A Ninja Turtle nightlight is still plugged in waiting for Harry to turn it on, signaling the beginning of our carefully orchestrated bedtime routine. After the light came, a video was chosen; Harry always thought he was slick and would choose something longer than your basic television show. Once a show was agreed on, there were negotiations made on which toy to sleep with. I can’t count how many times I woke up with a ninja turtle poking me in the side or some Pixar character coming out of my ass. He would never sleep in his own bed and most nights he would climb in with me and wrap himself in my arm. Over time, my wife and I accepted that our bed was now home to three.
In the distance, I can hear the faint heartbeat from the sound spa in Grace’s room. As she became more independent, she wanted to sleep in her own bed. She even decorated the walls around it herself; stickers with characters from various Disney movies covered the walls, and she could name each one in her own baby language. I could never understand what she said but the passion she pointed with clearly conveyed that she knew, and that was all that mattered to her. Although she was happy with her own space, nothing could replicate the presence of Mommy and Daddy, so we got the sound spa that simulates the human heartbeat. I’d sneak in while she slept and just watch her. You ever watch a child sleep? There’s a peaceful vibe to it, their little faces blank aside from the occasional smile. When she’d wake in the middle of the night, she would stand at the edge of her bed and stare at the door, whimpering until someone—oftentimes me—would come along and rock her back to sleep.
Back in the living room, preparing to leave, I remember that it was in this room that I last spoke to my wife. It was an argument, actually; she wanted me to open up to her, to be the leader of the family that I agreed to be on our wedding day. She was struggling and needed someone to listen to her and comfort her, to let her know that we’d survive it.
“Can you just try to tell me how you’re feeling?” I remember her saying.
But I couldn’t, all I could do was watch her leave. That was normal with our fights; one of us would leave to drive for hours, threaten divorce, and eventually come back to hash it out. With two toddlers it was easy to make a quick getaway, because we knew the other wouldn’t leave the kids by themselves. But this time, she left with the kids. As she put Harry’s coat on, he looked to me in despair—he’d seen this before. After she put Grace in the car seat, she opened the door and ordered Harry to follow her on her way out. He ran to the door, his Batman shoes lighting up with each step before stopping to say goodbye.
“Bye Daddy, I love you.”
“I love you too kiddo. Mommy’s just a little mad, just be daddy’s big boy and I’ll see you when you get home, ok?”
“Ok,” he replied before running to catch Sara, the door slamming behind him.
Those were my last words to him; another request that he accept being neglected, because I didn’t have the spine to work things out.
I’d left her alone to deal with the passing of our third child when it was a burden we were meant to share together. I didn’t come to this realization until it was too late. About an hour after they left, I decided to take a drive myself. I came home that night to an empty house and her phone going to voicemail. After falling asleep, I was jolted out of my awake by the doorbell ringing at an alarming frequency. There was an urgency to it, but I thought it was just Sara trying to piss me off. When I opened the door, I was greeted by a sheriff deputy, and the look on his face telling me something was amiss.
“Are you Miles Alexander?” he asked with a tremble in his voice.
“Yes, what’s going on?”
“Is it alright if I come in?”
“I’d rather know why you’re at my door at 2:30 in the morning.”
“Your wife Sara, she…she was in an accident, and I…I think we should have this conversation inside,” he said almost pleading.
I knew the moment he asked to come in that they were dead. If they’d been alive, there would have been orders of getting dressed and getting to the hospital. I guess if people die there isn’t a rush because the bodies are stiff anyway. He’d explained that it wasn’t her fault and they didn’t suffer. He told me someone was in custody, and I would be needed at the hospital soon but that I could take my time. The way he explained it and tried to soothe me felt like he had a checklist he was taught to remember for times like this. They could call it an accident, but I knew better. It was the postpartum; the depression after the birth and sudden death of our third child. When he died, he took every sense of normalcy with him and took our family down a path that ended with my wife colliding with a drunk delivery driver, who’d run a stop sign.
These last couple of months I’ve been waiting for the final emotion to come through. First, I dealt with a numbness; like a car that stalled on the highway, motionless and watching everyone else move on with their lives. Some call it denial—the feeling that, if everything stayed the same, I would hear her keys jingling at the door again, that I could again feel the warm breaths of my sleeping children in my ear, or I could apologize and make things right. I refused to cancel her phone line, spending weeks calling her phone hoping she would pick up and tell me it was a mistake. I filled her voicemail with messages of how sorry I was, even though her phone was right next to me. But eventually the reality set in, after the meals from friends stopped coming and the condolences ceased, life decided it was time to move on. There are still reminders; neighbors that grimly nod in passing and friends that are conflicted about inviting you out because they can’t take the chance of you breaking down and causing a scene. With that comes regret, and a darker truth that’s been lurking beneath the surface all along—a truth that doesn’t show up on the autopsy report. That’s what grief does to you; it leaves you alone to stir in the guilt, to remind you that even the most mundane transgressions have consequences, that “too little too late” is more than just a throwaway phrase, and that cutting yourself in high school isn’t the darkest place the mind can wander to.
After taking a settlement with the drunk driver’s company, their deaths left me with more money than I could spend. The irony being that I can buy anything I could ever want, but the only thing I want is what money can’t buy.
Time.
Before walking out the door, I survey the living room. It’s the only part of the house that’s changed. At first glance you would think someone had been squatting there. Small boxes of leftover Chinese food are spread around the room. A stack of discs acting as trophies, showcasing my dedication to the best of what network television has to offer sits on the TV stand. My wife’s old Snuggie is tucked into one of the couch cushions. I never washed it and, for awhile, it still smelled like her, but over the last four months it’s lost that scent and changed color, as the purple has faded and stains of soy sauce have become the dominant color. The mantle above the fireplace still holds the family pictures. Grace’s first steps. Harry’s first time riding his big wheel. The engagement picture of Sara and I sitting on a rock at Garden of the Gods. We were told to glance at something in the distance and smile. Those smiles capture a moment that I still hold dear, one in which we had nothing but each other and were content to figure the rest out as we went along.