Chapter Eighteen – THEN

 

 

I love that moment when you first wake up after a deep, dreamless sleep. You open your eyes as your body slowly wakes from its slumber, and there’s a feeling of utter peace and contentment.  Your mind is free from life’s everyday worries, like bills and money.  No matter what emotions the day before held, in that moment, your heart and mind are free.

Then you remember today is the third anniversary since you lost your boyfriend, and grief washes over you like a thick winter blanket.

So much has happened since Brant died.  So many things he should be here to witness, but isn’t.

Matilda’s already had her second birthday and she’s moving closer to potty training every day.  She loves to eat frozen peas and really doesn’t like honeydew melon.  Her hair is getting long and has a slight curl to it.  She’s cheeky and funny, with spunk like me, but she’s a lot like Brant, too.  When she smiles at something, she reminds me of him.  The way she loves spending time by herself, amusing herself quietly, is just like Brant’s personality.  Her lips have just the right amount of fullness, like his, and her eyes are the same deep blue color.

I wish he was here to help me as a parent and support me as a partner.  To console me in the bad moments, and revel with me in the good.  Thankfully, Celia has consistently been there for both Matilda and me.  Whether she’s offering to watch her so I can have a second of peace, or listening to me when Matilda’s having a bad day, or laughing with me when Matilda does something funny. Kyle’s been amazing, too.  He’s been home from Afghanistan for about eighteen months now, and he seems to spend every free day with Matilda and me.  Sometimes we watch a movie or go to the park, other times he sits in Matilda’s bedroom and plays tea parties.

My parents have been supportive, too, albeit from afar.  We’ve visited them twice since Brant died, and they’ve visited us once and are due to come again in the next couple of months.  My sister checks in once a month, but she’s busy with her husband and their careers.  My brothers have called, too, though not as often as my sister.  I just consider my daughter and I very lucky to have Celia and Kyle.

It feels so strange, thinking back to what I was doing this time three years ago.  Brant and I had been together for a year, and I was so excited, planning our anniversary dinner.  Anxiously awaiting until he returned home so I could tell him I was pregnant.

It feels like a life time ago.

When the haze of grief receded after that fateful day, and my focus became Matilda, I promised myself I would do everything in my power to ensure she would know about her father.  On his birthday and his anniversary, we eat his favorite foods.  Breakfast is always French toast with strawberries.  Lunch is hotdogs, and we always have pot roast for dinner.

I glance at my clock and see it’s just after seven.  Matilda will be up soon, so I shower and dress for the day before making a start on breakfast.  At eight o’clock, Kyle and Celia arrive and we all sit down to eat.

“Who’s favorite food is this?” I ask my two-year-old.

“Dada!” she replies with a clap of her chubby little maple-syrup-covered hands.  “Dada!” she repeats, this time pointing to the large profile picture of Brant that I had framed and mounted on the wall.

I laugh.  “That’s right.  Eat up, baby girl.  We’ve got a busy day.”

“Cemetery first? Or park?” Kyle asks between mouthfuls of food.

Over the years I’ve learned to drown my body’s natural reaction to him by mentally blocking it out.  But sometimes, like now, when he’s looking at me with such tenderness in his eyes and a sweet tilt of his lips, I wish I could allow myself to be held by him.  To be loved by him.

“Park.  We’ll play and browse the markets until lunchtime.  Then eat hotdogs from the food stand.  Then we can drive out to the cemetery.  I’ve got the balloons for after dinner, too,” I say, speaking to both Celia and Kyle.

“Sounds great, love,” Celia replies.

“We’ll take my truck.”

“I can drive,” I say to Kyle.

He shakes his head emphatically. “I’ll drive.”

 

Brant and I hadn’t been together long enough to discuss funeral arrangements.  I wasn’t sure whether he wanted a cremation or burial, but after talking it over with Kyle and Celia, we all agreed he would want to be near his parents at Greenwich Memorial Cemetery.  Matilda lays down a bunch of red and yellow roses and then I discard the old flowers and wipe away some dust that has gathered.

 

Brant John WESTWOOD

05-18-2012

Aged 26

Loved son, brother & father

RIP

 

“I just can’t believe it’s been three years already,” Celia murmurs sadly.

“It’s crazy,” I agree.  “That’s the worst thing about grief.  The world keeps turning regardless of how much you wish you would just stop.  Just for a minute,” I say.  “But it’s a good thing, too, because it forces us to keep going, to keep searching for the beauty in every new day.”

“That’s exactly right,” Celia says.

“When I got the call, I wished I could hit pause on time.  I wanted to get my bearings before I called you, but of course, there’s no remote on life.  You just have to keep pushing through, doing the best you can,” Kyle adds.

“He’d be proud of you, Liv,” Celia tells me.  “You’re doing a fabulous job as a mom and raising a beautiful daughter.”

“Absolutely,” Kyle states.

A tear spills over and cascades down my cheek before I swipe it away.  “Thank you.  That means a lot.”

Matilda runs around on the green grass, giggling and chasing butterflies, and picking wildflowers before placing them by Brant’s headstone.  We let her play until she’s tired herself out.  It’s important to me that visiting the cemetery is a comfortable place for her.  I don’t want her to grow up associating Brant’s resting place with tears and sorrow.  If that happens, I fear she will never want to come here.  So we let her play.

Kyle clears off his parents’ grave and lays new flowers down.  I hear him murmuring a few words, but I walk in the opposite direction.  I don’t want to intrude.  When he’s had his time, Celia sits down on the grass beside her sister’s and brother-in-law’s graves and begins talking.  She fills them in on everyday life stuff, and it’s nice hearing her talk to her sister like she’s still here.

We stay for roughly two hours and then Matilda starts yawning, so we climb back in Kyle’s truck and drive back to Celia’s for pot roast.

It’s not surprising to me that Kyle spends the entire day with us.  He did the same thing last year as well.  While Celia and I are in the kitchen fixing dinner, he hangs out on the couch with Matilda watching The Little Mermaid.  Matilda falls asleep on his chest about ten minutes into the movie, but he declines my offer to move her or change the channel.  The sight of them makes my heat feel as if it’s about to explode.  He isn’t her dad, but he’s doing a great job of being a positive role model for my daughter, and that in itself is more than I could ever dream of.