”
I laugh. “Like what?”
“Financial stuff.”
“Hence the calculator.”
“Mmmm … hmmm. But at the moment, I’m actually working on my U/C name.”
“That stands for undercover, right?”
“Yup.”
“In case you get on with the Priority Crimes Unit?” I ask.
“Uh huh.”
“When do you hear back from them?”
“Any day.” Then, with a giggle that sounds so funny coming from such a big guy, he says, “You can go now.”
One
Sunday September 17, 2000
7:00 a.m.
“And I’m gonna drape my leopard print scarf over my head, like this …” I say, motioning with my hands within the confines of the cramped cubicle. “And, of course, I’ve got my Jackie O sunglasses!”
“Of course,” Mark says, crossing one long leg over the other.
“I will be SO damn cool in that convertible!”
“That you will, my friend.”
Mark is a police officer and close friend of my husband, Sam. They graduated from the same police recruit class four years ago. I’m a report processor with the same police service, and Mark and I are just finishing up an incident report. On a Saturday night/Sunday morning shift such as this, the reports are mainly alcohol-related occurrences like impaired driving, assault with a weapon, sexual assault and robbery, or early morning crimes of opportunity, also usually alcohol-related, such as property damage, theft and break and enters. All the good stuff.
Sam’s job is to catch the bad guys; mine is to write about them.
“Got what you needed, Adri?”
“Yup.”
“Say hi to Sam for me,” Mark says, gathering up his papers. “And tell him we’ll have to do lunch again soon.”
“It’s been awhile, hasn’t it?” He, Sam and another two of their buddies from recruit class often meet for lunch or beers downtown.
Mark nods. “Too long.”
“I’ll tell him.”
He stands up. “And I hope you guys have an awesome vacation.”
“We will!”
His is the last report of my shift so I sign off the phone, place my logbook, headset and photo of Sam into my locker and drive home.
“Woohoo …” I whisper in Sam’s ear as I crawl into bed. “We’re on holidays my furry friend!”
Rolling over to face me, he grins and mumbles, “Spoon.”
I flip over, so my back is touching his chest, and he wraps an arm around me. Our dog, a Shepherd-cross, jumps up on the end of the bed and all three of us fall asleep.
When I wake up, Sam has both our bags packed and has taken the dog and her little blue suitcase filled with cookies, chew toys and a blanket to the kennel.
My mom drives us to the airport and the three of us have dinner together before catching our flight to Los Angeles. Sam seems OK with this arrangement, which surprises me because his relationship with my mother has been pretty much derailed since our wedding four years ago. Sam is Greek Orthodox; I’m not. Sam is strong-willed and stubborn; so is my mother. We ended up getting married in an Anglican Church ceremony, which Sam had agreed to for me. I had insisted upon this partly to appease my mother and partly because I strongly disagreed with a condition the Greek Orthodox Church would have placed upon us. Had we been married there, we would’ve had to promise to baptize and raise any future children Greek Orthodox. I refused to make a promise I did not agree with and therefore could not keep. My mother hadn’t acknowledged Sam’s religious sacrifice – for not being married in his church means not being buried by it – and relations between Sam and my mother had never improved.
Anyway, the airport restaurant uses a big piece of brown paper as a tablecloth and guests are given a bunch of crayons to draw with.
“Hi,” our waitress says, writing her name upside down on the tablecloth so we can read it.
When she leaves, Sam and I try writing our names upside down – but he gets the first letter backwards and we laugh.
After dinner, we ditch my mom at security and head to our departure gate, where we’re waiting for our flight to LAX when I tell Sam that the last report of my shift had been with Mark. He asks me how Mark is doing.
“He seemed fine. I mean, he looked OK.”
“Looked?” Sam shifts in his chair to face me. “Wasn’t he on the phone?”
“No. He came right into records to give his report.”
“But don’t most of us phone the reports in?”
“Usually, yeah. Anyway, he said to say hi and to …”
I’m interrupted by the announcement of our names over the loudspeaker. Sam and I look at each other then walk over to the departure counter.
“Are we at the right gate?” I ask the woman, handing her my ticket.
She looks at it. “No. This flight is going to Toronto.”
Sam and I sprint through the airport to the correct gate, just in time to catch our flight to L.A..
“That was odd,” I say, once we’re on the plane. “I could’ve sworn we were at the right gate.”
“Me too.”
We arrive into LAX around 10:00 p.m., pick up our red rental convertible, put the top down and head east towards Vegas.
Once we’re past the city limits, Sam leans back in his chair and looks to the sky. “Check out those stars, eh?”
We drive in silence for awhile. Then I thank him for having dinner with my mom.
“She’s a control freak,” he says, “but I do admire her strength.”
I turn to him. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”
“Seriously, Adri. She did a great job raising you and your brothers on her own. That couldn’t have been easy.”
“Are you feeling all right?”
He smiles. “But now she has to let you go.”
“It’s hard for mothers to do that – no matter what age their kids are.”
“I’m sure it is. But if they’ve done their job well, what’s the problem?”
“She’s alone, Sam. That’s the problem.”
He looks at me. “Not yours, it isn’t.”
Tonight, we make it as far as Barstow.
After a mammoth American breakfast in the morning, we continue towards Vegas. But as cool as I look in my leopard scarf and Jackie O sunglasses, somewhere around Baker I start feeling uncomfortably warm.
“Uh Sam, it’s getting pretty hot. I think you’re gonna have to put the top up.”
“No problem.” He pulls over and puts the top up.
Twenty minutes later, I ask him to put it down again. He pulls over and does so. Ten minutes after that, I tell him I’m too hot again.
“Oh for God’s sake,” he snaps, “this is ridiculous!”
“I can’t help it! I’m melting over here.”
“We’re almost there.”
“Fine.” I yank off my scarf, as the wind’s whipping it into my eyes, and replace it with a ballcap.
“You’re such a baby sometimes, Adri.”
“I am not. You just happen to enjoy an inhuman level of heat.”
“You were the one who insisted on renting a convertible.”
“I didn’t hear you complaining.”
“Well it’s costing us a bloody fortune.”
“It’s a little fucking late to tell me that now.”
“Nice language,” he says. “You sound like a sailor.”
We drive in silence until the Vegas hotels come into view.
“Wow!” I say.
Sam nods. “Very cool.”
But when we’re checking into our swanky hotel, our credit card gets denied. Mortified, Sam phones the bank to sort it out and is told the rental car agency has put a hold on funds. The bank agrees to temporarily raise our credit limit. Again.
After taking our suitcases up to the room, we test the bed just to make sure it’s working properly, and then head out onto the Strip in search of the ultimate buffet. We make it a block when Sam spies a store advertising helicopter rides.
“That’d be awesome,” he says.
“Let’s see what it would cost.”
“It’ll be too expensive.”
“It doesn’t hurt to ask.”
So we go in and Sam asks the girl at the counter what a ride would cost.
“It depends on where you want to go, sir.”
I smile at the ‘sir.’ Though only thirty-two, Sam’s black hair is already two thirds gray, making him appear significantly older.
“How about the Grand Canyon?” he says.
“That would be about $500 for the two of you.”
Food is more affordable. After a dinner of all the shrimp, crab legs, prime rib and bread pudding we can stuff in, we waddle over to the ‘must see’ buccaneer show. The pirates fighting over our heads is nothing spectacular but the way Sam stands behind me, with his arms tightly wrapped around my torso, is. Public shows of affection are rare.
Back in our hotel room, we make love again. Sam’s on top so the pendants on his chain – his baptismal cross and St. Jude medal – keep hitting me in the mouth.
I shift them around so that they’re resting on his back. “That’s better,” I say.
He smiles. “Protecting those perfect teeth of yours, are ya?”
Two
The next morning, we arrange our lounge chairs at the pool so that I’m in the shade while he’s in direct sunshine.
“Can I least put some sunscreen on you?” I ask.
“I’m Greek – I don’t need any.”
“Oh for God’s sake, you’re gonna get skin cancer.”
He tilts his chair back and closes his eyes. I watch a young couple with two children stationed a few feet in front of us.
“Look at that woman, Sam.”
“Huh?”
“Over there.” I poke him in the ribs.
He opens his eyes.
“How can she still be so skinny after having kids?” I ask.
“Maybe she doesn’t eat.”
“They look like a happy family, though.”
“Those parents haven’t sat still since we got here,” he says, closing his eyes again.
I let a few minutes pass. “Sam?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you sure you don’t want to ever have kids?”
“Oh God, Adri … let’s not get into that again.”
“You’re right.” I’m not going to take the chance of ruining a great day by pushing the matter – a sensitive one between us, to put it lightly.
“OK,” I say, “one more question, then I’ll leave you alone. How would you describe Vegas?”
Sam thinks a moment. “It’s a stage where the seven deadly sins are not only prevalent, but encouraged.”
“Ooohhhh … nicely done.”
Silence.
“So,” I continue, “what are the seven deadly sins?”
“Gluttony, lust, greed …” his voice trails off. “I can’t remember them all now.”
I look over at him, trying to snooze in the scorching midday heat.
“Sloth,” I say, “that’s another.”
He gives me the thumbs-up.
Around four o’clock, we head out onto the strip again, starting at the hotel modeled after Venice. Hand in hand, we stroll across the bridge. Beneath us, a mock gondolier in a red scarf and striped shirt is singing in Italian as he paddles his replica gondola through replica canal waters. Sam stops on the bridge and puts his hand on my shoulder. We stand like this a moment, looking out over the canal. I close my eyes and listen to the music.
“As lovely as all this is,” I say, turning to Sam, “it still seems a bit … fake.”
He looks at me but says nothing.
“But this Venice is far cleaner and safer than the real place,” I add.
“That’s a good thing, then, is it not?”
I point to the artificial canal. “Yeah but look at the water. There’s not one piece of garbage floating in there and it doesn’t smell like shit.”
“And the problem is …”
“This doesn’t feel like Venice.”
“This isn’t Venice, Adri, it’s Vegas.”
“But what about people who haven’t been to the real place? They’ll totally get the wrong idea. This is beautiful but it isn’t … authentic.”
We continue walking towards the hotel foyer and as we get closer, we see a group of elderly tourists, staring – heads back, mouths open – at the ceiling. We follow their gaze and there, on the dome-shaped ceiling, is a magnificent painting.
“Ohhhh …” I say, “that is kinda cool.”
“Real enough for ya, snotty-pants?”
I give Sam a mock punch on the shoulder.
“You saw the Sistine Chapel right?” he asks, as we walk out the hotel doors.
“Uh huh.”
“That was amazing too, I bet.”
“It really was. I mean, despite the fact that I was only twenty-one at the time and more interested in where my next beer was coming from.”
He stops. “So you were in the real Rome, seeing real art and yet you didn’t appreciate it?”
“I was young.”
“I see. Left or right?”
“Ummmm left. Let’s go check out New York.”
We continue along the strip … past a two-block long artificial lake with dancing fountains, past a half-size Eiffel Tower, past a brightly-lit castle.
“There’s so much of the world to see,” Sam remarks.
“Uh huh.”
“You’re fortunate to have seen and experienced what you have.”
“I realize that.”
“Most people are lucky if they make it to Vegas in their lifetime,” he adds, “never mind visiting the actual destinations these hotels were inspired by.”
Half a block from the New York City skyline, I snap a photo of Sam with the replica Empire State Building in the background. A little further along, we stop beneath a smaller-scale Statue of Liberty.
“There she is,” he says.
We stare up at her then look at each other.
“I still can’t wait for us to go the real place,” I say.
Sam gives me the look – the one that means ‘that’s enough.’
Inside, we stroll along the replicated streets of Manhattan, past steam rising from pretend manhole covers, to a bar where a crowd of people has gathered. Since Sam is over six feet, he can see over most of the heads.
“Oh, you’ll love this,” he says, pulling me to the side for a better view.
There’s a guy singing and playing a piano as the patrons gather around, humming along and having a hoot.
Then I hear myself say, “I wonder if this is like a real bar in Greenwich Village.”
“Regardless, this is pretty cool.” Now there is an edge to Sam’s voice.
“Yeah but …”
“We’re in Vegas. Let’s appreciate this.”
“Don’t you want to go to New York anymore?”
“Of course I do, but this is great in itself.” Sam sweeps his arm across the scene as if waving a magic wand. “If you can’t appreciate this, then what makes you think you’ll enjoy the real New York?”
“C’mon, Sammy, lighten up! What would you most want to do in Manhattan?”
“Well … remember how in the Catcher in the Rye, Holden loved to sit on a park bench in Central Park and watch the ducks in the lagoon?”
I smile at Sam’s use of a literary reference as he’s not much of a reader. “Yeah.”
“That’s what I’d do.”
Back on the strip again, he asks if I’m ready to go back to our own hotel. I shake my head. “Let’s go check out the pyramid.”
“Are you sure? It’s already a really long walk back …”
He’s right. And when we do finally begin the homeward trek, after a loop through the pyramid, our feet are aching and we’re both irritable. On the way, we pass dozens of men slapping sleazy photographs of teenage prostitutes and strippers against their thighs.
“There’s some authenticity for you,” Sam remarks.
“What are they doing?”
“What do you think they’re doing, Adri?”
“I know THAT. But why are they slapping the pamphlets against their legs?”
“Because it’s obviously against the law to verbally solicit customers.”
“And pimping out teenagers isn’t?”
We walk in silence until the erupting volcano outside our hotel comes into view.
Sam laughs. “Go big or go home.”
“What?”
“I was just thinking how Vegas is such a ‘go big or go home’ kinda place.”
Tonight we have the lustful, in-front-of-the-hotel-room-mirror kind of sex couples tend to have on vacation, away from the pressures of daily life.
In the morning, I awake to find Sam has gone downstairs and brought us back coffee and muffins for breakfast in our room. We sit at the table in the corner, looking out the window at the dormant volcano.
I turn to Sam. “Thank you.”
“For?”
“Everything. This is awesome.”
As we leave Vegas in our convertible – top down – I remark: “That was quite somethin’, huh?”
Sam nods.
“All that stuff in the middle of the desert …”
He nods again.
I look over at him. “But now it’s quiet time?”
“Bingo,” he says with a wink. So I put a sock in it for awhile.
“How are you doing over there?” he asks, half an hour later.
“I’m getting kinda hot.”
Laughing, he pulls over and puts the top up.
When we check into our hotel in Tusayan, the clerk tells us the sunset at the Grand Canyon is at 6:28 p.m. so if we want to catch it, we better get our tails in gear. Back into the convertible we hop and speed towards the canyon, arguing over whether or not we should take a helicopter ride.
“I’ll call them on the cell phone, Sam.”
“We already know it’s gonna cost too much.”
“But you want to go.”
“Adri, chill … it’s no big deal.”
“At least let me phone and find out.”
“We already know it’s gonna be five hundred bucks.”
“That was from Vegas,” I say, punching in the number. Then it hits me: isn’t being at the Grand Canyon enough? I push end and place the phone on the floor. “I just thought seeing the Grand Canyon from a helicopter would be amazing.”
“Have you ever been up in one?”
I shake my head.
“It’s great. It’s like you get to see … a bigger piece of the picture.”
Three
Around the next corner, patiently waiting millions of years, is the Grand Canyon. Sam pulls into a turnoff and switches off the engine. We walk around to the front of the car and stand side by side, staring out over the landscape.
“This isn’t the place they told us to see the sunset,” I say.
He sighs. “I know. We’ll keep going.”
We get back in the car and follow the instructions to the best place to observe the sunset, which is right beside the gift shop. I ask Sam what time it is.
He glances at his watch. “Six-twenty.”
“I’ll be right back.”
Inside, the salesgirl is ringing in two coffee mugs with the Grand Canyon plastered on the side when Sam appears beside me.
“They’re for our moms,” I explain.
“Just because we’re on vacation doesn’t mean we have to buy everyone presents.”
“Relax. It’s only a few bucks.”
“But we have to be really careful with our money. You know that. And couldn’t you have at least waited ’til after the sunset?”
The girl wraps up the mugs, sticks them in a bag and hands it to me. I want to throw the damn things into the canyon.
Back outside, we aren’t alone. We choose a vacant rock a couple of feet from some moron loudly reciting poetry to his much younger – and clearly embarrassed – female companion. Sam and I exchange looks.
“It’s Sven!” I whisper. Sven is the name of my imaginary and supposedly ideal lover. Mythical Sven loves to hike, ski and read by the fire. He spends his day scaling mountains, listening to me talk and, apparently, reciting poetry as the sun sets over the Grand Canyon. Thank God I didn’t get the husband I asked for when I was a teenager.
“Then that must be Sasha,” Sam replies, nodding to the woman. Sam’s imaginary and supposedly ideal lover goes by the name of Sasha. Mythical Sasha is a porn star with big hooters and no voicebox. All she wants to do is have sex all day, sometimes with other women. I’m about the furthest thing from a Sasha, except for the sex – but with just the two of us, thanks.
The poet finally shuts up so all two hundred of us can enjoy the sunset in peace.
After a dinner of fajitas and beer back in Tusayan, we stumble back to our hotel room and Sam immediately races into the bathroom.
“Ummm,” he says, when he finally comes out again, “would you mind if I slept in my own bed tonight?”
“No.”
“It’s just that I’m really full and my stomach hurts …”
For as long as I’ve known Sam, he’s always had problems with his digestive system. “Sam, it’s OK. I understand.”
Still, it is strange waking up in the morning and seeing him in the other bed.
“I was hoping you’d sleep in,” he says.
“No way! We gotta see the sunrise.”
By 5:30 a.m., we’re back in the convertible and make it to the Canyon just in time to see the first light appear on the horizon. Once the sun is fully in the sky, I suggest we take a walk. Sam nods but I can tell he isn’t into it. He’ll want to be hitting the road since we have an eight-hour drive ahead of us, whereas I want to cram as much as possible into the time we have left. Seeing the Grand Canyon isn’t enough; it would be better from a helicopter. The sunset isn’t good enough; I have to see the sunrise too. If I had my way, I’d drag Sam halfway down into the canyon, just to experience that as well.
We’re five minutes along the path when we come to a large open rock face. I walk quickly towards the drop-off.
“Adri!” Sam yells. “Don’t go so close to the edge.”
I stop and turn to him. “I’m nowhere near it.”
“Yes you are. Don’t be stupid!”
“Fine.” I sit down, still a good three feet from the edge. “Can you take my picture here then?”
He takes my photo, then turns and starts back towards the car. Our walk is over.
The drive back to L.A. is long and hot and neither of us says much. I try to keep the number of top up versus top down requests to a minimum. It’s me who finally breaks the silence. It usually is. “Do you believe in evolution?” I ask.
He continues staring straight ahead. “No.”
“That’s ridiculous!” I snap. “Evolution isn’t something you ‘believe’ or ‘don’t believe’ – it’s a scientific fact.”
“Then why did you ask the question?” He reaches over and turns on the radio.
We don’t speak again until the first sign for San Bernadino appears. “That’s where that pilot I told you about lives,” Sam says. “The one who flies a police helicopter. He said to call him when I was down here and he’d take me up for a ride.”
“No way! Are you gonna call him?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“Because this is our vacation and I don’t want to do anything work-related.”
I shift to get a better look at Sam. Passing on the chance to meet up with a cop from another country is strange enough behavior for him. Not seizing the opportunity to go up in a police helicopter is unexplainable. Sam eats, sleeps and breathes police work.
“But why?”
“I know you want to get to Knots Berry Farm for dinner.”
Granted, I’d heard that the dinner specials at Knots Berry Farm were not to be missed – and had insisted we wait until then to eat dinner. But by the time we sit down in the restaurant booth, Sam’s ready to throttle me. “My wife has dragged me here all the way from the Grand Canyon,” he tells our waiter.
“Ah,” replies the waiter. “I promise you it will be worth the wait.”
He didn’t have to sit in a convertible, driving through the sweltering desert heat with a bitchy wife wearing a leopard print scarf, baseball cap and Jackie O sunglasses.
I watch Sam devour the basketful of warm biscuits, three pieces of fried chicken, mashed potatoes with thick gravy and kernel corn. Also down the hatch goes a gallon of boysenberry punch and a huge piece of boysenberry pie.
Back at our hotel, Sam runs to the bathroom so I put our leftovers into the mini-fridge, climb into the kingsize bed and fall fast asleep.
Four
Friday September 22nd, 2000
Today is Sam’s friend’s wedding at Disneyland, the original reason for our trip. I put on a black dress.
“You look beautiful,” he says, as we’re leaving our hotel room.
“Thank you.” I stand on my toes to kiss him. “You’re rather dashing yourself.”
In the foyer, the desk clerk waves us over to the reception desk. “You’re going to Disneyland today, right?”
“Yup!” I say. “Any tips?”
“Use the fast passes,” he advises, “and find a good spot to watch the fireworks.”
“Oh yeah?” says Sam, clearly not as enthused as I.
The clerk nods. “You don’t want to miss Tinkerbell flying through the sky … it’s actually pretty neat how they do it.”
Sam smiles politely and I laugh.
At the luncheon reception after the ceremony, Sam and I sit with the photographer and his family. I listen as Sam asks the teenagers questions about their lives and career plans. After the reception, we head into the hotel bathrooms to change into more comfortable clothes. When I come out of the ladies room, Sam’s waiting for me, wearing a white T-shirt with his fuzzy blue vest over top, khaki shorts and white runners. He crams my shoes and clothes into the knapsack and puts it on his shoulders.
“Let’s roll.”
I almost have to jog to keep up with him. “We’ve only got one day,” he explains, “so we have to coordinate our moves.”
“Couldn’t we come back tomorrow?”
Sam smiles but I can see right through him. He knows that if he can make today fabulous for me, he won’t have to spend a second day – and a Saturday yet – at Disneyland.
“Where are we headed?” I ask, a little out of breath as I trot along beside him.
“You said you wanted to go to Splash Mountain so let’s get that reserved first.”
“Geez. It’s like you’ve come up with a … whaddya call it? An operating plan?”
“An Ops plan,” he corrects me. “And yes, I have.”
After we reserve Splash Mountain, he relaxes so I ask him about his questions to the teens at lunch. “You seemed genuinely interested in them,” I say.
“I was.”
“It’s just that you’re so negative about kids now.”
“I’m not an asshole, Adri.”
“I know.”
“I liked them. They were polite and seemed like they actually gave a damn.”
I sigh. “There are a lot of decent people out there.”
“Yeah well, I just don’t happen to deal with the good ones on a regular basis.”
When we arrive at Splash Mountain at our scheduled time, we walk through the express lane to the front of the line, proud as peacocks at our fast pass planning finesse. At the very top of the ride, there’s a section where the little log cars float along in the water as large stuffed chipmunks sing to each other: “Zippity do dah, zippity yay, my oh my what a wonderful day.”
We’re bobbing along in our log car when Sam puts his arm around my shoulders and watches me watching the chipmunks. I feel so happy and safe, like I’m a kid again – I mean before I knew my parent’s marriage wasn’t going to make it.
“Zippidy do dah, Zippity yay,” sing the ever-cheerful chipmunks, “I got a feeling something’s coming my way.” Then the tranquility ends as our log car drops into the waiting pool of water.
“Did you feel that?” I ask Sam, as we’re climbing out of the log car.
“What? The drop?”
“No – at the top before we dropped down … it was like magic or somethin’.”
One eyebrow goes up. “You wanna go again then?”
“Nah.” I give him a little wave of my hand. “It’s never the same the second time.”
So instead, we race around Disneyland like two over-sized kids; stuffing our faces with popcorn and hotdogs, jumping on and off rides, and smugly passing exhausted parents wiping icecream off their screaming children’s faces.
In the late afternoon, we find a place to watch the parade and hoot and holler as our favourite characters walk by. I snap a picture of Sam with Grumpy Dwarf and tease him about the likeness. As the last float goes by, we somehow end up in the parade, laughing and waving at the crowd as we walk along.
After dinner, Sam secures us a prime spot behind a garbage can to watch the fireworks. “This way,” he says, “nobody can stand directly in front of us.”
We’re waiting for the show to begin when Sam squeezes my hand and nods towards our left. “Check it out. It’s the Pooh family.”
Sure enough, there’s mom, dad and two little kids, all sporting yellow fuzzy jackets with Winnie the Pooh crests. We watch their stroller and sippy-cup antics until a woman’s voice comes over the loudspeaker: “Believe … there’s magic in the air …”
I smile at Sam and then kapow! The show begins in an explosion of light.
But just before Tinkerbell descends from the sky, Pooh Grandma suddenly appears to my right. I hadn’t noticed her earlier but the matching yellow fuzzy reveals her heritage. She looks at me and says, “Excuse me. I have to get by.”
So I take a step back to let her pass and Sam does the same. But when she’s in front of him, she falls and the back of her head hits the concrete. Sam immediately kneels down to help her as I run into the crowd, arms waving and yelling for an ambulance.
When I return, Sam’s still kneeling on the pavement, speaking into her ear. The woman is breathing and her eyes are open but she’s motionless, staring blankly into the night. As I watch Sam comfort her, it occurs to me that he can’t just turn off being a police officer. The paramedics and security arrive and after Sam gives his witness statement, we walk away. I ask him if he thinks she’ll be OK.
“I don’t know,” he says. “I mean, she really hit the back of her head hard.”
“Did she trip?”
“Either that or fainted.”
“Things like that aren’t supposed to happen at the Happiest Place on Earth.”
Sam doesn’t say anything.
“So you probably want to go now, huh?” I ask.
To my surprise, he shakes his head. “No. You?”
I grin. “No.”
He takes my hand. “Star Tours?”
“Yup.”
We race back to the Star Tours Flight Simulator, walk through the empty lineup to the entrance then hop on the ride.
“Again?” I ask, once the ride’s finished.
Sam winks. “I thought it was never the same the second time around?”
“It’s not. It’s better.”
After our last tour through the stars, we head over to Sleeping Beauty’s Castle and climb on a ride clearly intended for little kids. I turn to Sam, squished beside me in the tiny pink cart. “I can’t believe you’re doing this.”
“Me neither.”
Around midnight, we’re making our way towards the exit and come across the old-fashioned merry-go-round. I look at Sam. “Whaddya reckon?”
“Last one?”
“Deal.”
Sam chooses a white horse and climbs on. I hop on my horse, pull my camera out of the knapsack then lean back. “OK, Greekie … gimme a smile.”
Gripping the brass pole, Sam smiles broadly and I snap the photo.
Five
Sam awakes the next morning to find me studying the map in bed.
“So what does the clipboard of fun say for today?” he asks.
I smile sheepishly. “I dunno.”
“Yeah right.”
“OK, what would you like to do today?”
He nods towards the mini-fridge. “Let’s start with those leftovers.”
I retrieve the Knots Berry Farm doggie-bag and return to bed where we watch TV while eating cold chicken and boysenberry pie. Sam expertly balances the containers on his chest, mindful of not wasting any unnecessary energy actually sitting up.
“That’s quite a skill,” I say, gently poking him in the ribs with my fork.
“What would you think about us visiting my mom’s best friend today?” he asks. “She lives in San Diego and I know she’d love to meet you.”
“Sure.” But this surprises me. Visiting people is not high on Sam’s list of preferred vacation activities.
Yet this evening, we find ourselves in San Diego, drinking peach juice and chatting with an older Greek couple at their kitchen table. Not twenty minutes into the conversation, we get onto the topic of death. The woman shows us a photo of an infant.
“Friends of ours lost a baby a year ago.”
“That’s too bad,” says Sam.
“But she got pregnant again immediately.”
“Oh my!” I say.
She looks at me. “I guess they felt that was best, Adri.”
I nod my head and keep my mouth shut – but I wonder how someone could replace a dead child with a new one so quickly.
We’re then taken on a tour of their home. At the top of the stairs, the woman stops outside a closed door and turns to face us. “My mother was widowed very young,” she says. “She was a devout Greek Orthodox.”
Sam and I nod our heads in somewhat baffled silence.
“I admired her absolute faith,” she continues.
I smile. “Well that’s good.”
“And I guess I’m a pretty strong believer myself,” she says, reaching over and opening the door. “This is my prayer room.”
My eyes widen at the sight of the room filled with images and icons of Jesus, the disciples and saints. Pictures depicting Christian scenes as well as several gold crosses hang from the walls. Candles in red glass containers flicker gently, casting a reddish hue. The powerful scent of incense hangs in the air. Sam and I stay in the hall.
“Come on in,” she says at our obvious hesitation, “it’s safe in here!”
So we go inside and stand quietly a moment. Undoubtedly, it is peaceful.
As we’re pulling out of their driveway half an hour later, I ask Sam what the heck that was all about.
“Ya got me.”
“She’s pretty religious, eh?”
“No kidding,” he says. “But I couldn’t stand the smell of that incense.”
“I hear ya.”
We drive in silence for a few minutes.
“Where were we recently where they were waving that stuff around?” I ask.
“My uncle’s funeral.”
I nod. “Right.”
For the first time in our eleven and a half years together, I’d attended a Greek Orthodox funeral four months ago.
Sam glances over at me. “You were pretty upset that day, hey?”
When we’d got back into the car after the graveside service, I’d burst into tears. Sam’s brother and sister had been with us.
“I just hated how we left your uncle all alone like that,” I say.
“Adri, he was dead.”
“I know! But it was so strange how one second, people were making such a fuss – wailing and throwing dirt on his coffin and then the next, the tears were gone and it was like, ‘OK, what’s for lunch?’”
Sam throws back his head and laughs. “Greeks are like that – very dramatic.”
“I’ll say.”
“I guess we could have taken him to the reception …”
I look over at Sam.
“Wheeled his casket right on by the buffet table …”
“Sam!”
“Uncle, would you like a cookie?”
“Stop it!” Laughing, I reach over and swat him on the forearm.
The next morning, however, I wake to a growly husband.
“I’m very angry with you,” he says.
“Why?”
“I had a dream that you cheated on me.”
“Uh oh.”
“With another cop.”
“Who?”
“The one with the sexy voice.”
I smile. I know who he’s referring to because the guy is really good-looking, plus he practically purrs when he phones in a report to us girls at work. I went on a police ride-along with him years ago and we’d had a riot.
“I’m serious, Adri.” Sam gets out of bed. “I can’t believe how mad I am at you.”
“It was a dream!”
He shakes his head. “It felt too real to be just a dream.” With a snort, he heads into the shower. Today we’re off to Universal Studios.
We’re one of the first to arrive at the Waterworld show, so from our seats we watch other audience members walk in. And as people go past the massive water stage, representing a futuristic flooded earth, an actor pretending to be a maintenance man squirts them with a hose as they walk by. Most people can’t figure out where the water is coming from and Sam howls watching their confused reactions.
“I’d love to be an actor,” he says.
“Oh yeah?”
“Uh huh. Especially if I got to play the bad guy.”
“Maybe that’s why undercover work appeals to you so much?”
“Maybe.”
After the show, I convince him to take the tram tour through the studio. When our guide isn’t chirping half-truths about what’s around the next corner, a director promotes his upcoming film on an overhead TV monitor. As our tram rolls along, I wave at Jaws, who is far more decrepit than dangerous since I last saw him twenty-two years ago; cringe at King Kong, who ought to be retired by now; and shrug at the old house that Psycho was filmed in forty years ago. I keep hoping we’ll catch a glimpse of a new movie being filmed versus tired remnants of old sets. I tell Sam this.
“But they can’t control what you might see on a live film set,” is his reply. “They’re only gonna show you what they want you to see. It’s Hollywood – what do you expect?”
“To see movies being made … the behind-the-scenes stuff.”
Our tram enters a burning building and the false floor collapses beneath us. The woman behind us screams. Sam rolls his eyes. “Better?”
By late afternoon, we’ve had more than enough. I suggest we go to Malibu for dinner and find a nice restaurant overlooking the sea …
Sam sighs. “Are you sure you want to go all that way?”
“Uh huh.”
Of course, he’s right. By the time we actually arrive in Malibu, the sun has set. Thus we sit in our ocean-view restaurant with no ocean view.
“Chicken?” I snip, after the waiter has left. “What the heck are ya ordering chicken for, when we’re at the sea?”
“Because I feel like chicken.”
“Don’t you want fish?”
“No, I don’t. I want chicken.”
“I’m sorry, Sam … I guess I’m just tired.”
He shakes his head and takes a drink of beer. “You’re a weirdo.”
Six
Monday is our last day of vacation and we spend it in Santa Monica, walking on the beach. We’ve walked for about twenty minutes when I suggest we go for a swim.
“You’re on your own,” Sam says. “I left my swim shorts in the trunk.”
I open my mouth to ask a bitchy Why? But I catch myself. Instead, I say, “No worries. I think I’ll still go in though.”
“Absolutely! I’ll hold your stuff.”
So Sam stands on the sand while I run into the surf. I’m only in up to my calves when I stop, my childhood fear of sharks returning. I turn back to Sam and he nods, as if to say ‘go on.’ So I take a deep breath, run straight into the waves and dive under. When I come up, I check to make sure Sam’s still keeping an eye on me and then I dive under again. When I come up this time and first open my eyes, Sam looks different – as if he’s surrounded by some sort of haze. Or maybe it’s the salt water in my eyes.
We walk back along the beach and on the way, come across a Spanish family splashing around in the water. Wordlessly, Sam and I both sit on the sand and watch.
“That’s nice,” he says a few minutes later, nodding towards the ocean. “I mean, the whole family playing together like that …”
I want to ask him if that will ever be us: mom, dad and a couple of kids? But deep down, I already know his answer. So I just nod. “It really is.”
Then I reach over and scratch his scalp because he loves it when I do this.
He closes his eyes. “Mmmmm …”
“I’ve got one picture left, Sammy.”
“Self-portrait?”
“Yup.”
So I lean in and wrap both arms tightly around him. He leans back into me, holding the camera out at arms-length and snaps the last photo. As the film is rewinding, he glances at his watch. “We better get to the airport.”
I laugh. “Our flight home isn’t for hours.”
“We might run into some heavy traffic. I mean, it is L.A..”
“True.”
We walk back to the parking lot and are climbing the steps from the beach when we both see a disheveled-looking older woman sitting cross-legged in the sand. Her head is slumped over her chest and bottles and cans lie strewn around her.
“That’s got to be a shitty way to live,” Sam remarks, once we’re in the car.
Frankly, his comment surprises me. Compassion for fainting Pooh Grandma is one matter; empathy towards a homeless alcoholic is something Sam has had very little of lately.
“Are you OK over there?” he asks, when he catches me staring at him.
I smile. “I’m thinking you better put that top down one last time.”
“You betcha.”
Once we’re on the freeway, Sam says, “It’s a big world out there. I’d forgotten how big it is.”
I look over at him.
“But this trip has really made me realize there’s so much more to life than our little city back home, Adri.”
“Yeah …”
“It can be a cruel world – but it is a big one.”
I giggle. “Have you been drinking coffee again?” Chatty Sam usually only comes out after a strong cup of coffee or a few beers.
He smiles. “I was just thinking how much it bothered me that I didn’t get on with the Priority Crimes Unit.”
“Oh?” We’ve scarcely talked about his work this trip.
“But now that I’m away from home, I realize there are so many other opportunities to work undercover.”
“Such as?”
“CSIS, the FBI, CIA, Secret Service …”
“I think you’d need a green card for some of those, hon.”
“My point,” he says, “is that I’ve been thinking way too small.”
“Oh.”
We travel in silence for a few minutes. “Just out of curiosity,” I say, “what would your undercover name have been if you had gotten on with Priority Crimes?”
“Some co-pilot you are,” he replies, pointing to the airport exit sign as we drive past it. “Pay attention, will ya?”
“Oh shit. Sorry.”
He taps his temple with his index finger. “That’s why it’s good to leave lots of extra time.”
“You’re a bit early for your flight,” says the guy behind the check-in counter at the LAX airport.
“Yeah,” I whisper under my breath, “like five hours.”
As we walk away from the counter, I say to Sam, “You’re the weirdo.”
“I did get us here too early, huh?”
“Then again,” I reason, “if we stayed at the beach much longer, we might have hit way worse traffic.”
So, once we’re through security, I find a comfy chair and devour the L.A. Times. Sam finds a spot at the bar and has a beer watching Monday Night Football. We wave at each other occasionally but for the most part, we do our own thing. The vacation is over.
Seven
Back home, I’m first out of bed first Tuesday morning. I put on coffee, write in my journal and do some catch-up reading from Simple Abundance; A Daybook of Comfort and Joy by Sarah Ban Breathnach, the closest thing to a bible for me.
The September 22nd passage mentions how once you’re ready to start making connections, the revelations come quickly and from all places. “In the Old Testament,” it reads, “God uses donkeys, rocks and burning bushes to deliver Divine messages, so don’t question the validity of what you hear or how you hear it if the truth resonates within.” The September 24th passage suggests that if you do what you love, the money will follow – but that it’ll come from unexpected sources. For when you do start to follow your authentic path and use the gifts Spirit expects you to use, “you get a new employer: Spirit.”
“Must be a pretty good sex scene.”
I look up and see Sam walking into the living room.
I grin. “Not quite.”
“Whatcha readin’?”
I hold up the familiar pink book. I’ve read it many times.
He nods and sits on the couch. “It’s good to be home, huh?”
“Sam, I gotta get my shit together … with my writing, I mean.”
He stands up again. “Let’s go retrieve the hound.”
Back home from the kennel, we’re barely in the back door when the phone rings.
I answer it. “Oh, hi mom.”
Sam rolls his eyes and walks out of the kitchen.
I tell her a bit about our vacation and then she asks if I have any ideas for Thanksgiving Dinner.
“Well,” I reply, uttering words I do not mean, “we could have it here.”
“That would be very nice, Adri.”
“Except that I’m working most of that weekend. And I think Sam is actually working the whole weekend.”
“I could cook the turkey,” she says, “and we could all help out.”
“I dunno mom, it really isn’t that convenient …”
“Oh.”
“But I’ll see what Sam thinks,” I finish.
I know damn well what he’ll think.
“You’re fucking kidding me, right?” is his actual response.
I cross my arms over my chest. “Nope.”
“You wanna have fifteen people over for dinner – and we’re both working?”
“That’s right.”
Sam glares at me then shakes his head slowly. My stomach tightens.
“You just don’t get it do you?” he says then walks away.
Funny thing is I do get it. I just can’t be bothered to say no to my mom because it’s not worth the hassle. Sam, however, apparently thinks it is – and gives me the silent treatment to prove his point.
By Wednesday afternoon, he still hasn’t said a word to me. Even Sasha, our dog, ignores me. She follows Sam around the house and lies beside him on the floor when he reclines on the couch, affectionately called – by him – The Perch.
Sam’s scheduled to work his first shift back at 9:00 p.m. tonight but I overhear him on the phone telling his sergeant, Tom, he won’t be in.
“You’re taking another court day?” I ask.
“Yes.”
Over the past four years, I can count the times on one hand that Sam has taken a day off work other than for vacation. Not going into work, especially since he’s not speaking to me anyway, is odd. That it’s a night shift he’s missing, as opposed to a dayshift, is even stranger. Sam’s a nightowl; I’m the earlybird.
We eat our dinner in silence. I know he’s a stubborn Taurus but this is getting ridiculous. I fantasize about leaving him … moving to Vancouver, renting a little apartment and becoming a real writer by the sea. I’d take Sasha and the two of us would walk on the beach during breaks from my blossoming career as a novelist. This is what I’m thinking when I crawl into bed, alone, on Wednesday night.
Thursday morning, I’m working on my computer when I hear him upstairs in the kitchen, pouring his coffee. When he comes down stairs, I don’t look up.
He walks by my desk. “Mornin’.”
“Morning,” I reply, in my iciest voice.
He walks over, lies down on the couch and flips on the TV.
Dink. I resume typing.
Ten minutes later, he turns the TV off. “What do you do over there all the time in your little office?”
My silent treatment has been lifted.
“I’m building an empire,” I say, referring to the fact that I was researching a stock price on the Internet. “And I also happen to be writing a novel, in case you’ve forgotten.”
He sighs. “No, I haven’t forgotten.”
“Good.”
“So what are you writing today?”
“I’m actually editing a poem I wrote about an old University Prof of mine – but it’s supposed to be about Liz’s former professor.”
“Liz is the character based on you, right?”
“Uh huh,” I say glumly. Fiction isn’t turning out to be my strong point.
“Let’s hear it.”
“I dunno … it’s in pretty rough shape.”