Catherine McKenzie - Hidden

I drove to Claire’s, wishing I’d taken the time to clean out the inside of my beat-up Toyota. She was waiting on the stoop—something I took as a good sign—wearing a wool skirt and a turtleneck sweater. She had on some makeup and her hair was shiny. I was glad I’d gone with the blazer.

We went to dinner at the only Thai restaurant in town, and the conversation flowed in an easy way I hadn’t felt in a while, maybe never. She teased me about my lack of knowledge of Asian cuisine, and I ate whatever she put in front of me, struggling with my chopsticks. Some of it was slimy, and some of it was too spicy for my taste. I washed it all down with too many Chinese beers, and by the end of the meal I was slightly drunk.

After dinner, we took a walk through the town square. The bare trees had lights strung through them, a leftover from Christmas. They glinted off Claire’s hair, and to me, she looked perfect. It was coming on spring and the air was warm, though there was still some snow on the ground. A gentle breeze blew through the trees, and I breathed in the loamy smell of wet earth, dead grass, and old snow. I’d be golfing in a month if I was lucky.

I felt light on my feet and happy.

Happy in my soul.

Claire strolled next to me, her hands clasped behind her back, like she was keeping them to herself. I wanted possession of her hand—I wanted more than that, but the hand would do for now—so I said something silly to distract her, and it worked. Her arms fell to her sides and I seized the opportunity. She started slightly, looking down at her soft white hand encased in mine, then up at me.

By the smile on her face, I knew we’d be kissing soon.

Any moment now.

Any moment now.

One of the police officers (the one I can’t place) tells me he’ll check on Seth. The other leads me to the couch, giving me the barest of details before asking if he can call anyone for me. I mutter something about the emergency contact list taped next to the kitchen phone. And all the time I’m feeling stunned, detached, a million miles from the tragedy that’s unfolding in my house like space after the big bang.

Time passes. People start arriving. My mother. My father. My doctor. Friends, friends, friends, until the house is full, there have never been this many people in the house, I couldn’t get away from them if I tried.

At one point I begin calling Seth’s name and my mother, I think it’s my mother, shushes me and says Seth’s fine, Seth’s being taken care of, what do I need? I give her a look that says, Are you seriously asking me that? She knows what I need. Everyone knows what I need, but I’m not getting that again. Not ever.

More time passes, and now I have to go to the bathroom, but I seem glued to the couch, kept there by the prison of people talking low, some fighting back tears, some crying openly. They all want to hug me, but the feel of their skin on mine, the words they say in my ear, make me feel worse. I’m convinced in this moment that if I choose to, I can leave my mind and never come back again.

A family friend and my lifelong doctor, Dr. Mayer, sits next to me and presses something into my hand. Pills. I don’t want to take them, but he guides my hand to my mouth and gives me a glass of water to swallow them down with. I do it and he nods approvingly. He takes me by the elbow, maneuvering me through the throngs of people (do I really know this many people?) and up to my bedroom.

Without asking, he takes me into the bathroom and suggests I use the facilities. He leaves me alone long enough to pee, and to register, as I stand up, that whatever he gave me is acting fast, that I really am in space now.

I wobble as I come out of the bathroom. Dr. Mayer catches hold of me and walks me to my bed, removes my shoes, pants, and sweater. He folds me into the covers, and in an instant all is black but the stars.

I spend most of the weekend in bed, in proper pajamas now, courtesy of my mother. Every couple of hours someone comes to check on me, or bring me food I can’t swallow, or more pills, which I reluctantly do. My bedroom’s been transformed into a hospital ward, all the comings and goings, the checking on the patient. It reminds me of the days I spent in the hospital after Seth was born by emergency Caesarean. It was too loud to sleep, and food and meds were pushed on me there too. All I wanted to do then was hold Seth, and that’s the same now. He’s spent the last two nights sleeping next to me, in Jeff’s place, his body in the same half-pike position his father sleeps (slept, slept, it’s slept now, Jesus) in.

My sister, Beth, arrives Sunday night. I can hear her downstairs talking to my parents, asking how I’m doing. Unlike everyone else, she makes no effort to talk low, despite my mother’s shushing. Instead, she takes the stairs two at a time and, in an instant, she’s climbing into bed next to me fully clothed, curling onto her side like we used to do as kids.

“You look like shit,” she says.

“God, Beth. Jeff—”

“It’s awful, so awful, I’m barely functioning myself. But I think you might feel better, I truly do, if you get up and take a shower, maybe change into some real clothes. Eat something. Mom tells me you haven’t had anything since Friday.”

“Not hungry.”

“Will you try, sweetie? For me?”

I glance at the bedside clock behind her. Two more hours until someone arrives with the magic pills that keep the world at a safe distance.

“Funeral pills,” Dr. Mayer called them yesterday when I asked what they were. Then he went bright red, like he couldn’t believe the words had escaped his mouth. He apologized, but I told him it was okay. I mean, it wasn’t, it was never going to be okay, but there’s going to be a funeral, and as much as I thought I was done with taking pills, it’s clear to me now that I’m going to need them to get through it.

“I don’t have anything to wear,” I say to Beth.

“Of course you do, hon. You’ve got a closet full of clothes.”

“I meant for the…” I pause to gulp in air, not sure I can get the word out. “Funeral.”

Beth brushes my tears away. “Oh, Claire. I’m so, so sorry.”

Sunday night is a fog of drugs and bad, vivid dreams. Seth’s still sleeping with me, and though he hasn’t said much, his sleep speaks for him. He thrashes and kicks and moans, behavior I’ve never seen before, not even when he was a tiny thing. I rest my hand on his chest, above his heart, and it seems to calm him. But if I drift away and my hand follows suit, it’s only minutes until he’s back at it again, a whirling dervish of grief who doesn’t have access to the medicinal solace I’ve been allowed.

When I asked Dr. Mayer if something could be done for Seth too, he told me it wasn’t standard procedure. Kids are resilient, he said.

Meaning what? I almost asked.

And if I need the drugs, what does that make me? Weak? Pliable?

All I know is that we’re both broken and it’s too soon to tell if it’s beyond repair.

I open my eyes in the early light of morning. Seth’s face is inches from mine. He’s also awake. He looks so like Jeff in this moment, same chocolatey-brown eyes, same dark, unruly hair. I stop myself just in time from using his name.

“Were you having a bad dream, baby?”

Usually this term of endearment is met with an eye roll and a reminder to never call him that in public, but today all he says is “Yeah.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Nah.”

“Maybe if you told me, it wouldn’t seem so bad?”

“Don’t think so.”

“How do you know if you don’t try?”

A tear rolls down his face. “Because when I woke up the dream was still true.”

Whatever pieces of my heart that are still intact break in this instant. I can’t make things better for my son. I can’t take away his nightmares because life is a nightmare now.

Jeff, Jeff. How could you leave us like this?

“I’m sorry, baby.”

He buries his head in my neck. We lie there like this for a while, the room brightening around us, the day marching on, even if we’re frozen.

Around seven, Seth sits up abruptly. “I want to go to school.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. Not yet.”

“But there are so many people here, all the time.”

“Won’t school be full of people?”

“I’m used to that.”

“Things might be different now.”

“I think I’ll feel…better there than here. Can I? Please, Mom?”

I nod. “Don’t feel like you have to stay if things are hard, okay?”

“Okay. Are you going to be all right?”

“Beth’s here.”

He kisses me on the cheek. “Thanks, Mom.”

Seth gets up. I stay in bed, wishing he hadn’t wanted to go. I keep imagining what it will be like for him, wondering (because I can’t keep my mind from going to dark places) whether it will be like my first day back at work after we lost the baby.

About four years ago, we got pregnant again. We’d been trying for years. We never intended such a large gap between Seth and our second. We’d even discussed having three, but we tried and tried and nothing happened. We saw Dr. Mayer. He tested both of us and found no medical reason for my inability to conceive. These things take time, he said, sometimes. We shouldn’t stress about it. In fact stressing about it would be a bad thing. Stressing about it could make it not happen.

But how do you not stress about something like that? Especially when it’s your body you’re constantly looking for changes in. Do my breasts feel sore today, or is it the usual premenstrual soreness I get sometimes? Do I feel bloated? Is this the way I felt when I was pregnant with Seth?