When he was alive, his expressions ranged from content to joyful to puzzled to curious to intently focused, like when he found an interesting bug in the yard or discovered animal shapes in the clouds. He was a bright, precocious, happy child, engaged with the world around him.
But this Jonah, this phantom who might or might not really be sitting at the head of my bed, looks worried. I want to tell him not to, don’t worry, everything’s okay, because a five-year-old shouldn’t ever wear that expression. But I can’t, because everything is not okay, everything is awful, terrible, horrible, unbearable without him.
The image of my son begins to shift, to quiver, to fade even more, and I cry out, “Jonah!” He touches his nose and grins, and my tears are sudden and fierce.
When he was four and contracted strep throat and couldn’t speak without immeasurable pain, he and I came up with signals, a kind of sign language. If he needed something, he would pantomime it, but if he was fine, in need of nothing, he would touch the tip of his index finger to the end of his nose. It became a thing for us, a secret communication between us to let the other know we were just fine.
I want to be able to touch my nose for him, but again, I can’t. I’m seeing my dead son. That in and of itself is a pretty big indication that I’m not just fine.
An instant later, Jonah is gone. I squeeze my eyes shut, then open them, but all I see is the wooden headboard and the disheveled pillow on which I sleep.
A memory blooms in my mind from two years ago. My mother had just passed, the cancer quickly and efficiently taking her. My grief was tempered by all of the bureaucracy and business dying creates, the endless forms and phone calls and arrangements that needed to be taken care of. I was sitting at the kitchen table, a completed life insurance form and my cell phone in front of me. Jonah, three at the time, wandered into the kitchen and climbed into my lap.
“Are you sad, Mommy?” he asked, and I nodded my head. I was sad and tired and overwhelmed. “Are you sad about Nanny?”
“Yes, honey. I am.”
Jonah didn’t know what death meant. No child does.
“Nanny went away,” he said solemnly.
“Yes, she did.”
“But where did she go?”
I took a deep breath. “She went to heaven, baby.”
“Where’s heaven?” he asked. “Is it far away? Can we go see her there?”
“It’s very far away. And we can’t see her again except in our dreams.” I had just had a very vivid dream the night before in which my mom had hugged me and told me she was “feeling all better now.”
“But heaven is a wonderful place, Jonah. Beautiful, with angels all around. Nanny’s happy there, so even though we can’t see her, we know she’s safe and happy and looking down on us with love.”
“Does everybody go to heaven?” He shifted in my lap so that he could see me.
“I don’t know,” I said, opting for honesty.
“Will I go to heaven?” he asked, still searching my face.
“Yes, honey. You will definitely go to heaven. But not for a very, very long time.”
He turned to face the table and leaned back against me. His dark curls were getting long, and I absently thought he was due for a haircut and wondered if we could fit one in before my mother’s funeral.
“I can’t wait to see Nanny again,” he said softly, and I slipped my arms around his middle and held him close, rocking him back and forth until both of us were nearly asleep.
I glance at the bottle of pills on the nightstand and wonder why I’m seeing my son since I only took one pill. And then it hits me.
Why is he here? Why isn’t he in heaven? My brain can’t make sense of these questions. Jonah was the sweetest, most wonderful boy in the world. Why haven’t God or the angels snatched him up and taken him to his kingdom, where my mom could lavish him with her bounteous love?
Maybe he’s stuck here. My heart starts to race at the thought. Maybe he can’t find his way. Maybe the angels are urging him on, but he can’t hear them. I have to help him. I have to help him find his way to heaven. It’s my responsibility as his mother. He deserves heaven, and I have to get him there.
I reach for the bottle of pills.
TWENTY-THREE
RUTH
I awake with a start, disoriented, not knowing where I am. Darkness has fallen, and the room is full of shadows. The living room. My living room. The digital clock on the cable box reads half past six. I’ve been asleep for more than two hours.
I jump up from the couch, relieved that my muscles are obeying the commands from my brain without much protest, but my relief is tempered by my guilt. Guilt that I have left my sister’s family alone for so long. Rachel is a mess, Sam is incapable of dealing with her, and Eden, God bless her, needs the stability of my presence, whether she knows it or not.
As I half jog to the kitchen and grab my pills, a seed of worry sprouts in my gut. I don’t know the root of this sudden apprehension. I am not superstitious, nor do I believe in telepathy, and even if I did, I’m far too common a woman to possess such a power. But this feeling, this sudden fear, compels me to hurry, to quicken my pace, despite the fact that my legs are not equipped to handle such velocity.
I grab a carry sack from the cupboard and bring it with me to the bedroom. I pull fresh underthings from the drawers and clean clothes from the closet and stuff them into the bag. I go into the cramped bathroom and relieve my bladder, and when I wash my hands, I am careful not to look in the mirror, because I am afraid of the image I will see.
Five minutes later, after making sure all of my appliances are off, even though I didn’t use them during my brief visit, my Nissan shudders to life. I try to be grateful for what I have rather than bemoan what I don’t have, but sometimes I resent the fact that Charlie got the Porsche. Especially since he bought his new wife a Land Rover. But the Nissan works, and how ridiculous would it be for a middle-aged woman with gray hair and sagging breasts and plump, useless breeder’s hips to drive a sports car?
Worry gnaws at me, but I drive at the speed limit and stop appropriately for questionable yellow lights.
It won’t help my sister if I get into an accident.