Visiting the spot

Does a house have memories? Many Victorian novels seem to think so. I've come to my mother's house a few times since my husband died, here where he died. I have not felt him here other than in my memory of our times together in this house. I don't feel afraid to be here.

But today I went to the part of the house where my husband died. The neighbour found him in the basement. I had avoided going down there since his death. He isn't there though. His body now lies in ashes scattered in the waves near his home town or buried in the ground near our cottage. His spirit is present with The Lord, who followed him to that dark place and took him home the moment he died.

When we did go downstairs, it felt fine. There wasn't any ominous feeling. It was as it always was. Friends had prayed, God redeemed the space. There is no evil that resides there - it is the place it was intended to be. The moment of death was passed and the house is still a safe place for all of us.

I didn't ask for details and, to this day, know only sketchy information about what happened. It was too traumatic to ask or to know at the time. Even now, it's not a mental picture I want. He did not die a peaceful death. His was cold, hard and tortured. He was out of his mind. He had lost reason. How else could he resist the desire to fight and survive? That had all been spent.

I cannot begin to comprehend. I am sure that I should have felt in my heart the moment that he had died. I thought that evidence of the connection we had. But I did not, so relieved was I to have him out of hospital. So confident was I that we would work it out somehow. So unaware that he could come to any harm.

The police called, agonizing hours later. Mum answered because I was afraid. It was all I feared. The police, the coroner, the neighbour, but not his wife was with him. There was unspeakable horror in realizing he truly did it and that his last moments of life were alone and tortured.

That legacy will never leave, but I am grateful for the friends who were closer than family. My closest friend moved in and kept the girls on track. Another dear friend sorted through paperwork and insurance policies at the house. Mum and I clung to each other: her house, my love, our lives changed forever. The husbands of my friends and friends of my husband and I drove us to the police station. I remember the drive. It was rainy and cold. I'd never felt so desolate in my life. Everything I knew and cared about was gone. I felt utterly to blame, completely dead inside.

The police inspector was a great provision: kind and gentle. He wanted to see me to tell me "Your husband was ill and his illness took his life. You are not to blame." I could see photos of my husband in the file. There was something odd about his face, but I didn't want to see or know the details. I had no wish to make the trauma worse.

When the coroner called to confirm the cause of death, I was reluctant to know more than I knew. My husband was dead, why know more? Even now, I have no desire to know all the details. I hate horror movies, thrillers and punch out scenes. It's bad enough. Why make it worse?

In the end, I am left feeling like a fresh wound has opened again. It bleeds a little, but it is not as painful as it was. There is much healing that still needs to take place. Perhaps this visit to the basement was another step in that process.

In one box, down there in the room where I believe he died, we found two little angel statues Mum had and forgot about. I will take one home and it will remind me that God was there the whole time, and still is. His light cannot be extinguished by any amount of darkness.