Author: Lilly
“Mama, where is Daddy?” she asked as I rinsed her hair.
“I don’t know, baby.”
“Mama, will he come home?” came as she pulled on her nightgown.
“Baby, I don’t know.”
“Mama, what will happen to my brother now? You told me that we were having him because you and Daddy really, really love each other. Daddy doesn’t love us now. Is my brother going to go away too?” and she threw her arms around my neck in an attempt to permanently bond herself to my skin.
“No Baby he’s going to be fine. We’re going to take care of him. Mama will never let bad things happen to you or your brother. That’s my job. I’m the Mommy.”
“But Mama, Daddy left. That’s a bad thing.” Leave it to a seven year old to put things in perspective.
That was the first night that no stories were told, no books were read (she told me that she didn’t want to hear anything happy, and that Daddy read her her stories), and that was the first night I held her as she sobbed herself to sleep. It was a night of many firsts.
I carefully released myself from her grip, got out of bed, and tried calling my husband. Now was the time to be practical and rational, and find out exactly what the hell was going on so it could be dealt with. Having NO IDEA where he was, I repeatedly dialed his cell number and listened to his voice over and over, each time leaving a different variation of the same message “Enough is enough. We have to talk. This is ridiculous. Call me.” As the night wore on it became less practical and direct and took on more of a pleading tone …”Please call me, I need to know where you are, I need to know that you’re safe. Please tell me what to tell her when she wakes up in the morning. Please.”
He didn’t call.
That night I had another first. I’ve often tried to explain it like this: imagine yourself sitting in a room with all of the doors and windows shut and locked and you know that you should feel safe, but you’re sure that there is something lurking outside of the room trying to get in. Even though everything is locked up tight you have an uncontrollable fear that it will eventually find a way. Written words to describe it escape me because quite honestly there are none that do it justice. Rather I’ll refer to a scene in the movie “Signs” when the young boy is having his asthma attach in the cellar. No air. Visually you see it and you understand the gravity of the situation because of the emotion emitted on the other actors faces. Yes, you feel for the little boy, but you see the fear of the other characters – which is, ultimately, what is so terrifying. I had no one to witness my dramatic moment or convey my fear to the general audience. It was just me sitting on the couch and then sinking to the living room floor. The air left my lungs, and my heart was beating so loud and so fast that I couldn’t imagine how my daughter could not hear it through the walls. I had one hand on my belly holding my son and another over my mouth to stop the gasping and I was praying for the first time in years “Please God no. Please make this stop. Please don’t do this to my children. Please get me through this. She can’t wake up and find me dead on the ground! This can’t happen to her!” and I blacked out.
My daughter woke early the next morning to the smell of fresh baked muffins and her Mother drinking coffee at the dining room table. I had a plastered on smile. A switch had flipped, and much like the man that had come walking into my house I was a different person. “Eat up Babe!” I said cheerfully, “we have the Big Sister class today!”
My daughter sank into a chair and began picking at a muffin, and as her eyes filled with tears again with the clarity of the previous days events I held her and wiped the tears away. Only this time – I didn’t cry.
ohhhhh… I want more!
WoW!
Oh my gosh! What happens next?