Pocketful of Sand(57)

I sound bitter. Resentful. I don’t mean to. It just came out that way. I should apologize. But I feel like that would be an even bigger betrayal to Charity.

I’m filled with dread as I wait for Eden to respond. I wouldn’t be surprised if she told me to leave.

“Cole, did you consider that maybe you’re just finding some healthy middle ground?”

I turn to look at her. She doesn’t appear mad or hurt. She just seems…calm. She sounds calm, too. Calm and practical.

“How can forgetting my dead daughter ever be healthy?”

“You’re not forgetting her. You’re sitting here talking about her. You went to the beach today to honor her memory. That’s not forgetting her. But Cole, I doubt it’s a healthy coping mechanism to imagine seeing and hearing her. Don’t you think that maybe this is the healthy way to grieve? To think of her, talk about her. Visit places she loved.”

I study Eden. Why am I angry right now? Is it because I feel like she’s trying to replace my daughter with her own? Or is it because she and Emmy are disrupting the delicate balance I had between living and grieving? Or am I just mad at myself?

Eden reaches for my hand, laces her fingers through mine. I jerk slightly, my first instinct to pull away because of what I’m thinking, how I’m feeling. But she won’t let me. She just tightens her grip. Like she’s tightened her grip on me.

“She wouldn’t blame you for being happy, you know.”

And there it is.

The guilt.

This is what’s eating at me–guilt. The guilt of finding someone, of moving on when I had no intention of moving on. Of letting anything other than Charity be the focus of my life.

I pull away and stand, pacing to the other end of the living room. “You wouldn’t understand,” I tell her coldly. That’s how I feel–cold.

“I’ve never been through what you’ve been through, Cole, no, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t understand. She was your child. She would want you to be happy. She would never want you to sacrifice your life to somehow memorialize her. Accidents happen. Even if she were here, she wouldn’t blame you.”

“You don’t know that.” I don’t face her. I can’t.

“Yes, I do. She was a child. Children are forgiving and resilient. More than anything she would want you to be happy. And to stop blaming yourself for something you couldn’t control.”

“But I deserve the blame. It’s my punishment.”

“Cole, you can’t carry the weight of an accident. That’s insane!”

“Is it?” I spit, whirling toward her. “Is it? I killed her dammit! Is it insane to carry the blame when my daughter died in a drunk driving accident with me? Because of me? Is it insane to carry the blame when she trusted me with her life and I threw it away because of a party? No, that’s not insane, Eden. That’s justice.”

My chest is heaving, my pulse pounding in my ears. I didn’t realize how loud, how harsh my voice was getting until the quiet set in. Now the quiet is like death, cold and empty.

“Y-you were driving drunk in the accident that killed her?”

Shame. God, the shame…the remorse…the pain…it’s overwhelming. I turn and lean my forehead against the wall, resisting the urge to pound my fist against it. But Emmy…Emmy is sleeping. She doesn’t need to be here for this. To witness this–the dissolution of Cole.

“The last time we came up here three years ago, Brooke wanted to come a day early. It was the weekend before Charity’s seventh birthday and she wanted to have a surprise party for her. We fought because I wanted to stop by a friend’s party first. I ended up agreeing to get Charity here by eight just to shut her up. But I went by my friend’s house first anyway. Stayed long enough to have a few drinks. And to be running late.” I close my eyes. I can still see my little girl, smiling up at me from the passenger seat. Innocent, trusting. Alive.

“I wasn’t drunk, but I wasn’t sober either. It started raining about halfway here. I remember Charity telling me that this time, she was going to bring back enough sand in her pockets to give some to all her friends at home. Of all the things she loved about our trips, building sandcastles on the beach with her daddy was her favorite.”

I don’t have to look back at Eden to know she’s crying. I hear her shaky breaths, I hear her quiet sobs. Only a parent would understand the pain that this kind of story means. Even if they’ve never experienced it, they’ve feared it. Dreamed about it. Prayed that it never happens to them.