My Best Friend

Things aren't always what they seem....

The support group welcomed me every week even though I never shared. They didn’t mind. They understood I wasn’t ready. They had all been there. We always hugged at the end of the hour and met up again in the same hall. I made it a point to wear the same old hoodie and jeans each week. Before we got there, a bingo brigade was there and there was a horrid smell of Pall Mall Reds and Jovan Musk in all the chairs. I didn’t want that on my crisp black suits I wore to work.

They were all so different yet here for the same reasons. There was the young would be bride complete with thick southern drawl and badly done at home blonde dye job in need of a toner and a touch up who had lost her fiancé also just as young as she was to the war. I don’t think she was even old enough buy alcohol to drown her sorrows.

There was the middle-aged man who’s wife had cancer. He lived with her till she died. He didn’t know anything or anyone else but being there for her. He gave the biggest hugs and was always the first with a lighter or a tissue for the criers. Typical caretaker. It was all he knew.

There was the man in his seventy year old adrenaline junkie who had bungee jumped, base jumped, jumped out of airplanes, ran with bulls and married a younger woman. He had a twin who he did everything with, except die. Every time “caretaker” handed “trailer park” a tissue or hugged her shoulders he looked upset that he didn’t also. I guessed he felt guilty that he wasn’t in the car with his brother that day the bus slid on the ice.

Then there was me. My husband was a beautiful man. Dark and brooding. Played melancholy music while he painted pictures with his eyes closed. Quoted world leaders and poets alike then would follow it with, “I don’t suppose that means anything to you.” He was always miserable. I called him my beautiful disaster. We were married ten years. In those ten years he gave me a house, a dog and a child.

My child? Beautiful, creative, funny… always dancing and singing. His pictures and drawings covered the fridge. My dog? Super smart. Know how you can pretend to throw a ball and a normal dog will tear off after it? Not my dog. He was no fool. My house? Professionally decorated and immaculate at all times. Everyone of my dinner parties or “get together” was the talk of the circle of people we described as our friends. Wonderful large backyard and a two car garage.

THE garage.

That’s where I found him. The door was closed when I drove up so I knew something was wrong. We never closed the door. It was the only way the dog could get in and out. There was a light smog coming from underneath it. I parked on the street and walked up the winding sidewalk instead to the front door. I put my key in the hole of the doorknob and jiggled it a little, that way he would know I was there. It wasn’t locked. I entered the hall and put my keys in the little pig dish where they always went. He was wearing a little poncho that said, “Guadalajara”. We went there on the only vacation we took together. I called his name, just in case. I knew in my heart he wasn’t going to answer. I went into the kitchen and sat my purse down on the counter. I could smell the fumes from the garage and hear the truck running. I knew what I was going to find. I opened the door and there he was. He looked so peaceful. He looked like he did when he was sleeping. I went to the phone and there was a sticky note that said, “I’m sorry.” So plain and undramatic for him. I figured I’d find a note with a long drawn out explanation later. I called 911 and talked to the operator until the police arrived.

I spent the rest of that night thinking about all of the good times. The times he was so happy to see me when I came home from work and all he wanted was to be near me and smell my hair. The time someone tried to break into our home and he was so brave and unlike himself. The protective way he had when the baby came and how proud he made me. He loved me and was going to miss him terribly.

The funeral was nice and everyone helped me for at least a month. Many casseroles and plants went to waste for having such an excess. I remembered sitting in the living room on the couch that I didn’t like and he was so fond of. I looked around and saw all of the bohemian artsy types that were my husbands friends. These people never liked me and never wanted me with one of their kind. I was reminded of one of my favorite authors quotes. She said, “Death is so much easier than divorce. Divorce makes your friends choose sides and death means people will come over and do your laundry for you.” She was right. My husbands friends made me terribly uncomfortable.

I was outside smoking and my husband’s boss came to me and said, “You know.. You are even beautiful when you’re crying.” Then walked away. C**t. I hated her even more then.

I heard someone calling my name and snapped out of my memory. I answered today. Not just a shake of the head, a full answer. I said, “I think I would like to share today.”

They all looked shocked. I walked to the podium and told them all about the day my husband committed suicide. I spoke of the dark warm eyes I’d never see again. I told them all about the empty space I slept next to every night. I told them about the young child at home who had lost his best buddy. I cried. I cried for the first time since the funeral.

They all had hugs and kisses and kind words for me afterwards. They told me how strong I was and how much of a great wife I was to stick through my husband’s depression and his actions weren’t my fault.

We agreed to meet again next Wednesday at the same time. I decided that I would skip the next one.

They were all great people and I appreciated them a lot that day, but now I felt like a liar among them and didn’t want to go back.

I cried all the way home and for a few hours afterward. I decided to look for another support group. Someday I was going to be ready to tell someone all about the beautiful tears that woman who had been having an affair with my husband for so long complimented, and how they were actually for the dog who didn’t make it out of the garage in time.