Every Last Lie. Mary Kubica

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       CLARA

      The grief comes at me in many ways.

      I spend my mornings with sadness, my evenings in melancholy. In private, I cry. I can’t bring myself to confess to Maisie why Nick is not here, and so I’ve taken to lying, to telling the girl who stands before me with pining eyes that her father has run out, that he’s on an errand, that he’s at work. I rely on tired responses—he’ll be home soon; he’ll be home later—thankful when Maisie smiles and prances gleefully away, telling me okay. Granting me amnesty, a reprieve. Later I will tell her. Soon. My father comes and my father goes. He brings dinner and sits beside me at the table and tells me to eat. He sets the food on the fork tines, the fork in my hand. He offers to take Maisie to the playground, but I say no, too afraid that if Maisie leaves without me, she also won’t come home. And so we stay and get soused in sadness. We get marinated in it and submerged. We let the sadness steep into every inlet of our beings, making us tender and weak. Even Harriet the dog is sad, curled into a ball mopishly at my feet, while I hold Felix all day long, staring blankly at Maisie’s cartoons on the TV screen. Max and Ruby, Curious George. Harriet’s ears perk up at the sound of passing cars; a pizza deliveryman at the home next door sends her flying to her feet, mistaking the noise of an idling car for Nick. It’s not Nick, I want to tell her. Harriet, Nick is dead.

      Maisie points at something on the TV screen, laughing, tendrils of copper hair canopying her eyes. She’s completely content to watch talking bunnies on the television set for eight hours a day, eating bags full of microwave popcorn for breakfast, lunch and dinner—asking of me, Did you see that? and I nod my head lifelessly, but I didn’t see. I don’t see anything. Nick is dead. What’s there left to see?

      But when I am not sad, I’m angry. Angry at Nick for leaving me. For being careless. For driving too fast with Maisie in the car. For driving too fast, period. For losing control and launching headfirst through the air and squarely into that tree, his body continuing to hurtle forward while the car suddenly stopped. I’m also mad at the tree. I hate the tree. The force of the impact wrapped the car around the old oak tree on Harvey Road, while Maisie sat in the back seat, on the opposite side, miraculously unharmed. She sat there as around her the duralumin of the car caved in like a mine collapse, trapping her inside, while in the front seat, Nick breathed his last self-sufficient breaths. The cause: Nick’s warp speed, the sun, the turn. This is what I’m told, a fact that is repeated ad nauseam in the papers and on the news. Crash on Harvey Road leaves one dead. Reckless driving to blame. There is no investigation. Were Nick still alive, he would be given multiple citations for excessive speeding and reckless driving, to name a few. In no uncertain terms, I’m told that this is Nick’s fault. Nick is to blame for his own death. He is the reason why I’ve been left alone with two young kids, a fragmented car and hospital bills. As it turns out, it’s quite expensive to die.

      If only Nick had slowed down, he wouldn’t be dead.

      But there are other things I’m mad about, too, besides Nick’s lead foot and recklessness. His supply of running shoes strewn behind the front door, for example. They enrage me. They’re still there, and in the mornings, tired and hazy from another sleepless night, I trip over them and feel livid that Nick didn’t have the courtesy to put his shoes away before he died. Damn it, Nick.

      The same can be said of his coffee mug abandoned on the kitchen sink and the newspaper spread sloppily across the breakfast nook so that sections of newsprint cascade to the ground, piece by piece. I pick them up and slap them back on the wooden table, angry with Nick for this whole blasted mess.

      This is Nick’s fault; it’s his fault he’s dead. The next morning Nick’s alarm clock screams at him at six o’clock, as it always does—a force of habit, as is Harriet who rises to her feet in the hopes of being walked. Today Harriet will not be walked; tomorrow Harriet will not be walked. Your husband, ma’am, that police officer had said, before he welcomed Felix and me into his patrol car and drove us to the hospital where I signed an authorization form, renouncing my husband’s eyes, his heart, his life, was driving too fast. Of course he was, I tell myself. Nick always drives too fast. The sun, he blamed, and again, He was driving too fast.

      Was anyone hurt? I asked obtusely, expecting the officer to say no. No one. Oh, how stupid I’ve been. They don’t send officers to collect the next of kin when no one’s been hurt. And then I feel angry with myself for my own stupidity. Angry and embarrassed.

      I let Maisie take to sleeping in my bedroom. My father warns me that this isn’t a good idea. And yet, I do. I let her sleep in my room because the bed is suddenly too big, and in it, I feel small and lost and alone. Maisie is a restive sleeper. She talks in her sleep, mumbling quietly for Daddy, and I stroke her hair, hoping she will mistake my touch for his. She kicks in her sleep. When she wakes in the morning, her head is where her feet should go and vice versa.

      As we settle into bed at seven thirty in the evening, Felix cocooned in his bassinet by my side, Maisie asks me for the umpteenth time, “Where’s Daddy?” and I reply with the same vacuous response, “He’ll be home soon,” and I know that Nick wouldn’t do it this way. This isn’t how Nick would handle things, were I the one who was dead. Oh, how I wish I were the one who was dead. Nick is the better parent. He would use words, gentle words, euphemisms and colloquialisms, to explain. He would set her down on his lap, and swathe her in his benevolent arms. Resting in peace, he would say, or In a better place, so that Maisie would imagine me in Disney World, napping on a bed in the highest tower of King Stefan’s castle with the exquisite Sleeping Beauty, and there СКАЧАТЬ