The Home We Built

Note: This is an excerpt from a book that I am currently writing. Hope it makes the cut!

February, present day 

Hello, love. It’s me. Your Adam. And today, darling, is my birthday.  

I know you know. That’s why I’m trying not to be too melancholy. But I miss you more than ever.  

I sigh to ease the heaviness in my chest as memories threaten to overwhelm me. My hand unconsciously closes upon the book that has given me the strength to last after you left me, one unforgettable Saturday evening. I lift my eyes towards the heavens in thanks to our Best Friend, Who has made me come this far. 

Even if coming this far means coming without you. 

I am wearing this flamboyant, flashy, yellow long-sleeved shirt that you gave me. I think it looks good paired with my favorite suspenders, but I still don’t like it. Why am I wearing it, then? I can hear you in my head teasing me lovingly. I stand away from the mirror, and I sit down on the bed. On your side of the bed. I lay a gentle hand upon your pillow, its brilliant yellow cover reminding me of your smile. Radiant as the yellow sun.  

I am wearing this shirt for you.  

I can hear your laughter, your teasing, your giggle. I still remember your birthday last year, when you pulled your standing-in-the-corner-quietly-and-screaming-“ADAM!!!”-at-me-suddenly-as-I-enter-the-room prank. I never got tired of it, although I occasionally hated having my heart race too fast. I remember how you threw your head back and laughed like the first time I saw you, many years past. I remember saying, “Love, I never would have guessed that you’re older by another year today. You still laugh like you’re twenty-one—”  

“—Oh, my Adam,” you had cut in softly then, cupping my face into your hands, your eyes—the color of molten copper underneath the brilliant rays that had made their way into our living room that day—shining vibrantly. “It’s because I’ve never had a dull moment with you.” I remember my heart (which had been racing due to your prank) skip even faster when you said those words, and the words after those. “You are my prayer come true.”  

I remember staring back at you, beaming. 

You were my prayer come true, too. 

I think, if you could see me right now, right this very moment, you would have burst into laughter again. 

After all, I had never really liked this shirt. You only bought it to tease me, on my sixty-fourth birthday. 

But this is the last shirt that you had bought for me, and I intend to wear it. If only even once. 

Oh, my love. I miss you very much. 

Our children think I might be lonely today. I’m not, because I still have you, always, engraved into my soul, into my memories, in everything that I do.  

And I have our Master, whom we have served all these years, waiting for me every day, waiting for me, sharing my grief. My loss. My hands close on the Bible, well-worn, dog-eared and bookmarked.  

But I am happy today, because they all came to celebrate with me. All of them, my love! They are all downstairs. 

“Dad.” 

I turn around, and a woman with eyes never the same shade twice walks into the bedroom. Her face is drawn, but she forces a smile. This woman, love, is our eldest, and her name is Wisdom. I still look at her with wonder every time I see her. She’s the first baby I have ever rocked to sleep in my arms, and now, here she is. A grown woman, almost in her forties, and still pretty as ever. She got that prettiness from you: none from me. Especially those eyes. Not mine. Yours. 

“Dinner is ready.” She smiles again, and this time, it almost looks genuine. But, having known her since the beginning, I pay more attention to her eyes. They are a tired, fragile gold from where I sit. “Everyone wants to see you now.” 

I stand up slowly. I am getting too old. My legs feel numb easily and my back hurts sometimes. But today I will ignore these pains. 

Our whole family is here, and I will enjoy today.  

Wisdom takes my hand. She is wearing platform heels, just like you, love. Only she gets even taller and willowy when wearing them. When you wear heels like hers, you still never go above my shoulder.  

I miss you. 

I look back at our bed, at our pictures on the bedside table, and then at our tired but beautiful daughter. I smile.  

“I am excited to meet them all, darling.” 

Wisdom smiles again, and squeezes my hand, as we walk out of the room, into the hallway and towards the small staircase leading to the parlor. She briefly looks at me again and laughs softly. She grins, and I see the little girl I loved so much surface for a moment. 

“I like your shirt, Daddy.” 

I grin back at her. 

She knows I hate to wear bright colors. But she also knows there’s something more to this shirt. She leans close and whispers, “I miss her, too.” 

I could not hold back my tears any longer.  

I go down the stairs and into the waiting arms of Kenneth and Jared.  

The parlor’s blazing furnace, the bureaus decorated with beautiful blue and white blooms and the yellow wall where all our portraits hung, old and recent, stand witness as I sob on Kenneth’s shoulder. Wisdom, her tears coursing down her cheeks, continues to hold my hand. Jared leans on me and weeps. 

We miss you, my love. 

We miss you very much. 

. . . 

Someone is missing from the dinner table. Aside from our grandchildren’s voices beside me and the clatter of plates and silverware, there is an awkward silence among the adults. I spot Wisdom purposefully ignoring Jared’s gaze. The ever-gentle Erika is saying something quietly to her husband, but Jared still gazes unflinchingly at his older sister. I see Kenneth ignoring it and trying to initiate a conversation with Wisdom. Diana then turns to Erika, whose worried face relaxes as Diana tells her of a story about an interesting visit to China. 

I can see that they are not yet ready to tell me about the missing person on the table, and so I focus my attention to our five grandchildren sitting next to me. Grace and Ebony are on my left; Evan, Enoch and Ava are on my right. All of them are engaged in lively chatter, and as they enjoy themselves with delightful banter and cheerful spirits, I feel our silent house wake from its long, grieving slumber.  

Gracie’s beautiful blond curls are bouncing dangerously close to the food on her plate. She has the roundest, bluest eyes I have ever seen, a color almost like her mother’s, but her face is all Jared’s. She is a tiny but talkative angel and is now talking with her older cousin, Ebony, whose olive skin, chiseled features and raven-black tresses make her look like an Egyptian princess. She has inherited the stunning, expressive eyes of Kenneth (which he in turn got from you), but the rest of her is very much like her mother, Diana. She kindly leans down to help Gracie with her fork and smiles shyly up at me the moment she sees me looking.  

Ebony’s twin, Evan, looks like a magnificent prince, the exact boy version of Ebony. His eyes—turning gold and copper and gray at different angles—are shining as he tells me about his track-and-field competition in the summer. He has been preparing well for it, he tells me, but winter and trumpet lessons has made him stay indoors for a while.  

“Will you watch me when I run?” he looks at me expectantly, and I gently ruffle his head, chuckling. 

“Of course, I will, my boy.” I teasingly wave a fork at Kenneth. This catches Kenneth’s attention, and light fills his face. He smiles, pausing from a quiet dialogue with Jared, and turns his attention to my conversation with his son. “But you have to tell your dad to pick me up!” 

“He will! He will!” Evan squeals in delight. 

“I will, Dad. Just promise me you won’t run with Evan the moment the signal is fired.”  

Everyone at the table laughs softly, the empty chair forgotten for a while. 

Evan begins digging into his plate more enthusiastically. He turns to Enoch, who is his ardent listener, and—as both fathers have told me—his most trusted confidante. 

Enoch’s intelligent sea-green eyes are smiling as he listens to Evan talk more about track-and-field and trumpeting. I see him tapping his small fingers on the armrest of his wheelchair. I know the rhythm of his fingers; I was known to tap mine in that same rhythm, too. I look down at my hand on the dinner table and find that I am doing the same thing—tapping my fingers—right that moment. Enoch sees it. He is thrown off for a while, and his eyes widen in surprise. I smiled, putting a finger to my lips. He smiles back briefly.  

In that moment, I saw the sun that I would see whenever you would smile.  

Enoch’s smile is yours.  

But those eyes. Those sharp, intelligent eyes that silently speak of passions the soul inside is aching to live—those eyes are like a reflection of mine when I was still my fiery, passionate self.  

“How are your legs, dear Enoch?” I ask kindly, taking a special interest in Enoch. 

“Getting better by the minute, sir,” Enoch respectfully answers. His fingers stopped their tapping rhythm. I see him clench his jaw. Another expression that I had passed down to Jared, and now to this familiar yet peculiar grandson of mine. I sense his impatience with the wheelchair, but not any other discomfort or pain. “I wish it could heal faster, though.” 

“He tried to walk an hour after he was out of the hospital, Dad,” Jared confides, his sea-green eyes flashing dangerously. Erika casually rests a hand on his arm, and the fierce light softens. “We were so worried.” 

Enoch says nothing but continues to look at me intently. His fingers resume their tapping music. I am fascinated by this boy’s bravery.  

Seven months ago, he heroically pushed a girl classmate away from the path of an overspeeding truck. The girl was out of danger in two seconds. But Enoch got out of the way a second too late. He was soon found seventeen feet farther, his body banged up, broken, and bloody. It was a miracle that he did not die.  

When I look into Enoch’s eyes, I do not see any hint of pain or sadness from the accident that might permanently shackle him into that wheelchair. In his mind, he did what was right. He saved a girl from sure death.  

I am hurting for that small body. But I am also in awe of the miracle that saved Enoch from his demise. And the courage his soul contained. 

Enoch’s and Grace’s older sister, Ava, is as beautiful as her mother but as tough as her father. She is tall for her age (almost as tall as Ebony) and has beautiful russet curls that frame her face. With her brown eyes flitting from Grace to Enoch, I can see that she is trying her best to be a dependable big sister. She is now coaxing Enoch to eat his food; he has ignored his plate the minute it was set before him. I admonish Enoch to eat his food, and he obeys. Ava heaves a sigh of relief and resumes minding her plate. But not before her eyes rest uneasily on the empty place across her. 

By this time, I could feel that I must say something about the empty chair, and so I clear my throat. Immediately, the table is silent, and pairs of hazel, sea-green, sapphire-blue and chocolate brown eyes look at me. All of them know what I am about to ask.  

“Where is Lois?” 

Lois, our oldest grandchild, has not shown up, and the dinner at this point was already thirty minutes in. I questioningly look at Wisdom, who looks down at her lap and bites her lip. 

Erika stands up from her seat to break the difficult silence that followed my question and smiles at the children. “Who would like to help me, and Aunt Diana cut up Granddad’s birthday cake?” 

Four hands went up, and so did cheers of delight. Nobody from the kids wanted to talk about the empty chair. Not Ava, who immediately went into the kitchen. Not Ebony, who had excused herself and taken Gracie. Not even cheerful Evan, who had decided that he will leave his precious roast beef and mashed potatoes for cake decorating, which his boyish nature has classified as “too girly”. 

Enoch wheeled himself out of the dining room. 

Wisdom, Kenneth and Jared remained. The roast beef, fruit salad, and red wine was forgotten; the ashen looks on their faces tell me a story I do not think I want to hear. 

But I know that I need to, anyway. I slowly push my plate away and train my eyes upon each of our children, the same way I would before when they were little and I was prodding the truth out of them after a messy squabble. 

“Tell me what happened.” 

. . .  

“How long has she been acting like this?” 

I had taken my Bible from its cherished place upstairs, and now I am clinging to it like a lifeline. Kenneth smiles at me encouragingly, but Jared and Wisdom are keeping their distance from me.  

I begin to wonder when my children stopped coming to the Father who loved them more than I do. 

Wisdom is pacing back and forth. She does not answer me, but instead runs a hand across her hair and refuses to look my way. Not that she doesn’t want to reply—she just does not trust herself to. I see her shoulders heaving.  

This burden, for her, is great.  

A heavy silence hangs in the air, and we all stare into the fire. I am unable to say anything.  

Kenneth speaks, and he says the words that the others, including me, could not say. 

“I think this divorce process is making her act like this.”  

Wisdom stops pacing, her back to us. Kenneth is oblivious. He continues.  

“I think you should tell Patrick about this, Wisdom.” Kenneth then looks up to his sister, who has whirled around to face him. Her eyes are a harsh shade of gold in the glow of the firelight.  

“Patrick has decided that he wants nothing to do with the two of us,” she snaps at Kenneth. “What do you expect me to do? Beg him to come back?”  

“You don’t have to be so angry at me, Wisdom. I was only telling you what I think.” 

“What you think should just sometimes not be spoken, Kenneth. You know very well what happened. This wasn’t my decision. This was purely Patrick’s, and I have no desire to—”  

“—we’re not your enemies, sis,” Jared cuts in, his voice sharp. “Stop venting out on us. We are only trying to help.” 

“Wisdom.” 

“Dad, if you’re going to tell me today that Jesus is the answer to all these problems, forget it.”  

“Wisdom, please.” My hands clench my Bible even more. In my head, I pray.  

Lord, what do I say to my daughter, who is in unimaginable pain? What do I do? What can I do to assuage this grief? 

It is then that Wisdom stops shaking and turns around to face me. Her eyes are welling with tears of frustration, and I see her wanting to run into my arms the way she used to when she was still a little girl, scared of the monsters the imagined to be underneath her bed.  

But she is thirty-eight now, and thirty-eight-year-old women with successful careers and teenage daughters do not run into their daddies’ arms. No. They keep trying to be brave.  

But I knew better. 

“Wisdom, come here. Sit down.” 

Wisdom obeys, and sits down on a stool next to me. The fire crackles and blazes as Kenneth throws another log onto it.  

I turn to Wisdom and tilt her chin up. “Now, child, listen. I will not pretend to have a solution for all your problems. I don’t know what to do, either…” my voice trails off and I look away for a moment, as my daughter cries softly.  

“Daddy,” she whispers softly, her sobs getting louder, “please. Help me bring Lois home.” 

We sit there for a long time, staring at the fire. Kenneth scoots close to Wisdom and takes one of her hands. Jared comes close, too, and Wisdom lays her head on his shoulder. I sit there and watch the three of them comfort each other.  

And my eyes turn, out of habit, to your wicker chair next to me.  

Love, what would you have done if you were here?  

How do we bring Lois home?