What Remains for Me

The room was finally quiet. The baby’s crying had stopped and she slept soundly in the warm embrace of the rocking cradle. The man sat on the edge of the bed with his face in his hands. 

There was something intensely familiar about him. From where I stood in the corner of the room, a sense of recognition bloomed in my chest at the way his shoulders rounded and he tried to steady his quivering lips.

Even so, I wasn’t quite sure where I had seen him before. 

It wasn’t just this stranger that felt familiar, it was the room, too. I felt I had seen this dark shade of green on the walls before, as well as the velvety comforter laying askew on the bed, and the rocking chair in the corner. 

I took a few uncertain steps towards the man just as he let his hands drop from his face. Something in my chest tightened as I took in the dark, sunken look of his eyes and the gaunt angles of his face. Only grief and sadness could mar such beauty. 

This poor man. 

Something horrible had happened to him. I stopped abruptly as he turned to look at the baby. The tightening in my chest suddenly turned to the sensation of shattering glass as I watched his face crumple. 

Something was missing here. 

The man passed his hand across his face before getting to his feet and walking from the room. 

In his absence, the baby gurgled quietly in her sleep. Something about her presence demanded my attention and my feet carried me to her side. As I looked down at her sleeping face, a tiny flame ignited within my chest. There was something so special about the way she scrunched her face while she dreamt and I couldn’t stop the smile that crept across my lips. 

I leaned over the cradle and let my fingers brush delicately across her face. I startled slightly as her eyes fluttered open and she searched the world around her until her gaze fell on mine. 

She smiled. 

The tear that slipped down my cheek came unannounced and it was warm as it fell and plopped against the little girl’s forehead. Her giggle was infectious. But then I blinked and she was gone. 

The world felt cold in her absence and my chest was painfully empty. I spun around on my heels as I inspected this new room. Bookshelves lined one wall that faced several large windows. A desk sat on the wall opposite the door and it had notebooks and sticky notes strewn across it. Dirty plates and glasses sat piled in weird places and the atmosphere trapped within the room felt impossibly dark. I began to make my way to the desk just as someone entered the room. 

It was the same man. I watched him carefully as he settled in at the desk. He placed his face in his hands once more and began to cry, his sobs barely audible. Something came over me and I wanted nothing more than to comfort him. I went to his side and laid my hands on his shoulders, but he did not react. It was as though I wasn’t even there. Even so, I steadied my hands if only to ease the pain building within my own chest. 

After several moments, he reached for something. He seemed frantic as he shuffled the mess on the desk around until he found what he was looking for. It was a small book and, as he opened it, I realized the pages within were blank. 

He picked up a pen and began to write furiously. 

He stayed like that for some time. Long enough for me to curl up within the arms of the overstuffed chair in the corner. I continued to watch him as he wrote and something about that exact moment felt so familiar it made my whole body ache. The tears that streamed down his face and dripped from his nose onto the paper below tore at my heart. 

I couldn’t bear to watch any longer and turned and looked out the windows as though I could find solace in the world beyond the panes of glass. The sun was bright and the light played delicately amongst the vibrant green leaves. The summer scene outside seemed garish in comparison to the sorrow trapped within the room. I shut my eyes tightly, trying to imagine the summer breeze against my skin. 

I must have fallen asleep because when I opened my eyes once more, the room was dark. I turned to the desk, but the man was gone. As I stood from the chair, I stretched, trying to loosen my stiff muscles. I had taken only a few steps towards the desk when I realized something was wrong. It started like an itch behind my eyes, but slowly spread to a nauseating sensation in my stomach. 

The room was entirely different. It now looked pristine, the books and notes were no longer haphazardly strewn across the desk and floor. The dirty dishes had vanished and there were no longer thick layers of dust settled across the shelves.

I turned to the windows and gasped. 

Where I had last seen a gentle summer afternoon, there was now a blanket of fresh snow, with cold moonlight drifting its way through the naked branches of the trees above. 

The room somehow felt darker. I wasn’t sure what possessed me, but I lunged for the desk searching for the small book, desperately wanting to see the man’s scrawling handwriting. It felt like an eternity before I finally found it. I stopped suddenly, teetering between my two options. Opening this book and reading its contents felt wrong, but the panic welling up inside my chest overrode my sensibilities as I opened to the first page. 

Dear Abigail, 

You died a week ago tonight and nothing will ever be the same. 

 I shut the book and nearly threw it across the room. I don’t know how or why, but I knew this book was written to me. Hot tears sprung to my eyes as I tore the book open once more.

The doctors said you died because of the complications from labor. They told me that you were a fighter. That goes without saying, though. You and I both know that. 

Charlotte was born a healthy baby girl. I would do anything so that you could be here to hold her. 

None of this feels real. I don’t know how I am going to do this without you. 

My knees gave out and I crumpled to the floor. I fisted the long fibers of the carpet between my fingers. My sobs were loud, they wracked my body, and I could barely breathe. 

This isn’t happening. 

I sat on the floor, my knees drawn into my chest as I shut my eyes tightly, willing everything away.

I felt time passing. It was such a horrible sensation, one that I had never felt before, but intrinsically understood with wicked accuracy. My eyes flew open and suddenly it was bright again. I was in a new room, a long L-shaped couch sat tucked against the wall and faced a television that was playing the poppy, upbeat tune of a kid’s show. On the opposite side of the room was a kitchen, empty save for the sound of sizzling bacon. 

My heart was pounding as I got to my feet. 

How much time has passed? 

I ran to the window and pulled back the curtains. The grass was green once more and the sight of the vibrant flowers in the beds outside curdled my stomach. 

Too much time. 

I heard movement behind me and I whirled to find the man entering the room, in his arms was a half-asleep child. 

My heart shattered. 

She was so big. 

She was too big. 

My voice suddenly worked as I cried out, “Charlotte!” Neither of them turned, though, not even so much as a glance. “Charlotte!” It was a sob this time. 

The man set the toddler down on the ground amongst a sea of toys. He patted her head gently and gave her a soft kiss before turning and walking towards the sound of cooking bacon. 

I felt frozen as I stood staring down at this baby girl. It was as though I could do nothing but that. My heart pounded furiously as my thoughts raced. I had been robbed. This had been taken from me. It was something I would never experience. This baby girl at my feet was my child. I had grown her in my womb and I had dreamt of the day I would finally hold her in my arms. I had dreamt of mornings just like this. 

Everything had been taken from me and there was nothing I could do to fix it. 

I didn’t mean to do it this time, but when I shut my eyes, time passed once more. When I opened them, I was back in the office. It was nighttime again, but I didn’t bother looking out the windows. It had done me no good in the past. Instead I stood quietly in contemplation, refusing to shut my eyes too tightly in fear that this moment would slip away from me. 

After several long moments, I went to the desk and found the small book in the same place. I went to the armchair and started to read. 

My name was Abigail. I was 31 years old when I died. My favorite color was orange because I loved sunsets and every time this man saw one he thought of me. I was a journalist. I grew up in this house. I was dramatic and loved to tell jokes. 

Charlotte was our daughter. I had named her. If she were to have been a boy, her name would have been Gregory. This man was happy she was Charlotte and not Gregory. Charlotte loved adventures. She loved rainbows, unicorns, and racecars, too. She looked like me. He said that he could see me in her eyes and in the way she smiled. 

As I sat there in the dark room, straining my eyes to read by the light of the moon, I realized it had been four years since I died. The man had filled three other small books, identical to the first, each entry addressed to me.

As I finished the last entry, I could tell that twilight was beginning and the sun would rise soon. My heart ached in so many different ways. I wanted to see Charlotte, that was undeniable, but my heart pulled me in a different direction. 

I left the office and wandered through the hall. I knew exactly where to go. I had grown up here, after all. 

I opened the door as silently as possible and peeked into the room. Even in the darkness, I could tell that he had not changed anything and the realization brought a small smile to my lips. I crept into the room quietly, as though I could somehow wake him. He was curled up on his side of the bed, as if he was still leaving room for me. Regardless of whether it was out of habit or tradition, the sight of it brought tears to my eyes. 

He had not shut the curtains all the way, so a sliver of light fell on his perfect face. I knelt down beside him and took in his features. He looked older than I remembered, of course, but he also looked much older than he should. The grief and sadness had aged him beyond his years, but I still saw him as he was before I had died. I could imagine his easy smile and the way the corners of his eyes would crinkle when he laughed. 

He hadn’t signed any of his entries to me, as though his name was just something he hadn’t deemed important. But I remembered his name, and I whispered it to him, as though it were a secret between lovers. I leaned in and pressed my lips against his. He tasted just as I had remembered and tears streamed down my cheeks. 

The heartbreak in my chest was unbearable. But suddenly, it wasn’t my heart that I felt. It was his. 

He would never see me again. This moment was for me. It was mine to experience alone. He would never know that I was here with him, stroking his cheek. To him and to my daughter, I was simply a memory, a ghost of what might have been. But for me, I was here with them, in brief, stolen moments.

In some wicked, twisted way, I was suddenly relieved that I was the one that had died. I tried to imagine going on in a life without him and it seemed simply unfathomable. 

“You are so strong, babe.” I whispered against his lips. 

I had no clue how many moments like this I would have. Perhaps eventually, I would shut my eyes tightly and there would finally be nothing. But every time I opened them to find my daughter a little bit older and my husband a little bit grayer, I would smile. These moments were a gift, a consolation for what had been stolen from me. 

It would never be enough, but it needed to be.