by David Wright
It’s returning to the world absent my child, knowing that those big blue eyes will never meet mine again, that I won’t ever hold her small hands in mine, nor hear her infectious giggle.
That’s the part that kills — every time.
I close my eyes, trying not to cry.
And then the impossible happens.
“Daddy,” I hear her say, soft, as if she’s right beside me.
I open my eyes slowly, as if doing so too quickly might destroy what must still be a part of my dream.
“Daddy,” Kayla’s voice now sounds as if she’s coming from outside our closed bedroom door.
I get out of bed, careful not to wake the dream version of Meg. Dreams are fragile, ever more so when lucid and the dreamer is aware that he is, in fact, in a dream.
I must tread carefully to preserve the dream’s state and odd logic. It’s kind of like those old Roadrunner cartoons. You can run off a cliff and not fall, so long as you don’t look down. The moment you do, you plummet to the canyon floor.
I cannot make too much noise; I cannot move too fast; I cannot wake Meg. I must slowly move to the door. But even now, thinking of this as a dream threatens to shatter everything.
Do not think about it.
Do not think about it.
Just move forward.
I reach the door and turn the handle, then step out. At the end of the hallway, Kayla’s door is partly open, a pink glow from her lamp cutting into the darkness. And I hear the sound of muffled whispers, barely audible, but talking fast.
I run to her door.
I swing it open.
She’s not in here, though.
The room is exactly as it was when she died. Pink walls, her name in purple wooden letters hanging over her bed, stuffed animals lining her bay window with a full bookcase beneath it. The lamp casts the room in a pink glow. I look at her bed, still made from the last morning of her life.
Sitting on the nightstand next to her bed is the doll I bought her earlier, still in its box, just as I’d left it.
“Kayla?” I call out softly to no answer.
I lay on her bed, realizing that I’m not dreaming. I pull her pillow under my head. I can still smell her shampoo, some organic grape stuff that she loved, and I swallow the familiar gulp of pain and regret as I remember lying here and reading with her every night before bed.
Each night without fail, and yet I still feel guilty for all the times I wasn’t there for her, or for Meg. When work kept me hammering away in my office.
Somehow Meg was able to do it all. Be a mom and a writer. I was never able to pull off both at the same time, though. I could either spend time with my family, or hole up for a few months, writing. To be a good father, I needed time away from the words. To be a good writer, I needed to go through the turmoil of bringing things to life in my head. I had to be the aching artist, or the pages would have suffered.
I’m not built like Meg, who can somehow compartmentalize, and be there for everyone, while still blazing by my word count.
Suddenly, I feel pathetic. Lying here in my dead daughter’s room, feeling sorry for myself rather than doing what needs to be done. A poor excuse for a husband and father.
I get up, flick off Kayla’s light, and head to my office in the attic, eager to get some words on the page.
I pull up the draft of Dark Secrets, the third book in our series, and start typing, not sure where I’m going, but knowing if I just start, I’ll get somewhere.
I’ve got another headache. I take another pill and wait for the pain to dull.
I try not to think about Kayla.
I try not to think about myself.
I try to focus only on the story.
**
“Daddy?”
I wake with a jolt to the sound of Kayla’s voice, feeling as if she’s in the room with me. As I sit up and look around at my empty office, with sunlight streaming through the window, I’m dropped back into the reality where my daughter is dead.
My neck and back are aching as I stretch in the chair where I’d fallen asleep.
I look at the computer screen, dark, and move the mouse to bring the computer out of sleep mode. As I wait for the screen to come to life, I worry that I fell asleep and somehow deleted the little work I’d managed to do.
The screen turns white, revealing the manuscript.
Ice courses through my veins as I see what’s written:
“I’m not dead, Daddy.
I’m not dead, Daddy.
I’m not dead, Daddy.
I’m not dead, Daddy.
I’m not dead, Daddy.”
It goes on for thousands of lines as I scroll.
What the hell?
* * * *
CHAPTER 7
I’m sitting in the Academy Middle School auditorium, waiting for the Together Through Grief meeting to begin and trying to focus on anything other than my pounding headache. I took two ibuprofen, instead of my prescribed pain pills, hoping they’d do the trick. So far, nothing.
I look down at the card in my hand, the pink one that Kathy gave me, and wonder how the hell it’s come to this. That I need the comfort of other grieving parents to get through whatever the hell is happening to me.
But I’m here, and I can’t question it now.
Following the message on my computer screen, obviously something I wrote in a fugue state, I need to do something. I’m sure as hell not telling the shrink about this. I’ve heard too many horror stories about people being put on pills to dull life. Maybe that helps some people get through the day, but as a writer I think it would cripple that part of me I need most to tell stories. If I can’t feel what’s happening around me, or if my senses are in some way diluted, what would that do to my ability to put these things on the page?
So, perhaps I’ll find something worthwhile in this meeting. If Meg were here, she’d laugh at me. Even when I go and try to get some help, I do it in the least-involved manner possible — sitting in the back row, in the dark, wearing a thick jacket and a baseball cap pulled down over my face so nobody recognizes me, or worse, sits next to me.
I still don’t know what I’m going to get out of this. I don’t think I’m going to “share” or whatever it is people do here. But maybe just being here, with other grieving people, will help me. Maybe.
I told Meg I was coming, but only because she thought I was going out to look for accidents again. When she asked if I wanted her to come with me, I said not this time. I’m not sure if she believes I’m actually at a meeting, or if she thinks I’m lying so I can go out and get more photos. I did, of course, bring my gear. I never leave home without it.
My phone buzzes, and I look down, then pull the cell from my pants pocket to see a text message from Meg.
“I love you.”
I type back, “I love you, too” and press SEND.
I sit here, holding the phone, waiting to see if she’s going to write something else.
Ten minutes pass as the place fills up. There’s a lot more people than I thought would show. At least a hundred. I’m not sure why, but I’m kind of surprised that so many people have both lost someone and need the help of others to get through it. Why haven’t I ever heard of these kinds of meetings before? Never heard about people I know going to them, or even heard mention of them on the news. Then again, I do tend to get lost in my own little world, or worlds, as the case is with my fiction. Meg sometimes laughs at how oblivious I am when it comes to stuff like politics and local news. If it doesn’t directly affect me, or our fiction, I tend to tune stuff out.
Many of the people come in and greet one another, as if they’ve been coming here forever. Most of them are also sitting up front, which makes me feel like I stick out even more. I don’t like when people look back at me, probably wondering about the creep behind them.
I pretend to be on my phone, to discourage interaction before the meeting starts.
A woman stands at a podium on stage, staring out at th
e crowd. She looks like a soccer mom: well-dressed, relatively youthful, wearing a dark blue-dress, blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail.
“Welcome to Together Through Grief. It’s good to see you all. I see some new faces — don’t worry, we’re not going to drag you up here or put a spotlight on you. This is a place of sharing, but we all arrive in our own time and ways, so we don’t want to rush anyone before they’re ready.”
Well, that’s a relief. They’re not gonna drag me up on stage and yell, “Share!”
“My name is Marcy Harris, and I started this group five years ago when my son, Michael, was in a coma following a car accident. Originally, my husband, Kevin, and I started this group for people who were waiting for a loved one to come out of, or recover from, a coma. But there were only three members at the time, and soon, we’d all lost our loved ones. So we decided to turn this into a meeting for those who have lost someone. As I’m sure most of you have found, it can be difficult to fit back into daily life following the loss of someone who was a part of your everyday world. While the support of friends, family, and co-workers can help, unless these people are sharing your grief, it’s not quite the same. Sometimes, we need to talk to someone who’s been there. And that’s what this group is.”
Marcy starts talking about her week, and how she’d thought of Michael several times, but had only cried once. Lots of people in the audience nod along as she tells her story, some crying a bit as she talks. I find myself wondering how many of these people have recently lost someone versus how many have lost someone years ago, like Marcy. And more importantly, does the pain ever go away?
I continue to watch as people take to the stage, telling either their stories of loss, or of how their week was going. The meeting has a weird vibe, somewhere between AA and church, what with all the talk of God and angels and such. Some of these people are sadly delusional, thinking their loved one was visiting them and giving them messages from beyond the grave. They’re taking little things, like a light going out in the bathroom, as significant signs that their loved one was sending a signal. Soon, I realize that none of these people have seemed to move on, and I wonder if perhaps these meetings offer more harm than benefit. Maybe it would be easier to get back to some sense of normalcy by not constantly surrounding yourself with people in a perpetual state of mourning, people reinforcing one another’s delusions of angels and signs from the dead.
I am now confident that this group cannot help me, and perhaps I ought to sneak out now before I hear any more to further depress the hell out of me. Then I see a familiar face — Kathy, the woman from the pharmacy — take the stage.
Well, I can’t get up now. If she sees me leaving as she’s talking, I’ll come off as rude.
I decide to stay as she starts talking.
She’s tells the room about the night she found her son, Sam’s, body. I wonder why she’s telling this story, as I’m guessing she must’ve shared it before. Is she doing it for the new people in the audience? Maybe she saw me? Or is it something she does each meeting? Is there some sort of catharsis in reliving your worst moment on repeat? Maybe these people are wired differently than me, if this is what helps them.
Suddenly, I feel like someone’s just stabbed me in the head with a knife. The pain is intense, unlike any other headache I’ve ever experienced.
I close my eyes tight, trying not to cry out, it hurts so bad. I hear sounds, like movement all around me. But as I look around, I can’t see anyone near me in the dark theater.
The pain sharpens. I grit my teeth, riding it out as I reach into my pocket, pull out the good pills, pop two in my mouth, one at a time, and swallow.
The knifing sensation dulls to a low throbbing almost instantly.
I return my focus to the stage.
As Kathy’s talking, I notice a chubby boy around twelve or so standing to the left of the stage, in the darkness among the seats. He’s all alone, just standing there, staring.
Weird.
As Kathy continues to talk, the boy starts to walk toward the stage. He’s wearing brown pants and a navy polo shirt, looking kind of like a school uniform. I wonder if he’s a student here who accidentally walked into the meeting.
The way he’s just staring as he approaches the stage, oblivious to anyone other than Kathy, makes me think he’s stoned or something.
I look around and wonder why nobody else is paying attention to the freak show on his way to Kathy.
She keeps talking, “Sometimes, I wonder if I’d only seen the signs a bit earlier, then Sam would … ”
She trails off into sobs, and puts her head in her hands as the boy steps onto the stage.
Still, no one is moving to stop him. I wonder if he’s with her. Does she have another son?
I’m not sure why, but a chill runs through me — that sense of impending doom like something is about to happen. It’s then I notice that the boy isn’t wearing shoes or socks. As he approaches Kathy, I can see that he's visibly shaking.
What the hell is going on?
Kathy looks to the crowd, “I’m sorry. It’s still so hard to talk about.”
The boy stops right in front of Kathy and raises his hands, waving them back and forth, but she ignores him, as does the rest of the audience.
Is nobody else seeing this?
The boy screams, “Mom! I’m right here! Mom!”
Goosebumps rake my skin as I stare at the impossible, telling myself, no, it can’t be — her dead son standing onstage.
This has to be some kind of joke, right?
Or maybe some sort of performance art crap.
The boy continues yelling, but nobody is noticing.
I look behind me, expecting a camera crew or something filming some cruel prank show, but there’s nothing but darkness punctuated by the light from red exit signs over the doors.
I pull out my phone, click on the video record button, and focus on the stage, but my camera shows only Kathy.
My hand shakes as I continue to record.
Marcy steps back onto the stage, comes to Kathy, and hugs her. “It’s OK,” she says, both to Kathy and into the microphone. “Thank you for sharing.”
Kathy steps away from the podium, and as she does, walks right through her son.
I gasp, so audibly that a few people turn and look back at me.
I put the phone down quickly and look at it, pretending to be on a call or something, hoping people will turn away from me.
I hear the boy yell, “Mom!”
I look back up to see her walking off the stage, not hearing him.
Marcy starts talking to the audience. “I’d like to thank Kathy for her continued bravery. While talking about our loss does get easier in time, there are moments when it feels like only yesterday.”
As she continues, I watch Kathy return to her seat, ghost son in tow.
He continues trying to get her attention, saying her name, trying to touch her, but she’s talking with the women sitting beside her, blind and deaf to his attempts.
He breaks down into tears, and I can’t help but feel his pain. The notion of a child calling for a parent who can’t hear them. I bring the phone up again, turning it toward her, but it still doesn’t show the boy.
Suddenly, he looks past his mother, toward me.
I freeze, phone in hand, feeling caught. He turns toward me, now staring as if trying to figure out who I am or something.
My heart is pounding as I quickly look away, pretending to fiddle with my phone, thinking, Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look.
I look up.
He’s not with her.
He’s walking toward me.
I stare back at him, unable to turn away. As he approaches, I feel cold as if the temperature just dropped thirty degrees.
He stops, inches from my seat.
“Hello?” he says.
“Hello,” I say, my voice barely there. My heart is racing so fast I’m sure I might drop dead right here.
“You can
see me?”
“Yes,” I say, seeing hot breath steam from my mouth.
“How?”
I shake my head, just barely aware of my own movements, transfixed by this ghost standing in front of me, “I … don’t know.”
He asks, “But you’re not a ghost, are you?”
“No,” I say, wondering if he knows that he’s dead. “Are you?”
“Yes.” He looks back toward his mother., “Do you know my mom?”
“A little, yes.”
“Can you give her a message?”
A message? Oh yes, I just spoke to your dead son, and he wants me to give you a message. That should go over well!
I can’t say no to the desperate look in his eyes, though. “What is it?”
“Tell her it was a mistake. I didn’t mean to kill myself. I just wanted to stay home from school for a while. I thought if I swallowed enough pills to get sick, maybe they’d send me to a doctor or something like you see on TV, and I wouldn’t have to deal with them anymore.”
“Them?”
“The other kids. Just so mean. Please, just tell her it’s not her fault. I wasn’t trying to kill myself. She needs to know.”
“OK,” I say. “I’ll tell her.”
He stares at me, as if waiting for me to stand.
“When?” he asks. “Please, tell her now.”
Shit.
I can’t say no, can I?
I get up and start over to his mother, who is sitting about ten rows up from me.
“And tell her I love her.”
“OK,” I whisper, not wanting people to look up and think I’m talking to myself. They probably think I’m crazy enough as is.
I can feel Sam beside me, practically pushing me forward. While he hasn’t touched me, and I’m not sure if he’d go right through me like he did his mother, I can feel something icy cold propelling me forward, almost like a gravitational push.
I reach her row, where she’s sitting on the end seat, take off my hat, and say, “Hi, Kathy.”