“Is Daddy dead?”
I froze, the few bites of soup I’d eaten growing heavy in my stomach.
“Oh, honey,” Mom said, taking his shoulders gently and saying, “Let’s go play while Mommy finishes lunch.”
“Is he, Mommy? Because Billy down the street says Daddy is dead.”
I felt something stir inside me, something that felt a little like fight, a little like hope. “No,” I eked out, my voice sounding rough and rusty, like a screened door that hasn’t been opened in far too long. “No, sweet boy. Of course Daddy isn’t dead.” It was then that I realized I believed it. I believed my husband was alive.
“Oh, good,” AJ said, his voice laden with relief. “Because he’s going to get me a BB gun for my sixth birthday.”
Mom and Caroline chuckled, and I almost smiled. Almost. The simplicity of children, the wonder of it all, was one of the great joys of life. I had forgotten that.
It wasn’t until after they had left, until after I hit play again, that I realized Mom had set up an easel in the corner of the room with a single canvas, a paintbrush, some paint, and a small palette. But I didn’t paint anymore. And she certainly wasn’t going to get me to paint now.
I looked back at the screen where Adam was talking, videoing me as I gave AJ his first bath. Then I looked back at the easel. There was something about it that seemed inviting, that tugged me toward it.
I tried to sit up. My eyes got starry and everything went black. I persevered, though, putting one foot on the ground and then the other. I held onto the wall as everything went black again. With my past flashing on the screen beside me, I picked up that brush.
I don’t know how long I sat there, but when I looked at what I’d created, I felt a little better. It was an abstract piece of blacks and grays with hints of silver.
As I examined my work, something inside me felt a little lighter, a little less closed off, as if maybe the world as I knew it wasn’t ending. Maybe.
My little sister Emerson came through the doorway quietly. She was the tall one, the most beautiful one, the nearly famous one. Even still, Caroline and I both felt the need to protect her. There was such an innocence to her, even at twenty-six. We couldn’t help but want to shelter her.
She stood beside me, studying the painting, and said, “It’s sad. But it’s beautiful.”
“Thanks,” I whispered, realizing there was paint all over me. I set the brush down on the palette. Emerson took my hand and said, “Come on, sweetie. Let me get you into the bath.”
Was this what my life had come to? People had to bathe me now? I thought of my grandmother downstairs, who had come to live with us, whom my mom was taking care of. My grandmother. Caroline and her two kids. Emerson. My own two kids.
It had started out as so much fun, all of us in the same house, playing and laughing. That was me then. The me I was now couldn’t imagine ever smiling again. Ever laughing again. Ever . . . Adam, oh Adam. Where was he? What was happening to him? Would I ever know?
It was September 11 all over again, knowing my dad was in that tower, knowing it had fallen, not knowing if he was alive but feeling certain I would never see him again. I had believed I knew what my mom went through in the wake of my dad’s death. I felt like I understood her, that losing your father had to be equivalent to losing the love of your life. But I hadn’t, not really. Not until now. I remember overhearing my mom telling her friends it still haunted her that she couldn’t remember telling my dad good-bye, that she couldn’t remember if she had kissed him before he left that day, that between packing lunches, making sure Emerson had her costume for her play, signing my permission slip, and telling Caroline she had on too much makeup, she couldn’t remember if she told him she loved him.
At the time, I had thought that was silly. He was dead. We would never see him again. Who cared if she had kissed him good-bye? But now I understood. All I could think about was what I said the last time I had talked to Adam, what I wished I had done differently. It wasn’t a good feeling.
I heard the water running, and I let Emerson help me to the bathroom. I couldn’t believe how devoid of energy I felt, as if every ounce of the person I had been was running out of me like the bathwater down the drain. As Emerson helped me with my shirt, I realized I wouldn’t have been able to do this without her. I glanced at the mirror and didn’t recognize myself. My face was gray and drawn, making my brown eyes hollow. I’d been worried about losing the last ten pounds of baby weight. Now my skin was taut over my ribs and belly.
I lowered myself into the tub, allowing the water to cover my face. I opened my eyes under the water and watched the bubbles coming out of my nose, the light from the chandelier above me wiggling and distorted. For a moment, I considered not coming back up for air. I could let the water take me away, where I wouldn’t have to feel or think or fear anymore. I could just leave. Quietly, without a struggle.
As my lungs grew hot, I heard an echoed, faraway “Mommy.”
If I
