It Happened to Us

by François Houle

  “You know how I feel about pills.”

  “But if you can’t sleep at night.”

  He shook his head. “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not,” she said. “I’d really like you to see a doctor.”

  “I don’t need a doctor for a few sleepless nights,” he said.

  “Maybe not,” she said, taking a step into his office. “But you might need help for your mood.”

  “I’m. Fine.”

  “Did you hear your tone right now?”

  He said nothing.

  “Matt, you’re getting moodier each day. All you do is sit in that chair and look at her pictures. I just don’t think that’s healthy.”

  “Why do we take pictures if we’re never going to look at them?”

  “We look at pictures for fun, to laugh and remember the good times. You should see your face when you’re looking at her pictures. You’re like transfixed . . . and pained.”

  “I can’t let her go like you have.”

  Lori-Anne stared down at him. “You think it’s that easy for me?”

  “Didn’t stop you from going back to work. You’re right back on schedule, like nothing happened.”

  “I have a job to do.”

  “Our daughter died,” he said, slapping his hand on the desk. “We buried her last Thursday and Monday you were back at work. Doesn’t that seem wrong to you?”

  Lori-Anne folded her arms across her chest. “I thought it would help if I kept busy. You’re not the only one hurting and there’s times when . . .”

  They stared at each other.

  “I think you should have stayed home,” he said.

  “So we can do this all day long? Maybe I wanted to get away from our fighting.” Lori-Anne turned to leave.

  “Most people wouldn’t go back to work so soon. I haven’t worked on any of my orders this week.”

  She whipped around. “Maybe you should, it would occupy your mind.”

  “The last thing I want to do is use power tools when I can’t concentrate. A bad combo.”

  “I get that,” Lori-Anne said. “But you can’t lie in bed all day or look at pictures. Your clients will expect their orders.”

  “I was able to reschedule them. A couple cancelled and I’ll refund their deposits.” He suddenly felt drained. “It’s killing me inside. All I ever wanted was a family, to have a few kids, and the only one we had is gone. I’m just so angry.”

  “I am too . . .”

  Mathieu pointed at his laptop. “Looking at her pictures gets me through the day. I keep hoping that tomorrow I’ll feel better, but I don’t. It’s like my insides are one big tangled mess of rage that I can’t get rid of. It suffocates me. I can’t think clearly. There’s times when I don’t think I can take another breath, the panic rolling over me like a tank. I’m afraid of forgetting her so I look at her pictures and I remember how happy we were, but that ache in me never goes away. It just never goes away.”

  “Why don’t you see your doctor? Maybe you need something to help you for now, until you do feel better.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You’re so stubborn. You’d rather feel like that than get help?”

  He shook his head. “It’s Good Friday. Offices are closed.”

  “Then call Monday.”

  “I’ll think about it,” he said.

  SIX

  Mother’s Day

  May 13, 2012

  7:47 a.m.

  Lori-Anne lay in bed, alone, listening to heaven’s tears knock at her window. The rain sounded like tiny fists against the glass, tiny fists of children wanting to come in, the children she’d not been able to conceive. She’d always felt blessed that at least they’d had Nadia, that for some reason, they’d been allowed to have her.

  However short that time had been.

  And it had been way too short. She missed her daughter, the feel of carrying her when she was pregnant, holding that tiny baby for the first time, giving her her first bath. Mathieu had stayed home with Nadia but Lori-Anne had had wonderful times with her daughter too. Going shopping with her every August to buy going-back-to-school clothes, helping with homework, showing her how to apply makeup just last year so she wouldn’t look like a hooker.

  The tiny smile on her lips faded quickly.

  So now what? If Nadia was gone, was she still a mother? She wanted to believe that she was, but to whom? Nadia’s spirit? Nadia’s memory? That didn’t seem like much. Maybe bordered on the not-right-of-mind sort of personality. Mathieu’s the one who had showed those signs, not her. No, she’d done her best to pick up the pieces and move forward, not move on because that sounded cold, like denying anything bad had happened. Moving forward encompassed everything that had happened, and brought it along. Nothing was left behind.

  The difference was subtle, if it existed at all. She knew that. Whereas her husband had buried himself in a past that no longer was, she moved forward to a future that hopefully would return them to serenity, and maybe someday to subdued happiness.

  That hope fuelled her to keep trying.

  But it was hard. She hadn’t handled the past month very well. The man she loved had become a broken soul she couldn’t reach. Her life was out of control and the worst part was that she blamed herself. All she’d wanted to do was to talk with Nadia, but instead they’d started to argue and things had gone horribly wrong.

  What had she expected? Nadia had been an emotional mess, confused and angry at the world, at her parents. You guys don’t get me, you don’t let me do anything, you’re such dinosaurs. Lori-Anne had heard that plenty of times. The same old thing in the car—Nadia complaining and texting, ignoring her. On top of that, Lori-Anne’s Blackberry kept vibrating, someone from work trying to reach her no doubt.

  That day was better left alone. Nothing could change what happened.

  Mother’s Day. Maybe she should just hide in her bedroom all day, wait it out. She was pretty sure Mathieu wouldn’t bother her if she didn’t come out. It could be that easy. Just lay low for the day, sleep, wait it out.

  She got up.

  Lori-Anne Delacroix wasn’t the type of woman who gave up, who hid from life. So what if it was Mother’s Day and there was no one to call her mom anymore. She still had a mother and if Mathieu didn’t want to accompany her, she’d go spend the day at her parents’ and treat her mom to a wonderful day.

  Yes, that’s what she’d do. She headed for the bathroom to shower and caught her reflection in the mirror. There were dark circles under her eyes, and maybe a few grey hairs. The woman staring back, it wasn’t her. Lori-Anne turned away from the mirror, unable to face Nadia’s killer. Maybe she was being harsh, but if she’d paid attention to the road, if she hadn’t been so determined to get Nadia’s phone away from her, if Nadia had been listening, then maybe her daughter would still be here, sleeping in her bed where she belonged.

  If only, if only, if only.

  Their lives would be as they’d always been, pleasant and uneventful. Ordinary, but that was fine. Better than fine. Ordinary was fantastic. Lori-Anne would rather be dealing with an ordinary, sullen, and impenetrable teenager than to be sucked into the hole left by her absence. That absence widened the distance between her and Mathieu, every day finding them a little further away from each other. Lori-Anne didn’t really know what to do. Mathieu didn’t want to talk. When she tried, he would get angry and at times mean, saying things she couldn’t believe came from the man she loved. Their conversations were like a mine field. A wrong word, a wrong gesture, a wrong look could set him off.

  Last week, she’d searched the three medicine cabinets, his office, even his woodshop. She hadn’t found a prescription. He’d never gone to see his doctor. He wasn’t getting better. They weren’t getting better.

  If only, if only, if only.

  Lori-Anne got in the shower and let the hot water cascade over her, the tension in her neck and back easing a bit. She
dressed in jeans and a pink t-shirt, and made her way down to the kitchen where nothing special waited for her.

  * * *

  Mathieu was in the garage, trying his best to finish a dresser that was due this coming week. He’d put the job off as long as he could, and it wouldn’t be perfect. The flaws would have bothered him in the past, but he was out of time and he doubted his client would see them. This dresser had been a real struggle, his love for woodworking simply not there, a chore instead of a passion. His next project, a bed for a little girl, would be even harder to do. It was the same plan he’d used for Nadia’s bed. A couple of times he’d picked up the phone to call and tell the client he couldn’t do it, but he’d already pushed back the date and the client had been so understanding. Besides, Mathieu didn’t think it would be right to deny the little girl a new bed just because of his own problems.

  “Shit,” he said as he sliced the tip of his index finger with a freshly sharpened chisel. He headed for the powder room and stuck his finger under cold water.

  His grandfather’s warnings ran through his head. Woodworkers lose fingers every day because they’re not concentrating. Lucky he hadn’t been using the table saw.

  Mathieu spread Polysporin on the wound and wrapped the cut with a bandage he found in the medicine cabinet. He popped two Tylenol in his mouth to ease the sting. Some pains were a lot easier to deal with. Even his right knee, the one he’d torn playing hockey when he was sixteen, was easier to handle than the never-ending ache he felt in his heart all day long. He splashed water on his face and suddenly grabbed the sides of the sink.

  Nadia. As plain as day. It happened all the time when he closed his eyes. He could almost touch her, but he knew if he tried, she would run through his fingers like water from the faucet.

  Mathieu opened his eyes and turned the faucet off. When he straightened, he didn’t like what he saw in the mirror. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been able to see his cheekbones so predominantly, and his eyes were bloodshot and lifeless. The couch wasn’t exactly comfortable. But he couldn’t share the bed with Lori-Anne. When he looked at her, he saw Nadia. When he smelled her, he smelled Nadia.

  The phone rang.

  Mathieu rushed to the kitchen and checked the call display.

  “Hey Grandpa?” he said.

  “How are you?”

  “Sliced my finger with a chisel,” he said, knowing this wasn’t what his grandfather was really asking him. “Should’ve been paying attention.”

  “I don’t need to remind you.”

  “The chisel reminded me.”

  Grandpa chuckled. “I guess it did.”

  “How’s Grandma?”

  “She’s having a pretty good morning,” Grandpa said. “But she’s worried about you.”

  Mathieu looked at the clock on the stove. It was just after 9:30. He thought it would be later. He couldn’t remember when he’d gone to work in the shop.

  “Me?”

  “You know your grandmother.”

  A wonderful woman. Raised and cared for him when her rearing days should have been long done. He’d been difficult at first and she’d known how to soothe his sadness. Night after night, he’d wake up screaming, asking for his mommy and daddy, and when grandma came rushing to comfort him, he’d kick and scream that he didn’t want her, he wanted his parents. Grandma never got angry with him, never raised her voice, never walked away. She’d stay with him until he fell back to sleep. He couldn’t remember how many months that had lasted, but he was so grateful now for the love and patience that she’d given him. She was not just a grandmother, but a mother as well.

  “Tell her I’m fine,” he said. “I’m fine.”

  “You know I don’t believe you,” Grandpa said. “And I’m not going to lie to your grandmother. We’re both worried about you and Lori-Anne. How are you two getting on?”

  Mathieu ran a hand across his chin. Every morning, he got up, hopeful, meaning to talk with her, spend time with her, but his anger always took over. One second everything was fine and then rage would rip through him like a tornado.

  “It’s been tense.”

  “Maybe counselling would help.”

  “You don’t strike me as believing in that sort of thing. Is that Grandma’s idea?”

  “We’ve discussed it. Your grandmother and I did see someone when your parents died. It was difficult opening up to a stranger, but in time it became easier. It did help us. Besides, we had you to think about.”

  Mathieu looked around the kitchen. It was so neat, clean. Nadia would leave the bread on the counter, crumbs scattered about, a dirty knife beside the peanut butter container left beside the toaster, her empty cup forgotten on the table. But now the kitchen was spotless, like no one used it. Mathieu was home alone all day and Lori-Anne worked passed dinner time most days. Who was he supposed to take care of? It was like he lived alone.

  “Yeah, well. We don’t have anyone to worry about.”

  “But you do,” Grandpa said. “You have a wife to care for and she has a husband.”

  Mathieu didn’t know what to say.

  “Listen,” Grandpa said. “Why don’t the two of you come on over for lunch? You and I can make something special for Mother’s Day.”

  “I don’t think Lori-Anne wants to be reminded of what she’s missing,” Mathieu said. “It would be too hard on her.”

  “On her,” Grandpa said, “or on you?”

  “Both, I guess.”

  “Get back on the horse, son,” Grandpa said. “You need to get back to living.”

  “Grandpa, it’s not that easy or that simple.”

  “Of course it’s not,” Grandpa said. “Life isn’t easy. Marriage isn’t easy. Nothing worthwhile is easy. But what’s the alternative? Things happen and we suffer through it and we find the courage to move on, hopefully stronger than before. What happened is a real shame, but life goes on. You have a wife who loves you. Use that love to find your courage.”

  Mathieu stood by the kitchen sink, staring out the window at the old play structure. Push me higher Daddy, higher. Nadia’s giggles filled the backyard while Lori-Anne sunbathed on a lounge chair. A shot of happiness and longing ran through his veins.

  “I’ll have to ask Lori-Anne when she gets up,” Mathieu finally said.

  “Okay, you do that, and call back.”

  “Sure Grandpa.”

  Mathieu put the phone down and heard Lori-Anne step into the kitchen. He saw something in her eyes, like she’d hoped for something but now had to settle for disappointment.

  “I thought you were still in bed.”

  “Showered and dressed,” she said. “Who was on the phone?”

  “My grandparents invited us over for lunch,” he said. “We should probably go considering it’s Mother’s—”

  He caught himself but not before he saw Lori-Anne’s disappointment turn into something deeper and sadder, a burden crushing her spirit.

  “I didn’t know what to do about today.”

  “I’m fine,” she said and moved toward the coffee machine.

  “Let me make that,” he said. “I woke up early and just went straight to work and didn’t even think of making coffee.”

  “Or anything,” she said.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll make us something.”

  She shook her head. “Don’t worry about it.” She filled the coffee machine with water and coffee grind and pushed the AUTO button. Percolating coffee broke the silence.

  “Damn it, Lori-Anne,” he said. “I’m trying to be nice.”

  “You shouldn’t have to try,” she said.

  “Look,” he said. “No matter what I did today, there was no way to be right, so I did nothing. But that’s also wrong. Nadia’s gone either way.”

  “I know,” she said, her voice weak. “I don’t think it’s really about today. It’s about the last seven weeks. You’ve been somewhere else. I can’t talk
to you. You’ve shut me out.”

  “I’ve shut you out? You’re always working.”

  “Why would I want to be here?”

  “So it’s all my fault?”

  “Mathieu, will you go see your doctor? Maybe he can prescribe something that will help your moods and your grief, and then maybe we’ll have a chance to make things better between us.”

  “I’m fine,” he said. “I’m not going on any stupid medication.”

  Lori-Anne extended her hand as if to touch him, but then pulled it back. “Only for a little while, until you get passed this.”

  “Are you going on medication?”

  “I’m not the one who’s depressed,” she said.

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “I’m still functioning. I get up and go to work every day and I don’t bite anyone’s head off. I can’t say the same about you.”

  “I get my work done,” he said.

  “Do you? I haven’t seen any finished projects since before the accident. Aren’t people going to start demanding the furniture they’ve ordered?”

  “That’s my problem.”

  “Sure. Fine,” she said.

  “Anyway, I’m just finishing a dresser so I’m getting things done.”

  “Okay.” She took a cup from the cupboard and filled it with coffee. “I still think you should see your doctor.”

  He filled his own cup. “I don’t see how that’s going to help. I don’t believe in that stuff.”

  “Depression is a chemical imbalance. Severe trauma, stress caused by loss can trigger it. There’s some good medication out there that can help.”

  “What, you’re a doctor now?”

  “I did some research and you have all the signs. There’s no harm in trying. Please, if not for you then for us. We can’t live like this.”

  He put his cup down on the counter. “I miss her. So, damn, much.”

  “And so do I.”

  “But you weren’t the one here with her every day, raising her, watching her grow. I scheduled my days around her. It was the best feeling in the world. Now that she’s gone, it’s like I had a limb cut off. Every morning I wait for her to get up and start getting ready for school and when she doesn’t I go to her room and open the door and all I see is this perfect room, the bed made, no dirty clothes on the floor, her desk uncluttered, her stuffed animals in a tidy circle on her bed the way she liked to put them.” He paused. “So I look at her pictures on my computer and play home movies, and she stays alive for me that way. It helps me get through the day.”