Page 30 of Rooke
FIFTEEN
HELP
SASHA
Living in Manhattan means I don’t get to enjoy the skyline all that often. It seems as though it would be quite similar to living on the moon; everyone else gets to appreciate the silent, luminous, ghostly beauty of your home, viewing it from afar, and yet for you the vista consists of dust and rocks and not much else. Manhattan, from the inside, is just the same as any city: dirty, overcrowded and oversaturated with many different sounds, scents and colors. It’s a magnificent place, though. There’s something about this city that separates it from all other cities, something that inhabits the air and lives insides the very concrete and metal that forms the foundations of the place. A kind of magic that even the most desensitized, numb kind of person will recognize instantly upon stepping foot inside the boundaries of the city. The idea that people leave New York, that they up sticks and relocate to live in other, lesser places, completely without any magic at all, confounds me on a daily basis.
I still marvel at the street vendors. My blood still hums with a frisson of excitement every time I walk down Broadway. Pride still swells inside me as I look up, my eyes traveling the full height of the Empire State Building. And every time I walk through the entrance of the museum, my heart skips a beat.
It’s early still. My body aches beyond comprehension from the way Rooke contorted me into a million different positions while we had sex last night. Every time muscles twinge it’s the most delicious reminder of the hours we spent together. I didn’t want to come to work. I would have happily stayed in bed and allowed him to explore and use my body however he saw fit for the rest of the day but he had an appointment that apparently couldn’t be missed.
The only other people already working at the museum are the security guards. Amanda, a woman in her late thirties who has worked at the museum almost as long as I have, checks my purse at the front door. “Good job, Miss Connor,” she says to me. “No guns. No bombs. No hairspray. You are good to go.”
She says the same thing every time she checks my bag, and I always pretend to laugh, even though this charade has been going on for years now. I know for a fact she says the same thing to every other female employee that works here. I accept my bag from her and walk into the main foyer of the museum, but I only make it three or four steps before I come to a grinding halt.
The Christmas tree.
I’m always stunned the first time I see it. I had no idea they were erecting it so early this year. I stand in amazement, studying the tall, lush boughs and the pale golden lights, twinkling slowly. The rich smell of pine floods my senses, and suddenly my eyes are filled with tears. Christmas time. Just like any other six-year-old, December was Christopher’s favorite time of year. Andrew and I used to go overboard, decorating the house, covering every square inch of the place in holly and wreaths, nutcracker statues and fake snow out of a can. Ever since Christopher died, Christmas has felt like a knife plunged deep into my back. Families are everywhere at this time of year, shopping, eating in restaurants, visiting aunts and uncles, moms and dads, ice skating at the Rockefeller Center, lining up to see The Lion King. I hate it.
“Beautiful, no?” Amanda calls out behind me. “They did themselves proud this year.”
“Yes,” I say quietly. “It really is lovely.” I hurry to my office, gripping hold of my purse so tightly that I lose all feeling in my hand.
******
Thoughts of Christopher, running around in his socks and his underwear, shoulders shaking with silent laughter, Andrew chasing after him, tickle-fingers extended, trying to get him ready for school.
Last night was blissful. For a whole twelve hours, I wasn’t thinking about the accident. I wasn’t floundering in a deep well of pain, scratching at the walls, trying to hold on to something, to keep myself afloat. Rooke took all of that away. I never would have thought it was possible, but it was. He held me up for a moment. His hands on my body, his mouth on my skin, the feeling of him inside me…there was no room for anything else during those moments. There was only the two of us, the ghosts of my past cast far away, wonderfully absent.
Now, though, they’ve crept back in, lurking at the edges of my mind. Christopher eating his breakfast cereal at the same table we sit around during book club, playing with his plastic dinosaurs. Christopher sitting on the middle step of the stairs, signing a song he learned at school as I sort through the mail. Christopher watching television, mouth open in silent joy, kicking his feet against the base of the sofa. Christopher, trying to teach the little girl next door how to spell his name in sign language. Each joyful moment is a dagger in my heart.
I carefully open up the top drawer of my desk, my lips pressed together, unable to breathe as I remove the small envelope from inside. I’ve been putting this off forever, it seems, but now I know I can’t. I have to face the past head on, and that means I have to face Andrew. My hands are shaking as I tear open the paper.
Dear Sasha,
Been a while, I know. I’m sorry I’ve been keeping my distance, but you know… It only seems to make things worse when we speak. I should have probably called with this news, but I’m ever the coward. I hope you’ll forgive me, but I just couldn’t quite seem to muster up the courage to say the words out loud to you.
Kim and I had a baby. I can imagine how this news is probably making you feel, and I’m sorry, I really am. I thought about keeping this to myself and not telling you at all, but it felt a little deceitful. Anyway, we called him Christopher.
I stop reading, the paper shaking violently in my hands. They…what? They did fuckingwhat? Andrew’s blocky handwriting blurs as my eyes fill with tears. He had another son? And he called him Christopher? What the hell?
I already know you think I’m a monster. Kim and I just felt like it was the right thing to do, though. I’m not trying to replace him, Sasha. I would never do that—
That’s exactly what the bastard is doing. How can he not see that? How can he not see that shacking up with another woman (who looks strikingly similar to me), having a child with that woman and naming that child after our dead son is most definitely trying to replace him? How can he be so blind? So fucking hurtful?
I’m sure a small part of you, deep down maybe, will be relieved to hear that Christopher isn’t deaf. We’ve had numerous appointments at the hospital, and as far as the doctors can tell at this young age he appears to have fully functional hearing. He’s a bright, happy baby, Sasha. He’s helped to heal the wounds of the past for me. In time, maybe—
I screw up the paper and hurl it across the room. My vision is flickering in a frightening, dangerous way. I feel like I need to smash something, to hurt something, to hurt myself. How can he say that? How can he put those thoughts down on paper? It’s so much worse than saying it out loud, because he had to use a pen, write them down so that they exist forever. He thinks I’ll be relieved that his new son isn’t deaf? That makes it sound like I was disappointed thatourson was. His disability was never a cause of shame or sadness to me. It made him special. Christopher was brimming over with happiness every day of his life. The fact that he was deaf never held him back. It makes me feel dirty inside that Andrew would even—
Crrrrrrrrrrrack!
I go still at my desk. The loud, abrupt, explosive sound that just rang out, slicing through the thick silence of the museum is still echoing down the corridor outside my office. Whatwasthat?
It comes again, louder this time.
CRRRRRACKKK!
What…what the hell is happening right now?
