Chapter 1 Tears and Roses

Chapter 1:Tears and Roses

Almost three years ago...

Allie

I had always loved the scent of roses. Until today. Today, the scent was cloying, overpowering my senses, seeping into every pore of my skin as I sat alone in the "Serenity Room". Such an innocuous name for this space. There was no serenity in this room. Not for me, anyway. There was anger. So much anger that it felt like a living, breathing entity trying to claw its way out of me. We were supposed to have more time!

There was grief, a bone-deep ache that I feared would never go away. I miss you so much! There was fear, uncertainty, loneliness, and a host of other emotions that I couldn't even put a name to. How do I do this without you?

"Mrs. Donovan, it's 1:50. The visitation will begin shortly, and we have some early arrivals. I can ask them to wait in the lobby if you need a few more minutes alone," the funeral director said in a gentle tone.

I hadn't even noticed the older man enter the room. Mr. Adams had been invaluable in helping me with the myriad of details over the last few days. My husband, always the planner, had made most of the arrangements unbeknownst to me, shortly after coming to terms with his prognosis. Still there were the last-minute tasks - filing the life insurance claim, submitting the death certificates as needed, writing the obituary, ordering the headstone - that had to be dealt with. Mr. Adams walked me through this process, and I wasn't sure what I would have done without his gentle and calming demeanor. I appreciated his kindness.

I shook my head and stood up, swaying slightly. Mr. Adams hurried across the room to steady me. "Mrs. Donovan, are you OK?" he asked with alarm.

I smiled slightly to reassure him, "I just stood up too quickly. I'll be fine." He placed my hand in the crook of his elbow as he escorted me from the Serenity Room into the main chapel.

He murmured "I'll give you a few moments alone with him before we open the doors from the lobby."

I watched him exit the chapel, closing the door quietly behind him, before I slowly turned to face the front. My husband's handsome face stared back at me from the large photo resting on the easel next to his casket. The photo was my favorite of him, taken during our honeymoon two and a half years ago. Alex's blond hair was slightly ruffled from the breeze, skin tanned from lying on the beach, blue eyes crinkling with laughter, lips turned up slightly as he grinned at me taking his picture.

I took a deep breath, and the scent of roses hit me again. The large spray of white and red roses I'd selected was draped over the end of the maple casket. They were beautiful. Alex always gave me bouquets of white and red roses for special occasions. "White to show my eternal love, and red because you are red-hot ," he would say with a cheesy grin and a waggle of his eyebrows before grabbing me and smothering with kisses. He would sometimes surprise me with a trail of rose petals leading to our bedroom, which had often resulted in one of us ending up with a rose petal stuck to a naked butt cheek. I had always loved getting roses from him. I had a fleeting thought that I would always fucking hate roses from now on.

I slowly made my way up to the front of the chapel, grief making my body ache with every step. I couldn't bear to see him lying there, so still. My Alex, always laughing, always vibrant, always the life of the party. Never still. He looked so thin; his body ravaged by the cancer that had returned with a vengeance seven months earlier. He had been in remission for over nine years, since well before we met in our junior year of college. He was considered cured, with no signs of the disease on any of the annual scans or tests since. He was considered cured, until he wasn't. Alex's symptoms began just weeks after our daughter's birth. The niggling headaches that he had assumed were caused by eye strain turned into migraines. The need for quick naps on the sofa after dinner turned into sleeping for twelve hours straight yet still being tired the next morning. Between adjusting to a newborn in the house and the hectic pace he maintained at the marketing firm where he worked, it seemed natural that maybe it was just catching up to him. He had promised he would quit working so many hours, eat healthy meals at lunch instead of crap from the vending machine, and get checked to see if he needed glasses.

When he had stumbled getting out of bed one morning, I'd insisted he call his doctor for a check-up right away. He had grumbled but made the appointment, more to humor me than anything else. I had offered to go with him, but he told me not to worry. " I've got this, baby. Maybe if I'm a good boy, the doctor will give me a lollipop," he had said with a laugh.

He wasn't laughing when he returned home that evening and quietly, tearfully, explained that the doctor wanted to run some tests. A few days later, we both listened as the doctor confirmed that Alex had a large tumor near the brain stem. Words like aggressive and inoperable, were followed by Stage IV and terminal. I remember the feeling of stunned disbelief as we made our way home that fateful day, neither of us speaking. We had just held each other and cried as the horror set in.

Over the next seven months, those initial feelings gave way to all of the classic signs of grief - denial, anger, bargaining, depression and for Alex, acceptance. I never quite made it that far. I was still wavering between anger and depression most days, with a strange kind of numbness muting it all right now.

Lost in my thoughts, I startled when I heard the door opening behind me. I turned to see Mr. Adams and his assistant ushering my parents into the chapel. My father's arm was wrapped protectively around my mother's shoulder, as she held ten-month old Grace in her arms. My family had encouraged me to leave Grace with a sitter, but I wanted her here with me. I needed her here with me. I needed to see her and hold her and smell that sweet baby powder scent that always surrounded her. I needed to draw comfort from my daughter - she was a living, breathing part of my husband. She was all that I had left of him.

My brother Scott and his wife Emma followed my parents, with my sister Hannah and her longtime boyfriend Dean bringing up the rear. They all crossed the room to me, and I walked into my dad's outstretched arms. He held me tight for a long moment, and I breathed in the familiar scent of his aftershave. It was a momentary reprieve from the smell of those damned roses, and I didn't want to let go.

Finally stepping back, I heard the sound of soft crying, and realized my mom, Hannah and Emma had stepped forward toward the casket. Mom had apparently handed Grace off to Scott, who was snuggling her against his broad chest as he looked at me with a solemn expression.

"Hey Sis," he said, as he came to stand next to me and dropped a kiss on my temple. "You holding up OK?"

I tearfully shook my head. "No, but I'm trying." He nodded sadly, reaching his free arm around my waist to pull me close. Gracie raised her head from his shoulder to look at me, then lunged toward me with a giggle.

"Hi Gracie-girl. Have you been good for Grandma and Grandpa this morning?" I asked with a tired smile.

She stuck her thumb in her mouth and buried her head in my neck in response. She was dressed in the pink dress her Daddy ordered online for her a few weeks ago, and her wispy blond curls were clipped back with a huge pink bow. My mother loved hair bows and bought them in every color under the rainbow for her only granddaughter. Gracie looked up at me and smacked a sloppy kiss on my cheek. Looking into my daughter's blue eyes, so much like her father's, caused a quick throb of pain in my heart, before her soft giggles soothed my soul.

All too soon, the room was filled with relatives, friends, and co-workers coming to pay their respects. Alex was an only child whose parents were killed in a car accident a few months before we met, but he had extended family living nearby. His aunt had spent countless hours watching Grace for us during medical appointments, and his uncle and cousins had taken turns with yard work, gutter cleaning, and other miscellaneous things they deemed "man's work" that Alex had been unable to take care of.

My brother, sister and sister-in-law mingled with the crowd, and I saw Dean sitting on a sofa in the back of the room with a now-sleeping Gracie sprawled across his lap. Dean was a sweet guy, and such a good match for Hannah. He grew up a few doors down from us, and he and my sister had been dating since high school. They had both just graduated from college recently, and we all fully expected to hear a wedding announcement in the near future.

My parents and Alex's Aunt Ellen stood alongside me near the casket, as people made their way through the line to offer their condolences. This is an awful tradition, I thought, as I forced myself to smile politely while listening to endless platitudes, many from people I barely knew.

"He looks so natural." No, he doesn't. "He's in a better place." No, he's not. His place is at home, with Gracie and me. "Trust that God has a plan." Yeah, well no offense, but God's plan sucks.

I wasn't sure how much more of this I could take before I lost it and lashed out at these well-meaning people who thought their words were bringing comfort when they were only feeding my internal rage.

I was pulled out of my inner rant by a familiar voice and looked up to see Nico Peretti speaking to a visibly flustered Aunt Ellen. Nico had that effect on people. He was tall, topping out at 6'3", broad shouldered and gorgeous, with his dark wavy hair, deep brown eyes and permanently tanned skin illustrating his Italian heritage.

As the lead singer for Storm Front, he was well on his way to becoming a rock legend in the music business. I had been working as an assistant to his band's manager for two years, so I knew him well. Looking down the line behind him, I saw the other members of the band along with my boss, Michael Drummond and his wife Jayne. Nico finished speaking with Aunt Ellen, squeezing her hand lightly, before turning to me. He held my gaze for a long moment, then stepped forward and gathered me into his arms for a tight hug. I got a faint whiff of his cologne - sandalwood mixed with a hint of vanilla - and was once again thankful for a break from the rose scent permeating the room.

"I am so sorry, Allie," he said with his signature low rasp. He gave me a final squeeze, and stepped back to allow Matt Gibson, the drummer, to lean in for a quick hug. Josh Winslow and Tony Jackson - the keyboard player and bass guitarist, respectively - followed suit, offering their condolences as well. I introduced them all to my parents and thanked them for coming. After getting an assurance from my boss to "take all the time you need," they moved off to the back of the crowd of mourners who were settling down in preparation for the service to start. I was touched that they had taken the time to come.