Past…
“MY GOD. THERE ARE SO many,” I whisper to myself, scanning the array of sympathy cards scattered on top of the dining room table.
Flowers, of all color and kind, sit uncaringly in their ceramic pots or plastic containers.
Food. So much food.
Why do people assume gifting the mourning family dishes of home-cooked meals will ease their pain? Who can think about macaroni salad and cake-like brownies when a loved one has been taken so far away?
“Kat, are you almost ready?” Thomas prods, his tone alert but kind.
When I turn, he’s standing in the doorway of our kitchen. He’s doing a horrible job of masking his pain. His eyes are red from grief and tired from life, but as ever, Thomas remains focused. Being who he is.
Today he’s wearing a dark suit, white shirt, coupled with a burgundy tie. His mother picked them out. I heard her making a fuss over him while I was outside. The bedroom window had been open. As I was sitting on the back porch swing, contemplating how my life would go on, my mother-in-law insisted burgundy would work better with Thomas’ complexion.
My husband would be handsome in that suit, if we were going to a quiet dinner for two or out celebrating with friends. But we’re not. He’s standing in wait to take me to our new and only son’s funeral.
“I’m almost ready,” I answer, turning back to the table.
“Mom has the girls. They’ll ride with her and Dad.”
Of course.
Other than people roaming about our home, offering comfort where they can, Averie’s life hasn’t been overtly interrupted. At two years old, she’s kept her focus to snacks, sleep, and how much she can aggravate our dog, Duke, and get away with it.
Amelia is five. She’s feeling the loss of her brother by association to a greater degree. One morning he was here, being changed on the table in his room, while she peppered his tiny cheek with kisses. The next day, he was gone. She recognized his crib was empty. I didn’t have to explain. She saw my tears and didn’t ask.
No one is asking.
No one is using my son’s name. No one is so much as saying mine. Those who’ve come to give their condolences have only nodded, some going as far as offering a reassuring touch. All their goddamn silence has stirred a dark chaos inside my chest, and it’s begging to be let free. But I don’t have anywhere to put it.
Fingering one of the envelopes on the table beneath the others, a tear escapes.
“Your dad said he’d meet us at the cemetery,” Thomas continues, when I don’t acknowledge. “But if you need him here now, I’ll call him.”
“No,” I snap with irritation.
I don’t need my dad. Or Thomas. Or the girls. What I need, I’ll never have—I need my son, Adam, to not be dead.
My eyes move to the window facing the backyard of our home. The swing set Thomas put together last spring sits abandoned and alone. Just a week ago, I’d been calling the girls in for a late lunch because Adam had been too fussy to nap.
Now, here I am, wearing a black dress suited for a funeral service. Connie said my dress was understated and simple. I don’t feel simple. I feel like a mother who’s lost a limb. As if my arm has been removed, I know Adam was here, in my life, but I can’t touch or feel him anymore. I only sense his ghost. That ghost is terrified, sad, and alone.
My body is trembling. My breathing is labored. My heart has broken inside my chest, and with each robotic step I’m forced to take, the shards of my son’s memory become less clear.
When Thomas woke me Saturday morning, I knew something was wrong. Not often does he show that much emotion. So when I opened my eyes and saw him beside the bed, close to weeping, I knew as any mother would.
One of our beloved children was gone.
Our new son. Our last and greatest hope of tethering our marriage together again after all we’d endured had died sometime in the night.
The doctors couldn’t give me a sound reason to justify his passing, other than he died of natural causes.
I found it hard to comprehend that there was anything natural about a child lost to this world after living only twenty-eight days inside of it.
When I told Thomas I was pregnant with Adam, the relief in his eyes was astounding. He tried to convince us both that a new baby meant new beginnings. During pregnancy, I thought I believed that too. We were happy, the way a family should always be. The way we always should’ve been.
Perhaps his death is supposed to serve as my penance for embracing a broken marriage, accepting a risk in order to start again for my family—for my children.
Perhaps not, but nevertheless, the pain is ominous.
“I’ll be out soon, Thomas. I need a minute alone,” I insist.
Thomas doesn’t make a move to comfort me. He hasn’t tried at all. My estranged husband must feel what I do. But being as we’re so determined to make this marriage work, we’re both ignoring what we should be doing.
Grieving, finding comfort and solace in each other.
The same corner of the same envelope calls again. I pull it out from beneath the others. There’s no return address listed. The writing is bold, harsh, and messy.
And it’s not addressed to Katherine Dyer, Mrs. Dyer, or the Dyer family. It’s address to Katie Mae.
Just Katie Mae.
My heartbeat hammers in my chest. Mason heard what happened. Not surprising, though. Maybe Dad got word to him. I’ve heard the two have spoken during Mason’s occasional visits here to check in on his dad. I haven’t seen him at all since he left me in that hotel room. Dad knows my reasons for staying away, and no matter how often the two have conversed, I’ve never heard about what.
As I remove the card from the envelope, I first see the engraved, stereotypical, copy written words of sorrow and encouragement, I know before opening it there won’t be a message inside from Mason.
As I lay the envelope on the table and use two fingers to open it, I find I’m right.
There is no signature.
No personal words expressing his grief as mine.
No soft message of encouragement.
As he told me a lifetime ago, the card itself says what he intended it to.
And in that specific moment of space and time, I consumed his thoughts.
And thankfully, giving me reprieve from my life as it is today, if only for a mere second, he’s consuming mine.
God, I miss my friend.