The Wave by Kristen Crusoe (smallest ebook reader txt) 📕

the hall sifting into the cooler space. The room was just as it had been those terrible months ago, the last morning of his son’s life. No matter what Clair believed, her theories on multiple universes, non-linear time, energies transmogrifying from one being to another, he knew Devon was dead. And that was that. He would leave it for Clair to pack up, if she wanted to. And if she didn’t, he would let it stand for as long as she wanted.

Feeling stronger with each decision, he walked over to the small table that held Devon’s precious boy objects. Feathers, rocks, bright colored pieces of plastic worn smooth by the river. Adam saw Devon’s hairbrush lying amongst the possessions, light brown strands of hair interwoven in the soft bristles. Hand shaking, Adam lifted the brush, gently pulling out a few strands, holding them to his nose. Inhaling the scent of his son, fresh as the day he was born. That first whiff of him, fresh from the womb, brought Adam to his knees. He folded, his head resting on his chest and breathed in his boy. He felt a sob rising up like lava from his gut but he pushed it back down. Enough of that, he said. I can be, I will be, stronger than that.

Leaving the door open for fresh warm air to circulate through, he walked on down the hall to their bedroom. This entire passage seemed as though it had been going on for years when, in fact, it was just a little under nine months since Devon had died. Nine months, to lose a son, a wife, a life. Like a pregnancy in reverse, he realized. And they could, would start new, reclaim their life together, and create a love so strong it would preserve all the best of them both and hold Devon for ever in their hearts. He would live on in their love.

Midday now. One shot of Scotch whisky for luck, another for courage. He was ready. A final look around, and then he walked out the door. He had showered again, dressed in his soft gray cords, a hand-knitted gray shawl-collared sweater over a black turtle-neck. Clair had made the sweater for him during her pregnancy. She had said she felt earthy and motherly and needed to do something with her hands. As in everything she touched, it came out perfect. His silver-blonde hair clean and softly falling over his forehead, he smiled, seeing her knitting while reading theoretical math dissertations on her computer, not even looking at the needles clicking in her skillful hands. Dabbing on a bit more of the cologne, he imagined how Clair would react, seeing him, feeling him. He would say he had come for his coat. Just that, so as not to rush her. They would sit together, calmly this time. That woman he saw, with the long red hair. She was new to him. And he would be new to her as well.

The drive back to the cancer center took him just under thirty-five minutes. Not too long, he mused, for him to drive Clair back and forth for appointments. They could talk, listen to books on tape, music, or just savor the quiet time. Winter was approaching and soon the rains would come in earnest. Long nights, short days. He was on leave so he wouldn’t be teaching. No reason to go anywhere without Clair. He would cook for her, bring her tea. They used to read aloud to each other, taking turns with their book of the week selections. She usually chose mysteries; he biographies or plays. So many paths back to where they started.

It was Friday afternoon, and judging from the parking lot, staff and patients took off early. A few cars were scattered around, glistening in the rain, which had just begun to fall. Lightly at first, then quickly gaining momentum. A good excuse for coming back for my coat, he relished the thought. I don’t have to make it up. Heart racing, he maneuvered his car into a spot in front of the residential unit. Lights were burning brightly inside, and someone had already begun placing Christmas decorations around the walkway and door. Taking a deep breath, he turned off the engine, opened the door and rushed up to the entrance, huddling under a small overhang. There was a doorbell, decorated with a Santa face. He smiled inwardly, imagining how they would spend the time together. Maybe they would drive up to the Crater Lake Lodge, bring in the holiday in a new way. Start a fresh tradition, for themselves. Not forgetting, no never, but bringing the best of the past with them into a preferred future.

He pushed the bell; a series of ascending chimes rang out. The wind began sweeping rain against him. He leaned against the side of the building. Footsteps sounded inside. A tightness clenched his chest. He thought he might have a heart attack standing there. Expecting Clair to open the door, he stopped breathing when the face at the opening was not Clair’s but an older woman, wearing the tell-tale scarf wrapped around her head. The woman smiled, her eyes friendly but wary.

‘May I help you?’ she asked.

‘Yes, thanks, ah, can I come in? I’m getting drenched out here. I’m looking for Clair Mercer. Is she in, do you know?’ Adam said, his words running together in his excitement.

‘Do come in. Sorry. Clair, ah, no, she’s not here. I saw her leave about an hour ago.’

‘Oh, did she say when she’d be coming back?’ he asked, his disappointment ringing in his words.

‘Well, I don’t think she’s coming back. She had a large tote bag with her. And I heard her call a cab to take her to the airport.’

Adam, feeling like he was plunging down twenty floors in an out of control elevator, his heart detaching from the rest of his body, too stunned to speak, heard a soft burring noise and looked up