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Going away was a subject that had been a constant blot on my mind once I’d had some space and time to absorb Grace’s passing.
Eventually, my sense of perspective returned, and I was finally able to consider how my wife suddenly dying had impacted the lives of my bandmates. They had all been incredibly supportive but had ultimately been left hanging since my bereavement. It was another thought that depressed me, because with a tiny infant to care for, my mind just wouldn’t go there.
Then as time ticked by, I struggled between depression and dread as Layla’s first birthday approached. The day she was born was anything but happy. There was no excitement leading up to my daughter’s milestone because it was the day my life as a father had begun and my ability to feel any real joy had come to an end.
It was a blessing that Harper was so in tune with Layla—instilling a sense of fun into an otherwise dull world for her, with me as her father—and Harper had proved her patience by putting up with me. The girl never complained about anything and took everything thrown at her in her stride, and because of this, we’d effortlessly grown to be close friends.
With each day that passed, Layla’s features changed and the resemblance to Grace as a child became more remarkable. There were times when she stole the breath from my chest when she’d give me a look, scrunch up her nose, or make an expression that brought my late wife right back into the room.
The fleeting lighter moments we shared felt like a sliver of light, like the glow of something bright from the other side of a door. The door of grief was still heavy and firmly closed in my mind, but I figured if anyone could shift my dark depressive state, it would be Layla.
When my daughter’s birthday arrived, it was a difficult day—a highly emotional day—and apart from the hour where we opened her gifts, sang “Happy Birthday,” and shared a small tea party, my evening was spent in deep reflection. It was the night I tried to face some of the demons I had blocked from my mind.
In my bedroom closet, stacked high and out of sight, was a small six by nine inch box I’d been given by the staff at the hospital before we’d left. I’d stowed it away the minute we’d arrived home. Moving the small bedroom chair to the door, I climbed up and shoved the items away that I had originally used to hide it.
Taking the box from the shelf, I stepped down from the chair and slowly walked to my bed. As I sat down, my eyes came to rest on the poignant picture on the lid of the box. The image of a mother’s curled hand with the fist of a newborn resting in it made my stomach clench. I sighed heavily and swallowed back a rising burn from deep in my throat as the warning of it threatened me with tears.
Smoothing my hand over the board, I covered the picture with mine as memories flashed in front of my closed eyes of the anguish-stricken faces of all those connected with our harrowing tragic event.
Drawing a deep breath, I placed my fingertips on the edge of the box and flipped off the lid. My breath hitched and my heart momentarily stopped when a long lock of Grace’s smooth dark hair snaked around all the other items.
My eyes instantly shut out the tangible evidence of my once vibrant beauty lying curled in the box in front of me. It took courage for me to touch it, but I lifted it out, slid it slowly through my fingers and held it to my nose. Inhaling deeply, I expected to find a reminder of her in it, but all it smelled of was the cardboard box itself.
Gently, I smoothed it out on top of the white comforter and noted the dark color was still as vivid as the hair on her head had been when she’d died. I turned my attention back to the box. Scanning over the items, I noted Grace’s hospital bracelet and I swallowed, remembering the way the nurse smiled as she tagged her when we had first arrived.
A pile of Polaroid pictures, pink baby name tags, and a little book full of all Layla’s important birth details—weight, length, head circumference—lay inside. I picked up a small piece of the monitor tracing used to measure Grace’s contractions and Layla’s heartbeat, before I noticed a piece of card with two painted palm prints of Grace’s, one of hers on its own and one with Grace’s in purple with Layla’s pale pink handprint carefully placed inside.
Pain, pleasure, and everything in between flowed through my veins as I stared again with a swell of sadness at the inside of the box. A lump in my throat swelled tight, temporarily suffocating me from drawing another breath and tightened my chest. The sensation overwhelmed me, pulling me to my feet in distress.
Gulping for air, I staggered into my bathroom and clung to the sink in the vanity unit until my knuckles blanched white. Quickly, the sight disappeared when a wave of tears blurred my vision.
“Fuck,” I screamed loudly. I banged my fist on the wooden surround, then turned toward the shower stall and repeated the action. To my shock a large crack appeared in the toughened glass, bringing me instantly to my senses.
A soft knock sounded at the door, followed by Harper’s alarmed voice as the door cracked open. “Cole, are you, okay…” Her voice trailed away as I came from the bathroom and noted her eyes had fallen on the box on my bed.
“Yeah, I…” Gesturing toward the box, I shrugged, not trusting myself to explain for fear of losing my composure again.
“Sorry, I heard you shout and thought for a second you’d hurt yourself,” she offered by way of her intrusion.
“I did,” I admitted, although not in the way she had thought. I nodded my head toward the contents spilled onto the bed. “Thought I was brave enough to go there. I guess it was a mistake.”
Instead of leaving, Harper pushed the door farther open and wandered closer to the bed. Meeting her back at the bedside, I stared intently, watching her looking down to avoid looking toward the bed myself.
“Are these from the day Layla was born?” she probed. Normally I’d have told her to mind her own goddamned business, but for some reason I drew strength from having her there. Maybe because she had no memories of Grace, and therefore nothing of her own to share about her that my mind could use as a trigger to fuck me over with.
“Would you mind?” Glancing up at me with kind eyes, Harper’s gaze was soft—sympathetic—but her voice was laced with sad curiosity. I nodded my head, thinking if she saw them first it would somehow soften the blow when I took another look.
“Layla definitely takes after her mother.” Harper’s innocent comment made my breath hitch. Hearing the audible sound I made, she glanced at me with concern. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have—”
“Yeah, yeah you should have. She is, and she’s getting more like her every single day.”
“This may sound awkward, given what you guys were going through at the time, but Grace looks so happy with Layla in her arms. The look of love just flies right out of the picture. They look perfect together.”
Giving her a look of suspicion, I couldn’t stop myself from checking out the tiny Polaroid photograph she held in her hand. Taking it from her for closer inspection, I noted my grazed and bruised knuckles from my run-in with the shower stall.
Turning away from her, I sat down heavily on the bed and let out a deep sigh as I focused on one of the last pictures of Grace for the first time. I stared at the memory caught on camera for me and Layla of the day she was born.
Every observation Harper had made was true. If Grace had lived to be a hundred years, I figured I’d never have witnessed a happier, more contented smile on her lips, or the look of love that emanated from her bright blue eyes toward our baby daughter. It had been one of her two lucid days; the picture had been taken two days after Layla had been born. I had needed to feel detached in order to get through it as I watched her say hello and goodbye to our child.
