The Invisible Husband of Frick Island by Colleen Oakley (autobiographies to read .TXT) 📗

crash overtook him. But then he remembered how much the microphone alone cost, and he settled for angrily—but gently— packing it all away, piece by piece. As he worked, his anger at himself (and the equipment) slowly morphed into frustration at all the work he’d put into it, all the time he’d spent creating this story that so many people had responded to—and now he couldn’t even finish it. He’d blown it with Piper, everyone on the island hated him, and he didn’t even have a full podcast to show for his efforts. As he coiled the final USB cord around his elbow, he paused, the thought slowly dawning on him that he could, technically, finish it. Piper had made it clear that she never wanted to see him on the island again. It wasn’t like he had to face anyone over there anymore. And he had so much he wanted to say, so much to get off his chest. Maybe it would be good for him, too, cathartic even, to finish what he’d started. Put it to bed. And then move on from Frick Island for good.

Slowly, he pulled out each piece of equipment, plugging them in one by one. And then he sat down on the uncomfortable metal folding chair, adjusted his microphone, pressed record, and began to speak.

Chapter 29

January on Frick Island, everyone agreed, was the worst month. But for Piper, this year, November had it beat.

It used to be her favorite—crabbing season was officially over, the bed-and-breakfast was closed to guests, and she had Tom all to herself. They sometimes went days without seeing another soul on the island—hunkered down in their tiny carriage house, cuddled under blankets, drinking tea and doing puzzles or lying on each other in various configurations (sometimes her feet were in his lap, or his head was on her belly, or his arm was draped casually across her shoulders, but always touching), reading books, lost in their own worlds, but still together.

Now all she had was a cat.

She had to give Tom (the cat, not her husband) credit, though. Instead of leaving first thing in the morning as had become his routine, he now stuck around most days (likely because it was frigid outside and he preferred the warmth of the carriage house, and not out of any duty or loyalty to Piper). He didn’t say a word when the first letter from Anders came in the mail, and he watched with one whiskery eyebrow raised as Piper—instead of throwing it out or promptly sending it back—chucked it onto the kitchen table unopened. He also kindly didn’t seem to mind Piper’s hours-long crying jags, or the times Piper used his fur as a mop of sorts for her mucus- and tear-streaked face, or the incessant playing of the Who’s “Tommy Can You Hear Me?” over and over and over again on her record player.

Piper had never realized how prescient the words of that song were. One time, when the depths of her grief felt so overwhelming, so unmanageable, she shouted them into the void of her carriage house: TOMMY CAN YOU HEAR ME? CAN YOU FEEL ME NEAR YOU?

And then, realizing how ridiculous she likely looked and sounded, she began laughing. Hysterical peals of laughter that made her stomach muscles start to cramp up and tears run down her face, and that of course eventually turned into hysterical sobbing because Piper no longer had control over anything, including her own emotions. Alarmed, the cat slipped out the window Piper still left cracked over the kitchen sink, and then Piper was really, truly alone. She thought she had grieved Tom, in the months when she was pretending he was alive, alone and silently in their bed at night. But apparently she hadn’t even scratched the surface.

And now, her face swollen, her throat raw, it felt like grief was a never-ending corn maze with plenty of surprising turns but no actual solution. Exhausted, she curled up into the chair that Tom used to read in, hoping to feel him somehow. Where was he? She knew, of course, where his body was now—in the graveyard behind the church where they’d exchanged vows and thin gold bands. But where was he—the essence of him? Was it in these books he used to hold or the pillow he laid his head on night after night or in the coffee mug in the sink filled with mold because she still couldn’t bring herself to wash it out? She sat in the chair, waiting to feel him, his breath in her hair, his laughter in her ear. But all she felt was the cold draft from the cracked window over the kitchen sink and all she heard was the crackle of a log disintegrating in the woodstove.

And she knew that Tom—her Tom, the greatest love of her short, pointless life—was gone. And she would never, ever see him again.

—

At the end of November, a knock on the door roused her from an afternoon nap. Lady Judy had taken to leaving food on Piper’s stoop once again, but rarely knocked anymore, as she knew Piper wouldn’t answer the door. Piper planned to ignore it, but the knocking kept up at intervals, only becoming more insistent, until finally she heard the door creak open of its own accord. And then she heard a familiar voice. “Piper?”

She sat straight up, wondering if she was hallucinating. “Mom?”

She threw the covers off and ran to the den, stopping at her bedroom door to take in the woman she hadn’t seen in more than a year—since the day she married Tom.

“Oh, my baby,” her mom breathed, her face crinkled in concern. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Piper slowly shook her head. She knew she didn’t have to explain right then. That saying it out loud, especially to her mom, would have made it all too real. “How