AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“I know it’s—”
“No, Mom. You may know a lot, but you don’t know this. You and Dad had a whole life together before he was taken. Ours was just beginning. God barely gave Grace the time to bond, to smile down at her tiny daughter with a lifetime of love that had to be crammed into five short days. And what about our baby? What about Layla? Helpless, motherless, defenseless from a lifetime of questions that begin with ‘what if’ and answers that disappoint as they begin with ‘if only’? What of the tears our daughter will shed over the years in the future for the woman who gave her life and she’ll never know?”
My mom sat passive and silent during my rant with her hands neatly folded in her lap, her sad eyes brimming with tears at my words, then she shrugged. She had no reply to the injustice of the circumstance I had found myself in because nothing she could say could change this.
“Layla was left motherless… before she could even focus to look back at her mother’s face. God gave them no time, us no time, before he killed our ties that bound each of us together as a family.”
For the first time, I saw the look on Mom’s face change. Adopting a stern, you’ve-pushed-me-too-far look, she stood, straightened her back, and crossed her arms across her chest.
“Get out of that bed right now and get washed. You stink. This bedroom smells like a distillery. Now, I know you’re grieving, but you still have a baby daughter to take care of. Grace would have gone peacefully in the knowledge you’d protect her child with your life.” When I didn’t move she threw her hands up in the air.
“Fine, have it your way. I’m leaving. It’s time, Cole. Time you got your grieving head out of your self-absorbed ass and started to care for that precious bundle lying two doors down being cared for by a stranger. Don’t shame yourself by sullying Grace’s memory.”
Hearing my mom’s comment about ruining Grace’s memory halted my current thoughts and I stared pointedly up at her. I thought her words were the lowest of blows at a time when I was already guilt-ridden about how Grace had died.
A part of me even thought I had killed her, because I figured if I hadn’t gotten her pregnant she’d still have been with us.
Personally, I’m ashamed to say I didn’t connect with Layla at all because of the horrible circumstances surrounding her birth. I supposed blaming myself for knocking Grace up was partly the reason for that.
In the early days, there wasn’t that instant ‘fall in love’ moment from me for Layla. I’d heard this mentioned so many times when I watched other new fathers on YouTube, and I wondered how different this would have been if I hadn’t known Grace was dying.
Most of the time since I’d arrived at the hospital with her, until we left without her, was a blur; yet there were agonizing memories of our stay, which felt as if I were experiencing them in slow motion at the time.
I had vivid memories of staring helplessly down at Grace as she lay unconscious, and in another I was being ushered robotically into the NICU staring into a bassinet where a newborn baby lay.
Forcing a smile toward me, the nurse glanced down at my baby. I followed her gaze and saw a tiny naked baby girl lying peacefully on her back. I expected to feel something, anything, for her, but I didn’t.
Denial swept through me and I begged God to tell me this was all a bad dream. Any second I’ll wake up and Grace will be in the shower singing like she does every morning when I open my eyes.
Still focusing my gaze on our child, I was ashamed at how disconnected I felt. I silently asked for her forgiveness, because the shock and pain of what was happening to my wife overrode everything with such excruciating pain, I had no capacity for anything else.
The last emotion I could feel was love, and I swore no one would get under my skin again if this were the outcome. It was a decimating once-in-a-lifetime deal.
My unstable emotional state was a constant swirl of conflicting or free-falling feelings brought on by dark thoughts full of anger. Those periodically culminated in bitter words of vengeance against anyone who looked at me in a way I perceived to be wrong.
Mom wasn’t kidding. She left within the hour and her dressing down of me had the desired effect. I dragged my ass out of bed because she was right; none of this was my baby daughter, Layla’s fault. The poor little soul hadn’t asked to be born, and as much as I wanted to, I knew I couldn’t spend the next eighteen years of her life in bed wallowing in self-pity, denial, and grief.
Fighting against the dark thoughts within myself, I had no other option but to live the rest of my journey on earth missing the love of my life. There was nothing I could do about missing Grace, and I knew I had to somehow find a way to respect her memory and myself.
Dealing with grief taught me I wasn’t a brave man, but I had to push back my selfish temptations and try to live up to the person Grace would have expected me to be. Like her name, I couldn’t afford the luxury of falling from Grace.
Padding through to the bathroom, I stared at the gaunt figure in the mirror and considered how my hurt, tormented appearance may have made my mom and brother feel when they looked at me. It was the first time I considered anything other than dying in the previous month.
My normally short, dark-brown hair was overgrown on the top; my hazel eyes, which Grace always told me sparkled with mischief, looked lifeless, and my facial hair was no longer an attractive closely groomed beard, but a fully-fledged bush any mountain man would have been proud of. I sighed deeply and went through the motion of splashing water on my face to wake myself up before I stepped into the shower.
Ten minutes later, I dragged my weary ass into some clean jeans and shuffled barefooted along the hall past the first door—the one Grace had used as a dressing room for all her shit—and opened the second. The calming, pale pink decor with the dreamy cloud murals, hand-painted by Grace, was yet another reminder of what I’d lost.
For a second, I squeezed my eyes shut when a vision of my wife looking sexy in an old button-down shirt of mine with paint in her hair flashed through my mind. I hesitated as a pang of hurt crushed my chest and stood clutching tightly to the polished glass handle. The smooth cool glass in my palm soothed me as I fought against my anger.
“You’re just in time, Cole. Layla is about ready for dinner. Are you going to feed her?” My eyes sprang open, and I glanced at the tall dark-haired girl with a golden tan and a sunny smile, looking intently back at me.
“Maybe I’ll just sit here for a while.” For a moment I saw the hesitation in her thought, but she quickly moved out of the nursing chair and moved over to the self-contained kitchen area specifically designed in the nursery and began mixing a bottle for my daughter. “Harper,” she informed me by way of introduction. It was the first time I’d actually paid any attention to her.
Without responding, I sat quietly observing how Grace had thought of everything necessary for taking care of Layla’s needs as Harper busied herself until Layla began fussing; then became more vigorous in her protest of having to wait for attention.
Turning to face me, she tipped her chin at the cradle. “Could you please pick your daughter up and hold her for a few moments while I finish preparing her formula?” Harper’s voice was even, and the way she prompted me was matter-of-fact, but she didn’t fool me for a second. I knew she was prompting me to have contact with my daughter.
Too tired to argue, and irritated by Layla’s lusty yelling, I slid my large hand gently beneath her and lifted her carefully out of her crib. The smell of baby poop instantly filled my nostrils. “Jeez, she stinks,” I muttered and carried her over to the changing table equipped with clean clothing, diapers, wipes—the works.
