Page 3 of The Rest is History

A birth certificate and a death certificate issued on the same day. A heartbeat that lasted fifteen minutes.

Like knives slicing through my vocal cords, the ache in my throat is unbearable.

Abigail has gone to a better place, the priest said. She’s gone to where we all long to go. She was brave and strong.

Julie was inconsolable. So shattered she could hardly stand for the prayers. I couldn’t let myself fall apart. If I fell apart, I would break her even more. So, I held her. And I held onto her. And I said goodbye to the only perfect piece of me. Of all the things I am, Abigail was the only perfect part.

“I’ll see to the movers,” Elaine says quietly.

“Yes. Leave the nursery for last,” I say, realizing I hadn’t answered her.

“You still have your set of keys, just in case you stay longer than us?”

“Yes.”

Elaine leaves me alone but returns a few moments later with a wooden rocking horse from our bedroom. “I thought we should keep all the toys together,” she says.

I nod sharply, steeling myself against the pounding in my temples, swallowing the knives inside my throat. I’m bleeding on the inside, unable to breathe as I watch her place a small stack of baby books inside the crib.

Finally, a single tear demands acknowledgement for this unbearable nightmare, and for the first time since I walked back into our forever home, the finality of what is happening bursts through the haphazardly built walls I’ve kept around myself these last few months.

Elaine leaves, closing the door quietly behind her. I pick up a book from the pile. A soft melody begins when I open the first page, along with pop-up pictures.

I begin to read.

Page one.

“Where did you go, little bear?”

“Why, I went to take a nap.”

Page two.

“Silly bear, it’s been six months.”

“What does six months mean?”

Page three.

“I don’t know. I’ll ask my Daddy.”

“Daddy, what does six months mean?”

I slam the book shut.

“Six months is time, Abby,” I whisper into the empty room. “It’s a long time for people but only a short nap time for bears.”

I close my eyes, tears falling, and I hear her voice inside my head, giggling while she speaks. “Thank you, Daddy. I love you, Daddy.”

And then the voice morphs into something else and my nightmare begins again.

“Why didn’t you save me, Daddy? Why did you make me only for me to die, Daddy?”

“Why, Daddy?”

“Why, Daddy?”

“Why, Daddy?”

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