I wish I could say that moment lasted forever. That moment where we were all happy, and life was a blissful song. Where life’s promises were in reach and in full color. On September 14, that dream came crashing down hard on me in a way I couldn’t have predicted or prepared for.
DOA. Overdose. Cocaine. Just a few words the man that worked alongside Fredrick in the studio told me over the phone. Not in person, over the phone. It was a brilliantly sunny day, and that pissed me off the most. You always hear, “one gloomy afternoon,” or some shit like that when tragedy strikes. I was a writer, but first and foremost, I was a reader. In books, there was always a little foreshadowing.
In life, there are no warnings. Not a cloud in sight as I heard the news that would destroy my pocket-sized, perfectly fine family. Fredrick had died of a cocaine overdose hours earlier at a party in West Hollywood. In panic, someone at the party had called 911, but the EMT tech determined he had passed and there was nothing more they could do.
Nothing more they could do. How could words so simple and thrown together in such an eloquent fashion hurt so bad? “I’m sorry, there’s nothing more we could do.” It’s meant to give you relief. Relief that they had tried everything. Relief that they had wanted to save his life and used every tool and knowledge gained in years and years of medical school to try and save your one human being.
Yet I was certain that those words almost always devastated a person. I felt no relief. I felt no comfort that they had tried their best. I just felt empty. I drowned in it. I let it break me and pull me down to my lowest low for three whole hours before the child that we had created together woke up from his nap. Then I splashed some water on my face, took some deep breaths, and tended to my child.
I knew that was what he needed. I knew that was what the world expected me to do. My son no longer had a father, so I was not allowed to disappear within myself. I had only one option, and that was to push forward. So that is what I did.
I pushed forward through the process of planning Fredrick’s funeral alongside the mother and stepfather he rarely spoke of. I pushed through as I introduced the woman that gave Fredrick life to the grandchild she had never met. I pushed forward through the funeral where I was approached by many an LA slut that I was about eighty percent sure Fredrick had slept with in the last few months. Call it intuition.
I pushed through as I glared at those crying sluts from across the lawn until Tyler, Fredrick’s co-worker, followed my glare to see what I was upset about, and then moved into action, taking pity on me. He frowned, walked over to the girls, whispered something to them, and then threw an arm around their sobbing shoulders and escorted them away from the yard where we stood. I was grateful for the reprieve as I pushed through my own pain and buried my husband.
I pushed forward while people handed me casserole after casserole, all to help with the healing process. Apparently, people thought my son and I did nothing but sit around and eat all day because we left there with food in larger quantities than I had ever even seen in real life. I pushed, and I pushed, and I pushed.
But what do you do when you’re done pushing through the pain? You get on with your life. You go from being a wife to being a widow, and you leave half of your heart in the ground. You clean the house, you make sure your child eats three meals a day, and you fill your refrigerator with food that probably doesn’t meet FDA requirements.
I was just about done washing the dishes from my attempt at eating a week-old taco casserole from the after-funeral gathering one day when I heard a hissing noise. It was coming from under the sink. Putting the damp towel down on the edge of the sink, I bent down to my knees to see inside the cabinet when the doorbell rang. I huffed, blowing a loose curl that had fallen in my face.
What now? I wiped the sweat from my forehead with the back of my arm, getting irritated, knowing it was probably another person with food. The social rules that follow a death of a loved one are seriously messed up. I didn’t feel like being polite, but everyone expected me to be.
It couldn’t have been my parents because I forced them to leave the last time they had stopped by. I insisted I would call if I needed them but just wanted to stand on my own two feet for a while. I didn’t want to be babied and fawned over by them of all people.
I knew it had to be a neighbor at my door, and I knew I had to answer it and follow hospitality etiquette. So I made my way to the door and swung it open. The person, well people, standing before me had me shocked silent. My body ran cold immediately like someone threw me in blanching water. I hadn’t mentally prepared for the moment, though I knew it was just a matter of time.
Mason and Leah stood on my front porch, greasy Good Times bags in hand. The bags had me practically drooling, and despite my initial shock opening the door, I was relieved to see Leah. “We figured you’d want edible food,” she said, pulling me into a hug. I held her so close, I was sure she couldn’t breathe. Mason pulled me into a hug when I finally let Leah go, but I’ll admit the way he pulled me in was a little unsure.
Leah attended Fredrick’s funeral with Sebastian, but the whole thing was kind of a blur. They kept their distance, respecting my need to power through without having to small talk. Mason, however, was noticeably absent, just as he was for my wedding. It’s fitting, really. This part of my life had nothing to do with him.
He was there before, and he’s here after, but my life with Fredrick was whole-heartedly Fredrick’s. We made our way into the house and immediately went to the table to dive into our burgers. The small talk we made was forced and awkward, much like Mason’s hug at the door. Ash began to call to me from his crib. I really should have moved him to a toddler bed when he turned two, but a few more months of pretending he was my little baby didn’t hurt anyone.
I began to wipe my hands, but Leah jumped up instead. “Please, eat. I’ll go get my godson.” I focused on the burger and tried to ignore the man at the other end of the table. Grabbing our trash, I walked toward the kitchen to finish what I started earlier. Better I keep busy than try to have a conversation with Mason.
A pool of water covered the floor in front of my sink, and the hissing sound from earlier increased. I ran to it to look under the faucet for the leak, but slipped and fell on my butt the second my feet hit wet floor.
“Shit, Scarlet, are you okay?” Mason ran to me.
I tried to keep him out of the mess, yelling, “It’s all wet over here. There’s a leak.” Without missing a beat, he crouched down under the sink and turned the water off.
Then he analyzed the pipes and turned to me. “These pipes are pretty corroded. They need to be replaced,” he said, turning to me.
“I know,” I said with an annoyed edge to my voice. Mason was the lucky recipient of my anger, though he didn’t deserve it. “Fredrick was supposed to replace them. He forgot. He was supposed to replace those and the ones in our bathroom, and the broken garbage can outside, and the fence that’s still damaged from last year’s blizzard.” My voice began to rise, as my mind raced to catch up with everything that was now put on me.
“He was supposed to do all the honey-do jobs around the house, you know? He was supposed to carry the responsibility with me. He was supposed to come back. He wasn’t supposed to be gone forever. He wasn’t supposed to leave me. And our son. He was supposed to be my husband and a father and fix all the things. He wasn’t supposed to die. He wasn’t supposed to leave me.”
I didn’t mean for all the word vomit to come out like that, and by the time the words left my mouth tears were streaming down my face. I never meant to live this life alone, and in that moment, it hit me that I was all alone. Fredrick was gone, and he wasn’t coming back to fix the leaky pipes, or the broken fence, or our fatherless child.
I was a mother and a widow and all the responsibilities were mine to bear. All the joy of life and all the hard times were mine to face alone. Our son would grow up and never remember the man that was his father. I couldn’t tell how much of the water came from
the leaking faucet and how much came from my grief.
Mason sat directly into the water and pulled me to his chest, not saying a single word, just holding me as I cried. He didn’t try to calm me, he didn’t offer words of encouragement or sympathy. He just sat there holding me for as long as I needed him to. I don’t know how long we sat in the puddle, on the floor, in my kitchen.
Time seemed to blur until I heard tiny feet that I knew so well entering the kitchen with my best friend wrapped around his little finger. Out of instinct, I pushed out of Mason’s hold and moved to stand. Mason stayed on the floor, opening the cabinets to take pictures of the pipes that needed replacing.
“Mommy!” Ash yelled, running to me to wrap his arms around me in a big bear hug like he always did when he woke from a nap. He gave the very best hugs, and I needed a good hug. Holding my son only made my tears fall again though. In that moment, I was just like my leaky sink, a little broken and unable to stop the waterworks.
Though I was harder to fix. “You’re all wet. There’s water on the floor, Mommy. You need get a towel,” Ash told me, bending down to put his fingers in the water. Leah noticed my red face and tears immediately. She looked between me and Mason in question.
“There’s a leak under her sink,” Mason said, gesturing to the floor.
Turning to my son, Leah crouched down to his level, and said, “Hey Super Ash, you know what I just thought about?”
“What?” Ash asked, looking up at Leah with giant, beautiful, brown eyes that were just like his father’s and far too large for his tiny face.
“I was just thinking about how there’s this ice cream place down the road that makes the very best chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream, and I haven’t had one in years! Why don’t you go find some socks and shoes to put on and Uncle Mason and I will take you there.” Before she even finished the sentence, my son was halfway down the hallway, shouting praises and tripping with excitement.
“You look like you could use a minute. Dad and I will take Ash out for a bit and let you have a little time for yourself. Take a warm bath and maybe a nap. We’ll be back in a little while.” She pulled me in for a hug, and I thanked her and handed her my keys so she could get the car seat out for Ash.
Then I did as she said and took a nap. I had a million responsibilities running around in my head that needed tending, but all that would still be there another day.
I woke the next morning to Ash sitting in the bay window in my bedroom. He was watching something in the yard with a level of attention he normally did not possess. “Good morning, baby boy,” I said trying to get his attention.
I know he heard me because he answered me back with “good morning,” but he still didn’t move a muscle. I heard a banging noise and assumed whatever had his attention was also making that sound.
Getting out of bed, I crossed the room to see what he was looking at and almost screamed at the sight of a man in our backyard. On closer look, I saw that I knew that man very well standing out by the fence. Mason stood in blue jeans and boots, hammering away at a two by four in the back.
I grabbed the closest pair of shorts I could find and threw them on, making my way through my living room and out my back door. “What on earth are you doing at my house this early?” I demanded as I got in earshot of him.
“Helping. I didn’t want to wake you, but I have the stuff to fix those sinks in your kitchen and bathroom. Once I finish up here, I’ll get those squared away for ya,” he said without even glancing in my direction.
“Funny, I don’t remember asking you.” That got his attention.
He cocked an eyebrow, as he looked at me. “I don’t remember needing a request to tell me when a friend needs help.”
“This is an invasion of privacy, Mason. I did not tell you to come do these things for me. I’m not helpless, and I wasn’t even awake yet.” He was getting irritated with me. I could tell by the small change in his tone and the furrow in his brow.
“I didn’t force my way into your house, Scarlet. I opened the fence and began fixing something that you mentioned needed fixing.” He turned back to the task, but I wasn’t going to be dismissed that easily.
“I could have hired someone.”
“You sure could have. Still can if you want. Or you could stop being stubborn and just let me fix it.”
I huffed and marched back inside. He could fix the damn fence if he wanted to, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to keep him company while he did. I had enough going on in my life and didn’t need to play nice with this man. Etiquette be damned. I was done playing by the rules.
The more Mason fixed the fence, the more it seemed to need additional fixing. He’d get one part looking nice, and turn to see that another part was a half a breeze away from being blown down. He’d been out there all morning, and to my knowledge, he hadn’t taken any breaks to get food or even drink water. I took pity on him after a while.
I turned to Ash as I finished mixing up chicken salad for sandwiches and told him to go invite Mason in to eat with us. He was all too willing to go out there and get to talk to Mason. They were old buddies already. Guess ice cream outings will do that.
Mason stepped in my back door, wiping sweat off his forehead with his arm, and I handed him a towel. “Thanks,” he said, grabbing the towel and watching me like I was made of glass. To him, I probably was. I’d been so breakable lately. I was strong, but I was always just inches from falling and shattering into a million pieces.
We barely said a word to each other as Mason inhaled two sandwiches, a plate of chips and two full glasses of water. It was awkward having him there in the space I shared with Fredrick. I was grateful for the help and even grateful for the familiar presence, but I was in a bad place, and Mason had no place in this sad part of my life.
When he finally finished up the fence, Mason came inside and began fixing the sink. Unfortunately, he found all too quickly that he was missing a specific piece he needed. It was getting late anyway, and he probably had things he needed to do other than help me out.
He left with the promise that he would return another time and fix the sink. I tried not to smile as I walked him out to his car and passed by the shiny, new garbage can. Our broken one was absent, and in its place stood the exact same one but new.
Fourteen
In the weeks that followed, Mason made quite the habit of showing up at my doorstep. I tried to fight him on it, weakly at first. It had become a simple comfort, seeing him so often. I didn’t want him to stop coming around, but he had no need to be there. I felt guilty just thinking about him possibly wanting to be other places but feeling obligated to help me out.
He insisted each time that he wanted to help, so I let him. He worked long hours, just as I always remembered him doing. But weekends and even some weeknights he found his way to my house to help with one thing or another. At one point, he was up on a ladder in every room of my house, changing all the burnt out light bulbs.
Other times he simply did the dishes and searched cupboard after cupboard until he found the proper place for everything. He even brought a pressure washer over, and pressure washed the sides of my house and my driveway once. I don’t know what possessed him to do all these things for me, but I was grateful nonetheless.
Over time I seemed to get better. I knew I would always miss the father of my child, but it got easier and easier to understand that this was inevitable. Some people in the music industry go their entire lives without getting into drugs. Others go their entire lives addicted to drugs and end up outliving the rest. Then there are people like Fredrick who aren’t so lucky.
That’s the thing with drugs. They’re dangerous and unpredictable. There’s no way of knowing if you will be fine or if you will be the next person laying in a box with your loved ones surrounding you making the case you were actually a good person and didn’t deserve this. My husband didn’t deserve to die, and our son didn’t deserve to be fatherless.
But Fredrick had ample oppor
tunity to get help and help himself, and from his choice to ignore that black cloud looming over his head, he ended up dying anyway. I’m not heartless. Quite the opposite, actually. I understood it for what it was. He had died from his illness, his addiction. He was not coming back, and I had to be the best mother and father I could be for my son. I was all he had.
After that realization and some healing, I still had my bad days. Those days when it was all still too much. Like the time I was going through my phone deleting things to make more space for my thousands of pictures of Ash. Every mother knows this situation all too well. I went to take a picture of Ash playing with Lady, and my phone wouldn’t even open the camera. It said I had zero percent storage left.
I opened my photos thinking I could delete a few and be good to go. The more I scrolled through, the more my heart broke with memories of Fredrick. Picture after picture of us at the beach, at the movies, in the Winnebago, and just laying around at home. I hadn’t cried in weeks, but I could feel the tears just there beneath the surface.
I got up to make myself a drink. It was early on a Saturday afternoon, but I was just at home with my son watching cartoons. No need to care what others thought of me. Was life even worth living if you couldn’t have a drink and think about a lost loved one from time to time? Well, one drink led to another and I found myself in the back of my closet, sitting down beneath my wedding dress, just thinking about the past.
If I hadn’t been a little drunk already, the closet door opening would have scared me. As it was, I barely even looked up. I also failed to feel anything or react when the sigh Mason gave me told me plain as day that he was disappointed in the way he found me. When I said, I didn’t need to care what others thought of me, well he counted as “others.”
I regretted giving him the code to unlock my doors. But without saying a single word to me, Mason shut the closet door and left me to wallow in my own pain. I figured it was time to leave though since he was in my home and now knew I was laying on the floor in the closet.
This is Not a Fairytale Page 11
