GOODHOPE

      It took him three days to make sense of what had happened, three days before he could talk to his in-laws again, three days before he realized that his wife was truly dead and lying in a casket in Cleveland, Ohio, waiting for him to come and put her in the ground.

      “Fly out, Matthew,” said his father-in-law. “I’ll make the arrangements and I’ll pick you up, just show up at the airport.” He could not bring himself to get on a plane, however, and amazingly enough, drove the 1500 miles from Maverick Mountain, Montana to Cleveland, slowly, deliberately, thinking all the while that it was some sick, surreal dream, some after-affects of an old acid trip come back to haunt him.

      He figured, I’ll wake up, she’ll be here, everything will be fine. But it wasn’t fine. Nothing would ever be fine again. He was so numb, there were times when he would drive for hours without even noticing where he was. It was a miracle in itself, his driving that far, but he knew that getting on an airplane and being there in three hours would have only meant more time looking at her dead body lying there in the casket.

      Except for a few bruises and scratches, which were covered in heavy makeup, she looked quite normal. Matt almost expected her to open her eyes and say, “Isn’t this strange, Mattie? Get me out of here, I want to go home.” No, it was better that he didn’t have more time to spend with the body, better that the funeral and burial happened just six hours after he arrived.

The service seemed to float by like a slow-motion parade, an instant replay of a simple and elegant life, moving by in a silent, trudging dirge that no one could comprehend, least of all her husband. Just as the trip from Montana to Ohio had him lost in a sort of semi-conscious dreamlike state, unable to make sense of road signs and highway exits, yet miraculously bringing him to his destination, the memorial service itself felt as if his very soul were anesthetized, at least long enough to get him through the awful reality of saying goodbye to her.

      And so it began, this new life he was destined to live, in utter solitude, lost in the despair of such unbearable darkness, without her light. He truly felt lost so much of the time during the day, and when sleep would not come, as often it would not, he felt hopelessly alone and lost in the night as well. Hope, it seemed, had abandoned him completely.

Burying his beloved wife had been a blur to him; he remembered little of it, other than just allowing family and friends to embrace him and express as best they could the cavernous loss they all felt. He told no one of the child; he couldn’t bear to say the words to anyone. We were going to have a child…at last. It wasn’t to be. No use making things worse for everyone by spilling the details of their last phone conversation. No, this secret he would take to his grave, God willing, where he would be able to at last be in her presence once more.

But thoughts of his unborn child dying along with Marissa caused him such additional pain; there were times he thought he would surely die, too. Had she carried a son or a daughter? What would he or she have looked like? He tried with his mind’s eye to imagine a child, dimpled and pink, precious and so beloved, with his blue eyes and her perfect nose and chin, but the mere suggestion of what could never be would send him to the ground in utter agony. Many a night Matthew slept on the floor of the living room, shrouded in her favorite chenille throw, desperately crying out to God for an answer, yet hearing no answer.

      Her scent was everywhere, her shadow in everything he touched. Her periwinkle slippers at the edge of the bed, just where they’d been left the morning she went to Cleveland, her reading glasses tipped into a holder on the nightstand, along with the latest book unfinished and book-marked for future reference. Her lotions and makeup and hair products were stacked neatly in her bathroom, the scent of lemons and sweet vanilla still hanging in the air some eighteen months after her death. He felt at times that he could still hear her delicate footfall in the hall outside his room, as if she’d simply gone to the kitchen for a drink of water or a piece of fruit before bed.  And still after all this time, he felt as alone and without hope as he did the day she’d died. How was he supposed to overcome this? Was there no respite, no solace for his weary soul? He resigned himself to spending the remainder of his life alone on Maverick Mountain, secluded and locked away, both literally and emotionally, unable to even imagine life without her in it.

      Six weeks after the accident, Matt received a letter in the mail from the Cuyahoga County Coroner’s Office in Cleveland. It was Marissa’s autopsy report. He stared at it for an hour and a half before tossing it unopened on top of a pile of sympathy cards and other correspondence. He couldn’t look at it, not yet. He knew the pregnancy was probably listed in the report, and he could not bear to see the words. No sense dragging up the horrible details, anyway. He’d spoken to George abo