“Thank you,” Erskine whispered to Sophia, who mouthed the same words to him.
She saw the sadness in his old eyes when he looked at Alistair’s face, marred with sorrow, blood, and tears and fought her emotions back inside herself. This was a time for Alistair. She would cry for them afterward.
Alistair sat on the edge of the bathtub and let them do their work.
Sophia blanched when she saw that the lacerations on his hands would need stitches. She let out a relieved sigh when she saw how skilled Erskine was with tissue adhesives.
As Sophia cleaned his face and hair and Erskine washed and bandaged his hands, no one said a word or looked directly at him, even though he flinched once in a while.
Alistair knew this time he had gone too far, and that he should explain, but he didn’t have the strength to talk about it.
As she opened their coverlet and arranged the pillows for him to sleep, Sophia could feel his gaze on her. She didn’t pretend she understood what had happened, nor did she want to.
She wanted him to tell and tell her about it until there was nothing more inside to hurt him that way.
Before he closed their bedroom door, Erskine told her not to worry. The grave would be cleaned so they could go there again in the morning. He also told her Alistair’s hands had never been like this before, but they would be healed in a week or so without leaving deep scars and that the doctor would be there early in the morning.
She understood it had become a ritual for Alistair. For all of them. Why the family had allowed it, she didn’t understand.
However, Erskine saw the question in her eyes. “No one knows. Only the doctor and I. Now, you do too.”
Chapter 17
Alistair fell asleep with his head on her breasts, his bandaged hands resting over her stomach. When Sophia’s fingers left his hair to better adjust herself, he moaned as if he missed her touch. She enveloped him with her arms, and her fingers dipped again into his hair.
After Alistair was sleeping profoundly, bitter tears filled the space where Sophia’s heart had been cut, alleviating, but never entirely making up for the part of it she had given Nathalie. Sophia wondered how long she could survive without so many pieces of her heart.
She gazed at her scarred arm.
Those scars had been a great shame to Sophia until recently, not because of their ugliness, but because they reminded her of her cowardice and inability to save Gabriel.
Maybe this is what he’s doing. Scarring himself so one day, his hands would show the ugly scars of his shame. How many scars are still bleeding in his soul? And how many more is he going to carve?
Just before sunrise Sophia fell in a fitful and brief slumber. She woke up startled from a dream almost an hour after, with a frantic idea in her mind. As the forms took shape, she knew there would be no more sleep for her that night.
Soundlessly, she moved to the window seat. After what seemed hours, she saw a shadow passing by the chapel. A normally tall and straight Erskine was hunched, dragging his feet, carrying a bucket and a mop.
Sophia got away from the window seat, by a thin slit of the draped curtains, not letting in too much light. As she wrapped her arms around Alistair again, her gaze roamed over his large hands, almost totally wrapped in gauze.
She didn’t want to see all that blood again. Never again.
A tear fell from her eyes and he moaned.
In a daze, she turned to look at him, taking in his handsome face and glorious hair, still matted with blood.
Alistair was awake and gazing at her, mortified. A low rumble vibrated in his chest and he closed his eyes.
The demon is still inside him. She didn’t know exactly how to proceed, but she did what she knew best. She kissed him lightly and whispered soothingly, “Morning. How are you feeling?”
“Sophia,” he breathed. He took her mouth, bruising her lips with a fine edge of violence, his eyes still closed.
“It’s okay, Alistair Connor,” she spoke on his lips. “It’s okay. I’m here. I’m not going away. I’m your Sophia.”
His silence was telling. He was ashamed and frightened. He knew she had never seen a scene like the one of the night before and he wasn’t sure how she was going to behave.
“Let me help you wash. Your doctor must be arriving any minute now.” Trying to reassure him, she said, “I’m not scared of you and I’m not going away. Open your eyes and see for yourself.”
Exactly what I don’t want to do. Your face is looking so haggard, unhappy, and sad, it hurts. But he complied.
“I have a terrible headache.” Pinching the bridge of her nose, as the pounding just worsened, Sophia wondered if the devil knew what had kept her awake and sought to dissuade her with the unrelenting headache. Let him try. “Let’s take a shower and eat something light.”
“Sophia, I—I told you I was darkness personified. I’m—”
“Alistair Connor, you of all people should know that we are not always good or bad, black or white, unless we are talking of evil psychos. We, human beings, are somewhere in between angels and demons. That is what makes us imperfectly lovely.” A grim savagery she hadn’t felt since she learned of Gabriel’s death had possessed her. She would do everything to save Alistair’s soul. “You are more on the angel side, you just have to let go of this evil inside you.”
Always forgiving. He brushed the backs of his fingers over her cheek and murmured, “You look so tired. I’m sorry.”
I know, I know. I’m sorry too. For Nathalie, you, us, everything. “It’s okay. We can take a nap later.” She refused to bow to the vicious desire to just pretend nothing happened and she knew that it would only worsen his state if she pitied him. She got out of the bed and went to the window, flinging the black and gold velvet curtains open. Let the light come in and chase the darkness away.
She stretched, cracking her neck from one side to the other, and shut her eyes, breathing in deeply, empowering herself with a fierce determination to fight all his demons.
Relief washed through Alistair as he watched his wife get ready to do battle. With her by his side, he could too. He stepped behind her and gingerly embraced her, pulling her onto him and looking at the trees under which his daughter was buried. Biting pain needled his heart, but he knew he was not alone anymore. His dark mood lightened as her warmth seeped into him like sunrays. He bent his head and said in a gravelly voice, “Thank you for being here for me.”
You haven’t seen anything. She angled her head to fix him with a gaze bursting with so much life and love that he blinked, astonished.
“I’ll always be by your side, Alistair Connor Davenport MacCraig. If it were a thousand to your one, I would be at your side. Because you deserve, because you are mine. Because I love you.”
“Therapy sessions are for this, Alistair Connor. You’re just beginning to process.” And it’s going to take longer if you lie or omit. Sophia thinned her lips, before she said something she regretted. She had been trying to convince him to tell Dr. Volk about what happened since the doctor who had redone the curatives left half an hour ago.
He walked to the window, looking at the forest outside. Nae. There’s no way I’m discussing this. I’m not prepared.
She tried again. “And why was yesterday—this night—so different?” What made you more uncontrolled?
A muscle tickled in his jaw. “You don’t understand, Sophia!” It’s too much to risk. I can’t bear to think of hurting you because of a whim of mine.
“You’re right. I don’t.” I don’t know the pain of losing a child. Sophia closed her hands tightly, her nails digging into her palms not to cry. “But I know that if you keep cutting yourself, this is not going to end well. You have to discuss this.” In therapy and with me.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Aren’t you a stubborn woman? “I was—I am—” I can’t tell you.
“Past or present?”
Uh? He glanced back at her, unwilling to answer her question. “What?”
&nbs
p; “You were, or you are?” Is it Gabriela?!
What’s the difference? “Don’t be cryptic. Fire away,” he snapped.
Sophia’s eyes narrowed. “If I have to explain it to you, then you’re more damaged than I thought.” Stop hiding.
Damaged, aye. You nailed it. An anger against himself swirled in his veins. He turned his head and squinted at her. “Let’s agree then that I am damaged. Why did you marry me, I wonder. A fucking damaged, rotten man.”
Oh, my God. It’s the baby. Sophia felt lightheaded when she realized what the problem was. She blanched and swayed on her feet. She didn’t fall but only because she sat heavily on the bed and dropped on the pillows.
In a second Alistair was beside her. Fuck, Alistair Connor. The woman gives you everything and more, and you can’t even treat her with politeness?! “Sophia! What are you feeling?”
Now I know how you feel. She opened her lids to look at him, miserably. “I’m just tired. And hungry. Why don’t we grab a light lunch and take a nap?”
He wondered if she was lying; what she had seen in him that made that strong woman suddenly so fragile and put such despondency in her eyes. “Sure?”
“Yes,” she said, sitting on the bed, as if sedated. She looked up to him with a plea in her eyes. “So, are we agreed? We only go back on Tuesday morning? Directly to Dr. Volk’s office, together?”
He’d had enough of discussions and sorrows for a whole year. He didn’t want to fight with her. He wanted to lie down with her body in his arms and sleep away the rest of the weekend, until Tuesday morning. “Aye, we are agreed.”
As they made their way through the dramatic black and gold corridor, Sophia mourned a double loss of children she never knew but already loved: Nathalie and any future children Alistair would never be able to have.
Dr. Andrew Volk’s Office
Thursday, February 3, 2011
9:10 a.m.
“Good morning. You must be the famous Sophia.” Dr. Volk’s charming smile welcomed Sophia. “Morning, Alistair.” He then pointed to the sofa angled toward his armchair and the two armchairs in front of his desk. “I can arrange an armchair for you, Sophia—”
“You don’t mind us sitting side by side, do you? I prefer it, unless, of course, you are against it.”
“Not at all. Make yourself comfortable.” The doctor was amused at her bossy way, as she hung her overcoat and helped Alistair with his.
Easy. Calm down, Sophia. “Great.” Sophia sat at the sofa in front of the doctor’s armchair and pulled Alistair by the wrist to sit beside her, looking at him with a plea in her eyes.
Alistair briskly shook his head.
At that moment, Dr. Volk was sure something very serious was going on. He leaned back casually in his armchair, studying her profile in the dimness of the room. Sophia was a delicate woman, with a silent, strong, and imposing presence. She was dressed quite differently from how Alistair usually described her. She was wearing a long wool navy dress, so dark it was almost black, not a hint of make-up, her braid weaved tightly on her skull, without any jewelry, but the famous engagement ring. The overcoat hanging behind the door was of the darkest navy too.
She didn’t waste any time. “I hope you don’t mind my intruding, Dr. Volk.”
“Andrew,” he interrupted. “As long as Alistair wants you to come, you’re welcome.”
“Thank you. I know that grieving is a personal process. It has no time limit, nor a right way to do it. An unexpected death, especially an unnatural death, brings out emotions which don’t allow us to see beyond our anger or denial.” She gave Dr. Volk a self-deprecatory smile.
She was not talking about Alistair’s but of her own experience and the doctor understood.
“It doesn’t necessarily take bravery to resist the inevitable and to deny ourselves the opportunity to make our peace. Many times, we need a phase of cuddling.”
“I know.” She sighed and turned her head to gaze deeply into Alistair’s eyes and back to the doctor. “What we both didn’t allow ourselves was this immediate phase of withdrawal, or a depression period to get acquainted with what happened. I’m trying to reach out of the darkness, to find a new way. But I’m still in the necessary bloody soul-deep plunge; the one that feels like we are lost in the darkness of life, of hell, of suffering.”
Alistair had already told him Sophia talked with her eyes, they could darken or brighten, depending on her mood, and her face held nothing back.
However Dr. Volk had never seen such an impressive display of so many emotions at the same time. She was anguished; he heard sadness in her voice; her eyes were dark and he knew she was on the verge of tears, not for her loss but for a bigger one. Maybe even bigger than Alistair’s.
He didn’t know her but from Alistair’s words. Nonetheless it seemed to him that Sophia was looking at the world with a hopeless stare.
“You have a poetic voice, Sophia, not exactly rhymed and metrical. Although the idea you harvest is sensible, it’s quite difficult to achieve.” Probing lightly, he smiled at her, “Are you sure you haven’t found your way out of the darkness?”
A profound sigh left her body and Alistair passed an arm around her shoulders, careful of his hand, bringing her closer to him.
“I thought I had, Andrew, and then I realized…there is no real light but just small sparks of happiness we should photograph to contain. But if we stop to photograph, we can’t enjoy them; the flash overexposes them and they disappear.”
With an exaggerated pose, Dr. Volk paused with his pencil in the air. “Can you repeat that, please? I’ve just decided I’m going to write a poem based on your last words.”
That drew a watery smile from her. “I’m sorry. I tend to be a bit dramatic when I’m nervous.”
“That was really beautiful, Sophia. Reaching this stage of mourning is a gift not afforded to everyone. Grieving is a personal and highly individual experience. How you grieve depends on many factors, including your personality and how you cope, your life experiences, your faith, and the nature of the loss. The grieving process takes time. Healing happens gradually; it can’t be forced or hurried, and there is no normal timetable for grieving.”
“But usually it takes weeks or months,” Alistair whispered. “A year, perhaps.”
“For others, it takes forever. It’s important to be patient with yourself and allow the process to unfold naturally. Trying to ignore the pain only makes it worse in the long run. For real healing, it’s necessary to face your grief and actively deal with it, to feel your fragility and impotence, to show your true feelings. Crying is a normal response to death, fear, or loneliness. It doesn’t mean you are weak. On the contrary, it’s simply another way of showing strength.”
“I cry,” he breathed. But it doesn’t lessen the sorrow.
Dr. Volk could see Alistair was enduring terrible pain to rebuild his life and feel happiness again, but still there was something he couldn’t put his finger on. “A significant loss triggers worries and fears. But, Alistair, life is like this. If you fear your mortality all the time, or of the ones’ you love, you will forget to live and be happy. You’ll be alone. Draw comfort from Sophia, from your new daughter, and from this little baby you are planning. Seek your families. Maybe Father Bruce. And you can call me outside of our therapy sessions. You’ve already been doing video-call therapy,” the doctor said. He gave Alistair a gentle smile, encouraging him to talk.
“He needs to know the truth, Alistair Connor,” Sophia breathed. But she saw in his eyes he was determined not to tell.
Alistair frowned at her. “Sophia.” We’re not doing this.
Damn you. “Please,” she begged.
“Nae. We agreed—”
I’m sorry, my love. This is for your own good. Steeling herself, she faced him, “I see your trust exceeds your wisdom, Lord Veritas-vos-liberabit.”
“Sophia MacCraig!” Alistair thundered.
Sophia picked up his wrists firmly in her hands and turned his palms
to Doctor Volk, showing the many bandages. “He cuts himself. To avoid feeling the real pain, he hurts himself physically.”
Chapter 18
Dr. Volk sat still, looking thoughtfully at Sophia, but did not immediately speak. After several moments, he asked, “How?”
“He cuts his fingers and hands on the sharp marble spikes he put around Nathalie’s little grave. He made them for the purpose of hurting himself.”
“It was more beautiful like that,” Alistair whispered. “Protective.”
Beautiful?! Oh, screw you! Sophia raised her voice. “Don’t you dare lie here, Alistair Connor.”
Dr. Volk put his pencil and notepad on the side table and stared at Alistair. He spoke in carefully measured words, “You have to be truthful to heal. Only through trust will you both see it through together.”
“It was more beautiful.” His eyes filled with tears. Shameful, childish, Alistair Connor. “With all the small marble spikes protecting the flat smooth white marble.”
“Andrew, he didn’t even write her name on it. There is nothing etched on the marble, no plaque, nothing. I found him there at midnight.”
“Sophia,” he hissed.
“Cutting his hands. There was blood all over, Andrew, I was terrified.”
Christ! “I didn’t ask—” you to follow me.
“That is not a grave for a child—” your daughter.
Don’t. “Sophia. Stop.” Don’t go on.
“That was a macabre, masochistic—” grave.
Oh, fuck you! “Put yourself in my shoes!” he exclaimed. Ignoring the ache in his hands, he turned her to him by the shoulders. In the green inferno of his eyes, there was a pain so raw it burned her. “Your daughter is happily playing in school. Mine…” A dark mask descended over his features and his control snapped. “MINE IS BEING EATEN BY WORMS!”
TRUST Series 1-8 Page 122
