The Holding Place

Chapter 7

Claire calls my phone every day and leaves voice messages. She knows that I see and listen to the messages that she leaves. She wants to know how Norah is doing and how she is coping with being gone. I don’t want to hurt Claire with the truth. I have hurt her enough with my selfish ways.


I can’t figure out a way to tell Norah that Claire is not coming back. For days now I have been telling myself that I don’t want to hurt her but deep down there is a more sinister reason. I want to avoid the emotional outburst that I am sure is to follow. Telling a child as precocious as Norah that her aunt went on an unplanned road trip will on remain believable for so long.


It has been hell since my sister left. There is no other way to describe it. Norah is filthy and no attempt on my part has been made to bathe her or change her clothes. She spends hours in her bedroom watching television or playing with her dolls. She creeps as quietly as she can past my office door to the kitchen to find herself something to eat. I listen to the ceramic dishes smash against the floor in her attempts to pour cereal and milk into a bowl. Her fingers are too nimble to handle a gallon of milk and more lands on the floor or counter than in her bowl.


I’m appalled at myself for letting these things happen. I ache to go out and take care of my child but something deep and unsettling roots me in my chair, forcing me to do nothing but listen to her pitiful attempts at self-care. I wait until I am sure that Norah is no longer in the kitchen to go in there and clean up after her mess. There is no point in becoming angry at the mess. None of this is her fault. She is an innocent caught in the crossfires of my grief. I am forcing a four year old girl to take care of herself.


Abby’s mother’s phone number is written down in the back of an old black address book that lies on top of the refrigerator. I met her for the first time at the funeral. One look at those familiar eyes and dark curls confirmed everything I needed to know. I studied her and tried to figure out why Abby spent all those years trying to forget her. Outwardly nothing was strange about the woman.  She hardly looked old enough to have a daughter Abby’s age, but the likeness between them was unmistakable.


It was the way she stared right at me during the eulogy, almost as if she was looking right through me, that struck me as odd. Her eyes were colder than those of Abby and nothing seemed to exist within their green depths. No tears streamed down her face while everyone around her let them fall openly. She watched stony-faced as they lowered her daughter’s casket into the fresh turned earth and rested six white roses at her headstone.


It struck me as odd that her mother would lay down white roses at her grave. She had to know that Abby detested white roses. I found out the night that I tried to give her a bouquet of white roses, only to have them thrown back in my face, causing her to break down in tears. She would not tell me why she hated them so much, only asking that I never buy them for her again. I never again bought her a bouquet of roses, choosing to woo her with bouquets of exotic wildflowers from that point forward.


Her mother lives not even an hour from here but I have not contacted her since the funeral. Her lack of expression towards the death of her daughter, whom she is supposed to love and cherish above all else, unsettles me every time I allow myself to revisit that day. I know almost nothing about the woman and after seeing her with those empty green eyes, there is no desire to try to learn more about her.


She recognized Norah the moment she glanced her sleeping contentedly in the arms of my sister. She went up to my sister and told her what a beautiful baby she thought Norah was. She made no attempts to introduce herself or ask to hold Norah. She simply lingered for a few moments over the baby she regarded as beautiful. Claire unaware of her actions, she slipped a small piece of paper into my sister’s purse giving details of who she was and how to contact her.


A ragged brown teddy bear hanging limply in a small hand catches my attention out of the corner of my eye. It only makes sense that it is Norah standing there but I still try to will my mind to make it anyone but her. I am as terrified of her as she is of me. She must be confused as to why she is not wearing clean clothes and her hair has remained unwashed for several days. I hear a small whimper slip from her as she braves a peep through the cracked door she is standing behind.


“Daddy?” she squeaks, testing out the volume of her small voice.


The word “daddy” should roll off her tongue with all the familiarity in the world but it comes out sounding rusty and unused. I cringe inwardly at myself with disgust. The past four years of Claire’s voiced concerns come at me all at once, every part of me undone by a little girl with a quivering voice. This is not what Abby would have wanted for her little girl.


When she was alive Abby would have moved heaven and earth to make sure that Norah has everything she could ever need in life. A cry never went unsoothed or a diaper never left unchanged. Being a mother came so naturally to her. Being a father came so naturally to me as well. I loved smiling into her wide green eyes as she gurgled and batted experimentally at me with her chubby hands.


Claire made it so easy for me to push myself away from Norah, so easy for her to not need me. I buried myself into my work. The immediate days following the accident floated by, almost unreal to me, and I felt as if I was losing my mind. I needed something concrete and tangible to sink my mind into and extra hours offered to me at the firm made it possible.


I climbed up the ranks at the firm quickly, making more money than I ever dreamed possible in such a short amount of time. It was the type of money I always told Abby I was capable of making. It would have opened up all of the doors to her dreams. She could have created the urban reading initiative she always talked so passionately about with me on the nights where she laid her head upon my chest and felt free to share with me her deepest hopes and dreams.


All of my progress means nothing to me now. There is no meaning to the life that I lead. There has not been since the day my wife was taken away from me. All of the blame I put upon her that night. All the vile things my mouth spewed at her. If I had known it would be the last time…


Muffled sobs are coming from door that Norah is hiding behind. Her mind is tired and confused. It has been a rough few days for her and I cannot fault her for crying. If I could I would go right up beside her and cry with her.


“Norah, come out here,” I say, trying to make my voice sound as gentle as possible.


Her sobs quickly turn to sniffles at my beckoning and peers her dirty head around the door to look at me. She is trying to decide if it is safe for her to approach me. Times that her and I have stood alone in the same room is few and far in between. I try to slacken the tightness in my jaw and shoulders in an attempt to make myself appear more approachable to her.


My efforts seem to satisfy her as she takes small slow steps closer to where I stand. There is food that is days old crusted to her dirty face and tangled in her dark hair. I have no choice but to bathe her. I cannot simply leave her in this state. Claire saw something in me that I am not able to see in myself. She wouldn’t leave Norah with me if she didn’t think I truly couldn’t care for her.


“Am I still allowed to go to school, Daddy?” she asks quietly, looking up at me with uncertainty.


Her words take a direct hit to my heart and my breath is nearly knocked out of me. How could I forget that she goes to preschool three times a week? Taking her three times a week regularly was something that Claire desperately impressed upon me in the weeks before she left, making me swear that above all else I would commit to making sure that Norah would attend for at least those three days per week. I have not bothered to remember to take Norah for over a week now. The familiar creep of depression and hate slowly makes its way over me.


Norah is still looking up at me with her expectant green eyes. Her friends are very important to them and she is anxious for me to tell her if she is still allowed to go. I am a selfish bastard. I am able to do nothing but hurt this little girl who is now dependent on me.


I curl my hands in angry determination and will the hopelessness out of my system. I glance at the clock to see that there is still an hour of morning left. If I work mechanically like I do when I lose myself in the numbers of my job I can manage to get Norah to the preschool by noon. Claire pre-programed the address in my GPS months ago. I have no more excuses for myself anymore.


My sister is done helping me and my daughter needs me more now than ever.