“Um, Mrs Cartwright, I need you come with me please. I can get you a wheelchair if you need one. But we can’t stay here. I’m sorry.”
“But I need to see my baby-”
“Yes I know, but in a few minutes okay? Let me take you somewhere more comfortable. They’ll know where to find you when they’re ready.”
We’re taken into a bland room with mint coloured walls, and windows that offer a view of the neighbouring brick building. There is a tattered old brown couch resting to one side and a row of stiff metal chairs with the same cracked brown vinyl, facing the couch.
Luke still has me in a firm hold underneath one of his arms and Jon is gripping my hand to his chest now that his sobbing has subsided. My fingers are protesting under the pressure of his grip but I relish the fact that I can still feel.
“Ah, fuck man.” Luke pulls on the back of Jon’s neck and drags him into a one armed embrace, not a bro hug, or a masculine hold and release. A proper, rib crushing hug that pulls me closer into him. He takes this as a sign of me wanting more from him, so he presses me closer and kisses the top of my head. “I don’t know what to say. ‘Sorry’ kind of sucks arse right now.”
His comment takes me by surprise. I start chuckling. He’s right, sorry does suck arse. My chuckles escalate into laughter, building in volume and intensity. Both towering men pull away with crossed brows, confusion written all over their faces.
“He’s right, this sucks big time.” My laughing words are broken by sharp breaths that catch in my lungs. I’m gulping down air that I’m unable to release, the choking pressure building painfully as tears begin to stream down my face and drip from my chin. The density in my chest soon becomes so intense black spots fill my vision. I press the heel of my palm over where my heart should be to try and elevate the dizzying pain. From a distance I hear my name being called but with all the blood pounding in my ears, I can’t be sure who’s calling for me. I see the speckled grey vinyl come up to meet my face and feel hands cradling my decent.
I’M LYING DOWN.
I don’t remember going to bed.
My body feels so heavy I’m surely leaving indentations in the mattress.
People are whispering nearby; hearing them is comforting because I don’t want to be alone. My closed eyelids are a glaring red and my breathing is even. I feel an odd sort of quietness flowing through me. Not happiness, or contentment, just a bland calmness.
The deep timbres of voices are familiar and I start to catch snippets of their conversation - ‘going to crush her’ and ‘don’t know how she is going to get through’ … then worst of all: ‘can’t believe the three of them are gone’.
I’m quickly learning that sometimes it really is better to be left in the dark.
A door opens and the scuffing of feet travel towards me. “Maggie not awake yet?” The anguished voice is coming from my father.
“Not yet.” I’m sure that’s Jon replying. He sounds exhausted.
There is a heavy sigh and the scraping of metal over lino. Someone sits by my side and takes hold of my hand. The weight of their limbs on the thin mattress causes my body to dip; warm coffee breath gives voice to my father’s words.
“Maggie, do you want to wake up, Chicken? You’ve been sleeping for hours and we would really like to talk with you,” he says quietly, squeezing my knuckles for good measure. The sadness in his voice wounds me deeply and has me cowering in my skin.
Do I want to wake up?
I don’t think I do.
“Maggie, the doctors are waiting on you. Wake up Chicken.”
My strangled hands sweat and the constant caressing starts to chafe uncomfortably, but I don’t pull away. Though my world is in tatters, my father still needs to find solace where he can and, since my mother died three years ago, I’m all he has.
For my sole parent I force my red lids to creep open and immediately snap them back down and squeeze them tight. The instigator of the bright red glare is a sharp fluorescent light directly above my head. Seconds later there’s a click and the offender disappears. I cautiously open my eyes again, blinking repeatedly to allow my pupils to adjust to the softer amber glow and turn my head in search of my dad. His face is puffy and splotchy from crying too much, and fresh tears are running over his ageing skin.
“Maggie… I’m so sorry Chicken…” He swallows hard, causing his Adam’s apple to bob up then down, holding the rest of his words captive. I roll over onto my side and take in the room. I’m in the hospital.
“I’ll go let them know she’s awake.”
“Thanks Luke.” Luke. Jon’s friend I haven’t seen in years. The man we went to school with, whom we’ve glanced at on Skype, who held me firm through all of this devastation. The virtual stranger who didn’t hesitate to envelope me in a blanket of safety and not let go.
“I need to see my girls, Dad. Please,” I say, pushing my resistant body off the hard mattress. Dad cups my shoulder, coaxing me to stay down. When he’s satisfied I’ll do as he asks, he runs his arthritic fingers through my tangled hair.
“In a minute Chicken. The doctors want a word first, okay?”
Dad hasn’t called me Chicken for more years than I can count. It was a nick-name he used when I was Mattie’s age. He said he gave it to me because I was so much tinier than all the other kids in the neighbourhood. Mum said it was because I hated the animation with a passion after Dad compared Chicken Little to me. And now he’s using it like a life line.
Before I can respond to my father, the door to my hospital room opens and four people - three male, two wearing green scrubs, and one female, dressed in a blue version of her colleagues, enter and surround my bed. I look into their eyes as they situate themselves, three pairs breaking contact before I do, one pair of piercing blues hold steadfast and unrelenting.
They introduce themselves and explain why it’s necessary for them to be here. The first, Dr Toey, tells me of my husband. He says Brendan was found unresponsive at the scene and further investigation proved that he suffered excessive trauma to his brain and spinal column, resulting in an immediate loss of life and that he most likely didn’t suffer any pain through his injuries.
He uses the term ‘loss of life’ not death and emphasizes the words ‘didn’t suffer’ because that’s supposed to be so much kinder. To me, the end result is still the same. Dr Toey is still telling me that my husband is gone, dead. He pats my arm and steps away with a nod, glad that his part in all of this is done.
I roll further onto my side again, hitch the scratchy covers to my ears and stare into my father’s dull hazel eyes. The second doctor takes his turn; Dr Cox speaks of excessive blood loss and that’s when I start to block him out because I’ve already seen the unrelenting flow he’s talking about. I already know the outcome. I can see it ageing my father’s face with the more detail Dr Cox divulges.
Dr Cox takes hold of my ankle when he gets to the end of his speech, recapturing my attention. “We tried everything we could, but there was just too much damage. I truly am sorry, Mrs Cartwright.”
Why he needed my undivided attention to rip another third of my heart out, I’ll never know.
I fist the sheet and turn back to my father, noticing Luke leaning on a wall in the background studying me. He fills my blurry vision as the last doctor introduces herself. Dr Avery Baxter - she’s Scottish, according to her accent anyway. I find it ironic how, with all the devastation that pours past her lips, the same devastation I witnessed earlier, somehow manages to sound less severe, less intense with the addition of her brogue.
Or maybe it’s because she already took the third of my heart that belonged to Ella. At least she doesn’t bother with sympathy pats or rehearsed expressions, she simply wipes away a stray tear and lets me know to contact her directly if I have any questions, then leaves the room.
So that’s it then. We’re done.
My family has been taken away from me.
Three precious lives cut far too short and all that’s le
ft to show for it are hollow words and lifeless forms.
Chapter 3
I’VE COME TO learn that there’s only one thing harder than picking out the casket to bury your husband in. It’s choosing out two additional caskets to bury your children in.
And if that’s not hard enough, the next challenge is the lining. Black for Brendan - he always looked handsome in black. For Ella, it’s pink bedding with a soft as silk purple pillow and Mattie girl, orange with a blue pillow to cradle her in her forever sleep.
The casket stain is a dark brown, almost black for my husband.
My husband.
Is Brendan still my husband now that he’s gone? How do you refer to the love of your life when they’re no longer there? He’s not an ex - we never parted by choice, didn’t divorce, yet we are separated. So what does that make him?
Where does that leave me?
Both of the girls are given white cas- cask- encasements. What colour could I possibly choose other than the symbol of purity, even if you can argue the point when it came to Mattie and her adventurous spirit?
Is that what she is now? An adventurous spirit?
And Ella? A cautious princess spirit?
If you’re wondering how I can be so frank about all of this, I can’t. I’m lying to everyone, especially myself.
I can’t stand the sombre tones the funeral directors speak in or how they sound as though they’re talking down to a three year old me, using no greater than two syllable words consisting of a maximum two vowels and three consonants.
They must think you lose brain cells when you lose loved ones.
You don’t. Trust me, it would be so much better if you did.
I don’t like the way they walk with a practised rigid step and make that annoying static scuffing sound. I hate the way the place is artificially quiet and how everyone talks in whispers. It’s irritating. The dead are already dead, for God’s sake. It’s not like we’re going to be able to wake them speaking at normal volumes. Hell we could shout out from the roof tops and still not disturb them.
Idiots.
I loathe the cliché music they suggest I use during the service, the videos they want to play and photos they expect me to suffer through in front of everyone because that way we can all reminisce and remember the good times from way back when.
How can a child even have a ‘way back when’ to reminisce when they’ve barely had a chance to live in the first place?
I detest the dressing up, the doing of hair, applying of makeup, the making of fake appearances. I hate it all. If it was up to me, we’d all be wearing our pyjamas, hair unkempt, faces free of camouflage, sitting around scooping up ice cream with chunks of chocolate and drinking coffee. Real life, real losses. None of this pretending bullshit because it’s easier to hide behind or because it looks nicer or is expected.
You know what?
If you can’t take my reality, my forever, then stay the hell away. Burying my family is about my loss, my anguish. Not about softening the blow because you’re weak. It’s shit and that’s it.
I’m sitting in the first pew second seat in from the carpeted walk way. Luke’s in the first spot, waiting patiently with his arm secured over my shoulders, hugging me in the same way he has since the day we met. He’s been a rock, staying with me for every minute of every hour. Sleeping on the couch just in case I wake up during the night and decide to take a walk - like I may have on the first evening I spent in my empty house alone.
Jon’s been great, bunking down in the spare room, disappearing from time to time without a word, his dull eyes filled with tears. He’s lost his only sibling, so needs to grieve too. I understand that; we’re all different and cope in our own way. It’s fine.
I’m fine.
Dad needs his time to mourn in his own space for the girls and his son-in-law, after the loss of Mum to cancer. I can only imagine how turbulent his feelings are. As do the rest of my family, we all need time and that’s fine. I understand. I’ve wanted to be alone, I still do.
Yet, for whatever reason, Luke’s stayed by my side. I’ve never asked why and he’s never offered an explanation. It’s not like we sit around sharing deep and meaningful conversations; we’re lucky to speak at all.
Jon and Luke came home with me after I left the hospital and stayed, that’s it. There’s no epic story to tell, sorry.
I can’t say that I know Luke that well. It’s been a long time since high school and I certainly don’t understand why I feel so comfortable having him here. I mean, we all got on well as kids, but I don’t know the adult Luke, not really.
I only hope that they don’t come to their senses and realise that living with a shell of a person isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be.
Save for the Christmas festivities being packed away by persons unknown, and the pile of bedding that seems to live at the foot of the couch and doubles as a foot rest, the aesthetics of the house is back to normal. Normal kitchen, normal bathrooms, normal living room. Empty bedrooms.
In front of me, Brendan’s resting on the diagonal to my right; an eight by ten centimetre photo of him from our wedding day resting in the centre of his cof- coff- encasement. The girls are side by side, also on the diagonal, resting to my left. Their painted homes are polished to sparkling and draped in colourful flowers to match the fabric they rest in, though only a few are privy to this because I’ve opted for a closed service. Photos taken hours before the accident rest in the centre of their floral displays, the girls’ large smiles filled with holiday joy exploding off the canvas. The beautiful copies are addictive to the eye and excruciating to look at.
The pews in the church fill with murmuring guests, family and friends wishing to pay their respects, say their last goodbyes. My tangled fingers swell start to tingle and I need to open and close them to move the fluid.
Luke tightens his hold on me as I adjust my seat and I’m grateful to feel the warmth radiating from him, to help ease the chill creeping in my bones while we wait in silence, inhaling the stuffy heat of the stagnant summer afternoon.
At this point, I’m glad I put my foot down and insisted with breaking with tradition, to hold the wake prior to the burial. The thought of having so many witnesses to my family’s final act is overpowering and I just can’t. I need to do this as privately as possible.
The Priest takes his place between my deceased family as discussed yesterday. He commences his speech on life and love, of living to the fullest, of endings that come too soon and I tell myself that I’m calm, I’m fine.
I focus on taking in a breath, holding it for three seconds, one for each beloved member before me, and then release it. Inhale and hold for three seconds, then release. Again and again I repeat this process praying for the service to end, and yet for it to go on forever.
I’m not ready to say my goodbyes. I’m not ready to let them go.
I’m not ready to be on my own.
My breaths start to shallow and become difficult to hold in for the full three seconds. Blood is pounding through my heart, creating unbearable pressure behind my eyes as they strain to hold unshed tears at bay. Luke presses a kiss to my temple and Dad takes my free hand into his. Jon’s on his other side, holding hands with his mother.
A sob betrays me and fills the silence when Father Bernard places his hands on my girls, wishing them a safe passage into their next life. Dad presses further into my side and Luke wraps his other arm firmly around me and rests his chin on my head. The sermon continues. My vision’s so blurred, I can barely see past the unrestrained tears seeping free to run off my chin and soak my black blouse. Father Bernard walks the short distance to pray for Brendan.
Soon there isn’t much left to say. Father’s coming to the end of his service; my husband, my children are reaching their final end and I’m not ready to say goodbye. I don’t want to say goodbye. I don’t want any of this.
I’m shattered to my core and have had all that I can take, so I let it all go. I’m sorry for my op
en display of heartache adding to everyone’s grief, but I can’t help it, it’s all just too much. My chest heaves, my throat tightens, squeezing painfully as my anguish breaks free.
I’m desperate to leap off the hard wooden bench and tear my children out of their confinements just so I can hold them one more time, tell them how much I love them one more time. Tell my husband that I love him more than air and I’ll never be able to exhale again, make sure he knows that he is my life, my whole. My everything.
I’m selfishly not prepared and I don’t know what to do.
“Daddy,” I choke. “Don’t let them take my life from me please, I’m not ready to be alone. I don’t know how to do this. Please Daddy…” My words are garbled, jumbling with my sobs. Luke’s muscular build tightens next to me and I can’t help gravitating towards his strength, burrowing deeper against his chest and no doubt soaking another of his shirts.
“Oh Chicken, no, you’ll never be on your own,” Dad sniffs, his words breaking, his fingers tightening around my hand.
He’s wrong. I am already alone in a room full of people - the way I will be for the rest of my life.
Music begins and heavy maroon drapes creep from the edges of the altar to close the cask- coff- encasements off from the congregation. I push to my feet, drop my father’s hands and pull Luke along with me. Not by choice - he’s holding fast, grounding me to this earth the way he’s done relentlessly for the last four days.
My head and heart are screaming, pleading for me to fight him, break free and go to my deceased family, stop the curtains from sealing them away. I jerk my shoulders only to feel Luke clamp down and know it’s useless. No matter how hard I’ll fight, he’ll keep me here.
The heavy drapes overlap to ensure a complete seal and the music trails off. People being to stand, some I know, others I don’t; they approach and offer their condolences. They gather around us kissing cheeks, patting shoulders and cupping jaws before they leave for the ‘Celebration of Life’.
Maggie's Five ...the first in a LOVE story Page 4
