Page 60 of Craving Silence

“That morning she wanted to play outside, but I told her she had to wait until I had my shower and turned on the TV to keep her occupied. I didn’t have a lot of time, I had to drop Charlie off at daycare and be at the station for a meeting at eight fifteen. Chelsea—her mother—and I recently separated, and I was still trying to get into this part-time parenting routine.”

I already dread where this story is going and a lump forms in my throat. His eyes have wandered off, now staring blankly ahead as his story seems to stall. I want to go to him to offer comfort, but I’m not sure he would want it.

Part of me wants to tell him he doesn’t need to share something so painful, but, instead, I gently prompt him.

“What happened?”

He seems to jerk at my question, almost as if he’d gotten so lost in memories he’d forgotten I was even in the room.

“She got out. I didn’t think she’d be able to open the front door, but she managed to. Charlie was smart and could be determined when she set her mind to it. I heard a loud honk when I got out of the shower and noticed the door open. When I ran outside, the first thing I saw was her new, pink tricycle mangled under the wheel of a car stopped at the end of the driveway.”

“Oh my God, Rick. I am so sorry.”

No longer able to keep my distance, I move to the couch beside him, dropping a hand to his bent back. The moment I touch, he turns into me, pressing his face into my neck, and my arms slide around his body, holding him as best I can.

I can feel his grief, or maybe it’s my own, still so close to the surface.

I hold him for some time before he shifts out of my arms, keeping his face averted. It doesn’t matter, I could feel his tears through my shirt, but I’ll give him the privacy he needs and turn my own tear-streaked face away.

He gets up and walks to the hallway, and for a moment I think he’s leaving, until I hear the door of the downstairs bathroom squeak. Assured he’s not running out of the house in his state, I head to the kitchen, splash some cold water on my face, and put on the kettle for some tea or hot chocolate. I think we could both use something warm and soothing.

“She lasted two more days, hooked up to machines keeping her alive,” I hear him say when he walks up behind me in the kitchen. “I never left her side.”

There’s a lot about this morning’s display in the hospital lobby that makes a whole lot more sense now.

I slowly turn around to find him leaning against the doorpost, his slightly swollen, red-rimmed eyes betraying the emotions the impassive expression on his face is intended to mask.

“This morning’s accident must’ve been incredibly difficult for you,” I suggest.

“It sure triggered a lot,” he lightly scoffs. “It’s been almost five years, but suddenly felt like yesterday.”

He steps close to me, brushing a thumb under my eye while sliding his arm around my waist, pulling me in.

“I’m not used to talking about Charlie with anyone but my family, but they lost her too. I have a hard time dealing with their grief on top of mine, so it’s almost easier not to talk about her at all. It feels different, talking to you.”

“I get that. I think I’m experiencing something like that with Pops. People always talk about shared grief, but I don’t know it’s all that helpful. Sometimes I feel like my own grief is overwhelming enough, and I might drown if I had to take on my father’s as well. It’s been much easier opening up about her loss with you.”

Rick drops his forehead against mine.