Watching the Sky Cry

by J. B. Hartnett

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  AUTHORS NOTE

  DEDICATION

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  EPILOGUE

  THANKS!

  ALSO BY J.B. HARTNETT

  CONTACT J.B. HARTNETT

  WATCHING THE SKY CRY

  Copyright © 2016 J.B. Hartnett

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite eBook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

  This is a work of fictions. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Formatted by Max Effect

  AUTHORS NOTE

  This story is dedicated to every single kid out there who has lived in the shadow of a mentally ill parent. We suffer a silent abuse whose scars are never visible to the naked eye, whose pain is brushed aside and forgotten because mental illness wasn’t and isn’t something you talk about in polite conversation. At its core, I wanted to tell the story of grief. Grief for those we’ve loved and lost. Grief for the parents who never were. Grief for childhoods robbed of joy. And grief for all the kids out there that never believed they could achieve.

  But did.

  For Tara,

  always.

  ONE

  Nick and I were married on a Tuesday.

  It was the middle of July, and the temperature in Las Vegas had soared to a hundred degrees well before noon. I remember sweltering in satin and lace, my new husband not even caring that my hair had fallen and the makeup I’d so carefully applied had all but melted.

  Because he loved me.

  He wasn’t the first man I’d loved, but I married him knowing he’d be the last. We met when I was twenty-one, the same age my mother was when she married Dad. We waited, mostly because Nick was nearly ten years older than I was. He didn’t feel it was fair to rush me into anything, but I’d never been more certain. And one day, two years later, Nick came into the bedroom of our apartment and told me to go out and buy a wedding dress. He went down on a knee, did the traditional proposal thing, and when I sobbed my resounding, “Of course I’ll marry you!” He told me he’d already arranged everything, including hotel reservations and flights to Vegas.

  We’d spoken about our future wedding during those first two years. How we’d do it, who we’d invite, where we would honeymoon. And every single time, we both came up with the same destination: Vegas. His parents and my parents, a few close friends, and my brother, Billy.

  When the time arrived, Nick remembered every detail.

  And it was the best day of my entire life.

  Our family and friends stayed a few extra days; we stayed for two weeks. We gambled, we stuffed ourselves at the buffets, saw a show, even took a bus tour to the Grand Canyon. But it was the king-size bed where we spent most of our time. We talked about what we wanted out of our future as mister and missus. Not that we hadn’t had those conversations before. But something about that little piece of paper granted to us by the great state of Nevada made it all real.

  When we finally went home, my dad and Nick’s dad, Robert, picked us up from the airport. I still didn’t understand why we flew instead of driving the five hours to Vegas. But my new husband said the timing was important. Dad had a grin on his face the minute he saw us, one that was similar to his cohort, my new father-in-law.

  When we passed the off-ramp that would lead us home, Nick told me to close my eyes as he tied a blindfold around my head. The feeling of excitement in my stomach was exactly the same as when an airplane picks up speed, the very moment when you know it lifts from the ground and you’re soaring above the earth.

  I didn’t speak, didn’t ask any questions. But I did wonder what would be waiting for me wherever we were headed. At first, I thought it might be a little get-together with friends who couldn’t come out to Vegas.

  Then the car stopped. I heard two doors open and close, and since Nick was still holding my hand, I knew Dad and Robert were gone.

  “Nick?” I giggled. “I’m a little… What’s going on? The suspense is killing me.”

  “It’s a surprise, honey.”

  “Okay,” I replied.

  Okay, incidentally, was my answer to everything when I was uncertain. I’d battle later if I had to. And Nick would often tell me, “But you said okay?” And I’d reply, “I always say okay.”

  But he helped me from the car and told me when to take a step and another and to walk forward. Then he said, “Kneel down here, Rylie.” Fumbling and awkward, my knees found purchase on soft grass. “Now, take a deep breath.”

  Plumeria. It was the plant I’d fallen in love with at a fancy nursery. Not because of its beauty; because of its fragrance.

  “You bought me that plant?” I asked.

  Then he removed the blindfold.

  “I bought the plant to go with the house,” he said.

  I put my hands over my mouth, trying my best to stifle the scream I couldn’t seem to stop. We’d looked at this little place. It was a deep blue, wood-sided house, with white plantation shutters and trim. The gardens were impeccably landscaped; the kitchen and bathroom had been renovated to perfection. And the best part, it could be extended, up or back, whenever we wanted…when our family outgrew the existing three bedrooms.

  “How?” I asked. It wasn’t out of our price range, but it meant we’d have a mortgage for more years than Nick was comfortable with.

  “The parents.”

  “Our wedding gift to you kids,” my father-in-law added.

  Robert owned a software company, specializing in Internet security, and my husband worked as part of their development team. He never asked for favors from his dad, wanting to make something of himself and earn his way. But they’d offered to help us several times before, and this time, Nick accepted.

  That made me wonder about Mom and Dad. Mom was a secretary at San Clemente High, and Dad worked for the school district, a transition from teaching for him. But they’d worked hard for what they had, and I hated the idea Dad might feel like he couldn’t give as much. Not without selling some of his land in Northern California.

  I looked at my mom, who gave me a small nod, her assurance that everything was okay. No matter what they had to sell or sacrifice, they wanted this for me.

  For us.

  “Thank you,” I said with tears in my eyes.

  When Nick led me into the house with our parents still outside, I had more to say. “Thank you,” I told him and kissed him. But there was more he had to know. “I’m…I’m overwhelmed. All of this…you…you said I was too you
ng for you.”

  “Rylie—”

  “Thank you for believing in the convictions of my heart, Nick.”

  When he kissed me back, I was so far gone in my blissful, wonderful world, the only thing I could think about was how blessed I was, how lucky I’d been…

  Until my luck ran out.

  We spent that first year in the house decking it out with the use of my employee discount. Normally, I wouldn’t have shopped at Gaslight, finding the prices at Target better for our budget. I’d started there as a lowly sales girl, but the manager saw my flair for decorating and began to give me more responsibility. This grew into a promotion and training program through the company as an interior designer. It didn’t qualify me to go off and start my own business; it just made me better at selling their products.

  And I was great at my job.

  Two years later, with our home finally in order, we had one room left to decorate, and since Nick was busy with some new product at work, I did this one on my own. Pale yellow walls with white eyelet curtains. And because it had been a floor display with a questionable stain on the arm, I bought the yellow gingham gliding chair with matching footstool. The entire time I decorated it, Nick hadn’t asked about the room. He briefly told me he had all the confidence in the world I would make it great.

  When I was ready for the big reveal, I took a day off work and put together the crib. That night, when Nick came home just before midnight, I told him to wait outside the door.

  “I know you’re tired,” I told him.

  “I’m okay,” he assured me. “How’s it going in there?”

  “Well, brace yourself, honey.” That same roller coaster feeling hit, and I hoped it didn’t end with me being nauseous.

  When I opened the door, I think Nick stopped breathing. But when the implication of the décor hit him, he reached for my hand and stared. Then he led us to the chair and sat down, pulling me into his lap.

  “Yeah?” he asked, his voice choked with emotion.

  “Yeah, honey. About eight weeks.”

  My husband was a handsome man. He had thick, blond hair and warm brown eyes. A little scar on his left cheekbone where he took a baseball to the face in Little League. If I could paint, I know I could remember every single detail of his face the moment he realized he was going to be a father.

  “Happy?” he asked.

  “Freaked, but happy,” I said.

  We wanted to wait until the twelve-week mark to tell people, including our parents. But, with my brother planning to come for New Year’s, we waited an excruciating eight weeks more.

  Dinner, on New Year’s Eve surrounded by our family. Our happy news was met with disbelief we’d been able to keep the secret for so long, but after that passed, it was champagne and smiles. Even my dad, a man I’d never seen cry, couldn’t hide his tears, joyful ones, but tears all the same.

  Riding that high, sharing that incredible joy with the people we loved, was another amazing moment. But the last thing I remember about that night was Nick joking about naming our baby Bertha if it was a girl.

  The drunk driver who hit us caused our car to flip to its side. Nick went through the windshield, and I was pinned in my seat for I don’t know how long, in and out of consciousness. Even now, all I can remember was seeing the side of Nick’s leg, wondering what happened to his pants.

  Nick was in the ICU for over a week. I’d only broken my wrist, so I stayed by his side and waited. Our parents were there, asking questions I didn’t have the energy to ask. I just wanted him to wake up. Finally, when he did, the first question he asked was, “The baby?”

  I shook my head, not wanting to say the words aloud, and watched as Nick felt the pain I’d been living with for seven days without him. Having to endure that without my best friend to hold me, to comfort me, to reassure me we were gonna be okay. That we were lucky to be alive. Instead, I comforted him and assured him we could try again in a few months. The important thing was, we were alive, together, and lucky we hadn’t been killed.

  The drunk driver, incidentally, came out of it with whiplash and jail time.

  A few months later, Nick began to have seizures. A year later, we still hadn’t conceived and it was then we were told this was due to a side effect from the anti-seizure medication. I hid my disappointment as best I could. I knew, and hoped, in time, we’d find a solution.

  Those were the times that really tried us. We somehow got back into our day-to-day routines, but we both grieved privately. I know I hid it from him, not wanting him to feel guilty for something he had no control over. And I think he did the same thing. Sometimes, I’d wake up in the night and Nick wouldn’t be in bed with me. The first few times, I got to the hall and listened for him and heard the TV in the distance. For a while, out of respect, I gave him that time on his own. But when it became a habit, I sought him out and found him not in front of the TV, but in the glider chair with his head in his hands. I felt helpless, not knowing how to comfort him, because I’d done the same thing. When he was at work, I spent time in that room, holding my hand over the hollow of my stomach where our little girl had once been before she was taken from us.

  During it all, our parents were close, but they didn’t hover. Even my mom was careful not to overwhelm me, as they were all grieving, too.

  Eventually, things did get better. We did heal. After all we’d been through in the first few years of our marriage, we knew what needed to be done to keep us strong. The seizures were Nick’s new reality, but they were handled for the most part. We moved on, no talk of trying again. And one day, Nick led me down the hall and put his hand on the door of the baby’s room.

  “It’s time,” he said. “Enough.”

  I agreed, nodding and trying to keep my emotions at bay. His kiss was so gentle, his lips so soft on mine, they spoke what no words could.

  Life went back to normal.

  Nick was promoted for his hard work and ability to learn and change in a field that was ever-changing. Then, two years ago, he kissed me goodbye before his morning run, like he always did, asking if I wanted to go out to dinner that night. Our blissful, happy marriage was stronger than ever.

  But we never did go out to dinner that night. There would be no more dinners, no more kisses goodbye in the morning. No more asking if I wanted to watch TV or go for a walk on the beach.

  Once he was gone, after our friends and family dropped by to offer their meaningless, empty Hallmark platitudes then returned to their normal lives, I got angry. At Nick for leaving me. At life and its pointlessness. At all the random pain and suffering and the knowledge that what I had was nothing special. It just was, then it wasn’t. After ten years of happiness, even with its challenges, at thirty-three, I would likely never have that again.

  Then, one summer night, on the second anniversary of his death, I sat in one of the chairs on our front porch. I looked over at the vacant seat beside me, noting how weathered the cushion looked, and caught the fragrance of the plumeria. At first, I thought this was some kind of sign, but then I remembered I didn’t believe in signs. I didn’t believe in anything anymore. Not hope and definitely not miracles.

  It was then, I decided it was high time I killed that fucking plumeria.

  TWO

  The biggest fight I ever had with my husband was the night we celebrated his promotion. I wasn’t a big drinker. I enjoyed a nice glass of wine or a beer when the occasion called for it. But that night, I decided to branch out with gin. I consumed three gin and tonics and found they went down easy…a little too easy.

  After three, I became flirty and asked my husband—along with an audience—to do things to me I would later deny. And he did them, make no mistake; he told me later the filthy words coming out of my mouth were enough to make him hard. He just didn’t want his fellow employees and half the room to know, as well.

  He decided it was time to leave when the wife of a fellow coworker smiled at him. I got it, he was hot, but my gin-addled brain only cared that he
had a ring on his finger and a woman who was clearly his drunk better-half on his arm.

  So I got in her face and pushed her as I belligerently accused, “Did you just smile at my husband?” I then started to take off my chunky earrings, because every girl knows, the first rule of girl-fighting, you get a pal to hold your earrings.

  In a display of pure masculinity, Nick put me over his shoulder and hauled me out the door and into the parking lot. “Get in the fucking car, Rylie!”

  He never swore at me, ever. Nor did he raise his voice. I did as he asked, watching as he rounded the hood. Once inside, he secured the doors with the child safety locks on so I was trapped as he continued to yell. “No more gin! It makes you insane!”

  My blood was boiling, and I wasn’t about to take shit from him, or anyone. “That chick was totally hitting on you.”

  “No, she was not!”

  As I watched him, his jaw did that flex thing it did when he was silently brooding. His hands gripped tight around the steering wheel, so pissed at me he was barely containing all that rage, and I, for one, found this unbelievably sexy.

  On one, single breath I declared, “I’m so wet right now.”

  “Good. When we get home, I’m gonna fuck you like I’ve never fucked you before!”

  It sounded like a threat, but he made good on it in a way I hoped he’d threaten me again.

  The next day, in a blissful post-coital haze, Nick confessed that, for the very first time in our marriage, he was embarrassed by my behavior. I could see it pained him to even admit it, but until that night, he’d always been proud to have me by his side.

  And I’d felt terrible about that.

  But now, as I recalled just one of thousands of memories, I also remembered he was no longer there to tell me what to do and what not to do. He wasn’t there to catch my gaze across a room just so we could share a smile. And, since there was no gin in the house…

  I had to go out and buy some.

  ****

  I never really appreciated the businesses open 24/7 until I stopped going out when the sun was up. But I’d come to find this necessity such a relief, I was close to sending the good people at Thrifty Corporate offices a thank you note. I could leave my house at midnight and buy a big-ass bottle of quality gin, a pint of the best mint chocolate chip ice cream in the world, and a jumbo-sized bottle of weed killer.