There was the water heater he adjusted every winter so the shower would be hotter after cold weather set in.

 

There was the tax bill that came without fail from the mortgage company every month and which I didn’t know where to send to pay.

 

There was the lawnmower that I couldn’t get to start, lacking both the biceps and the knowledge of how and where to spray the start—aerosol I’d seen him use but never paid attention to.

 

There were all the bargaining chips and negotiating postures that made the insurance agents car dealerships internet providers repairmen back down, lower their prices, keep our privacy private.

 

There was the floor heater he installed in the bathroom right about the time that my menopausal memory stopped laying down new memories and for which I couldn’t keep straight what each of the settings did, and for which, after an elongated summer, I had to ask him which button started it up so my feet wouldn’t freeze on the winter-chilled tile floor.

 

There was the little pond with fish which he never forgot to feed, which he cleaned, thoroughly, once a year, scrubbing down every algae-covered rock, and kept working on until, dammit, he found where it was leaking from and, wouldn’t you know, it was just that the liner had slipped down below the water line and was hidden behind some of the boulders.

 

There was the idle way he scratched my back every night in bed after I scootched over, book in hand, to sit close enough for him to reach under my t-shirt. There was the way he offered up his calves to warm my icy feet against under the covers.

 

There was all the research he had the patience to do on which refrigerator model, brand of woolen socks that would actually keep my feet warm, rechargeable battery for the edger, pest control service, VPN, mechanic, or coffee bean roaster to buy. Every goddamn thing but what that shortness of breath could mean and which cardiologist was the best to see about it.

 

There was the 529 he faithfully deposited money into so our son could go to college without debt. And there was the way he kept his IRA savings maxed out so that we wouldn’t need to worry about taking a trip when he retired.

 

There was the way he locked things behind his passwords and safe-codes and didn’t believe me when I said I wouldn’t remember them and that he should write it down somewhere I could keep them in case of emergency.

 

There was the emergency, a phone call from his work colleague, saying he was being transported to the hospital with what looked like a seizure, but turned out to be an embolism. There was the way his eyes didn’t move behind closed eyelids when I touched his cheek and said his name.

 

There was the way that he pre-arranged all his death details–including a list of all the passwords and safe-codes–with his attorney to walk me through.

 

There were the details in the safe about a previous marriage I had never known about, about a girl child I had never known about. There were letters divorce papers valentine’s cards scrawled in children’s handwriting alimony receipts school reports child support payments private detective reports college bills I knew nothing about.

 

There was a telephone number.

 

There was the word Call next to the telephone number.

 

There was a whole person, different, younger, more impulsive, less organized, I learned about when I worked up the courage to dial the number and talk to the second attorney, who, hearing my name, hearing that you were no longer in this world to bear responsibility, to bear my shock and betrayal, asked me to sit down and proceeded to fill me in on the person his client, my husband, had been before us.

 

There was the unpredictable ember of anger he set alight in me that heated everything I did in the weeks and months and, yes, even the years after I had to learn to be without him, had to learn to fake a smile when people touched my arm and told me what a person of integrity he was.

 

There was the adoring son he left, a son as ignorant of his father’s hidden life as I had been until the heart monitor’s rhythm stilled to a single long note.

 

There was the quandary he left me.