She starts to seethe with anger but has the decency to keep her voice down. “Give me my prescription, Sam. It’s my name on the bottle, not yours, not Ruth’s. I’m an adult, and I have complete control of my faculties, even if you don’t think I do.” She jerks her hand out, palm up, a demand. “Give me my fucking pills.”
Rachel never says fuck. She’s said it twice in the last five minutes. I hold her gaze, and her expression softens, and suddenly she looks like the woman I’ve loved for more than fourteen years. “I won’t do anything stupid,” she says quietly. “I just want to sleep.”
“Just one?”
“Yes, damn it. Just one. Just one, I promise, okay? Give them to me. I’m not a child.”
I withdraw the bottle from my pocket and show it to her. She reaches for it, and I pull it away. “Give me the fucking monkey, Rachel.”
Her whole body spasms, and she glares at me. Slowly, and with what looks like great effort, she pulls the monkey’s paws apart. The squawk of Velcro echoes through the bedroom. She holds the stuffed animal out to me. It hangs limply from her grasp. Tears stream down her face. I almost change my mind, but I don’t let myself. I take the monkey and hand her the bottle of pills.
I glance at the bed, at the side where I used to sleep. I wonder if I will ever make my way back to this bed, if I will ever be invited back to this bed.
“Rachel, I . . .”
But she is already backing away from me, retreating into her grief. Her head drops to her chest, and I hear the sob. I want to go to her, to wrap my arms around her and press myself against her and push away the torment she feels. But I know she will resist. Her body will stiffen, and she’ll lash out again and say something that will break us more than we are already broken. So I stay where I am, arms at my sides, wishing we were the kind of couple who endured tragedy together, soldiered on united, held each other up, held each other close. We are not.
“You need to check on Eden,” she says, her voice a hoarse whisper. “Make sure she’s okay.”
“Come with me, Rachel. Let’s check on her together.”
Her head jerks from side to side. “I can’t. I can’t. I know it’s terrible, I’m terrible, but I can’t right now.”
“You’re not terrible, Rachel,” I tell her. It’s a lie. She is terrible. Our son is gone, but our daughter is here, alive, suffering, and Rachel cannot even pretend to be a mother to her. I’m no better, except that I am able to pretend.
“I love you, Rachel.” The words tumble out of my mouth without my permission, without thought. They are true, but unwelcome. Rachel says nothing. Her shoulders rise and fall with silent sobs. She doesn’t look at me.
Defeated, I turn and walk out of the room, closing the door behind me. I wander down the hall toward Eden’s room, wondering what I can say to my daughter to explain what just happened. The Maker’s Mark sloshes around in my stomach, not pleasantly, and I know I should eat something to absorb the alcohol, but all I want is another two fingers of bourbon. What a fucking pair my wife and I make. Rachel has her pills, and I have my bourbon. What does Eden have? I ask myself. How does she cope?
I stop at Jonah’s room, turn the knob, and push open the door. I can’t bring myself to step inside. I toss the monkey to the bed. It lands on the pillow, upright. Staring at me. I quickly shut the door and continue to Eden’s room. I knock softly on her door, wait a moment, then open it and peer in. Eden sits on the far side of the room on her beanbag chair. Shadow lies with his front legs across her lap. Eden’s arms encircle his chest, and her head rests against his head, her eyes closed. Shadow, alerted to my presence, eyes me dubiously but doesn’t move.
My instant reaction is anger. Shadow isn’t allowed upstairs. The carpeted floors cling to his discarded fur and dander. But then I remember what Eden just witnessed, and I realize I have no right to the anger I feel. Her mother doesn’t make her feel safe, nor do I. At least Shadow can give her some reassurance.
“Eden?”
She raises her head slightly but doesn’t open her eyes. Her voice is muffled by Shadow’s thick coat. “Is Mom okay?”
How like my daughter, to ask after her mother before anything else. Her question fills me with shame that I haven’t put her well-being ahead of everything, as I should. I take a tentative step into the room. It smells of dog, and I feel my nasal passages react.
“Your mom’s really sad. Just like you are. Just like I am and Aunt Ruth is.”
“She didn’t seem sad,” Eden says. “She seemed really angry and, like . . . like, crazy.”
“I know she did.” Two more steps and I’m at the edge of the bed. I sit and gaze down at the top of my daughter’s head, at the crown of strawberry-blonde hair, the same shade as her mother’s. “I know it’s hard for you to understand.” I take a breath and sigh. “It’s hard for me to understand, too,” I admit, and Eden looks up at me as though I’ve just made an important revelation. Her eyes are puffy and swollen and red, and it hurts to look at her, to see my ten-year-old’s pain, but I force myself to not look away. “Everybody is different, right? Everyone is different and unique, isn’t that so?”
She nods, almost imperceptibly. “And everyone is sad in different ways, too,” I tell her, but my explanation sounds feeble.
“Why is Mom so mad at you?” she asks, and the question is so innocent, so unknowing, bereft of an agenda and made from simple curiosity. I don’t know how to answer, what I can say that will make sense to her.
“Mom’s mad at everything right now. That’s the way she’s being sad.”
“Is she mad at me?”
“Oh, no, honey. Not at you.” Another lie. Because I know, on some horrible level, Rachel is mad at Eden for being alive and needing her when she can’t bear to be needed. “Never at you.”
“Are you mad at me?” she asks, her eyes glistening in the near dark. “For Shadow being in my room?”
I let out a chuckle and see Eden visibly relax. “No, piece of pumpkin pie. I’m not mad.” I reach out to her, stroke her hair, then put my hand on hers. She looks surprised, and I can’t pretend I don’t know why. I haven’t reached out to her, haven’t held her hand or stroked her hair or even really looked at her since Jonah died. I feel the urge for another shot of bourbon and quickly tamp it down.
“Come on. Aunt Ruth left some sandwiches in the fridge. I think we both could use a sandwich, don’t you?”
She lets me pull her to her feet. Shadow groans, then stands and shakes himself, as though he’s soaking wet. Eden squares her shoulders and looks at me.
“Dad. There’s something I want to talk to you about.” She sounds like she’s thirty-five years old. “About the day . . . ” She swallows. “You know, the day Jonah . . . the accident.”
My stomach clenches with the memory of that day. What did Eden hear? How much does she know about what happened between her mother and me?
“But I don’t want to make you upset.”
“That was a very bad day,” I say, and she nods solemnly. “And I definitely think we should talk about it at some point.” She nods again. “But maybe we should wait until we can talk with Mommy, too.” I am a coward. A bastard and a coward.