By Daniel Jonce Evans, TIME, May 20, 2020
After finding a parking space I stopped and shifted my minivan into park. I sat still for a moment, a moment that allowed me to take a breath in relative silence. Silence, sitting in that driver’s seat, had a particular sound. It encroached after relays clicked and vent fans stopped. The engine crackled while cooling. Still hanging from the ignition, keys on the ring touched once or twice, singing their acknowledgement that their cohort completed the mission for this quest. I checked my back pocket to make sure the money was still there. Three crisp hundred dollar bills. It was the week before Christmas. My wife was still dead.
Rachel and I married in the fall of 2003. We had two children together, a son in 2016 and a daughter in 2018. Rachel died on May 4, 2019, at the age of 37, two weeks before our daughter’s first birthday.
A half hour before my arrival at the parking lot, I was on the phone with a medical provider to whom I owed money. Was the remaining balance after the insurance payment negotiable? The voice on the other end—kind and patient—told me, yes, they would accept a discounted amount of $350 over the phone. If I paid in cash, it would be $300. So I got the cash and drove to their office. Grief is a shadow always with me, but I wasn’t there to deal with grief. I pocketed the grief and pulled out the money.
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