I Know They Will Be Lavender

When I open the front door, my oldest daughter, Paige, is on the porch, bundled in her burgundy peacoat. With her belly nine months swollen, she can only fasten the top two buttons, leaving the rest to hang open like stage curtains. A grocery tote dangles from one of her gloved hands.

“What are you doing here?” I glance over her shoulder. A two-inch layer of snow covers the yard, the pavement, and the roofs of houses across the street, rendering a Norman Rockwell feel to my neighborhood that is in complete opposition to my current mood. “You shouldn’t be out driving. They haven’t plowed yet.” 

“Relax, Mom.” She steps inside, using her body like a bulldozer, forcing me back into the house to grant her passage. “It’s the powdery kind. The roads aren’t slick.” She stomps her boots on the rug, then waddles over to the nearby staircase and sits on the third step. “Help me get my boots off, please.” 

For a moment, my twenty-six-year-old daughter is seven again, rosy-cheeked and eager to shed her winter gear after building a snowman.

I close the door, stopping the flow of frigid air swirling around the hem of my fuzzy blue robe. My slippers whisper against the entryway tile as I shuffle over to her. 

“I’m here to make you breakfast.” She offers me her foot. 

I tug off her boot and set it aside. “Alright. What are we having?” 

“Cinnamon rolls.” 

I almost smile. My daughter knows I’m usually a sucker for breakfast pastries of all kinds.  

She shifts her weight and lifts the other foot. “I was worried you didn’t go shopping yet, so I also brought some staples. I know your appetite’s not the best, but you have to start eating better. Dad would want you to take care of yourself.” 

After losing my husband, Sam, last month, Paige has stopped by every week to check on me. Last Wednesday, which should’ve been our thirtieth anniversary, she found me in bed, nursing an expensive bottle of Cabernet, the one Sam and I brought back from a Napa Valley vacation and set aside for toasting our third decade together. When Paige learned I’d had nothing but wine that day, she insisted I eat, but my fridge was empty, so she ordered a pizza. She refused to go home until I ate two slices.

“I do take care of myself … most of the time.” I help her stand and take the grocery tote from her. “You can’t hold one bad day against me. I’m fine. Really.”

She hangs her coat in the closet, then fishes her phone from the pocket. “You’re not fine, which is exactly why you should be with your family today.”

“I just want to be alone.”

“You can’t be alone on Christmas Day.”

“I barely survived our anniversary. Celebrating Christmas without him would be too much.” I push back the loose strands that have escaped my hair clip. “It’s what’s best for everyone, honey. I’m not good company right now.” 

“None of us are great company right now. We’re all struggling.” She looks me over, no doubt noticing my greasy hair and the coffee stains on my robe. Her expression softens into something like pity. “Come on. You can put the groceries away while I make the rolls.” She takes off, moving faster than a pregnant woman should. 

Paige has always been strong willed so there is no use arguing. I trail behind her. As we pass through the living room, a few rays of morning sun pierce the bay window, landing on the artificial Christmas tree Sam and I put up the week he died. The glittery orbs and ornaments twinkle, but unlike most years, those sparkles only remind me of all I’ve lost. If I had more energy, I’d take the damn thing down.

In the kitchen, Paige sets her phone on the granite-topped island. I place the tote bag beside it and start unpacking what she’s brought me: a tube of jumbo cinnamon rolls, a carton of soy milk, sliced turkey meat, multigrain bread, and a few blueberry yogurt cups.

“Leave the cinnamon rolls out,” she says with authority, like I’m one of the underlings she oversees at the marketing firm where she works.

I nod and start putting everything away while she digs out a glass baking dish from a cabinet near the sink. 

“I should thank you,” I say, arranging the perishables in the fridge. “My phone has been working better since I took your advice and asked the robotic woman to restart it for me.”

When Paige visited last week, my phone—brand new, only activated for a little over a month—kept giving me an annoying message, saying I needed to log into my email account. But when I did as it asked, it would say that my login attempt had failed. After several rounds of resetting my password, I was about to throw the thing at the wall, but then Paige stopped by and suggested I reboot it, something my husband probably would’ve recommended had he been here.

Paige rolls her eyes. “It’s not a robotic woman, Mom. It’s a virtual assistant. It’s a standard feature on almost any phone.” Paige sprays the baking dish with Pam. “I know you don’t like new things, but you’ll get used to it.”

“Not like I have a choice,” I say.

Sam was the one who insisted we get rid of our Android phones in favor of the Axotari brand. According to Sam’s research, an Axotari phone stayed charged ten hours longer than other smartphones, and since it was the same brand all three of our adult children had, we’d be able to enjoy the special effects our kids added to their texts and group chats that previously we couldn’t decipher because our Androids weren’t compatible. 

But Sam didn’t get to enjoy his new device for long. A few days after activating our new phones and disposing of our old ones, Sam helped our youngest daughter, Lauren, who lives an hour away in Omaha, jump-start her car. He texted me before heading home, asking if he should pick up anything from the store. I told him to get a loaf of bread. That was the last time we communicated before he was killed in a five-car pileup on the interstate. Had I known it would be my last text to him, I would’ve added an I love you to the message. 

That was four weeks ago, and now, every time I struggle to figure out how to do something on my Axotari, I get angry. Angry at God and the universe for taking Sam, and angry at Sam for leaving me with this stupid phone that’s not only difficult to use but devoid of the three years’ worth of messages that were on my old phone, the closest thing I had to a box of love letters.

Ding. 

Paige’s phone chimes, startling me from my thoughts. I close the fridge and take a seat at the island that has become my daughter’s workstation. Paige glances at her phone lying on the granite countertop as she wrenches open the tube of cinnamon rolls. 

“Crap.” She looks up at me. “I don’t know what I’d do without my reminders.” She peels off a cinnamon-marbled puck of dough from the cardboard tube. “Hey, Benrex, send an email to Lydia Stratton.”

A teal squiggle, about an inch long, something Sam would’ve called a waveform, appears at the bottom of Paige’s phone screen, indicating the robotic woman—no, the virtual assistant—has been activated. 

“What is the email’s subject?” asks an automated female voice.

Paige carefully places another disk of dough in the pan. “Flowers and More logo.”  

“Got it. What would you like to say?” 

As Paige prepares the cinnamon rolls, she rattles off dictation, reminding a coworker that page proofs of a new logo design are due to the client in two days.

“Send it?” Benrex asks.

“Yes.” Paige huffs a relieved breath and gives me a half-watt smile. “Now, unless I’ve forgotten something else, I’m officially free to have this baby without any worries about my clients.”

“You’re so organized,” I say. 

“My phone makes it easy.” She sets the baking dish in the oven, then goes to the sink to wash her hands. “Benrex, fifteen-minute timer.” 

“Done,” Benrex says.

Paige dries her hands, then starts digging through my cupboards, looking for something. “See, Mom, technology isn’t so bad.” She finds a kettle, fills it at the sink, then sets it on the stovetop. “You should join the twenty-first century and try it sometime. Your virtual assistant can do almost anything.”

“If Benrex could send me back in time, I might give it a whirl,” I mutter, but Paige is struggling to get the stove burner lit and doesn’t hear me.

“Send you back to what date?” The automated female voice sounds muffled, and it takes me a moment to understand it’s coming from my robe pocket, where I’ve stashed my phone.

When I pull it out, the familiar teal squiggle is glowing on the screen. Serves me right, I guess. I spoke the genie’s name and now she wants to know my wish.  

I swipe up, hoping to clear the squiggle away, but instead of arriving on my icon-filled home screen, I find a gray screen with three blank fields labeled Month, Day, and Year. 

I blink a few times, wondering if I’ve finally cracked. Then it hits me. It’s just another silly antic our phones are programmed to perform. Sam used to ask Benrex to do all sorts of pointless tasks like flip a coin, sing a few bars of Backstreet Boys, or answer questions like “Who sang ‘Rock Me Amadeus?’”

Maybe for this particular gimmick, Benrex hops into the virtual “time machine” and retrieves a picture from the internet related to the date you’ve picked. I sigh. Sam would’ve loved this. 

Taking Paige’s advice, I decide to join the twenty-first century. After tapping the first date field, a number pad appears. I enter 12-18-1994, our first anniversary. I’ve been thinking of this date since last week, when I laid in bed alone, drinking the Napa Valley wine.

I’d been desperate to read something from Sam that day, but thanks to the new phone debacle, I only had three texts from him that were about mundane things like groceries and dimensions for our furnace filter. So I searched the house, digging through multiple storage containers and boxes, looking for the letter he gave me on our first anniversary. 

The box I was looking for must’ve been lost when we moved years ago because the only thing I found was a few Hallmark cards given to me for birthdays and anniversaries. Even those were a letdown because Sam didn’t write flowery notes in cards. He just signed them, Love, Sam. 

Curious what Benrex will pull up for my special date, I press submit. The gray screen dissolves, and I’m returned to my lock screen, which features a picture of Sam and me in front of this year’s Christmas tree. The photo glows brighter, then starts to flicker. Before I can ask Paige what’s wrong with my phone, the recess lights overhead blink on and off, then blaze like the sun. I squint against the glare. 

#

When the lights stop flashing, I open my eyes. “What was that?” 

The question goes unanswered because my daughter is no longer at the stove. And by the looks of things, I’m no longer in my kitchen.

I’m alone, standing in a dimly lit living room that’s a fourth the size of the one in my current home. To my left, sits a blue and white striped couch that was popular in the ‘80s. In front of the wall opposite the couch, a nicked and battered coffee table supports the weight of a TV the size and shape of a moving box. And standing in the far corner is an artificial Christmas tree. It’s only a few feet high, decorated with homemade ornaments like glitter-coated pine cones and white snowflakes cut from notebook paper. 

My stomach plummets as if I’ve been pushed out of an airplane without a parachute. This is our apartment. The one Sam and I moved into after our wedding. My phone tumbles from my hand, landing with a dull thud on the dingy carpet. It takes me a few tries to pick it back up.

I’ve never used drugs, but I imagine this feeling of disconnect between what I’m seeing and what I know to be real falls squarely in the category of “trippy.” But I haven’t ingested anything stronger than coffee today, so I’m forced to consider the possibility I’ve had a stroke or aneurysm. For all I know, I’m laid out on a stretcher, in the back of an ambulance, en route to the hospital. 

But the vague aroma of macaroni and cheese hits me, something we ate a lot of in those early years when we were just two newbie teachers, earning a meager living. I also notice a hint of Sam’s aftershave, the kind he used back then. Brut, I think. Do hallucinations involve the nose?

The smell of Sam is so real, so intoxicating, I can’t stop to care if I’m hallucinating or not. Whether he’s here in memory or reality doesn’t matter. I’ve got to see him.

“Sam?” I call, but no one answers.

I take long strides past a narrow galley kitchen and an adjacent card table with two folding chairs—our cheap attempt at a dinette set—before I pass the empty bathroom and cross the threshold of the sole bedroom.

“Sam?”

Thanks to a lone bulb overhead, I can see that Sam isn’t in here either. My heart sinks. 

On the opposite side of the room is a window, the only one in the apartment. Through the gap in the curtains, I can see it’s dark outside. I glance at the alarm clock on a secondhand dresser to my left and see it’s a little before six in the evening. He should be home by now.

I’m about to sit on the queen bed and wait for Sam’s return when I notice the closet to my right. It’s the kind with mirrored doors on a sliding track, which, to my twenty-first century eyes, looks very retro.

But what captures my attention is the woman reflected in those mirrors. I step closer, hardly recognizing myself or the relaxed fit jeans that have since gone out of style and come back again. A long sleeve black blouse hangs past my hips, covering— 

“Oh, my God.”

Standing in profile, I appraise my modest baby bump in the mirror. I’m pregnant with Paige. If my math is right, I’m about five and a half months along. My volleyball-sized belly seems slight compared to the beach ball my daughter has been carting around for the last month. 

Then I notice something else in the mirror, something behind me. On the pillow of the queen bed, there’s a familiar-looking purple object, standing out in stark relief against the orange quilt that covers the mattress.  

I rush to the side of the bed and pick up what turns out to be a heart-shaped note made from lavender stationery. Trembling, I pick it up and read the words written in Sam’s neat handwriting.

Happy first anniversary, wife most dear.

Follow the clues, because we aren’t celebrating here.

Tears blur my vision. This is a clue from the scavenger hunt he put together for our one-year anniversary, which eventually led me to a local motel with a bathtub big enough for two. Somewhere between here and the motel, he gave me the love letter I was searching for last week.

I dab my eyes with the bottom of my maternity shirt and read on.

So grab your purse. No need to pack a bag. 

I’ve taken care of everything, so please don’t lag.

My rhymes are awful. No poet am I. 

The next clue awaits you where we fell in love over pie.

The 24-hour diner a few blocks from the university campus. 

We always considered it the site of our first date, though at the time, we were just two classmates—both freshmen, living in the dorms—getting together to study for a geology exam. But that night, we didn’t do much studying. Instead, we talked over rhubarb pie and coffee, discovering all we had in common. 

We were both secondary education majors. I was pursuing an endorsement in Home Economics—back when they still called it that—and he was pursuing one in science. 

Our upbringing was also similar. We both came from blue-collar families with few college graduates in the family tree. And since our parents didn’t have much money, we would both be saddled with student loan debt, but we discussed at length our talents for being frugal and how to take pleasure in the little things.

Prior to that night, I had a notion of Sam’s humor and easygoing nature, but after that study session, I knew I wanted to hear him explain scientific theories and laugh at his lame jokes for the rest of my life.

And boy, did we laugh. For over three decades. 

To get to the diner, I have to drive downtown, which means I need to find my keys. After searching the room, I find my old denim purse—which looks like it’s been made from acid-washed jeans—on the floor of the closet. I scowl at my former bad taste. 

I pick it up and find a set of keys inside. The key chain is an ugly little Troll Doll with lime green hair.

I chuckle, for the first time in weeks. As if laughing along with me, Paige kicks in my womb. The internal poke is the strangest feeling, yet familiar.

Funny how we forget some things but not others. I don’t remember this key chain, but my baby’s movements ring a bell. When the mind runs out of space, it must purge things like bad purses and key chains to make room for new memories, like the smell of menthol cigarettes on the breath of the police officer who informed me my husband had been killed.

I shove the memory aside and start to look for my coat because it’s still December, even in 1994. Among the shirts and pants on hangers, I find my dark blue parka with a faux-fur-lined hood hanging there. I shrug into it, put my phone in my purse, then backtrack through the apartment to the front door, eager to find the 1980, four-door hatchback Chevette—a blinding shade of caution tape yellow—that will be waiting for me in the parking lot.

#

Fifteen minutes later, I arrive at the greasy spoon where Sam and I had our unofficial first date. A red neon sign reading “24-Hour Eats” flashes above a white cinder block building. The large plate glass window in front is lit up with a string of green Christmas lights.

When I go inside, a familiar face greets me. The owner, a middle-aged man with a fringe of sandy hair surrounding his otherwise shiny dome, comes out from behind the register. I can’t for the life of me recall his name.

“Sheila,” he says, stretching his arms wide. “Good to see you. It’s been a while.” 

More than a while. Decades, actually, but I play along and say, “It sure has.”  

“Since you guys graduated, I never see you anymore. Ah, well. Things change, don’t they?” He reaches into one of the pockets of the short white apron tied around his waist and withdraws a folded lavender note. “Sam left this for you.” He hands it to me, beaming. 

I take it from him and spare a look into his sparkling blue eyes. In about a year, a heart attack will claim him, but right now, there’s nothing but vitality looking back at me. He exudes a zest for life I envy. 

“Thank you.” It occurs to me I should also thank him for all the wonderful meals we had here. He died so suddenly, we never got a chance to tell him how much we appreciated his diner. “Sam and I really enjoyed this place,” I say. “Thanks to you, we could afford to eat well during college.”

“I enjoyed having you.” He smiles at me with pure joy. “Happy anniversary. May it be the first of many.”

“Thank you.” My throat is so tight the words barely eek out. I push the glass door open and step into the cold, dark night.

#

The next note ends with, “In the third hymnal of the third pew, another clue is waiting for you,” so I drive to the community church where Sam and I said our vows. 

We settled on this particular venue for the ceremony because it was a good compromise, religious enough for me and my parents who were lukewarm Methodists, yet generic enough for Sam, who subscribed to the more cosmic concept that God was the universe, not the creator of it.

As I enter the vestibule, a gush of warm air envelopes me. The smell of wood polish and candle wax conjure the memory of standing here, arm in arm with my dad, thirty years ago, eager to head off toward the altar. 

I tug open one of the ornately carved doors that leads into the church and take a few steps down the marble aisle. The silence is oppressive, and when I see the wooden cross hanging over the altar, part of me wants to shout, “Why did you take him from me?”

God doesn’t answer, but Sam does. His voice is clear in my head, countering with, “Stop, would you? Look at all we were given. Love. Children. Laughter. Be grateful for the time we had.”

I consider his words. Though they are as much of a hallucination as this entire experience, that doesn’t stop him from being right. We have two daughters and a son, all of whom I love dearly. We have a grandbaby on the way. We also had something most people don’t experience in their lifetime. A happy marriage. A true partnership. A soul connection.

 Stepping lightly, trying to avoid squeaking my canvas shoes on the polished floor, I proceed down the aisle and stop at the third row. In the pew to my left, a hymnal sits on the seat instead of with the others in the book rack. A lavender triangle peeks out of its pages. 

After I retrieve it and put the hymnal back, I head toward the entrance, where I run into Pastor Tom—who performed our ceremony—in the vestibule. 

“Hello, Sheila. Sam mentioned you’d be dropping by.” He looks very festive in his white-collared shirt, red bow tie, and red cardigan. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

I think of the insight Sam gave me and of all the treasures I’ve been given because of my husband.

“I did,” I say, and hurry out the main door, eager to read the next clue.

#

Back in my Chevette, engine running and heater cranked, I turn on the dome light and unfold Sam’s heart shaped message. It’s twice the size of the others.

Sheila,

The first anniversary is supposed to be celebrated with the gift of paper, so I came up with the scavenger hunt. I know it’s a little lame, but I thought it would make a nice lead up to the grand finale—a love letter! So here goes.

This is it. This is the letter I lost. The letter I desperately searched for last week. The paper quivers in my hands. My eyes burn as I read these ancient, long-forgotten words. 

The last year has been incredible. We graduated. We found jobs at the same high school. We moved into our apartment. We made a baby. What a fantastic life we’re building together!

Sometimes I think about how unlikely it is that we met. With me coming from Oregon and you coming from Iowa, what are the odds we would meet on a campus of more than 25,000 students in Nebraska? I’m convinced we were drawn to each other on a subatomic level. Perhaps we’re made from the dust of the same star.

I shudder to think what my life would be like without you in it. Who would laugh at my weak jokes? Who would indulge my Halloween costume ideas? (By the way, thanks again for dressing up as an oxygen molecule this year. Without you, I would’ve remained a lonely hydrogen atom, seeking the connection only a covalent bond can bring.)

Tears stream down my face. I had forgotten about the Halloween we went as a water molecule. Paige shifts positions in my womb, reminding me she’s there. I pat my belly and read on. 

All joking aside, you are the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You are my friend, my partner in crime, my soul mate. I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you and our family.

Ok. I’ve prattled on long enough. Time to reveal my location. Come to the Just Visit Inn on Cardinal Street. Knock on room #11. If a man that’s not me answers, I’ve written the wrong room number down. Or, alternatively, you’re in the wrong universe.

All my love,

Sam

Sam’s humor gets me like it always did, and I can’t help but laugh as I cry in the parking lot. I press the note to my chest, enjoying this connection to him.

Church bells start to toll seven o’clock. Whatever this place is, time warp or hallucination, the bells sound very real, and for some reason, a bit like a warning, like my time here is dwindling. I fold the letter back up, cram it into my coat pocket with the other clues, and set off for the motel where my husband is waiting for me.

#

When I knock at the door, Sam greets me with a smile. I’m only vaguely aware he’s wearing a black cable-knit sweater and jeans because I can’t take my eyes off his face.

He’s so young! No lines surround his eyes or sprawl across his forehead. Not a single strand of gray graces his dark brown hair. No bifocals rest on the bridge of his nose. Right now, he sees perfectly without them.

“It’s me,” he says when I’ve stood there too long without saying anything. “In case you weren’t sure.”

His boyish features blur as tears obscure my vision.

“Oh, Sam.” I throw my arms around his neck and squeeze.

“Wow. I should do this scavenger hunt thing more often,” he says, hugging me gently so he doesn’t crush my belly. “Who knew I’d get such a good reaction?”

That makes me laugh, but the impact of seeing him again—alive and well—overloads my circuits. My laughter disintegrates into sobs, and after a few seconds, I can’t breathe.

“Sheila, honey,” he says, rubbing my back. “What’s going on?”

Unable to speak, I bury my face in his chest. 

He ushers me into the room and shuts the door. “Hey, talk to me.” He gently nudges my chin with his knuckle, forcing me to look up at him. 

I can’t speak. I sob and sputter and sniffle. I’m a disaster on legs.

“Come sit down.” He walks me to the bed and helps me sit on the edge of the mattress, then takes my purse and sets it on the nightstand. “You want some sparkling juice? I have some chilled.”

I nod. 

Sam smooths his palm over my hair, then goes to the dresser where the faux champagne bottle sticks out of an ice bucket. He pours some into one of the glass tumblers provided by the motel and brings it to me. Hands shaking, I take a sip.

“Be right back.” He disappears into the bathroom and returns with several tissues. “Here.”

He squats in front of me, waiting patiently for an explanation. I set my juice on the nightstand and blow my nose. After I toss the tissue into the nearby wastebasket, I meet his worried gaze. I want to drink in as much of him as I can, but looking at him hurts so much I can barely exist in his presence. 

“Sheila. You’re scaring me.” He places a hand on my knee. “What’s going on?”

I can’t just blurt out what’s happening. What if that disturbs the illusion or breaks whatever spell has brought us together? 

Then again, this is an opportunity to talk with the one person who could help me cope with my loss, an irony that, until now, has been nothing but painful. But here, in whatever place this is, I could ask the man I love how to go on without him. And Sam, being Sam, would surely have an answer I could use.

So I decide to give him the situation as a hypothetical. Sam always loved a good hypothetical discussion.

“We have a child on the way,” I begin, voice wavering. “And it crossed my mind that if I ever lost you, I’d have to raise her alone. The idea just knocked me over.”

“Okay, well, first of all, nothing’s going to happen to me,” he says. 

I wince at the memory of the uniformed officer who told me Sam had been killed.

“But what if it does?” I ask. “How will I cope? How will I keep going? How do I not just live in my robe the rest of my life?”

“Take it easy.” He leans forward and swipes a rogue tear from my cheek with the pad of his thumb. “You’re not the only one who’s thought about this. I have too. It’s probably just one of many worries that haunts you when you’re about to enter parenthood.”

“Well? What did you come up with?”

He hoists himself up and takes a seat beside me on the bed. I angle my body so I can face him. He does the same.

“I think what makes death scary is not knowing what comes next,” he begins. “So I thought about the soul on a quantum level. I mean, the soul is just energy, right? Most likely made of quarks or electrons and would continue to exist after the body dies. Remember, like matter, energy can’t be created or destroyed.”

“So that’s eternal life?” I ask. “Our soul sticks around after death because it can’t be destroyed?”

“That’s what I think. And more than that, I think some souls, ours included, will behave like entangled particles. Have you ever heard of Quantum Entanglement?”

“Sounds familiar. What is it?”

“It’s a theory that explains how subatomic particles become inextricably linked. They’re able to keep communicating with each other no matter how far apart they are. I liken their behavior to two people who fall madly in love but are forced to have a long-distance relationship and their only method of staying in touch is telepathy.”

“Telepathy?”

“Basically. They seem to transmit almost instantaneously. Faster than the speed of light. If humans communicated like that, we’d call it telepathy.”

 Hearing Sam’s take on the subject gives me déjà vu. For some reason, I remember talking about this when I was pregnant, but I’ve long forgotten the details.

“How would that even work?” I ask. “I need a real-life example.”

“Okay. Let’s say it’s you who checks out early—may you rest in peace—and I’m raising our daughter alone. When she’s sixteen and wants to get a skull tattooed on her neck, I don’t have to be with you to know you’d be adamantly opposed to the idea.”

I laugh. “But how will this make life bearable without you?”

“I think our souls will still communicate, even after death. If you think of me and listen closely, you’ll hear what I would say if I were with you. In that way, we’ll always be together.”

My mind wanders back to the church when I could almost hear Sam’s calm voice countering my angry thoughts. Until now, his voice has been dormant inside me. Maybe I repressed it to avoid the pain of my loss. 

Sam scoots closer and pulls me to him. “I hate to tell you this, but you’ll never be rid of me. I’m yours. For all eternity.”

My eyes sting with new tears, but I can’t help but smile. I nuzzle against his shoulder. “Thank you,” I say. “That helps.”

“And since we’re discussing serious matters, let me add,” he says, sounding ornery, “that if for some reason I don’t make it to our daughter’s first Christmas—may I rest in peace—I expect you not to go back on your word about carrying on my family tradition.”

This has me busting a gut. The tradition in question is listening to Elvis’s 1957 Christmas album while we open gifts, something Sam grew up with because his parents were huge Elvis fans. Sam and I carried on the tradition with our children, upgrading our copy of it over the decades from cassette to CD, and most recently, Spotify.

“You won’t have to worry about that,” I say, leaning against him, feeling better than I have in weeks. The taut muscles in my neck release, the tightness in my chest lets go, and I start to wonder if I could just stay here, reliving my best years. “Can I get your opinion on something else?”

“Sure.”

“What if in the future, there’s a way to time travel? And after I lost you, I came back in time to be with you?”

He studies me a moment. “Are you saying you’re a time traveler right now?”

I quickly shake my head, fearful the truth might burst this bubble of fantasy. “Of course not.”

“That’s an intriguing idea,” he says, “hiding in the past to avoid the present, but I’d be really disappointed if that’s how you handled it.” His brow creases and the light in his eyes dims. “It would make me sad knowing that you stopped living just because I did. Plus, without you acting as my proxy, who would remind our children how much I love them or tell them stupid jokes to make them groan or teach them the constellations? Without you acting on my behalf, it would be like dying twice because my memory would die too.”

A hard knot rises in my throat. He’s right, and if he knew he had a grandchild on the way, he would’ve added her as another reason I can’t stay here.

When I try to stand, Sam hops to his feet and helps me up. “Hey, why don’t you take off your coat and stay a while?”

Until now, I hadn’t even realized I’d left it on. 

“I will in a minute,” I say. “I need to get something from my car.”

I wrap my arms around him, inhaling the scent of his aftershave, trying to store it inside me for later, when I’m lost without him. Much like a pleasant dream about to end, I can feel the edges of this trip beginning to fade.

“I love you, Sheila,” he murmurs in my ear. “Happy anniversary.”

“Happy anniversary.” Silent tears skim down my face. I kiss his smooth cheek before reluctantly letting him go. “I love you. So very much.” 

I grab my purse and step outside. Under the yellow haze of the streetlight, I pull out my phone.

“Benrex, send me back.”

“Enter a return date,” the automated female voice says.

I type in 12-25-2024, and after a moment’s hesitation, tap submit. The streetlight grows ten times brighter, then starts to pulse and flicker at a frequency that sears my retinas. Squinching my eyes shut, I pray I’ve made the right decision.

#

The first thing I see when I open my eyes is the granite topped island of my present-day kitchen. Paige is at the stove, fiddling with a knob. It’s as though I never left.

The burner lights with a whoosh, and before I can even contemplate what has happened, Paige turns around and asks, “So, what do I have to do to get you to come over later?” Her usual tone of authority is diminished by a mournful note. “I know it won’t be the same without Dad, but your kids still want to celebrate with you. As best we can anyway.”

The wounded look on her face fills me with guilt. I’ve caused a strain on her, something I shouldn’t have done in the first place. The fact that she’s due any moment only makes it worse.

“You don’t have to do anything,” I say. “I’ll be there. What time should I come over?”

Her eyes glimmer with unshed tears. “Around noon?”

“Okay.” I blow out a weary sigh. “I’m sorry I’ve been so difficult lately.”

She rushes to my side, swallowing me in what Sam would call a T-Rex hug because her protruding belly makes her arms appear shorter. I smile. Perhaps that thought came from my husband, crossing the universe faster than the speed of light to reach me.

“I know it’s been hard,” she murmurs.

“It has, but your dad wouldn’t want me to stop living. He’d want me to be there. He’d want me to wish all of you a Merry Christmas on his behalf.”

After another long, awkward hug, we finally stop crying, and I’m as ready as I’ll ever be to rejoin the living.

“I’m going to take a shower.” I slide off my bar stool. “You’ve been kind not to mention it, but I know how long I’ve been living in this robe, and I’m long overdue. If the cinnamon rolls are done before I get out, feel free to start without me.” I leave her in the kitchen and grab a tissue from a box on the counter on my way out. 

As I cross through the living room, I try to make sense of what happened. On some level, I must’ve remembered having that discussion with Sam and recalled it to ease my misery. I suppose if you’re worn down enough, the mind does strange things.

Dabbing my eyes, I climb the stairs, heading to the second floor. Going to Paige’s house this afternoon, gathering around the tree without Sam, will be hard, but he needs me there. To hug our children, to make the toast at dinner, and to play the Elvis Christmas album while we open gifts. I am his proxy. At least until my soul joins his out there in the cosmos.

When I reach the top of the stairs, I tuck my tissue into the pocket of my robe and stop stone cold when my knuckles bump into something. Something that wasn’t there earlier this morning.

With trembling fingertips, I trace the edges of several slips of paper. Even without looking, I know they will be lavender.