The Color of Heaven (5 page)

I felt her presence al around me. She would place her tiny, warm hand on my cheek, as she had done so many times in our life together, and tel me

that everything was going to be okay. “I’m better now, Mommy,” she would say. I took great comfort from those daydreams.

Michael didn’t understand it at al . He believed I was only making it harder on myself. He told me that she was gone, and we had to put it behind us.

We had to focus on the future.

Perhaps that’s why I was so unnerved by the sight of her open door. Would I find my unshakable husband lying on the bed as I so often did? Would I

find him weeping?

I braced myself as I made my way down the narrow hal .

o0o

Michael turned and looked at me with hostility as I entered. “I thought I told you to keep this door shut.”

I was baffled by his anger. It wasn’t what I had expected.

“I’m sorry, I must have forgotten. What are you doing home so early?”

“I had to change my tie,” he said. “I spil ed something on it at lunch.” He shut Megan’s closet door and moved to the center of the room.

Placing his hands on his hips, he gazed al around at the evidence of her life – the white dresser with her jewelry box on top, the bunny posters on

the wal , and the basket piled high with stuffed animals.

“We need to clean this room out.” He wouldn’t look at me. “We can give al her toys and clothes away to the Salvation Army. She would have wanted

that. She was always generous.”

I swal owed uneasily and took a few steps closer. “Yes, she was, but I’m not ready for that yet. I like to come in here sometimes. It makes me feel

close to her.”

He gave me that look – the one that made me feel foolish and weak. “She’s gone, Sophie. You’re going to have to accept that sooner or later.”

A flash of anger sparked within me. “It’s only been six months.”

“Yes. Six excruciating months. You do nothing but sit around and cry, and this room is like a tomb. It’s depressing to come home at night. I think it would be best if we had someone come over and col ect her things. The furniture too.” He took a step closer and spoke in a gentler, more

encouraging tone. “We could get you a new desk and a computer. Turn this into an office. You should go back to your writing.”

I frowned. “I can’t
write
. Not now. I need time to grieve.”

“But you can’t just wal ow in it, Sophie. What you need to do is try harder to get over it. We both need to get on with our lives.”

I shook my head. “No! Maybe you’re ready to move on, but I’m not. I’m stil in agony. I can’t just forget about her, or pretend she never existed.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Then what are you saying, exactly?”

He turned his gaze to the window. For a long moment, neither of us spoke.

“Just forget it,” he said as he brushed by me, heading for the door. “I need to get back to work. I’l probably be late getting home. Why don’t you get a movie for yourself.”

As I watched him leave, the floor seemed to shift under my feet. I felt like I was standing in a teetering rowboat, struggling to keep my balance while the waves splashed against my hul .

o0o

My father cal ed that night. It was the first time he had cal ed since the funeral.

His lifelong remoteness hit me particularly hard after my argument with Michael. I began to feel as if I would always be disappointed by the men in

my life. My husband didn’t seem to understand a single thing I was feeling, and quite frankly, I didn’t understand him either. How could he be ready

to move on? Had he not loved Megan as much as I did? Or was he burying himself in denial?
If you push it away, it won’t hurt you
. Is that what he thought?

“Hi Dad,” I said, as I sat down at the kitchen table and cupped my forehead in a hand. “How are you?”

And what do you want? What could you possibly say to me now, after a lifetime of disapproval and indifference? I suppose, like Michael, you’re

going to tell me to stop crying and get over it.

“I’m fine,” he replied. “How are things with you?”

Great. Just what I needed. Light conversation.

I checked my watch and wondered how long this would take.

“I’ve been better.” My voice broke on the last word, however, and hot tears flooded my eyes. I slapped my hand over my mouth in a desperate

attempt to crush the threat of a complete emotional breakdown. I couldn’t do that in front of my father. Not him.

“Sounds like you’re having a rough day.”

I swal owed over the urge to let out a gut-wrenching sob. “Yeah.”

I wiped at the tears, stood up, and fil ed the kettle at the sink while I clenched the phone between my shoulder and ear.

“We al loved Megan,” he softly said. “She was a special girl. I’m so sorry, Sophie.”

That was it. I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I shut off the water, set the kettle down on the granite countertop and wept into the phone.

“Thank you, Daddy. That means a lot to me. I’m taking it pretty hard.”

“Of course you are. She was your daughter.”

I tried again to stop crying, but it was no use. The tears were gushing out of my eyes.

My father was quiet on the other end of the line, and when he final y spoke, his voice quavered. “It’s never easy to lose someone you love.”

Though he didn’t say it, I knew he was talking about Mom. Nothing was ever the same after she left us that day back in 1984. I was fourteen years

old, and I remember watching her go through security at the airport. I waved goodbye, but I
hated
her for leaving us. I hated her.

I hated her most for leaving me with Dad.

Oh, how I had wil ed her to come back.
If you love me, you won’t leave us
. I shut my eyes and whispered out loud, “Turn around, don’t go.”

But she left anyway.

We moved two months later. Dad couldn’t bear to go on living in the house that reminded us al of
her
…

He was a lot like Michael.

“I don’t know how I’m going to get through this,” I said to him on the telephone, as I wiped my nose with the back of my hand.

“You wil ,” he replied. “You just need to take it slow, one day at a time. Don’t rush yourself. It’s okay to be sad. Just know that…” He paused, then began again. “I want you to know that I’m here for you. I wasn’t always the best father. I didn’t always make the right decisions, and I’m sorry for that, but if there’s anything I can do, just say the word.”

After I recovered from my astonishment, I thanked him and hung up the phone – and experienced a muted warmth that felt something like comfort.

Perhaps there was hope for happiness as wel , some day in the future. Perhaps I wouldn’t always feel so disappointed.

I set the kettle on the burner to boil and tore the plastic off a new box of tea.

A few days after our argument in Megan’s bedroom, I cooked a special dinner for Michael. His favorite: maple-glazed salmon with garlic mashed

potatoes, and fresh sautéed vegetables.

I showered and put on a skirt (he always told me I looked good in skirts), set the table with the fine china we received as a wedding gift, and set out some candles.

I wanted to explain to him that I needed time. That was al .

Our conversation in the hospital – the one about having another child – kept bouncing around in my brain. I wanted to ask him to be patient with me.

I was not in a good place right now, but maybe one day I would feel ready for something more.

Just not now. Not yet.

He cal ed at six and told me he would be home at seven, so I prepared everything, poured myself a glass of wine, lit the candles, and sat down at

the table to wait.

He walked in the door at midnight.

I had already given up waiting, had put the food in plastic containers in the fridge, changed into my pajamas, and gone to bed to watch television.

I listened to him putter around in the kitchen downstairs. I heard the buttons on the microwave as he reheated the salmon. A short while later he

shuffled heavily up the stairs.

I quickly shut off the TV and slid under the covers. I just couldn’t face him. I didn’t want to talk. I certainly didn’t want to ask why he was so late, and risk getting into an argument.

He slipped into bed a few minutes later, and I pretended to be asleep.

Nine months after the death of our child, Michael came home from work, sat me down on the leather sofa in the living room, and told me he was

leaving me.

He explained that he couldn’t bear the tears anymore, that I wasn’t the same woman he had married, and that he deserved a brighter future.

As I sat there staring at his impossibly handsome face – he only got better looking with age – my brain stopped working. I didn’t burst into tears. I suppose I didn’t have any tears left to shed.

I was speechless, however. Not that I was surprised. I wasn’t. We had been soul mates once – madly, passionately in love – but al that seemed so

far away now. It was another lifetime. I was thirty-six now, and so much had happened since those early days of dining out and making love on the

living room carpet.

He was right. I was no longer the woman he married. I wasn’t a rising star in the New York publishing world anymore. I didn’t wear skirts and heels.

Instead, I was an emotional y battered, grief-stricken, stay-at-home mother who wasn’t even a mother anymore, because I’d just buried my daughter

in the ground.

We both knew we were no longer connected. We didn’t share the same feelings, and our ideas about the future were vastly different.

We were no longer in love.

“Maybe we just need a little more time,” I dutiful y suggested, making one last attempt to save our marriage, for I had never been a quitter, and quite frankly the notion of any more loss in my life made me want to throw up. “It’s only been nine months.”

He shook his head. “Things were off kilter before that, and you know it as wel as I do. I don’t think there’s any way to fix this.”

“But I don’t want to just give up,” I argued. “Do you real y believe that you’d be happier on your own? We were a team once. Maybe we can be like

that again.”

He was sitting forward with his elbows on his knees. He gazed down at his hands, rubbed the pad of his thumb over his palm.

“I’m not going to be on my own,” he explained. For a long time he was quiet, then at last he looked up and met my stricken eyes. “I’m in love with

someone else, Sophie, and she’s pregnant.”

My vision blurred for a few seconds, and the whole world went white, then slowly came back into focus.

Sitting back against the leather seat cushions, I inhaled a deep breath and let it out, while I tried to comprehend the fact that there was nothing I could say or do to save my marriage. It was too late. It was dead. Michael was having a baby with someone else. He had moved on after Megan,

while my heart was stil cloaked in black.

So much for being a fighter. I had no more fight left in me. At least not when it came to holding onto my husband.

The divorce, however, was another matter entirely.

I sat forward, too, rested my elbows on my knees and looked him square in the eye. “You better not try to screw me over, Michael. If you do, I swear

I’l wipe the floor with you.”

He considered that for a moment, then stood up and nodded at me. “I don’t doubt it. And I’m sorry, Sophie. I real y am.”

With nothing more to say, he walked out.

o0o

In the end, Michael proved himself to be very generous and highly accommodating in the divorce. Not only did he give me our house in Washington

Square, but he also awarded me a large cash settlement, which I used to buy a new car (because he kept the BMW), as wel as a monthly alimony

check for as long as I remained unmarried.

I suppose he felt guilty for cheating on me while I was taking care of our dying daughter.

I didn’t bother to appease him. I let him keep his guilt.

o0o

I was driving in my new car, running errands one bright sunny morning, when I saw them together – Michael and his lovely young fiancée, strol ing

along Seventh Avenue. They were holding hands and looking abominably happy.

Her name was Lucy Wright. She was a young associate at the law firm. She had bouncy blonde hair and wore a knee-length sundress with yel ow

splashes of brown-eyed Susans printed on the skirt, and high wedge sandals.

She was exceptional y attractive. There was no denying it. She had that certain spark. It was the same spark I once had myself, before the

exhausting, debilitating col apse of my world. It’s what attracted Michael to me in the first place.

As I drove past them, her round bel y registered in my brain, and I was suddenly overcome by a firestorm of jealousy. Not because she had taken

my husband from me and was now sharing his bed. It had nothing to do with Michael, and I knew in that moment that I was over him.

What I envied was her optimism. She was looking forward to al the joys of motherhood without any of the dread or fear that I would feel if I were in her place.

In that moment, I became conscious of the fact that I would never experience that blissful optimism again. I would not be courageous enough to have

another child.

I wasn’t even sure I would ever be brave enough to love someone –and that thought made me pul over onto the side of the road and sit in silence

for a long, long time.

February 12, 2007

As the first anniversary of Megan’s death approached, I had a terrible nightmare. I was back in the ICU, and the doctors and nurses were rushing

around her bed in a panic, shooting drugs into her IV tubes, performing CPR – al in a last minute, hopeless attempt to save her life.

Then suddenly her eyes flew open, she reached out to me and said, “Don’t leave me, Mommy. I’m scared!”