Little Henry, named after Nathan’s grandfather, shoved a red plastic ball up to his mouth, gummed it until it was adequately slobbered up, then offered it proudly to his dad.
Nathan tried to politely decline the gift, but that only resulted in the wet ball being rubbed across the front of his shirt. He quickly scooped up another toy, a crinkly, long-legged monkey, from the toy bin and presented it to his son. With his squeakiest voice, Nathan puppeteered a one-man act, complete with song and dance. Henry watched attentively, his eyes wide. Sometime during the show, Nathan slipped the red ball casually behind his back.
There was a knock at the door. Nathan stood up to answer it and found Alex standing on the other side. He waved him in and gestured toward the food and drinks in the corner. Nothing besides juice and soda, of course, as his mom had pointedly reminded him earlier when she unpacked the grocery bags. Even after two years, he still felt her careful gaze upon him. Lucky for Nathan, he’d found an empty apartment a few months ago in an old building near the pier which finally afforded him some privacy. Still, her attention never lingered too far from him.
More people filtered into the small apartment over the next hour. Sitting on a stool in the corner, Nathan watched the strange dynamics between his guests. Some of the guests, like Alex, were Nathan’s friends whom he’d invited simply because he wasn’t sure who else to invite to a toddler’s birthday party. He was also aware, on some level, of the uneasiness with which his friends tip-toed around him and his son, always watching and whispering when they thought he couldn’t hear them. He sensed that a good number of them were waiting for the day when he either reverted back into his old party-bro lifestyle or simply imploded under the pressure. Either way, they must have thought it would be entertaining.
The rest of the guests consisted of a small group of parents from a toddler play group that Nathan’s mom had arranged from the church. The parents huddled tightly together on the couch, supervising their mischievous infants as they wreaked havoc on Nathan’s living room. The boundaries between these two groups, though invisible, were palpable.
A small girl waddled over to where Nathan sat in the corner. She peered up from the base of his stool to see the giant before her. The action caused her to wobble and fall. She plopped backwards onto her bottom with a look of only mild surprise. Emma, who was almost a year younger than Henry, hoisted herself up by the crossbar, twirled back toward the living room, and waddled back to rejoin the group of toddlers gathered around a mountain of toys. She sat down next to Nathan’s son, who had been sitting in nearly the same spot the entire afternoon but for the few feet he’d scooted to retrieve the red ball Nathan had tucked under the couch.
During their play dates, Nathan tried not to notice the raised eyebrows and shared sideways glances between the other parents, but he felt their judgment of his unusual son, nonetheless.
Even as an infant, Henry was a curious kid. The boy spent hours just staring at faces: his dad, his grandparents, strangers they passed in the store. While this was a natural habit of many babies, other infants eventually started to react to and mimic those they watched. His son, however, only stared as if gazing directly into your thoughts, and rarely babbled or laughed.
By his first birthday, Nathan had realized something else was amiss with the boy. Though he didn’t have much personal experience with babies, all the research he had done indicated bluntly that Henry should be crawling, if not walking by now. His son, however, had barely learned to roll over, and fussed incessantly whenever laid on his stomach. The doctors suggested to Nathan that Henry was just a “late walker,” though their measured tone hinted at something else left unsaid. Nathan tried not to worry, but his mother’s constant fretting and nagging didn’t do much to assuage his own internal suspicions.
After a few hours, his guests began to filter out the door. It started slowly with one or two of the parents corralling their overly stimulated toddlers home for a long overdue nap. Eventually, it turned into a mass exodus after Alex made a half-assed excuse to escape the increasingly loud toddler dramatics. All his other friends quickly followed Alex’s leave. Within minutes the apartment was empty except for his mom and son.
Henry let out a wide yawn and rubbed his eyes.
Sylvia wasted no time in starting the deconstruction process. She swept through the living room like a gust of cold wind, gathering all the dishes left in the room. With impressive control, she balanced the tall stack while carrying them over to the sink.
Nathan started tearing down the decorations.
“Thanks for helping with the party,” Nathan called to his mom from the other room.
“It seemed like people had fun," she said. "Their kids are all getting big so fast! I didn’t know Emma was walking already!”
Pretending not to notice the insinuation in her observation, Nathan gave an unexpressive “Hmmm,” in reply. He hoped she wouldn’t pursue the conversation further.
Sylvia, however, was planning her opening statements while she worked meticulously over the sink of dishes.
“I’m just a bit worried that most of the other babies are walking by now. I really think you should call the doctor again, just to answer some follow-up questions after his check-up last week,” she said casually. “The doctor did say you could call if you needed to.” She planted her gaze firmly in the sink.
Nathan called his answer from the living room where he was tearing down ribbons of blue and green crepe paper from the ceiling fan while Henry sat quietly on his bottom, scooting along the hardwood floor.
“I already know what he said, Mom. I don’t need to ask him again. He said it was something to keep an eye on, and we are going to try that water therapy thing next week.”
“Well, what good is it going to do to throw him in a pool if he can’t even walk?” she argued.
Nathan snapped defensively. “What else do you want from me? I’m doing the best I can. I’m just going by what the doctor said.”
This answer wasn’t sufficient for Sylvia, but seeing that she struck a nerve with her son, she retreated temporarily. Chewing her bottom lip, she dried another plate and placed it in the cupboard.
By 9 p.m., Nathan finally pushed his mom out of the apartment, before her restless cleaning found its way into his closet again. Last time that happened, nearly all of his favorite T-shirts had found themselves at the bottom of a donation bag in the trunk of her car. Flopping down on the couch, he stewed over his mother’s comments along with the pediatrician’s remarks from their last appointment.
“It’s definitely concerning,” the doctor had said coolly. “His development is well below what we would expect by his second year. I’d like you to bring him back for more tests with the neurologist.”
Nathan knew instinctively what that meant. His son wasn’t normal, and it was probably his fault. No, it was definitely his fault. The image of Cece laboring in the passenger seat of his smashed-up truck crept back into his mind. He pushed the image aside quickly.
Putting Henry to bed, Nathan lingered for a few minutes above the crib to watch him sleep. Henry always slept with his knees curled up tight to his stomach, ankles crossed. Nathan wondered if that’s how he used to rest, safe inside Cece’s belly. Maybe his son dreamed of the comfort of his mom, instead of the harsh, cold world he now inhabited. Nathan rested his hand gently on his chest, stroking his chubby chin with a thumb before saying goodnight.
Leaving his son to dream, Nathan slowly wandered into the kitchen and opened the fridge. Far in the back of the bottom shelf, tucked behind the vegetable bin and a carton of milk, Nathan retrieved a can of beer. His finger paused against the tab. Nathan glanced over his shoulder to double check the front door lock, just in case his mom thought of something else she needed to clean. Just one, he promised himself. It had been a long day on top of a long week at the end of what felt like a never-ending slew of long months. Nathan was tired.
Though he was relieved to finally have space from his parents again, t
he separation had also left him with some unexpected expenses that had been previously taken care of by his parents. The extra cost of rent on top of Henry’s rapidly growing medical bills had pushed Nathan to working long hours at the yacht brokerage. The long days and forced niceties with his customers had worn him thin. Some nights he just needed to relax. Just one drink to settle his mind. He popped the tab on the can and took a large gulp.
His stomach grumbled. Suddenly aware that he hadn’t eaten all day, Nathan busied himself in the kitchen to make dinner. He filled a pot of water and set it to boil on the stove. As he waited for it to heat, Nathan reclined back against the counter and sipped his beer.
A bubble rose slowly up the edge of the pot. He took another sip. Another bubble, another sip. The roiling bubbles lulled Nathan into a trance. His thoughts drifted from the water to a pool, to Henry’s upcoming therapy, and to the doctor’s warning.
A flash of hot steam rising from the boiling pot brought Nathan back out of his mind. He pulled a box of pasta from the cupboard and poured it into the water. Then he retrieved another beer from his stash in the fridge and slunk over to the couch. He closed his eyes as the can let out a slow hiss. He slumped down into the couch and took a long drink from the can. His body relaxed back into the plush sofa.
Suddenly, Nathan was blasted awake by a blaring fire alarm. He shot upright out of a heavy sleep. Smoke filled his lungs, making him cough violently. Flames burst from the stove, licking at the air above. Sluggishly, he ran to the stove to turn off the burner and then to the sink for the fire extinguisher in the cupboard underneath. His fingers fumbled clumsily with the pin, finally releasing the nozzle, and sprayed a thick, white foam over the pan. Black smoke smoldered from the burnt noodles that now etched the inside of the pot.
Regrettably, Nathan realized he’d forgotten to set a timer for the pasta. He must have fallen asleep on the couch because he couldn’t remember anything else from then until his offensively noisy awakening a few minutes ago.
He heard a frightened, strangled cry from the room next door. Nathan ran into the smoky bedroom, scooped Henry out of the crib, and crossed the room to the window. Throwing open the sash, he thrust his head out into the fresh night air. A chill blew in with the crisp breeze, causing both of them to shudder. Nathan grabbed an extra blanket from the chair in the corner and wrapped it around them both. The sleepy toddler snuggled into his chest, sucking on a closed fist.
Nathan slumped into the rocking chair, catching his reflection in the mirror on the far wall. His stringy hair hung down below his ears, and a full, dark beard sprouted from his face. Hollow, black eyes stared emptily back at him. He didn’t recognize this person in the mirror, this apparition of a man he once knew. Disturbed, Nathan turned his attention to the sleeping toddler in his arms. His eyes were puffy from crying, but his features were peaceful, nestled against the warmth of his father. Comforted by the company, both of them drifted back into a light sleep, rocking slightly under the knit blanket.
Nathan dreamed of a field; a large, flat clearing surrounded by trees on all sides. Next to him stood a crib and a tall nightstand. An assortment of small bottles were arranged on top of the stand, filled with colorful, glowing liquids. He examined one between his fingers; a translucent, shimmery gold potion flowed back and forth inside.
From the tree line, friends began to emerge, walking casually over to convene around the table. Each took a bottle, carefully selecting the right color and size, before drinking them all in unison.
Smoke filtered into the clearing. The light shifted into a dreary scene, drawing dark shadows on their familiar faces. He watched in horror as his friends morphed into monsters, werewolves, and zombies. Each potion created a slightly different effect, some of them even transforming into hybrid-like creatures as their potions mixed various monstrous qualities. Their menacing eyes turned to him expectantly.
Nathan was the only one left to drink, the gold liquid turning dark in his hand. His lifted the bottle to his lips but hesitated, unable to drink. Betrayed, the monsters descended upon him, clawing at his arms and chest.
Nathan leapt into the crib in terror and buried himself behind the bars. Ghoulish claws scratched at the wooden frame, stretching greedily into the crib. Nathan found Henry sleeping peacefully in the middle of the bed, unaffected by the horrors around him. Curling around the child in a fetal position, Nathan lay perfectly still, just beyond reach of the beasts outside.
When he awoke at daybreak, sunlight flooded the bedroom. Particles of smoke and dust stratified in the sunbeam shining through the open window. His son rested serenely in his arms, snoring shallowly with each exhale. Slowly, so as not to awaken the child, he carefully stood and transferred his son back into the crib. Padding softly to the kitchen, Nathan opened the refrigerator door, removed the remaining four beers in the case, and emptied them all into the sink in turn.
*25*
Four Years Later
It was a blustery, gray evening in late January as Amara headed home from work. A light rain misted the windshield, leaving streaks of pooling droplets as they streamed over the glass. She rounded a corner and slowed her car slightly as it passed the public library. It was a two-story building, with clean, modern lines and expansive windows. The facade facing the street was spectacular, sheathed in fine mesh wiring that contained thousands of small plants. Ferns, moss, grasses, and ivy covered the building in a vertical garden of greenery, making the large windows look like portals into another dimension, one filled with nothing but books. It was her favorite building in the whole city, and it reminded her of Henry.
Six years had passed since his death. As promised, Amara had re-enrolled in her university classes for the winter semester. She dutifully finished her final year of coursework, narrowly managing to graduate the following winter with a bachelor’s degree in biology.
From there, her education veered dramatically from the previously determined path. Instead of applying to graduate school as she had always planned, Amara enrolled in a nursing program at the university in Seattle. She didn’t want to leave Bellingham, to leave Henry, but the university there didn’t offer the programs she needed, and her parents practically begged her to move closer to home. Given that her only real friend in her current location was a small cedar tree, she struggled to argue when logic told her it was time to move on. Nevertheless, as she watched the town fade in her rearview mirror, Amara felt a tightness build in her chest, like a string being stretched to the point of breaking. Painfully, she pushed on through the excruciating pressure.
After she finished training, Amara worked for a year as a home health nurse around the county before transitioning to the palliative care team. Her first hospice patient was a man named LeRoy. By the time Amara met him, LeRoy was eighty-four and had lived a full life, which unfortunately also included two heart attacks and a stroke that left him wheelchair-bound and forgetful.
LeRoy grew up on a cattle farm in Montana, where his parents instilled in him a hard work ethic and the respect of brutal honesty. He was gifted the inheritance of his family’s land and business when he came of age, but unfortunately, his great country had other plans for him. At eighteen, LeRoy was drafted into the US Airforce, serving three years in Korea and another long year in Vietnam. When he returned home, miraculously in one piece, he immediately made a stop to the local diner where his previous girlfriend worked. Upon learning that she hadn’t married in his absence, he proposed to her on the spot, and they were married a week later. To hear him tell it, the rest of his adult life was the perfect illustration of the American Dream: grand house, big family, and lots of love.
On his deathbed, Amara met him surrounded by his four children and countless grandkids, the youngest not yet over a year old. As his end drew near, his loving family rarely left his side, except to sleep or tend to their restless kids.
One evening while Amara was setting up to give him a bed bath, she startled to hear LeRoy laughing from the bed behind her. She t
urned to find him chuckling at a framed photograph on the nightstand. The photo depicted a glamorous, black-and-white portrait of his wife, young and vibrant, wearing a dark dress with tulle sleeves, smiling over her shoulder toward the camera. Her dark, luscious curls were pinned behind one ear.
Amara gave in to her curiosity. “Is something funny?” she asked.
LeRoy looked down, immediately embarrassed, but continued to smile.
“Alice just told me something funny, is all,” he said into his lap.
“Alice is your wife?” followed Amara.
“Yes, she was just teasing me, telling me to ‘try not to smile.’ She could always cheer me up like that. I miss her …” His voice drifted off.
Amara waited for him to continue.
“I know it’s not real, but sometimes I can still hear her talking to me, in my head.” LeRoy smiled faintly, his eyes melancholy.
Without a thought, Amara replied, “Just because it’s in your head doesn’t mean it’s not real.” She touched his hand lightly.
He patted the back of her hand and smiled warmly at the photo.
They both fell back into silence as Amara finished collecting the materials she needed. A mutual understanding passed between them, something left unsaid, as if no words existed to explain the emptiness they both felt. Amara knew in that moment that her loss was worth something. For the first time since Henry’s death, the painful grip of her grief eased slightly. She inhaled deeply, as though it was the first full breath she’d taken in years. They passed the remainder of the evening in a reminiscent silence, alone together in their sadness.
Life After Death: A Story of Love, Loss, and Living Page 11