So Much More(37)

Her words are like salt poured in an open wound. “Come, children. We need to get to the airport. We have a flight to catch.”

I sniff back the tears and wipe my eyes before I turn to look at her. “Follow me to my house so I can pack their things.”

She shakes her head. It’s hard; I swear there’s no softness in this woman. “We don’t have time. I’ll buy them everything they need when we get home.”

Kira’s face loses all color. I’ve seen joy vanish temporarily from someone’s eyes when a happy moment passes, but I’ve never seen it flushed entirely out of someone before. Kira just lost her innocent joy. It’s gone, snatched away carelessly and thoughtlessly. “I need Pickles.” Trepidation is rising in her voice. “I can’t leave without Pickles.”

Miranda looks at me in confusion. She didn’t just see our daughter lose her innocence. She’s annoyed that her schedule’s being delayed. I explain, “She needs her stuffed cat. She can’t fall asleep without it, Miranda.”

Miranda shakes her head impatiently again. “We don’t have time to get it, Kira.” She says Kira’s name but she’s looking, she’s talking, to me. “We’ll get you another tomorrow.”

Kira screeches in horror, “I don’t want another one! I want Pickles!”

I struggle to kneel down on the ground, afraid I’ll never get up again, take Kira’s tiny hand in mine and kiss the back of it before I rub it to console her. “I’ll mail Pickles to you, darlin’. I’ll make sure you have her first thing in the morning. I promise.”

The tears continue to stream, but she quiets for several seconds as she thinks over my solution. “Okay, Daddy.”

I kiss her hand one more time and echo, “Okay.”

And then I hug my kids again. I kiss my kids again. I tell them I love them again, and then I tell them, “I’m sorry. So much more than sorry.” And I mean it with everything I am.

And then I watch them walk away with their mother.

And I feel myself die inside.

Everything wilts. Emotions, organs, thoughts, memories, hope…it all wilts. Like a leaf wilts due to lack of water or sunlight, they all turn in upon themselves until the edges are curled grotesquely and shriveled into something unrecognizable.

I walk home, partially because I fear driving would put others in danger—I’m enraged—and partially because I want to punish myself. I want my body to be forced into the action it rebels against. I want my muscles to struggle and my legs to protest. I want my head to throb angrily. I need to fight something, to fight someone, and since I’m the only one available, I’ll fight myself.

After checking my dresser drawers and finding them weed-free, I grab Kira’s stuffed cat from the couch and head right back out, down the stairs and to the post office three blocks away. I fall twice, even with my cane. There’s a hole in the knee of my pants, and I could care less. They’re khakis. I only wore them for the court related matters today because they’re conservative and look like something Middle America would wear, which should earn me brownie points in the parental department. It didn’t today, obviously. The palm of my left hand is also bleeding from the run-in with the rough concrete. But I get Pickles into a Priority Express box for overnight delivery five minutes before they close.

And then I walk out and sit on the bench outside. The sun sets before I rise again.

I stop at a convenience store and make an impulse buy that is driven by soul-searing anger, along with a stick of beef jerky, and a cheap bottle of wine. I shove the angry purchase in my pocket and eat the beef jerky, chasing it with swigs of red on the walk back home.

I’m buzzed by the time I round the corner in front of my apartment complex, and I don’t want to go upstairs. I’m too tired, so I sit under the tree, and I nurse the bottle until it’s empty. And then I fall asleep like a proper wino, on the ground under the canopy of Mother Nature. I hope Miranda’s private investigator is still watching because I’m putting on one helluva show tonight. I hoist my hand, middle finger raised, into the air before I let sleep pull me under just in case I have an unwelcome audience.

I’m awakened by the sound of Faith’s scooter pulling up in front of her apartment. When she kills the motor, the world goes quiet. I hear her keys jingle followed by her door opening and closing.

That’s when I struggle to my feet. My head is swimming in alcohol, and my legs don’t just feel numb, they feel like they’re made of lead.

Walking to her door is slow.

Knocking is clumsy.

She answers in her horrendous Rick’s BBQ t-shirt, and I can’t help but think how beautiful she is before I remember how much I’m supposed to hate her for her part in the Shit Father of the Year award I was presented earlier today. “Seamus, what’s wrong?”

“Everything,” I mutter as I stumble my way in. “Close your curtains.”

She shuts the door behind me, draws the curtains closed, and watches me cautiously. Her apartment is a studio, just one room, and there’s nowhere to sit except the futon cushion on the floor that has a blanket and pillow on it. I turn and glare at her remembering why I’m here. “Are you a prostitute?”

She narrows her eyes at me, but the shock I see in them is all the answer I need. It’s innocence. “No. Why would you ask that?”