The Apple of My Eye

by Mary Ellen Bramwell

Noah Paul Cass arrived in the middle of the night. He weighed eight pounds even. When they placed him in my arms he was alert and looked up at me and right through me. It was an overwhelming moment. He had a mass of dark hair, a cute little nose, and lips just like his daddy’s. “Paul, he’s so beautiful.” I was overcome with emotion, but when I looked at Paul, he was as overcome as I was. “Do you want to hold him?”

  “No. I mean, yes. I just, I just don’t want to break him.”

  “Paul, sit down.” He did so, and I handed over our new swaddled bundle to him. “Just cradle him gently, and if he fusses, softly bounce him in your arms.” He did as he was told, looking both proud and petrified.

  After staring down at him for some time, Paul finally spoke. “I never knew it would be like this. He’s so tiny and vulnerable. I want to protect him, but I feel so completely inadequate. How do parents do this?” He looked up at me with the most plaintive look on his face; all I could do was laugh.

  “Paul, it will be okay. We’ll just do the best we can.”

  “Yes, but will it be enough?” I didn’t laugh this time. I could tell he was completely serious.

  “Paul, we’ll just take it one day at a time. We can do that. Paul, we can do it.”

  “Okay, if you say so,” was all he said, and then he grew quiet again, completely taken by our new son.

  . . .

  When we brought Noah home from the hospital, we had a welcoming committee made up of my parents, Professor Haynesworth, Amy, and Martha. Paul had earlier placed a large basket of apples on the kitchen table to greet the two of us. My parents were staying for a couple of weeks, but the others left soon after they had met new baby Cass, knowing we needed space and time to rest and get used to each other.

  We did get used to each other, but we didn’t get much rest, at least not at first. Noah wanted to play all night and then take short, little catnaps during the day – long enough to refresh him, but not anyone else.

  One night stands out to me. Paul, more rested than I, sent me to bed after I nursed Noah. “You sleep, we’ll be fine.” When I looked skeptical, he added, “If I need help, I’ll wake your mother.” Adequately assured and pleased with his willingness to try, I went to bed.

  As I climbed into bed, I realized the baby monitor was on. I could hear everything going on in Noah’s nursery. I smiled as I heard Paul’s soft voice, working to calm the little, fussy baby noises.

  “It’s okay, little boy. We need to be quiet so your mommy can rest. She’s sooo tired, and no one wants a tired mommy. So take it easy on me; I’m doing the best I know how. If I get stuck, we’ll get your grandma, okay? Is it a deal, little applet?”

  There was a pause with only slight gurgling sounds, then Paul’s voice came through, even softer, with a wistful quality, “I wish your other grandma were here. She would love you, too.” It sounded like he was choking back tears, so uncharacteristic of him. I wondered if I should go to him, but I realized he hadn’t meant for me to hear, and while I debated what to do, I fell asleep.

  My parents left after two weeks and Paul went back to work, but Amy and Martha stepped in to help as much as they could. Martha brought us meals on a regular basis, and Amy dropped by after work, even staying over a couple of nights to spell us.

  Eventually Noah gave us a break and decided to sleep when it was dark out, at least for three or four hours at a time. It was enough, and we started to recover from our sleep debt.

  . . .

  By the time Noah was two months old, I was feeling like I had a handle on things, and Paul was turning out to be a natural father. We both basked in each new trick of Noah’s. We especially loved Noah’s little smiles, and Paul became an expert at eliciting them.

  . . .

  One night, after Noah had just hit his four month mark, we got him settled in his crib, and then we both collapsed into bed, but Paul wanted to talk. We were usually too exhausted for much talk, but this particular night Paul seemed pensive.

  “Brea, do you think we can really be good parents?”

  “Of course, honey. We’re already doing a good job.”

  But he was not to be placated. “No, I mean in the long term. Brea, I’m trying to be a decent person, to be worthy of being Noah’s daddy, but I just don’t know if I’ll be good enough.”

  “Paul, what are you talking about? You are an amazing person. You are kind and loving. You’re helpful and sensitive. I feel lucky every day to have you. What’s bothering you?”

  He hesitated and then said, “Brea, it’s just that you’re a better person than I am, and your parents are amazing too. Even Martha is ...”

  “No, Paul, stop talking that way. It seems like someone had to have a talk with me about selling myself short. Don’t you start doing that now. Paul, you have already learned so much about being Noah’s daddy. Sure, you’ll make mistakes along the way; we both will. But we just need to keep an open mind and fix the mistakes we make. If you have a bad day, just make sure the next day is better. Remember, we just take it one day at a time. You can do that, can’t you?”

  “Yeah, I suppose so. It’s just not always that easy.” I had never seen him look so dejected.

  “Paul, I know that. But if we keep trying, it is possible.”

  He was quiet, his furrowed brow indicating he was considering my words. I remained silent, not wanting to interrupt his thoughts. Eventually his expression lightened. He wasn’t exactly happy, but he at least seemed unburdened. He lifted his eyes to mine and placed his hands on either side of my face. Holding me softly like a china doll, he bent in to kiss me.

  “Brea, you make me a better person. I don’t know where I would be without you. If you will be patient with me, I hope to one day be worthy of you.” Then he cradled me, and we slept wrapped in each other’s arms until Noah woke us up at five in the morning.

  OF ESCALATORS AND PLAYGROUNDS

  After the funeral my parents went back home. My friends went back to work. Life was returning to normal for all around me. They were moving on, but I didn’t know how to move on. I felt like I was stuck at the bottom of an escalator, not knowing how to get off. Stairs kept rushing past, and I had to keep moving to stay in the same place, only I never got anywhere. I could see the goal, the tiled floor in front of me, but no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t make that leap, I couldn’t even lift my toes enough to let the escalator push me forward.

  I arose each morning, dressed and fed Noah, and sometimes I even dressed and fed myself. My determination to be a living, breathing mother to Noah kept me going. We played, we read stories, and we cuddled in the rocking chair, but I must admit he wasn’t much for conversation. Although what I would say if he were, I’m not sure.

  I found myself often staring blindly out an open window, all resolve and self-assurance leaking out of my fingertips and blowing away on the silent breezes passing through our yard. Paul and I had talked about this yard, about the children we would have who would play here, about the family backyard campouts, and summer picnics.

  All that I was and all that I had become under his loving hand seemed lost. He had taught me to be strong and confident. I was neither now, not knowing who I was anymore. I felt so incomplete, worse than just feeling alone, I felt like half a person.

  Noah would pull me back from these moments when he woke from a nap or as he played at my feet, slobbering on my bare toes with his incessant teething. He was supposed to be the first, but not also the last, of the little Cass “applets.”

  . . .

  Martha came over almost daily. She brought a pie one day and a casserole the next. Sometimes it was a crossword puzzle book or a bouquet of flowers. I graciously accepted her proffered gifts, but declined the
need for her company. She kept coming until I stopped answering the door. Looking back, I was ruder than I had been raised to be. She understood what I was feeling, and she would have provided the adult conversation that I needed, even a shoulder to cry on, but I preferred to wallow like a sulking teenager.

  Amy stopped by a few times, but she took a different tack from Martha’s. After the second time I brushed her off, she responded in classic Amy fashion with, “Hey, you know where to find me. I’ll be there and I’ll be waiting for when you’re ready to enter life again.”

  The phone rang but I rarely picked it up. My parents left one message after another, sounding more desperate with each one. Eventually their messages had outright threats, “Brea, if you don’t pick up this phone, we’ll call the police and send them to your house.”

  I just erased the messages. I figured they were empty threats; my parents wouldn’t want to traumatize me further. What would I say to my parents anyway? “Yes, Mom, I’m doing great! Noah’s started crawling, and he’s drooling on everything in sight. We’re going on as if nothing has happened to shake our existence.” If they really did call the police, what did I care anyway?

  My real excuse for not answering the phone was the occasional reporter’s phone call. Even when I didn’t answer, they still left their intrusive messages. One reporter called when Mr. Walker was released from the hospital. “Did I want to meet him?” with the implied, “We’ll be there with cameras to cover the blessed event.”

  No, I didn’t want to meet Mr. Walker! I didn’t want to see him and feel bad inside that he was alive, while my husband was dead. I never wanted to feel that way about another human being, but I couldn’t guarantee the sight of him wouldn’t prompt that. Although, maybe he would understand my emotions since his wife had recently passed away. Guilt overwhelmed me as I realized it was even possible that he wished it had been his life taken and not my Paul’s, but it’s not like I could have that conversation. “Hey, so Frank, let me be frank. Do you feel bad that you’re alive while my young husband lies in a coffin, covered in dirt?” I guess I wasn’t quite over the anger. And I wasn’t angry at Mr. Walker. I didn’t know who I was angry at – no one, everyone?

  Another call came when the grocery store reopened. “Did I have a comment? Could they interview me outside the store?” Really? Did I want to get within ten miles of the place? I was assuming since it was reopened that the blood stains had been cleaned up, but I would look for them if I went there. I’m even certain I would see them, would feel them, and the smell of blood would fill my nostrils, and I would choke on the smell, on the memory, on my life.

  That choking sensation woke me with a start. I had drifted off to sleep in an easy chair while Noah napped. I gulped a deep breath, fighting hard to keep back the memories of that first night, the first time I woke up gasping for breath. Would it never end? Would I always feel like I was holding death at bay?

  “Time to leave the house, even if just for the afternoon,” I said aloud. I quickly showered and dressed while Noah finished his nap. By the time he awoke, I had a diaper bag all packed and ready to go. I even threw my camera into my purse for good measure.

  Scooping him out of his crib, I rubbed noses with him. “Noah, I love you so much, little one. Shall we go out?” He responded by grabbing my hair and holding on tight. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’ Let’s change your diaper and get outta here!”

  A few minutes later, with Noah safely buckled into his car seat, I pressed the button to open the garage door. I put my key in the ignition and then stopped. Only at that moment did I realize I had no clue where to go. Amy was at work. Martha was only next door, hardly worthy of a car outing. Where should I go? I let go of the key. Where in the world was I going? Noah, all excited a minute ago, began to fuss in the back.

  I could think of only the city park. It was summer now, but the day’s weather was unseasonably “mild,” as they called it. What did mild mean? Is it like mild cheese that doesn’t have a bite to it? So mild weather doesn’t pack a punch? I could use something that didn’t pack a punch. The park it would be.

  As I drove I noticed what summertime meant. Flowers were in bloom and bicycles lay on sidewalks. Somehow, inexplicably, time had continued to march on. I wasn’t sure how. I hadn’t noticed the passage of time or the change in the weather. Paul had been dead for two months now. He had left us in the spring, a time, I realized with cruel irony, of new birth.

  As we pulled into the parking lot, I saw a few other cars already there with car seats in the back. I took a deep breath. Was I ready to pretend I was a happy, young mom just like them? Noah began to fuss again, and I realized we had been parked for ten minutes, and I had yet to unclench my hands from the steering wheel.

  Noah, that’s what I was living for, I reminded myself. I eased my hands off the steering wheel, stepped out of the car, and opened the back door to retrieve Noah. “How are you little one? Shall we go check out the swings?” Then with his genuine smile and my pasted-on version we went to face the real world.

  There were three other mothers at the playground. Two were talking to each other while their children, two little girls, ran around them. The third was pushing her son in one of the baby swings. Gathering my courage, I walked to her side, and placing Noah in the other baby swing, I gently began to push.

  “It’s nice to get out after being cooped up all winter and with our rainy spring,” she casually remarked.

  I hadn’t noticed the rainy spring. All had simply been dark and cloudy in my mind. “Isn’t it,” I responded, my eyes forward, never meeting hers. I didn’t want her conversation. I couldn’t handle it. Surely her life was just wonderful. I couldn’t live with that. Or maybe her life was a disaster with a cheating ex-husband. No, with a quick glance I saw she was wearing a lovely wedding ring. But then again, so was I.

  She glanced over at me with a strange look on her face. She knows, doesn’t she? I thought. However, she shrugged and looked away. I then realized how vigorously I was pushing Noah. He wasn’t complaining, but he was holding on to the sides of the swing tightly with a confused look on his face.

  Slowing him down, I thought, Who am I kidding? I can’t do this. I can’t even push a swing properly. Tears began to run silently down my cheeks. Husbands aren’t supposed to die young! I screamed to myself. Husbands are not supposed to die at midnight in all-night grocery stores! It isn’t right! Who dies like that, at midnight?

  Wait! I suddenly froze. It wasn’t right. How did I miss it?! Paul should not have died at midnight in an all-night grocery store. Paul was working the night shift at the hotel. That was the middle of his shift. He was the front desk manager, but they had been installing a new computer system lately, so he’d been overseeing it on the graveyard shift. He should not have been at an all-night grocery store in the middle of the night!

  PART 2 - WALKING IN THE DARK

  LEAVE

  We had only been at the park for a few minutes, but I scooped Noah up out of the swing and hurried to the car. I knew where to go now; we were heading to the hotel where Paul had worked.

  I eased into traffic from the parking lot, my mind going a mile a minute. I didn’t like what I was thinking, wondering, but at least I was thinking. I felt more alive than I had been since that horrible night. I also felt more dead than I thought possible.

  There must be some logical explanation. I just couldn’t think of what it would be. Did the hotel need something in the middle of the night? Unlikely, but what if they had? Why go to some little corner grocery? From the news reports, I knew where the store was located, but I hadn’t thought about what that location meant before. I mentally did the math. It was six or seven blocks from his work, not too far, but weren’t there convenience stores closer? I wasn’t sure.

  As I approac
hed the hotel, I began to look for gas stations and corner groceries. The store where Paul lost his life was in the other direction away from the hotel, so he wasn’t stopping off on his way home. But that didn’t matter, he’d never come home that early anyway. What was going on?

  . . .

  I eased into a parking spot right up front. Taking Noah out of the car, we both headed to the front entrance. My heart was pounding, and my thoughts were swirling. I approached the front desk determined to keep my emotions together.

  Jolie was working the front desk. When she saw us, her face lit up. She hadn’t seen Noah for several months, except for at the funeral, of course, I reminded myself. Then her gaze shifted to me, and I read a smile of pity cross her face.

  Is that what I was now? An object of pity? Of course I was. I pitied myself, for heaven’s sake.

  “Hi, Jolie. How are you doing?” It was a stupid question to ask, I realized too late. She can’t appear too happy, that would be an affront to my suffering, but if she’s not having a good day that would be bad as well, since she can’t possibly be suffering as I am. Jolie looked appropriately conflicted about how to answer. I saved us both by continuing, “Is Anna in? Or George? I just have a couple of things I need to clear up.”

  “Sure,” she responded, clearly eager to pass me off to someone else. She quickly disappeared into the back office to find the manager or assistant manager.

  I used to know the schedule of the front desk staff and managers, knowing who worked when. It dawned on me I didn’t even know what day of the week it was. When Jolie returned I asked, “Would you mind telling me what day of the week this is?” It sounded pathetic, but I knew I already appeared that way. What would it matter if I humiliated myself further?