The Empty Jar(79)

She looks beautiful, Nate.

You did such a good job, Nate.

Everything is just as she would’ve wanted it, Nate.

The flowers are exquisite, Nate.

She’ll be missed, Nate.

I’m so sorry, Nate.

I’m so, so sorry, Nate.

Hollow words echo through my mind, disappearing into the distance like thunder from a fading storm. The only real, concrete thought that demands permanent space in my brain is the simple question: What now?

What now?

What now?

The last thing I remember from the day of Lena’s funeral is lying on our bed, our daughter asleep at my side, and listening to Bon Jovi sing “Always”.

********

Days drag by, each one passing in an almost identical fashion to the one before. I know I’m hanging on by a thread, a thread of dust and bone.

I’m self-aware enough to realize that I’m not doing well. From the outside, I probably look like any other man trying to cope with being a single dad, but from the inside…I’m practically dead. The one thing, the only thing, that keeps me hanging on is Grace.

My daughter.

My wife’s gift.

I can’t bring myself to change anything about the house. Several people who managed to catch me out and stop me for a minute to talk have given me their best shot at advice. Most of it’s total shit.

Clean out her things as soon as you can. It’ll help.

Keep just enough around to remind you, but not enough to drown you.

Talk to her if you want to. It’ll help you heal.

If you do nothing else, at least move her clothes out of the closet.

I let it all flow in one ear and out the other. I know they’re all trying to be helpful, anxious to see me put myself back together. And most of their suggestions are designed to help a grieving person move on.

That’s where the disconnect happens, though.

I have no desire to move on.

Ever.

I’m not being unrealistic or masochistic; I’m being honest. With myself, with anyone who might’ve bothered to ask. I lost the only woman for me, a significant piece of my soul. My version of moving on will be to raise our daughter to the best of my ability, equip her to weather the trials of life and chase her own happiness. And then, eventually, I’ll have to let her go. Let her grow up and find her own way. That is my version of moving on. That is what I want out of life—to do right by my daughter, to do right by my wife.

I’ll include Lena as much as I possibly can in the rearing of our child. That’s the only way I can keep her alive. And I have to keep her alive somehow.

Letting her go…

Saying goodbye…

Forever…

…it’s unthinkable. So I don’t think of it. I can’t. I don’t give a shit how unhealthy the “experts” say it is. I can’t do it. I just…can’t. It’s the one thing I’m not strong enough to do.

********

Days turn into weeks.

Weeks turn into months.

The most I can manage is taking care of my daughter and doing a few hours of work from home for the bank. I’m grateful they’ve been so accommodating.

Back in the early days of my career, I did some portfolio assessment and financial planning. Luckily, the bank I left when Lena got sick has been kind enough to give me a few new clients who need wealth management services. It isn’t particularly taxing work. I can do everything I need to do from home. It’s the perfect arrangement. At least until they hire another full-time person. That wasn’t stated, but it was understood.

I’m okay with the situation. It gives me something to do when Grace is asleep, keeps some money coming in to supplement the investments I’ve been living off, and it’s allowed me to keep one foot in the working world. I know I can’t hide out forever. I’ll eventually have to return to life and living. I’m just not in any hurry to do so.

That arrangement is why, on a Tuesday morning, nine months and four days after Lena died, I’m able to see my baby girl take her first steps.

I’m working on my laptop in the living room, quietly tapping away while Grace sleeps on a blanket a few feet away. She’s surrounded by a mountain of toys she’d been busy playing with. I have to lean up and straighten my back just to see her. It’s the squeak of a stuffed bear’s belly that draws my eye, just in time to see Grace crawling out of her makeshift pen.

I smile at her, setting the computer to the side as I prepare to crawl toward her. She stops at the coffee table to pull herself up, which she’s been doing for a couple of months now. But then, much to my surprise and elation, Grace lets go and takes an unsteady step toward me.

Her expression assures me that she’s as shocked as I am, but she manages to take three more wobbly steps toward me before she just sort of crumples down onto her diapered butt like a train running out of steam.

“Gracie! You did it! You walked!” I exclaim.

Hurriedly, I snatch my phone from the sofa before I rush over to pick her up and take her back to the coffee table. I position her where she looks comfortable, and Grace stands there obediently, smiling around the fist she’s chewing on in an effort to ease the ache of the teeth that are coming in.

After making sure she’s stable, I slowly back away and get down on the floor, aiming my phone right at my daughter before clicking the record button. “Come to Daddy, Grace. Come on, baby. You can do it.”