“It’s a corporate thing, Hilary,” said Jeanette, on the phone, in her sweetest voice.
“We can’t make exceptions.”
I sold Neal’s boat trailer.
I sold his truck.
I sold his tools, one wrench at a time.
Tracy refused to disappear.
She arrived with groceries when I forgot to eat.
She drove me to the dentist, and the DMV, and the bank.
When the electric bill went past due, a notice came from something called the St. Brendan’s Neighbor Fund, saying that an anonymous donor had covered it, and I cried over that letter at the kitchen table for an hour.
And when I couldn’t bring myself to talk, she simply sat beside me in silence.
I believed she understood my grief better than anyone.
Once, a few weeks after the service, she asked me for the key to Neal’s desk.
“I just want to find the tax folder,” she said gently.
