Don't Let Down

Nick was dead. He had been alive when the family had sat in the twinkling light of the tree, buried in shiny red and green wrapping paper, reading his Christmas letter. He had been alive when he had teased her about going on her first date. He had been alive when he had taught her to ride a bike on Fleming Street, steadying her shaky maiden voyage with a sure hand and an encouraging voice, and holding her when she fell and scraped her knees. But now he was dead, Mama was collapsed in grief at the hospital, none of her other brothers would be there, and only she and Papa were left to face the world at his Requiem Mass tomorrow. She heard Papa come in, closing the door behind him with a soft click. She could hear his boots squeaking over the oak boards of the foyer floor, then muffle as he stepped onto the mat, then the soft whir of his stockinged feet and the rustle of his coat and hat coming to rest on the hook of the coat rack. So as not to startle him, she made the chair creak and feigned a cough and a clearing of her throat. He didn’t need fright to be added to the grief, shock and worry that filled his mind. “Anna, my dear, what are you doing sitting in the dark?” he asked quietly. “And why are you still up? Tomorrow is an important day.” He sat on the very edge of the settee by the windows, to be as close to her as possible. Light from the kitchen just reached his face. Anna Mae was shocked at how quickly a face could be transformed in such a short space of time. Her father’s face had never been vibrant or youthful in her lifetime, but deep sadness and loss now covered his like a pall. His suit hung limply off his shoulders, as if it had grown two sizes in a week. She sniffed and wiped the tears from her face. “It’s not that late, really. You know, I do stay up past nine o’clock these days, Papa. I’m not a little kid any more.” She smiled wanly, and Karl tried to return her smile. “I only just got home myself,” she continued. “I met with Father Hayden about the Mass. I was just sitting here remembering Christmas.” The memory overwhelmed her and she started to cry again. “It’s so hard to believe Nick is dead, Papa. My mind keeps flooding with images of him alive, walking and talking. How can that be all there is of him now? If all we have of him are memories, how is that any more real than a character we imagine when we’re reading a book?” She could see that Karl was grappling for a way to answer her difficult question. “Well,” he said to her tenderly, “if you want to make Nick more real, concentrate on making your memories of him more real. You said it yourself – ‘images of him.’ Instead of remembering an image of his face, remember the feel of the stubble of his beard, or the way he smelled after a football game or on his way out the door for a date. Remember the smell of the winter air when he opened that door or the wetness of snow when he went through that door or the sound of the snow’s crunch under his boots. When you see him smiling, imagine the feel of his lips over his teeth. Climb inside him and feel what he was feeling, and you will know that he was real.” Anna Mae gave it a try. “Imagine the feel of that pressure on his finger when he held a pencil or a crayon too hard.” Karl encouraged her. “Or the wind passing through the hair on his arms.” “The throaty, scratchy sound of his voice when he first woke up.” “That strained sound when he tried to sing too high.” “His face would turn red, and the veins bulged out on his face and neck.” They had been leaning toward each other, when Anna’s face suddenly crumbled and the tears returned. “There’s one image I don’t want to animate, Papa. How it felt to die.” Karl hung his head. “You are right,” he mumbled, “not that one.” He ran his hand over his sunken face. “I’m sorry, Anna. I’m afraid I have brought you right back to where you were when I came in.” He cursed himself for leading her straight into the pain he was trying to relieve. He wanted so much to do something to help his suffering daughter after failing, as he saw it, to keep Greta afloat. In a rare moment of selfishness, he felt his own pain, and wondered whether Greta would ever be capable of easing it. Anna read his thoughts. “No, Papa, you have not failed,” she told him between sniffles. “You’ve helped me keep Nick a little alive in my heart. It hurts so much right now, I wonder if it will ever get better.” “No,” Karl said, “it never goes away completely, but it is something you learn to live with.” Anna saw the sad, faraway look in her father’s eyes.