On the third night, I gave up and went to the living room.
The couch I’d hated became the only place in the house where I could fall asleep.
I’d curl up on Arthur’s side, the side with the patched armrest, wrapped in his old flannel blanket. The red and black one he’d had since the Air Force. It still smelled faintly like him, like Lava soap and coffee.
I’d turn on the television so I wouldn’t have to hear the silence. Old movies. Game shows. Infomercials for kitchen knives at three in the morning.
The sagging middle would tip me toward the spot where he used to sit. And somehow, that helped.
For six months, I slept on that couch.
I ate dinner on that couch, a plate balanced on my knees. I read on that couch. I cried on that couch more times than I could count. On bad nights, I’d put my hand flat on his cushion, the way you put your hand on someone’s back to make sure they’re still breathing.
The cushion was always cool. Of course it was.
Part Three: Kate
In September, Kate came back for a long weekend.
She’s thirty-six now. She’s a pediatric nurse in Denver. She has Arthur’s laugh and my stubbornness, which is a dangerous combination. She called every day after the funeral, sometimes twice, but I could hear in her voice that she was worried.
When she walked into the house and saw the pillow and blanket on the couch, she stopped in the doorway.
“Mom,” she said. “Are you sleeping out here?”
I didn’t answer.
She set down her suitcase. She came and sat beside me. The sagging middle tipped her toward me, the way it always tipped me toward Arthur.
She took my hand.
“Mom,” she said gently. “You don’t have to keep everything exactly the way it was.”
