He nodded as he ate. He then went on to tell me the local gossip. Sometimes I wondered if he struggled for things to say. It couldn’t have been easy on him to have this one-sided conversation with me. I wanted to smile, nod, or shake my head. I wanted to laugh; knowing I’d open my mouth and no sound would emerge, but at least he’d understand, but I couldn’t bring myself to. I looked at him, I heard some of what he’d said, but the voices in my head often overrode what my ears heard.
I only got part of his sentences. And it scared me. I hadn’t told anyone for fear that I’d be put on a higher dosage of the anti-depressants, that I’d be classed as mad. The voices were mine, multiple mes trying to be heard. Whatever emotion I was suppressing the most, shouted the loudest. The consequence was that I didn’t really hear what was being said to me, only snippets.
Shall I make a list? I wrote. Not sure if he had just asked me what I wanted for dinner.
He smiled and nodded. Perhaps he thought this was a breakthrough, I was participating in life.
I tore a piece of paper from the pad and wrote down some basic items I thought we might be low on. In truth, I hadn’t looked in a cupboard or the fridge, since I’d arrived some…I had no idea how long I’d actually been there. I didn’t know the date even. I knew it was September, but that was all.
I waited until Dad had shrugged on his coat and tied his scarf around his neck. I felt that pang of guilt hit me that I’d sit in the house, while he struggled down the lane with his shopping bags. I couldn’t face people trying to talk to me. When I heard the doors close, I let the tears fall. I hated crying in front of Dad, I hated to see the pain cross his face when he realised he couldn’t take mine away. It wasn’t a scraped knee that he would kiss and make better. It wasn’t a bump on the head from a fall off a bike that he could place an ice pack to and soothe me with his words.
I was so broken inside that it would be impossible for him to put me back together.
Chapter Three
I’d gotten into the habit of waking early hours and walking. I liked the solitude of that time in the morning. I liked that there was no one on the beach that would bid me a good morning and scowl at my lack of response.
It had rained during the night, the grass, as I crossed the garden, soaked into my Converse. It was probably time to dig out some boots. I walked along the beach until I came to an outcrop of rocks. I sat and breathed in deep, inhaling the salty air. As I placed my hands behind me, I felt a crack in the rock. I felt something metal.
I looked to see a bottle, my bottle, wedged in there.
At times the sea would cover the rocks, and I assumed the bottle had been washed back up to the place I’d thrown it, getting stuck in the rock as the tide receded. I pulled it out, unscrewed the cap and upended the bottle to retrieve the page I’d wedged in there. The piece of paper that fell out wasn’t the page I’d initially put in there.
I held the rolled up paper in my hand, unsure what to do at first. After a minute or so, I unrolled it and read.
I found your letter and my heart breaks for you, Dani. I can’t imagine the pain you must be feeling, and I’m so sorry for your loss. I don’t believe in God, I don’t believe the ‘angels’ needed your daughter, but I do believe that Trey and Hannah are together; they’re not alone. I think we have to believe that, don’t we?
I don’t know if you’ll even find this response. I walk this beach a lot. I like to think and be alone. I hope you do. I hope you get to see that someone understands just a little of what you’re going through.
I won’t tell you it gets better in time, it doesn’t. It becomes different, bearable. But a part of us died, and that part will never come back to life. It doesn’t work that way. You will heal, and it will be a new you that emerges on the other side. You won’t forget, but you’ll remember how to live again.
You have to, to keep them alive as well.
It wasn’t signed. I turned the piece of paper over to see if the letter continued on the back. It didn’t. I studied the handwriting. It was italic and as if written with a fountain pen. A small splodge of ink had dripped on the edge of the page. It was the type of handwriting I’d expect to see from an elderly person. I read it again. Whoever it was talked as if they understood loss, as if they’d experienced it themselves. Maybe it was a partner that had died. They’d been through tragedy and they’d survived.
I grabbed the small pad from the inside pocket of the jacket I wore. Dad had the foresight to add pads and pens, not only in every room of the house, but in every jacket and handbag I owned. I balanced the pad on my knee and I wrote.
I don’t know who you are, but thank you. I feel your pain, too. I never expected anyone to pick up this bottle, I never expected anyone to take the time to read my letter and to reply. I’m actually at a loss as to what to say now.
You say it doesn’t get better; it just gets different. Please, tell me what that means? Will I hurt this much for the rest of my life? I can’t bear the thought of that. My mum died when I was a child, my dad brought my brother and me up on his own. He understands; I know he does, but it’s not the same. I don’t want him to feel my pain, to be reminded of his own. I don’t want him to look at me with sadness in his eyes, because for the first time in my life; he can’t make it all better. There are no words of comfort; there are no plasters or bandages big enough to piece me back together.
I lost my husband; we’d only been married for a short while. I lost my daughter; she hadn’t even been born before she was pulled from my body. They told me she’d survived a few hours, but I never got to meet her then. I never got to feel her take breaths while lying in my arms. I never got to hold her skin on skin or kiss her forehead.
She died before I had the courage to wake up. And that’s the part that kills me more each day.
I was a coward; I hid in sleep. She struggled to live, and I hid in sleep.
I can’t…I don’t know the words to convey how that makes me feel right now.
I have to go. I don’t know if you’ll get this, if you do, I’m sorry for your loss, too.
Dani.
I placed the letter in the bottle, screwed the cap tight and wedged it back in between the rocks. I had no idea if it would be found. I’d thrown mine out to sea. I didn’t know where that bottle had washed up. Had he replied and then thrown the bottle back? Or had he wedged it between the rocks?
I paused. Why had I thought ‘he?’ There was nothing in that note to determine, yet somehow, I guessed the words to be from a man. Maybe it was the fountain pen, I didn’t know anyone who used one anymore.
I stood and walked back, all the while thinking. That was the most I’d ‘spoken’ in ages. It felt like I’d just had a ‘conversation’ with someone without the use of the spoken word. I hadn’t just written a few words in answer to a question. Why could I do that with a complete stranger and not my dad?
My head began to pound; I rubbed at my temples, hoping it was the biting cold and not a migraine. Or the fact I hadn’t taken my medication in a couple of days. I’d been warned of going ‘cold turkey’ but I just wanted to see if the screaming in my head returned. If it did, I’d get back on them. I’d rather the numbness than the noise.
I itched to return to the beach. I made tea and sat outside, knowing I couldn’t see from where I was, but just being outdoors made me feel closer to whoever it was. His words offered me comfort because they were honest. Time and time again I’d been told, ‘things will improve,’ ‘one day you’ll smile and laugh again.’ I didn’t want improvement, I didn’t want laughter; I wanted understanding. I wanted forgiveness.
I needed forgiveness for not waking up and holding my daughter to my breast. I needed forgiveness for not letting my heartbeat be felt by her. I needed forgiveness for not kissing her goodbye.