Life After Death: A Story of Love, Loss, and Living

by Jamie Hitchcock

  He took a quick assessment. His head was pounding, his chest ached, and he couldn’t turn his head to the left without a sharp pain in his shoulder, but otherwise he was alive. It seemed a hollow victory at present.

  “Fine, I guess,” he replied hoarsely.

  He scanned the room more thoroughly now that his vision was coming into focus. He was clearly in the hospital, but how long had he been here? Based on his parents’ uncharacteristically ragged appearance, he guessed at least a week. He searched through the fogginess in his brain to recall anything about what happened. Realization hit him suddenly like a dark, stony mountainside.

  “Where’s Cece?” he asked in alarm. “And my baby?”

  His parents exchanged a pained look.

  “Nathan,” his father started, then sighed deeply. “Cecelia … uh, well … she didn’t make it.” He reconsidered for another moment before adding bluntly, “Cece’s dead.”

  The final word, curiously devoid of any emotion, rung out sharply against the bleak, tile walls.

  Astonishment crashed over Nathan, followed by panic, fear, and remorse. His reactions vacillated rapidly and unpredictably.

  “What happened?” he blurted out.

  “Her airbag didn’t work, and her head hit the dashboard. They rushed her into surgery as soon as they could, but she was bleeding too much. They couldn’t save her,” his father said, steadying his voice with care.

  “Stop it!” scolded Nathan’s mother. “He doesn’t need to hear all this right now.”

  “Oh, Sylvia, he has a right to know. He needs to know,” his father snapped back.

  Nathan numbly nodded. God, he wanted a drink. His attention flitted elsewhere.

  “And the baby? What about the baby?” He searched his mother’s face hungrily for any sign of hope.

  Sylvia smiled ever so slightly.

  “The baby is okay. Your son is down in the NICU. He’s hooked up to a breathing machine, but he is alive, and the doctor says he should be able to breathe on his own in a couple days.”

  “A son,” he said absently, “It’s a boy.” All at once, Nathan felt relief and sadness, guilt and complete exhaustion. He thought of Cece’s hand on her belly, holding her baby boy safely inside.

  They’d talked about names before but agreed not to decide on anything until the baby was born. Cece’s family had a longstanding tradition of matching first initials – names starting with “H” for boys and “C” for girls. Cece couldn’t recall when or why the tradition started, but she’d wanted to maintain it, nonetheless. Nathan intended to honor that wish, especially now. He tried to recall the names she’d liked, but couldn’t pull anything clearly from the murkiness of his mind.

  Nathan closed his eyes, hoping to reset the world when he opened them again. But no, the permanence of his situation only added to his despair.

  “Tell me what happened, Mom, I want to know. Was anyone else hurt?”

  His mother looked forlorn. Her bushy hair had gone flat, draining with it any strength she once possessed.

  “I don’t think we should talk about this right now, Nathan. You need to rest.”

  In spite of the pain, he pushed himself upright. “No, I need to know.”

  His mother sighed, enfolding herself in her arms as she slumped against the back of her chair.

  “Well,” she began warily, “you were rear-ended on the road, and your truck crashed into the mountainside. When the paramedics arrived, they found Cece already in labor, and you were unconscious.” She sucked in a tight breath. “Well, technically, you were … dead.”

  Nathan’s father folded and unfolded his hands in his lap.

  His mom continued, “But they saved you, and bless them for it. The doctor said your heart stopped for over a minute. Thank God for those paramedics! Honestly, they are your angels, every one of them.”

  “Yeah, thank God,” Nathan repeated dryly as he rolled his eyes. Thankfully, his heavy, fluttering eyelids hid the extent of his sarcasm from his mother’s view.

  Thank you, God, for saving me, the one who was driving the damn the truck, he thought bitterly. His mind drifted to an image of Cece in the passenger seat, alone and in labor. A sharp pain stabbed his chest. Lowering himself back down to the bed, he closed his eyes against the agony and sunk back into the temporary, dark reprieve of sleep.

  *21*

  Amara stayed with Emily through the holidays to help as best as she could with executing Henry’s final wishes. He had wanted to be cremated and “thrown to the wind,” but Emily balked at the possibility of losing her son both in flesh and ashes. After much searching, Emily had finally found an urn that was satisfactory enough for Henry to consent to as his final resting place.

  Amara sensed Henry’s discontent with this agreement and was personally more inclined to spread some of his ashes in the backyard or in the bay, especially since an urn was too small to contain the essence of all that was Henry. She refrained from involving herself in these final decisions, as she understood Henry’s final comforting gesture to his mom was to reside with her eternally on her mantle. This did not stop Amara, however, from also following her own intuition on how best to honor Henry’s remains.

  Two nights after he died, Amara dreamed of the cave by the seaside. She looked down on the dragonfly rock from the high vantage of the hillside. The coastal breeze rushed through her, creating a turbulence of soft music. Somehow, she wasn’t quite herself, nor was she entirely alone. She was freer, lighter, stronger, stretching firmly above and below. She sensed him near her, in her, part of her. She was him, and he was her.

  When Amara awoke it was well past midnight, and she knew exactly what she was supposed to do. She crept out of the guest room, down the hall of the Claybourne house to the kitchen, where she found Henry’s ashes sitting on the table. Emily had retrieved them from the crematorium earlier that afternoon, but the custom-ordered black onyx urn was back-ordered and wasn’t scheduled to arrive for another three days. Until then, Henry temporarily resided in a black, plastic box.

  Slowly and quietly, she peeled back the tape, cracked the lid, and removed a plastic bag. It was zip-tied shut. Using a small paring knife, she jimmied the tie to release the grip of the small teeth, unthreading the tip from the lock. She grabbed a small Tupperware container from the cabinet and carefully filled it with ashes. Once the lid was securely sealed, she refastened the zip-tie, replaced the bag in the box, and resealed the tape. Beyond a slight dog-ear in the tape, the box appeared undisturbed. Unlikely that anyone will notice the tape, Amara assured herself. She’d only taken about a quarter of the box’s contents after all. She snuck back down the hall to the bedroom, wrapped the container in a towel, and hid it in her book bag.

  The next day, Amara drove out to the trailhead after stopping briefly at the hardware store for some needed supplies. With a trowel and a small plant tucked carefully into her backpack, she hiked carefully down to Henry’s secret spot, sloshing through the muddy turns. Beyond the main trail, the topsoil was frozen, but she meticulously excavated a small plot on the hillside above the rocks, working warmth and air back into the dirt. After she mixed his ashes thoroughly into the soil, she planted a small redwood sapling to memorialize his claim on the sacred ground.

  She stood back and stared at the tree. Should she say something? Historically, people said something when they buried loved ones. Something like, “I’ll miss you” or “I’ll always remember you.” She scrunched the corners of her mouth as she chewed on the words. None of them felt right. The empty silence felt even worse. Just say something! she pleaded to herself.

  She knelt down and brushed her fingers through the fine branches.

  “Hi Henry,” she said at last.

  She smiled at the sound of his name, then broke down in uncontrollable tears.

  *22*

  Nathan paced awkwardly by the small window of the church as he waited for the group of strangers to settle into their seats. Then he crossed the room quietly and slid into a
flimsy folding chair by the door. The old wooden floor creaked beneath his weight. He tried to slump down in his chair, but the pain of his recently broken ribs forced him to remain upright.

  For the next hour, Nathan listened as the people around him talked about their struggles, their addictions, and their temptations. He silently observed each speaker and nodded solemnly if someone looked at him. He watched the clock out of the corner of his eye. Only ten minutes left. Maybe he would be able to slip out without having to share, as he had at the last two meetings.

  Just then, Bill, the group facilitator, unfortunately glanced in his direction. He was an older man – Nathan guessed late-fifties – with wispy gray hair and a plump belly on an otherwise fit frame. His only remotely warm feature was his toothy smile, though even that could be perceived as challenging when paired with his icy stare.

  “Nathan, we haven’t heard from you much in the last few meetings. Think it’s time to share? I’m sure we’d all like to hear from you.” He spoke in a surprisingly warm tone compared to his intense presence.

  Nathan lowered his head, hiding unsuccessfully from the unwanted attention.

  “I don’t think I’m ready to talk about it,” he replied. Just thinking about the accident made tears swell behind his eyes. He bowed his head even lower in an attempt at feigned indifference. It didn’t work.

  “I can see that it’s difficult to think about, but talking about it can be really helpful,” encouraged Bill.

  Nathan shook his head as a tear escaped out the corner of his eye.

  Bill continued to press him. “Let’s start with why you’re here.”

  “Because I promised someone that I would,” Nathan replied cryptically.

  “Who did you promise?”

  “My fiancée’s parents, and myself. Well, I guess technically she’s not my fiancée anymore …” Nathan’s thought trailed off into a heavy silence.

  “Did she leave you?”

  “I suppose you could say that, but not really.”

  Sensing that the group’s attention had settled firmly on him, he reluctantly kept talking.

  “She died … in a car accident a month ago. I was driving when it happened.”

  “So you brought yourself here to get help?” Bill asked.

  “Yeah, I suppose so. I just want to make it right. It’s not fair.”

  “What’s not fair?”

  Nathan shook his head. “Nothing happened to me. Nothing ever happens to me, no matter what I do. Cece died, but all I got were a few broken bones. The judge ruled it was the other driver’s fault since they hit me. I wasn’t over the legal limit so it wasn’t a DUI, but I wasn’t sober either. Maybe I could have gotten us out of the way, reacted quicker. I don’t know. But they took my license for a few months because of some other tickets and stuff. That’s not even close to what I deserve.”

  “What do you think you deserve?”

  Nathan wiped his face with an open palm, drawing his already weary jaw into an even longer line. He squirmed uncomfortably in his chair.

  “Maybe it should have been me who died. That would’ve been fair. Cece was sweet and … pregnant. She never got to be a mom, and she wanted to so badly.”

  “Do you want to be a parent?” asked Bill.

  Nathan looked away while he processed the question. He noticed his dad standing stiffly by the doorway in an impeccably straight overcoat. The strands of silver in his sandy hair shimmered in the overhead light.

  How long had he been standing there? How much did he hear? worried Nathan. Tension coursed through his body. Nathan fought down any emotion that the conversation had loosened. He clenched his fists and folded his arms tightly, slouching down deep into his chair despite the pain in his chest.

  “I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” he said dismissively.

  Bill nodded and took his cue to conclude the meeting.

  “All right, well, maybe we can continue more next time. Thank you, everyone, for sharing, and remember to take it one day at a time.”

  With a sweep of his hands he dismissed the group for the evening.

  Nathan slowly stood up and crossed the room toward his dad.

  “You know, Dad, you’re not supposed to listen to the conversation unless you’re part of the group. Otherwise it’s not anonymous. Besides, I thought Mom was picking me up.”

  “Maybe you’d rather walk home then,” said his dad tersely. “Your mom had to run to the store for diapers and didn’t think she’d make it in time. She didn’t want to leave you waiting. It’s bad enough she has to shuttle you around like a little kid again, but now she has to take care of your kid as well.”

  “If I could go myself, I would, Dad,” Nathan curtly replied. “It’s not like I enjoy having to ask you guys for rides all the time.”

  It was going to be a long six months before Nathan could get his license reinstated, never mind getting enough money for another truck.

  “Let’s not have this conversation here,” said his father. He strode through the doorway outside before Nathan had a chance to reply.

  Nathan sighed and tightened his coat around his chest as he followed his dad out into the parking lot.

  The drive back to his parents’ house was filled with quiet tension. Nathan’s dad didn’t dare a single glance in his son’s direction, not even to check the side mirror when he changed lanes. At one point he nearly merged into a small black sedan in the right-hand lane because of it. His dad swerved in a violent correction that caused both men to swear aloud.

  And I’m the one without a license, Nathan thought.

  When they finally reached the house, Nathan hardly waited for the car to stop before he slipped out of the passenger seat and into the house. He waved across the open entryway to his mom in the kitchen as she stood over a boiling pot of water, then dashed up the stairs through the first door on the right.

  Boxes of Nathan’s things spilled out of the bedroom and lined the hallway. His childhood bedroom had been redone in the last few weeks in slightly more mature décor, though sports posters were still plastered across the walls. He’d been too preoccupied since coming home from the hospital with a newborn baby to bother unpacking the boxes his parents had moved from his apartment. On some level, he hoped that not unpacking would prevent him from staying too long back under his parent’s roof.

  This is only temporary, he reminded himself. Just until I can get back on my feet.

  Inside the door on the left, his son slept quietly in his crib. Nathan stood at the railing and watched him. The child lay motionless. A flash of panic raced through Nathan, and he placed an open hand across the boy’s tiny chest. He felt a faint pressure under his hand as the baby inhaled. Nathan relaxed slightly.

  The baby squirmed and opened his puckered lips though his eyes remained closed. He began to whimper softly, sucking at the empty air. Nathan picked up a pacifier from the nightstand nearby and placed it gingerly between the baby’s lips. The infant settled back into sleep as he softly suckled the pacifier.

  Nathan slumped onto his own bed as the pain of his recent injuries caught up to him. He watched his child sleeping peacefully through the crib until exhaustion took him as well.

  *23*

  Two Years Later

  Amara sat on a blanket under the small redwood tree. After two years, Henry’s tree was nearly twelve feet tall. The crisp winter air moved slowly through the branches, stifled by a cold marine fog. She nestled her mouth down below the collar of her jacket. The warmth of her exhale against the fabric provided temporary relief against the seeping cold. The numbness in her toes was matched by a buzzing numbness in her brain.

  As they often were these days, Amara’s thoughts were utterly unruly. The pain of her loss, especially around this time of year, was just as raw as it had been that winter day in Henry’s bedroom. The pulsing waves broke against the rocks and echoed softly through the cave below her. She tried to match her breath to the rhythm, but it always seemed to catch somewhere
in her chest and caused an unsteady discord. Her thoughts sliced through each other, lodging fragments into the recesses of her mind. With the next wave, she heard a soft call through the tunnel below. It almost sounded like Henry’s voice. Amara’s mind leapt to the most hopefully illogical thoughts. Her eyes darted to the rocks below, to the cave, desperate to see the impossible. But instead of Henry, all she saw was a faint twinkle as the weak sunlight bounced off the waves against the stone walls. She closed her eyes against the disappointment and tried to quiet her racing thoughts.

  In the darkness, she heard a familiar voice, Henry’s voice, though his words were muffled and unclear. A spark of excitement sent her mind into chaos again, drowning out the quiet voice. Desperate, she pulled a notepad from her bag and began writing. She wasn’t sure exactly what she was writing at first, but it quieted her own screaming voices inside so she kept going. Pages and pages came pouring out of her until her fingers were stiff and her hand ached for rest. She dropped the open journal on the earth beside her. Having freed her thoughts on paper, another voice re-emerged more clearly.

  Henry’s voice radiated a pool of warmth around and through her. Color flushed back into her pale fingertips. She tucked her knees up against her chest and buried her face against them, capturing all the warmth within her. She finally found relief, if only temporarily. Eventually the warmth dissipated, sucked back into the greedy, frozen earth beneath. Her joints ached. Opening her eyes, the bright white fog fueled her thoughts back into life. She heaved a sigh of resignation. As she reached to collect her journal, a swift breeze gusted through the branches of Henry’s tree. A small sprig rattled loose and gentled landed between the pages of her notebook. She smiled.

  *24*

  Nathan lingered in the living room of his new apartment as he watched his mom string countless strands of crepe paper across the ceiling. Clusters of green and blue balloons hung from the corners of the doorway into the kitchen. A sign reading, “Happy 2nd Birthday!” was draped across the window frame behind Nathan. He followed his mom into the kitchen to offer his assistance with the set-up but was quickly overwhelmed by his mother’s frenzy. He retreated back to the living room, where he sat cross-legged on the carpet across from his son. Wisps of red hair had begun to emerge through his brown baby hairs. Neither Nathan nor Cece had any family with red hair that he could recall. The changing pigmentation was an anomaly.