Trish Garrity has to find a way to go on after the death of Sam, her partner of six years.
Love, loss, grief--human experiences that cross all boundaries of age, race, or gender. Trish Garrity has to find a way to go on after the tragic loss of Samantha Preston, her partner of six years. Facing death, Sam writes twelve letters—one to be opened on the first of each of the twelve months following her death—intended to help Trish become more self-accepting and to guide her through grief.
Excerpt
Saying Goodbye
"Phyllis, it’s Trish. You should come now." Trish’s voice cracked.
"There’s a change?"
"The nurse told me to call the family. I’ve already left a message for Matt. You may want to pack a bag. It could be a few days."
"I’ll be there this afternoon."
Trish hung up the phone. She sometimes wasn’t sure how to read Sam’s mother. The only barometer Trish had for measurement was her own mother. Not a good comparison.
She returned to Sam’s bedside. Her eyes filled as she watched the withered body’s labored breathing. Molly whined at the back door to be let outside.
When Trish tiptoed back into the room, Sam’s eyes opened. "How long was I asleep?"
Trish sat on the edge of the bed and took a frail hand in her own. "About half an hour. Your mom’s coming to stay for a few days."
Sam nodded. "You called her?"
"Yes. Is that okay?"
Sam squeezed her hand weakly. "Good. I don’t want you to be alone when…"
"Did I tell you Robbie Collins came by? You were sleeping, so I asked him to stop by another time."
"He’s a nice kid." Sam rubbed a thumb over the back of Trish’s hand. "I’m going to miss you."
Unable to hold back the tears, Trish looked away.
"Trish, look at me."
She slowly turned her head and met Sam’s gaze.
Sam tugged on her hand. "Lay down with me."
Trish curled against Sam’s fragile body. "I won’t be able to do this when your mother’s here."
"You underestimate my mother, or you have her confused with yours. Mom came to terms with us being together a long time ago."
Trish rested her head against Sam’s shoulder. "I don’t know how to do this—say goodbye," she murmured.
"Neither do I, babe. But we’re doing it. I need for you to listen to me, while I still know what I’m talking about."
Trish sucked in a breath and held it. This was the discussion she’d been avoiding for days now.
"Trish?"
"Mmm-hmm."
"I need your promise that you’ll go on and have a good life. Don’t let this damned disease claim you, too. Live the life we’ve planned."
Her body shook, and Sam raised a feeble hand to stroke her hair. "And don’t close yourself off from people. I know it’s your safety net, but don’t. Your mom won’t be of much help, but my mother will be there for you. And she’ll need you, too."
"Don’t ask me to m-make promises. I d-don’t want you to g-go. Why is this happening to us?"
"I don’t know."
Sam’s hand relaxed and Trish held her breath, waiting. Sam’s ragged intake of air brought relief. Trish closed her eyes and exhaled.
The doorbell jarred her from sleep. She eased from the bed and pulled the sheet up around Sam before answering the door.
Phyllis Preston stood on the porch, looking smaller and more fragile than Trish remembered her. Trish wiped her eyes and swung open the screen door. "Hi, Phyllis. Come in. Let me take your bag."
"Thank you," she whispered. "Is Sam sleeping?"
"Yes. Let’s go to the kitchen. I’ll make coffee and bring you up to speed on the hospice nurse’s report." Trish set the small suitcase at the base of the stairs.
Phyllis stopped at the door to the den and glanced inside. Her face tightened, and she worked her lips together. Drawing in a sharp breath, she closed her eyes for a moment before following Trish to the kitchen.
While the coffee brewed, Trish set out a plate of brownies Ellen Collins had sent over earlier. "One of our neighbors made these."
"Thank you. I’m not hungry. Please, tell me what the nurse said."
Trish sat opposite her at the small dinette table. "She said it’s a matter of days. Sam’s much weaker today than yesterday."
Phyllis stared down at her hands in her lap. "Is there much pain?"
"Sam says no, but I see it…" Her shoulders shook as she broke down.
Phyllis slid her chair back and rounded the table, wrapping her arms around Trish. "I’m sorry. I should have come sooner. This is too much for you to handle alone."
"I’m not ready to let go."
"We’re never ready, honey." She hugged Trish. "But I’m here now, and I’m staying until…until it’s over. You need to get some rest. Why don’t you go on upstairs for a while? I’ll look in on Sam."
"I’m okay." Trish straightened and wiped her eyes. "I can make something for dinner."
"Don’t fuss for my sake. I haven’t had much of an appetite lately."
"Sam gets upset if I don’t try to eat. I have a macaroni and cheese casserole one of the waitresses from the café brought by."
"That’ll be fine." Phyllis poured herself a cup of coffee and slid one in front of Trish. "Now, I’m going to sit with Sam for a while, if that’s all right."
"Of course. Phyllis, thank you. I can’t imagine what it’s like for you to go through this."
Phyllis met Trish’s gaze. "It’s hell. No parent should outlive their own child." She steadied the coffee mug and turned toward the den.
Trish stood at the kitchen window and watched Molly chase snowflakes that had begun to fall. A chill rolled through her. A few weeks earlier, while in the throes of intense pain, Sam had said something about not having to carve "another damned turkey." Thanksgiving was just five days away.
As she passed the den, Trish glanced inside. Phyllis sat, slightly stooped, on a straight chair beside the hospital bed. Her fingers smoothed back Sam’s tousled blonde hair, while she crooned words of love and comfort. Trish observed as this mother kept her own emotions in check for the sake of her dying child. She wondered how her mother would behave in the same situation. The chasm in her heart widened with an ache she’d carried since childhood.
Giving them privacy, Trish carried Phyllis’ suitcase up the stairs and made up the bed in the guest room. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror on the dressing table. She looked closer to death than Sam did, with sunken eyes, a gray pallor, and skin drawn tightly over her cheekbones. She finger-combed her dark brown hair, flattened on the side where she’d slept earlier. Exhaustion drained her, and she pulled in a shuddering breath.
She returned to the kitchen to heat up the casserole.
"It smells good in here." Phyllis crossed the kitchen and placed her empty coffee mug in the sink. "Can I do anything?"
"The casserole is heating. Would you like salad?"
"I suppose we should eat a vegetable, don’t you?"
Warmth flushed in Trish’s face. "I suppose we should." She crossed the room and pulled open the freezer, relishing the icy blast of air.
"Trish, I’m sorry. I wasn’t being critical. To be completely honest, I don’t care if I eat or not."
Trish closed the freezer and faced Phyllis. "I’m sorry, too. I feel raw. Everything seems to hit me the wrong way right now." She removed a chocolate-flavored nutrition shake from the fridge, shook it up and poured it into a glass, adding a straw. "I’ll take this in to Sam."
Sam’s eyelids fluttered when Trish approached. "Look who came to visit."
Thumper, Trish’s gray tabby, lay curled on Sam’s chest. Trish reached out and lifted him. "He’s too heavy to be laying on you."
"What’s he gonna do, kill me? I enjoy his company. What’cha got there?"
She held up the shake. "You want this, or do you want to try some real food? There’s mac and cheese."
"Not unless…I can…sip it through a…straw. Help me sit up."
Trish set the glass on the side table and pressed the button to raise the head of the bed, then pulled Sam higher to a sitting position. She was amazed at how easily this could be done. She sat and held the glass while Sam sipped the drink slowly. "Do you want a foot massage to help you relax tonight?"
Sam released the straw and produced a wobbly grin. "Just my feet?"
"With your mother in the house? Yeah."
"That would make it all the more exciting, don’t you think? The thrill of possibly getting caught." Sam lay back against the pillows. "She was in here earlier. She talked, thinking I was asleep. So I pretended I was."
Trish furrowed her eyebrows. "Why?"
"Because I wanted to hear what she was really thinking. I’m breaking her heart, you know. My dying is killing a part of her, too. I hate that the most—what this is doing to the people I love. I wish it would just end."
"Don’t say that. Sam, please don’t say that. Every day, every minute we have is precious."
Sam raised a shaky hand and cupped her cheek. "Yes, it is. But we both know the days and minutes are dwindling. I’m so damned tired. The longer this goes on, the more of a toll it’s taking on you."
"I’m okay."
"Yeah, that would explain the black circles around your eyes. Unless you’re trying to imitate a raccoon. I don’t want any more of that shake. You should go and eat with Mom. I’m going to rest."
"Okay." Trish pressed her lips to Sam’s forehead. "Sweet dreams. I’ll be back in a bit for your foot rub."
"I’ll be here."
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