by E. S. Carter
Today.
I’d happily take that last breath today.
“He’s crying for you, Josh.”
I can’t hear him.
“He needs you.”
He needs her. I need her.
“She wouldn’t want this, Josh,” she forces out through barely contained sobs.
That gets her a reaction but not one she expects or if my mind was that of a sane man, one that she deserves.
“She? She?” I all but roar, my body flipping up off the mattress causing my mother to rear back in shock.
“She has a fucking name, mother. Laura. Laura. Let me hear you say it. L-A-U-R-A.”
I stand and stalk towards her, my eyes tearing into the face of the woman who birthed me, who gave me life and loves me unconditionally. I ignore the anguish painting her familiar, loving face in lines of pure grief and continue using her as a punching bag.
“Why can’t you say her name, mother? Is it because she’s not here? Do you think I don’t know that? Do you think I don’t know what my wife wants?”
She stands herself up against the dressing table, the back of her knees catching on the small padded stool, her expressive eyes, so much like mine, wide, watery and filled with devastation laced with a heavy dose of fear.
“Don’t you dare come in here and tell me what my wife wants. You hear me? Are my words registering?”
I know I’m scaring her and I just don’t care.
I want her out of this room. Want her words out of range of my ears. Want her knowing eyes off my face and her thick and syrupy concern off my skin.
“Get out,” I warn, my voice flat and without emotion. “Leave this house, take the kids if you want, leave the kids if you want, I don’t care.”
I glare at her, letting the harsh punch of my words sink in. Watching her intensely as she fights to control her need to shake me, slap me or comfort me.
“Josh,” a stern voice calls from the open doorway.
Isaac.
“Get her out, Iz. Get all of them out of my house and leave me the fuck alone.”
My words may be aimed at him but my eyes never break the connection with my mother. I stare unmoved as she loses her fight against the wetness pooling along her lower lashes. The clear trickle of pain carves grooves across the softness of her cheeks.
And still, I feel nothing.
She blinks, more scalding rivers of hurt tumble from dark brown eyes.
“We love you, Josh,” crackles from her trembling lips. “We will take all your ugly and your pain and not judge you for any of it. We will not tell you your anger is unwarranted. We will not demand you to let it go. There is no cure for grief,” she admits and reaches out tentatively to touch me, but I take a step back, watching as her hand falls impotently to her side.
My eyes flit briefly to the door to see it empty, Isaac likely attending to the cause of the flickering lights on the intercom and my gaze returns to my mother’s puffy and worry stained face. No remorse flows through me knowing that another man tends to my children. No empathy for the pain etched across the face of the woman before me. Nothing.
I am hollow.
“The only thing you can do is grieve. In your own time, without the limits forced on you by another. If we can do only one thing for you, my son, let us give you that,” she finishes.
Her legs carry her slowly towards the door, not waiting for me to demand her departure once more. She turns her back to me when she crosses the threshold into the hallway beyond, quietly closing the door behind her.
I stand, anaesthetized once more.
Alone.
No spectrum of lights igniting my anger.
No words of wisdom pinching at my over-sensitised skin.
With heavy limbs, I climb back into the bed that smells like her. My sore and itchy eyelids close once, twice, three times. My body curves around her phantom form, feeling the heat of her skin against mine, the tickle of her hair across my face and the soothing motion of her sleep-heavy breaths.
I crave this moment at the edge of sleep when everything feels real enough to allow me to sink into dreams; where she will meet me with laughing eyes.
Laura Smiles.
And I smile back.
Here in this bed, it’s just her and me.
I drift off to the feel of her in my arms and ignore the ache in the back of my head that tries to remind me I’ll just lose her again when I open my eyes.
Laura, I’ll never open my eyes again.
You have my words.
You have my heart.
Take my eyes for they will never want to land on another person but you.
Eight weeks.
I’ve finally given him a name after almost two months.
When I say I’ve given him a name, I mean Laura. She named him long before he was born. I just didn’t want to give it to him because it wasn’t mine to give. It feels like in doing so I’ve lost yet another piece of her.
I look down into his crib. His dark hair is thick and as soft as fur. His button nose scrunched up in dreams. His tiny fingers clasped tightly to his palms as if he’s holding onto something.
Does he dream of her too? Is he holding onto her finger right now?
Jealously washes over me.
This tiny little boy is the reason she left me.
“Daddy, Nanna is on the phone. Can I go to the park with her today? I really want to see the ducks and Nanna says she has bread.”
Ivy’s quiet voice comes from behind me. My usually loud and boisterous little girl has quickly learnt that noise and any form of excitement or exuberance are unwelcome in this house now.
I step away from my sleeping son, careful not to wake him for my sanity alone, and quietly usher Ivy out of the nursery and down the stairs.
“Not today,” I finally reply when she stares up at me expectantly.
She opens her rosebud mouth to argue, her white blonde ringlets bouncing against her shoulders.
“I said, not today, Ivy.”
Her head drops, and she lowers her stare to the ground. Her eyes fill with tears, and her pink lips tremble with the force of keeping her emotions in check.
When she finally has her emotions controlled enough to speak, she clutches the phone in her hand and says quietly to my mother, “Daddy said I can’t go today. Maybe tomorrow, Nanna?”
She’s three, but you’d never guess. Her small shoulders are weighed down with more than any little girl should have to carry.
My mother says something to her in response, and Ivy blows her a kiss through the receiver.
“I love you, Nanna. Kisses to Grampy,” she adds, scrunching her nose and touching the tip with her finger. “Eskimo kisses for Grampy,” she continues. “Because they’re his favourite.”
When the phone call disconnects, she places the handset back on its stand and turns to face me. Her big ice-blue eyes, Laura’s eyes, blink up at me and I suddenly feel a stab of pain to the centre of my chest. Not the usual brutal slash that comes from losing my wife, but a sharp agony caused by guilt.
This little girl is the most precious gift Laura ever gave me, and I’ve abandoned her. I’ve forsaken my three-year-old to wallow in my misery because it was easier than trying to live. Easier than pretending that life must go on, but it does have to go on. Despite my shattered bones and split skin, despite my crushed heart and bruised lungs, and even though I burn, I drown, and I die every single morning, this little girl’s life must go on, and she needs me to be present for it.
For eight long weeks, I’ve mourned the loss of my best friend, all the while ignoring the pieces of her that still live.
How can Laura truly be gone when her image stands before me? Half her, half me. But all the best parts of her.
“I’m sorry, Ivy. How about we call Uncle Iz and see if he can sit with your brother for a while? Maybe then we could go to feed the ducks together?”
Her eyes light up and her lips stretch into a beatific grin.
“Real
ly?” she asks, her voice filled with a wonder that twists at my battered heart and pokes around in open wounds, threatening to make me bleed out on my hall floor.
“Yes, really,” I promise, unable to return her smile no matter how much I’m starting to want to try.
“Thanks, Daddy,” she squeals excitedly, latching onto my legs and pressing her cheek into my thigh.
I lift my hand and gently run it over her hair. My fingers slide over shiny curls that twist and bounce back into shape, never losing their virility.
The simple contact mends something inside me.
Is this the first time I’ve comforted my daughter in eight weeks?
Shame washes over me in sickly waves.
Yes. This is the first time I’ve held her to me and allowed her to bask in my comfort.
I’m not a father.
I’m a selfish fool who tried and failed to drown in his dreams. The trouble is, morning always came and washed them away.
This here, right now, my daughter in my arms, is the first real emotion I’ve felt in two months.
A crackle emits through the hallway intercom, the flicker of green lights accompanied by a few soft grunts alerts to me the fact that he’s woken.
The warmth seeping in and softening my heart evaporates, ice-cold numbness taking its place and flooding my aorta with an arctic chill.
For as much as I’ve abandoned Ivy, I know I’ve been worse to him. And I can’t stop it.
He’s here.
She’s not.
It’s because of him that she’s gone.
Her foolish decision, one that she kept from me, put his life over hers. I can’t forgive her for that, but the pain of losing her eclipses any anger aimed her way. It’s fruitless to hate a dead woman when you still love her more than your life.
But I can hate him.
I look at the small life we created, and all I see is death. I see her pale, lifeless hand in mine. I see her body apparently in slumber, eyes closed, face beautiful in sleep. But she’s not asleep. She’s gone. She’s cold in my arms. I held her, but she didn’t hold me back. Her arms limp, her limbs heavy.
And now she’s ashes on the wind.
Scattered across the hillside.
Floating into the ether.
And he’s screaming at the top of his lungs for comfort, for food, for attention, and it’s deafening.
I clutch Ivy to me when she tries to pull away, needing that tether to something good, something real.
I’d never physically hurt him. I know this. I know this. But each time I’m forced to touch him I switch off. I detach myself from the moment and treat it like any other chore - washing the dishes, mowing the lawn, taking out the rubbish - it’s a job that needs doing, but I feel nothing while doing it.
I’m a reasonable and intelligent man. I know I shouldn’t feel this way about a small, helpless baby. But I simply do not care. Not at all. And doesn’t that make me the worst person ever to walk the earth.
“Daddy,” she begins again, raising her voice over the wailing sound of her brother. “Shall we call Uncle Iz now and he can help Arfurr to stop crying?”
“Yes, Princess Ivy. I think that’s a great idea. You go and get your new pink wellies, and I’ll call Uncle Iz. I’ll meet you in the kitchen in five minutes, okay?”
“Okay, Daddy,” she agrees, lifting her head to smile up at me before releasing her hold on my legs and rushing to the shoe box in the under-stair cupboard.
I watch her disappear and drag my phone from my back pocket, ignoring the dozens of texts and missed calls from everyone. My mother, work, Jake, Nate, even Emma and Cari have tried and failed to contact me. I want nothing to do with any of them.
Dismissing all their attempts with a brush of my fingers, I pull up my contacts and hover over Isaac’s name, wincing as Arthur’s cries get louder and more shrill.
I hesitate for just a second, remembering that I all but threw him out of this house last night. I told him to leave and not come back. I told him he was meddling in lives that are not his concern. I said all this to my brother, after he’s spent the last few weeks sleeping on the sofa or on Ivy’s bedroom floor. He stayed in this house full of sorrow to care for my kids. To feed them, wash them, clothe them, and comfort them. To make sure I eat and drink just enough for my organs to keep going.
He’s been our one salvation, and I threw him out like trash.
My finger touches the call symbol and I bring the phone to my ear, listening to it connect and then ring and ring and ring, but he doesn’t answer.
He doesn’t answer because less than thirty seconds later he unlocks the front door with his spare key and cautiously enters the house. His eyes fix on mine, and his head tilts at the sound of Arthur’s cries. His hair is a tangled mess; his face bears the lines of sleep. He looks like he’s been squished up against something hard and uncomfortable.
“I slept in the car,” he offers, palming his phone and slipping it into his pocket.
“Why?” I can’t help but ask, confused as to the reason he would stay when I made it more than evident that I didn’t want his help.
His head nods to the stairs and the echoing sound of a screaming baby.
“Just in case any of you needed me.”
His eyes are wary, his body language hesitant. He’s waiting to see if I’ll kick him out or allow him to care for my son. My son whose little lungs must be burning by now, his face an angry red ball of distress.
And even knowing this, I make no move to climb the stairs and go to him.
Something inside me knows I’m the worst kind of person. What type of father hates his newborn?
This one.
“If you could watch Arthur for a few hours,” I begin, shifting uneasily on my feet under his scrutiny and avoiding further eye contact by looking over my shoulder to see where Ivy is with her boots. “I promised Ivy that I’d take her to feed the ducks.”
Isaac’s face lights up, and his eyes widen in surprise despite his attempt to mask the hope that clearly paints his sleep deprived features. He knows this will be the first time since we brought Arthur home from hospital, other than the day of Laura’s funeral, that I will have left the house.
“That’s great. I’d love to spend time with Arthur. I’ll… uh,” he stammers a little, gesturing with a flick of his hand to the noise coming from nursery upstairs. “I’ll just go and see what’s got the little man’s nappy in a twist.”
He bounds quickly up the stairs, taking them two at a time in his rush to make sure the baby is okay. Calling over his shoulder when he gets to the landing, “You guys have fun, don’t rush home. I’ve got it covered.”
You’ve covered my arse for the last two months, Isaac.
I stand and stare at the spot where Iz just stood, my ears locked onto the wailing noise of Arthur’s lungs, until his screaming abruptly stops, indicating that Isaac has picked him up and is soothing him in his arms.
That should be me.
The thought scrapes across my temples, down the back of my neck and straight down my spine like fingernails on a chalkboard. It should be me, but I can’t see it ever being me.
“I’m ready, Daddy. I’ve got my wellies on,” Ivy declares from behind me, and I’m grateful for her interruption to the thoughts that swirl like fog through my mind.
I turn and face my little girl. She wears her new spotty raincoat that Laura bought her the last time we went shopping and her pink glittery Wellington boots - which are on the wrong feet.
“I did it all by myself, Daddy,” she says proudly. Her mother’s eyes smiling at me from her cherubic face.
“I can see,” I agree, bending at the knees and beckoning her to me. “Shall Daddy fix your wellies? I think they were sneaky and jumped on the wrong feet.”
She giggles at the mistake, clomping unevenly towards me and lifting her leg for me to pull off a boot.
“Naughty, pawty welly boots,” she chastises her footwear with a big grin. “Mummy says it�
�s always their fault,” she adds with another giggle, shattering my heart into sharp, jagged shards.
I swallow down the pain and drop my chin to my chest as I tug off one boot then the other and put them back on the right feet. She’s not oblivious to the change in my demeanour. My small, brave girl sees everything.
“I miss her too, Daddy,” she whispers, reaching out her little hand to touch my cheek. “Nanna says Mummy can’t come back and live with us anymore. She told me she’s dead and can’t tuck me into bed or sit in the bath with me. When will she be back? Is she still dead? I want to show her the drawing I made.”
I can’t breathe.
My chest hurts so violently that I have to clutch it with my hand. My splayed fingers dig into the muscles of my chest in a futile attempt to tear out the organ that still beats but does so sluggishly. Its drumbeat slowly fading out into nothingness. Each indolent pulse of my withered ventricles sends sheer agony through my bloodstream.
“Daddy?” Ivy questions, coming closer to me, her pale blue eyes begging for answers. “When is she coming home? Mummy can’t stay dead forever. Have you been dead too?”
I fall back onto my rear, my knees giving out, and land hard on my tailbone, sending a bolt of pain up through my spine. It’s a much needed, physical pain, just enough to punch through the phantom ache that threatens to consume me.
On shaky legs, I stand and hold out my hand for Ivy to take.
“It’s time to go,” I bark, my voice harsh even to my ears.
“But we didn’t get the bread from the kitchen,” she protests as I tug her towards the front door.
“We’ll buy some in the shop. Let’s go, Ivy. If you want to go and feed the ducks, we need to leave now. No more arguments.”
Her bottom lip trembles, but she doesn’t answer back. What I intended to be a way to reconnect with my daughter, I’ve ruined before it even began.
I step out into the bright mid-morning sun and instruct Ivy to make her way to the car. As I pull the door behind me, I look up through the hallway to the top of the stairs where Isaac stands watching me. The baby tucked against his chest, the back of his small head visible against his shoulder, his soft dark hair a little cap of fuzz behind a lemon fleece blanket.