Erica Lorraine Simpson looked out from the balcony of the Exquisite Oceanside Beach Hotel. Stiff, dry leaves of the palm trees rustled in the tropical breeze and she had one thought: I’m not supposed to be here.
There was so much to this moment that was unbelievable; so much that her mind could not fully take in, consider. But I’m here, right? Here, in Bermuda at a $425 a night hotel, 1500 miles away from home, in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, right?
There was no answer to her question, just the rustle of the palms, the whisper of the ocean, and the sun that beat a hot consistent drum on her forehead. No answer, save for the far away laughter of the people in the pool below, the noises of the hotel workers going about their jobs; their clipped British accents punctuating the air and, the pain that still jabbed her heart, because, in truth, she wasn’t supposed to be here.
She wasn’t supposed to be in a luxury hotel on the island of Bermuda in the middle of the week. She was supposed to be sitting at her cramped desk, in her cramped office, doing her file reviews and dying for a cigarette break.
She was supposed to be, right now, eyeing the clock, waiting for the magic hour of three, when she would go to the office galley, make a cup of coffee, grab her smokes, exit the office building, go to her car, light up and sigh for the first time since lunch.
Erica would spend exactly thirteen minutes enjoying her break, not caring about anything, except what she would make for dinner later on that evening. Maybe pork chops or chicken breasts which she’d share with her wonderful husband Louis, afterward winding down, feet up on the sofa that they had purchased years ago from Furniture Warehouse on Rockaway Boulevard.
They would dream of that final move out of the two-story, three-bedroom home they had purchased twenty years ago, for a house that wasn’t in Queens, New York, but Upstate or Long Island.
But a day in January took it all away; a day that hadn’t seemed special, specific or any different from any other January. Neither Erica nor Louis had planned on his heart stopping right before lunch time and Erica was certain Louis hadn’t known that when he kissed her goodbye that chilled winter morning, and headed off to work, that he would take his last breath just a few hours later.
The coroner’s report said heart attack, but those words couldn’t sum it up for her. They were, after all, just words, relaying nothing about the wonderful life they’d shared for twenty-six years.
So here she was, forty-five, widowed and in Bermuda. After months of debating, endless bouts of guilt, and numbing depression, she was going to start living again, or, at least, try.
No one took her seriously when she said she was taking this trip, not even after she showed them her printed receipt from Travelocity.com and the four-piece luggage set she had purchased.
“And just what are you going to do by yourself, for five whole days on an island you don’t know?” Angie had asked, giving Erica a skeptical look. Angie had known her forever and had been her best friend just as long.
“Something,” Erica had answered, unsure her self, but knowing it was a journey she had to take.
Her friends had been supportive through the difficult times, but they had no idea of what the pain was like. And what it was ‘like’ had been the thing that drove her far from her Queens, New York neighborhood, straight to the picturesque island of Bermuda.
Erica had thought about moving, redecorated, joined a gym, dropped twenty pounds, got a new car and a new hairstyle. She’d had taken herself out for expensive meals, bought new clothes like they were going out of style and her toenails and fingernails never looked so pretty.
But she had cried too and ached, sometimes choking on the pain that rose up with no place to go. She’d been braved face and sometimes weepy during holiday gatherings and missed the emotional and physical comfort of Louis like a tooth ache about to abscessed.
Erica hadn’t done the widow thing.
She hadn’t donned black from head to toe; even at Louis’s services she’d worn a cream-colored suit for the wake and a navy-blue dress for the funeral. Nothing black on her, except maybe her soul.
Yes, she’d had her moment—her moment where her world was tarred, her soul was onyx and she was angry, pissed and ready to knock God the fuck out. Erica had had her moment, accusing both God and Louis of conspiring against her, purposely make her life a miserable hell.
Erica had also danced to the edge of the opposite spectrum—the spectrum of ending it all. She had danced right up to that tip, but hadn’t tumbled over. Life had no longer felt worth living and she couldn’t gleam a single reason why hers should go on. Her kids were grown, her parents would be okay, her friends would understand. Everyone would get that the pain had been too severe, the hurt had cut too deep. They would know why she would sit in her garage with the engine running and the garage door closed.
That her love for Louis made her take her own life.
It had made all the sense in the world, and Erica had gone so far as to begin writing letters to her loved ones. She had started with her youngest daughter, scripting the words ‘Dear Morgan’ before her tear splattered the ecru paper. The action startled her. Erica didn’t realize she was crying. She’d looked up towards the ceiling wondering if there was a leak and spied a spider web dangling from the corner.
She couldn’t leave the world with a spider web on her ceiling. So, Erica left the table and went to get the cloth mop. She raked it across the ceiling, wanting to get rid of the web.
But only made it worse, because the mop left a dark smear. Erica went and got a ladder then a bucket of hot soapy water and a rag. She wiped the ceiling, but her actions left a glaring white circle.
She couldn’t leave that behind. What would people think of her? She would clean the whole ceiling and then write her letters and then go into the garage, close the door and start the engine and breathe until she choked, coughed and died.
By the time Erica was finished with the ceiling, she was too tired to write letters. She couldn’t kill herself until she did, so she put it off until tomorrow.
The next day she awoke feeling better. Remembered her plan and shook with fear.
How had she gotten there—wanting to commit suicide? What in her mind had flipped? Had it not been for that cobweb, she would be dead, gone from the world, and more than likely, Louis wouldn’t have been there when she passed on, because in her mind, suicide was a sin.
That morning, Erica had cried and wailed and moaned and when there was nothing left inside of her, got out of bed, went to the phone book and found a grief counselor.
During the counseling sessions, Erica learned that what she experienced was common, though few would admit to it. Erica understood their silence. She had a hard time admitting it to herself and as days turned to weeks, she told one other person—Angie.
It was also in counseling the idea of online dating had come up. When her counselor suggested it, Erica balked at the idea. “I couldn’t do that.”
“Why not?” her counselor asked calmly.
Erica didn’t have any specific reasons. All she knew was that she couldn’t. Besides, what would Louis think?
Now, as she looked at her lap top, all plugged in, turned on, ready to go, she felt no closer to trying it than she had months ago. She turned off the power, disconnected the cord and put it back into her luggage. Stepped out onto the balcony, sun finding her skin, salty air filling her nose and knew what she wanted to do.
Go to the water. The ocean would be healing, a final hope.
There was so much to this moment that was unbelievable; so much that her mind could not fully take in, consider. But I’m here, right? Here, in Bermuda at a $425 a night hotel, 1500 miles away from home, in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, right?
There was no answer to her question, just the rustle of the palms, the whisper of the ocean, and the sun that beat a hot consistent drum on her forehead. No answer, save for the far away laughter of the people in the pool below, the noises of the hotel workers going about their jobs; their clipped British accents punctuating the air and, the pain that still jabbed her heart, because, in truth, she wasn’t supposed to be here.
She wasn’t supposed to be in a luxury hotel on the island of Bermuda in the middle of the week. She was supposed to be sitting at her cramped desk, in her cramped office, doing her file reviews and dying for a cigarette break.
She was supposed to be, right now, eyeing the clock, waiting for the magic hour of three, when she would go to the office galley, make a cup of coffee, grab her smokes, exit the office building, go to her car, light up and sigh for the first time since lunch.
Erica would spend exactly thirteen minutes enjoying her break, not caring about anything, except what she would make for dinner later on that evening. Maybe pork chops or chicken breasts which she’d share with her wonderful husband Louis, afterward winding down, feet up on the sofa that they had purchased years ago from Furniture Warehouse on Rockaway Boulevard.
They would dream of that final move out of the two-story, three-bedroom home they had purchased twenty years ago, for a house that wasn’t in Queens, New York, but Upstate or Long Island.
But a day in January took it all away; a day that hadn’t seemed special, specific or any different from any other January. Neither Erica nor Louis had planned on his heart stopping right before lunch time and Erica was certain Louis hadn’t known that when he kissed her goodbye that chilled winter morning, and headed off to work, that he would take his last breath just a few hours later.
The coroner’s report said heart attack, but those words couldn’t sum it up for her. They were, after all, just words, relaying nothing about the wonderful life they’d shared for twenty-six years.
So here she was, forty-five, widowed and in Bermuda. After months of debating, endless bouts of guilt, and numbing depression, she was going to start living again, or, at least, try.
No one took her seriously when she said she was taking this trip, not even after she showed them her printed receipt from Travelocity.com and the four-piece luggage set she had purchased.
“And just what are you going to do by yourself, for five whole days on an island you don’t know?” Angie had asked, giving Erica a skeptical look. Angie had known her forever and had been her best friend just as long.
“Something,” Erica had answered, unsure her self, but knowing it was a journey she had to take.
Her friends had been supportive through the difficult times, but they had no idea of what the pain was like. And what it was ‘like’ had been the thing that drove her far from her Queens, New York neighborhood, straight to the picturesque island of Bermuda.
Erica had thought about moving, redecorated, joined a gym, dropped twenty pounds, got a new car and a new hairstyle. She’d had taken herself out for expensive meals, bought new clothes like they were going out of style and her toenails and fingernails never looked so pretty.
But she had cried too and ached, sometimes choking on the pain that rose up with no place to go. She’d been braved face and sometimes weepy during holiday gatherings and missed the emotional and physical comfort of Louis like a tooth ache about to abscessed.
Erica hadn’t done the widow thing.
She hadn’t donned black from head to toe; even at Louis’s services she’d worn a cream-colored suit for the wake and a navy-blue dress for the funeral. Nothing black on her, except maybe her soul.
Yes, she’d had her moment—her moment where her world was tarred, her soul was onyx and she was angry, pissed and ready to knock God the fuck out. Erica had had her moment, accusing both God and Louis of conspiring against her, purposely make her life a miserable hell.
Erica had also danced to the edge of the opposite spectrum—the spectrum of ending it all. She had danced right up to that tip, but hadn’t tumbled over. Life had no longer felt worth living and she couldn’t gleam a single reason why hers should go on. Her kids were grown, her parents would be okay, her friends would understand. Everyone would get that the pain had been too severe, the hurt had cut too deep. They would know why she would sit in her garage with the engine running and the garage door closed.
That her love for Louis made her take her own life.
It had made all the sense in the world, and Erica had gone so far as to begin writing letters to her loved ones. She had started with her youngest daughter, scripting the words ‘Dear Morgan’ before her tear splattered the ecru paper. The action startled her. Erica didn’t realize she was crying. She’d looked up towards the ceiling wondering if there was a leak and spied a spider web dangling from the corner.
She couldn’t leave the world with a spider web on her ceiling. So, Erica left the table and went to get the cloth mop. She raked it across the ceiling, wanting to get rid of the web.
But only made it worse, because the mop left a dark smear. Erica went and got a ladder then a bucket of hot soapy water and a rag. She wiped the ceiling, but her actions left a glaring white circle.
She couldn’t leave that behind. What would people think of her? She would clean the whole ceiling and then write her letters and then go into the garage, close the door and start the engine and breathe until she choked, coughed and died.
By the time Erica was finished with the ceiling, she was too tired to write letters. She couldn’t kill herself until she did, so she put it off until tomorrow.
The next day she awoke feeling better. Remembered her plan and shook with fear.
How had she gotten there—wanting to commit suicide? What in her mind had flipped? Had it not been for that cobweb, she would be dead, gone from the world, and more than likely, Louis wouldn’t have been there when she passed on, because in her mind, suicide was a sin.
That morning, Erica had cried and wailed and moaned and when there was nothing left inside of her, got out of bed, went to the phone book and found a grief counselor.
During the counseling sessions, Erica learned that what she experienced was common, though few would admit to it. Erica understood their silence. She had a hard time admitting it to herself and as days turned to weeks, she told one other person—Angie.
It was also in counseling the idea of online dating had come up. When her counselor suggested it, Erica balked at the idea. “I couldn’t do that.”
“Why not?” her counselor asked calmly.
Erica didn’t have any specific reasons. All she knew was that she couldn’t. Besides, what would Louis think?
Now, as she looked at her lap top, all plugged in, turned on, ready to go, she felt no closer to trying it than she had months ago. She turned off the power, disconnected the cord and put it back into her luggage. Stepped out onto the balcony, sun finding her skin, salty air filling her nose and knew what she wanted to do.
Go to the water. The ocean would be healing, a final hope.
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