I spent two days in the hospital and all I can remember is a nonstop stream of people. Aidan’s parents and Kevin flew in from Boston. Mum, Dad, Helen, and Maggie came from Ireland. Dana and Leon—who cried so much he was given drugs, too—Jacqui, Rachel, Luke, Ornesto, Teenie, Franklin, Marty, people from Aidan’s work, and two policemen, who took a statement from me. Even Elin the driver came. Shaking and crying, both of his arms in plaster, he sat next to my bed, apologizing over and over and over again. There was no way I could hate this man—he was going to have nightmares for the rest of his life and he’d probably never get behind the wheel of a car again. But my pity for Elin left me at a bit of a loss: Who could I blame for Aidan’s death?

Then we were on a plane to Boston, then we were at the funeral, which was like our wedding, but a nightmare version of it. Being pushed up the aisle in a wheelchair, seeing faces I hadn’t seen for ages, felt like a dream where a disparate collection of people are inexplicably gathered together.

Then I was on a flight, then I was home in Ireland sleeping in the living room, then I was back in New York, and I’d only just faced what had really happened.

Part 2

30

Extract from Never Coming Back by Dorothea K. Lincoln:

About a week after my husband died, I was in my sunroom, flicking through the National Enquirer—the only reading matter I was able to concentrate on—when in through the open window flew a butterfly. It was incorrigibly beautiful, intricately patterned in red, blue, and white. As I watched in wonder, it flitted around the room, alighting on the stereo, a pot plant—as if reminding me to water it!—and my husband’s old chair. Then it flew to my copy of the National Enquirer and landed heavily on it—it seemed to say, “Tut tut, Dorothea!” (Interestingly, my late husband would not permit that particular publication in the house.)

As the World Turns was on the TV, but the butterfly hovered over the remote. It seemed to be telling me something—could it be that it wanted the channel changed? “Well, okay, buddy,” I said. “I can try.”

I flicked through several channels, and when I got to Fox Sports, the beautiful creature landed on my hand, as if gently telling me to stop. Then it sat on my shoulder and watched half an hour of the U.S. Open; the room was filled with a deep, deep peace. When Ernie Els went to three under par, the butterfly stirred, flitted to the window, hovered on the sill for a moment, as if saying good-bye, and finally flew away into the wide blue yonder. There was no doubt in my mind that this had been a visit from my late husband. He’d been telling me that he was still with me, that he always would be. Several other bereaved persons have reported similar visitations…

I put the book down, sat up, looked around my living room, and thought, Where’s my butterfly?

It was about four or five weeks since my early-morning conversation at Jenni’s with Rachel and not much had changed. I was still working long hours and producing little of value, I was still sleeping on the couch, and Aidan was still dead.

I had a nice, little daily routine going: I’d wake at the crack of dawn, ring Aidan on his cell phone, go to work for at least ten hours, come home, ring Aidan again, construct elaborate fantasies where he hadn’t died, cry for a few hours, then doze off, wake up, and do it all again.

Crying had become a great comfort, but it was difficult to arrange times for it because my face took so long to return to normal. It wasn’t safe to do it in the mornings because I looked terrible for work. And it wasn’t safe at lunchtime for the same reason. But evenings were good. I looked forward to them.

I got through each day and the only thing that kept me going was the hope that tomorrow would be easier. But it wasn’t. Every day was exactly the same. Horrific, unbelievable, like having walked through the wrong door of my life, where everything was identical, apart from one big huge difference.

I had hoped that by returning to New York and using normal stuff, like work and friends, the nightmare would disperse. But it hadn’t. The work and friends had just become part of the nightmare.

This morning, like every morning, I’d woken horribly early. There was always a split second when I wondered what the terribleness was. Then I’d remember.

I lay down again, a dull persistent ache in my bones, what I’d imagined rheumatism or arthritis would feel like. When the pains had first started, I’d thought that maybe I’d caught a virus, or was suffering side effects of the accident. But my doctor said that what I was feeling was “the physical pain of grief.” That this was “normal.” Which came as a bit of a shock. I’d known to expect emotional pain but the physical pain was a new one on me.

I looked terrible, too: my nails kept splitting, my hair was dull and broken, and despite access to every exfoliator and moisturizer anyone could need, my skin was flaking off in tiny gray pieces.

I popped a couple of painkillers and switched on the telly, but when I couldn’t find anything to catch my interest, I flicked through Never Coming Back. Great title, by the way, I thought. Cheery. Bound to perk up the spirits of the recently bereaved.

It was one of a deluge of books—arriving in the post from Claire in London, being left outside my door by Ornesto, handed over in person by Rachel, Teenie, Marty, Nell, even Nell’s strange friend—and even though I could barely concentrate long enough to read a paragraph, I’d noticed the butterfly motif was a common one. But no butterflies for me.

Funnily enough, I wasn’t that keen on butterflies. It was a hard thing to admit because everyone loves butterflies and not liking them is akin to saying you don’t like Michael Palin or dolphins or strawberries. But to me, butterflies were slightly sneaky; all they were were moths in embroidered jackets. And, yes, moths were creepy and their flapping wings made a nasty, papery sound—but at least they were honest; they were brown, they were dull, they were stupid (flying into flames at the drop of a hat). All in all, they hadn’t much going for them but they didn’t pretend to be anything other than who they were.

And what about that woman and her control-freak husband? Tut tut, indeed. She was well shot of him. And how could I believe a woman who described something as “incorrigibly” beautiful?

Nevertheless, since I’d started reading these books, I’d been looking everywhere for butterflies or doves or strange cats who hadn’t been around before. I was desperate for any sign that Aidan was still with me, but so far, I’d seen nothing.