With the others gone, Polly could let herself be frail. She faded into her couch, one arm thrown up over her face, and let the black wave of nausea and fatigue wash her down. Her body sagged into a motionless jumble of worn flesh and loose clothing. Sleep refused to come rescue her from the cold, hopeless morass of despair and dull pain that took her in.
Polly let her arm fall loose and she turned her teary eyes to the coffee table. Peter had left the photo albums out. Even though Bobbi had seen every single inch of them over and over, she had allowed Peter to take her again on a tour of the family history, parked beside him on the couch, knees almost touching. “Not a problem,” Bobbi had cheerily remarked. “This time I’ll be getting your side of the story.”
Lyn’s mouth twisted as he lurked beside the couch, watching the two. “My side wasn’t definitive then?” he asked.
“We’ll see,” Bobbi answered.
The album on the bottom slid out only after Polly tugged twice. She desired a look at that face and she found it. Lyndsey Templeton smiled back at her in the glow of youth and the confidence of a newly minted Ph.D. This was back when his hair was radiant and silky and full and his skin lacked all the spots and pits and scars he’d acquired with age and the occasional fall from his bicycle. That vision of her husband made it easy to remember how he had dazzled and charmed her back when they both taught at their first posts.
“Wish there had been children, Lyn,” she sighed. “I never missed them before but now I just wish I could leave you with someone besides Peter and Bobbi. They’ll be thinking a lot less about you in the near future.”
She brushed the photo with her thumb and could easily remember as she did so the warmth of his skin and lips. He still touched her but his fingertips always communicated sympathy and sadness, no longer the once familiar desire and affection.
Polly shuffled away through the album, sampling the shots of Lyndsey in the tuxedo he wore when they married, posing before Mount Fuji on their honeymoon in Japan, showing off the fish he caught in Mexico, speaking in a cap and gown at one of the many commencements he attended, lounging on the beach with a magazine, and so many more. She never saw herself in the photos beside him because it was always just the two of them. When she appeared, she stood alone.
“It was a good life, though,” Polly commented. “I can let go of it only if I can believe you’ll keep going on, Lyn. That’s what really gives me peace.”
Polly closed the book on her chest and snuggled her chin in against it. She closed her eyes and squeezed a tear out. She took in a deep breath and lay still.
