July brought the first real heat of summer.
The girls were growing fast enough that I kept putting outgrown clothes into a bag.
Their daily rhythms were changing.
June wanted to reach everything on the lower shelves.
Alice made a determined attempt to crawl after Ruth's dog whenever we visited.
I moved the breakable things higher.
I checked the safety gates.
I learned how to prepare food for their changing needs under the pediatrician's guidance.
Ordinary decisions had begun occupying more space than the hospital memories.
I was relieved by that.
Then I felt guilty for being relieved.
One afternoon I decided to sort Mary's side of our closet.
I had avoided it since the funeral.
Her dresses still hung in the order she liked.
Her winter boots stood beneath the shelf.
A scarf lay across the top of a folded sweater.
I sat on the bedroom floor.
For nearly an hour I touched things without moving them.
Then I took three empty boxes from the hall.
One for keepsakes.
One for items I could donate.
One for things I wasn't ready to decide about.
I put the yellow raincoat into the keepsake box.
It had a small tear in one pocket.
Mary refused to replace it because she said the color made rainy days less rude.
I kept her favorite blue scarf too.
A pair of shoes went into the donation box.
Then I took them out.
I put them in the undecided box instead.
There was no deadline.
Later, Tessa arrived to help.
She didn't touch anything until I pointed to it.
"You can change your mind," she said.
"I've already changed it six times."
"Then six more won't hurt."
We found a receipt in the pocket of Mary's winter coat.
Two coffees.
One blueberry muffin.
The date was from the previous autumn.
I remembered that day.
We had argued about a parking ticket.
Mary insisted I should contest it.
I insisted it was my fault.
We spent half an hour looking for a photograph of the parking sign.
Then we gave up and shared a muffin.
I told Tessa the story.
She laughed.
"Mary loved winning arguments."
"Even when she hadn't won."
I put the receipt into a small envelope.
After Tessa left, I carried the donation box to my car.
I drove to the charity shop but couldn't bring myself to go inside.
I sat in the parking lot and looked at the box on the passenger seat.
Then I remembered the counselor's words.
There is no prize for doing every hard thing today.
I took the box home.
The next week I tried again.
This time I handed it to the volunteer at the desk.
I didn't tell her whose clothes they were.
I didn't need her to understand.
On the drive home I cried so hard that I pulled into a grocery-store parking lot.
Then I bought milk and diapers.
Both experiences belonged to the same afternoon.
At home Evelyn was reading the girls a picture book.
June slapped the page with both hands.
Alice made a noise every time Evelyn turned it.
I watched from the doorway.
"How did it go?" Evelyn asked later.
"I donated a few things."
"That must have been hard."
"It was."
She waited.
"And I don't think I did anything wrong."
"You didn't."
I looked at the empty space in the closet that evening.
It hurt to see it.
But I could reach the shelves now without moving Mary's shoes.
I folded clean blankets there for the girls.
No one had taken her place.
The room had simply made space for the people still living in it.
The closet wasn't the only place where I had kept things untouched.
Mary's garden tools were still leaning against the shed.
Her bicycle rested beneath a tarp.
A list of repairs she'd wanted to make was pinned beside the kitchen calendar.
I had been avoiding all of them.
One Saturday I asked our neighbor Mr. Lewis whether he could help me fix the loose gate.
He arrived with a toolbox and asked whether the girls were sleeping.
"For the moment."
"Then let's see if we can finish before they wake."
We removed a bent hinge and checked the frame.
Mary had complained about that gate since the previous summer.
I could hear her voice asking why I hadn't bought a hinge when we were already at the hardware store.
Mr. Lewis looked at the old screw holes.
"This has needed attention for a while."
"Mary noticed."
"She usually did."
He had lived next door for twelve years.
He told me Mary once brought him soup when his wife was recovering from surgery.
I hadn't known.
"She used to put notes through the fence," he said. "Mostly reminders that my roses were growing into her lavender."
"She never let anyone forget a practical problem."
Mr. Lewis chuckled.
We fitted the new hinge.
The gate swung cleanly for the first time in months.
I opened and closed it several times.
Then I stood looking at it.
"You all right?" he asked.
"I think so."
He put his tools away.
"It's a gate, Dan. You don't have to make it more than that."
I smiled.
"I'm trying."
After he left, I crossed the repair off Mary's old list.
I added the date beside it.
That felt better than throwing the list away.
There were still tasks she had wanted done.
I could finish them without pretending she'd be here to check my work.
The bicycle remained beneath its tarp until August.
Then Tessa asked if she could use it for a charity ride.
I almost said no.
I pictured Mary pedaling around our neighborhood with her hair tied back.
But the bicycle was being damaged by damp weather in the shed.
Tessa promised to have it serviced first.
I agreed.
She sent a photograph from the ride.
The bicycle looked clean.
A little tag with Mary's name hung from the handlebars.
I printed the photograph and put it into the album.
When Tessa returned the bicycle, I asked whether she wanted to keep riding it.
"Would that be all right?"
"Yes."
She promised to keep it safe.
A few weeks later she sent another photograph from a quiet trail through the woods.
I showed it to Evelyn.
She studied the handlebars and smiled.
"Mary would have liked that."
"I think so too."
It was strange to see something of hers being used without her.
It was also good.
The bicycle could still go places.
The gate could still open.
The house could still change.
None of those things erased the years we'd spent together.
That night I opened the shed again.
The space where the bicycle had stood was empty.
I expected regret.
Instead I remembered Tessa riding beneath the trees.
The bicycle had been repaired.
Someone was enjoying it.
Mary had always said things were meant to be used.
She wore favorite boots until the soles split.
She kept chipped mugs because they held coffee perfectly well.
She patched old blankets for the same reason.
I closed the shed and went inside.
The girls were playing on the living-room rug.
Alice had learned to pull a cloth from a basket.
June helped her empty it.
I sat down and helped them put everything back.
Within seconds they began emptying it again.
I smiled and let them.
Click here to continue reading: PART 15: On the Anniversary of Our Wedding, I Read Mary the Letter I Had Been Afraid to Finish
The Morning Mary Laughed About Baby Names and the Night I Came Home Without Her
Part 14 of 16
