The Holding Place

Chapter Twenty

Michael...





I think of Abby for the first time in three days. It is an odd realization for me. I can hardly recall the last time I went more than a few moments without thoughts of her plaguing my mind. The only reason she comes into my mind today is that Norah is playing with a stuffed animal right in front of me and I cannot help but dwell on how much of her mother is within her.


I do not turn my stare away from my child in pain, in fact, just the opposite. I am enjoying comparing the green of her eyes to those of what Abby’s once were. She will grow up to have the quiet beauty of her mother. Norah is much well-adjusted on this visit than I have ever seen her before. She is smiling ruefully and she is not shy to engage in banter with me.


She is doing well in kindergarten. Catherine brings in the daily reports and some art projects that she has done at school. The one that touches my heart the most is the clay handprint she painted for Father’s Day. I do not think I have held jewels in my hands that have been more precious. Norah is too young to realize the significance of such a gift but it is not lost on Catherine.


Catherine and I don’t discuss Abby much anymore. Norah has stopped asking questions about her. I can only guess that Norah has gotten to know her mother through her grandmother and this is just fine with me. I don’t know how strong I would be able to remain if Norah suddenly started asking me about her mother. How much good would there be to tell her after years of torment have tarnished my memory of her?


The image of Abby smiling coyly at me on the night of our wedding comes to me. The expectant clenching of my gut doesn’t come. All that does is a slight smile to my lips as I continue to watch Norah play. Her dark hair is so much like her mother’s and I reach out to stroke it. Before I can stop myself the words tumble out of my mouth, “You look so much like your mother.”


Norah and Catherine look at me with wary and curious glances. This is one of the moments Dr. Leahy said would come. She stated that one day I will look at my daughter and appreciate the beauty that Abby passed down to her instead of hating it. She said when that day came was the day I would be ready to go home.


Go home? A bead of sweat breaks at my brow as the weight of this sinks in. Something inside tells me that I am not ready to go home. All I can think about is the moments that I remember before waking up in a hospital bed. The dream I had while I laid there in a coma begins to nag at me.


“But now it is time for me to let you go and for you to wake up. Take good care of her, Michael. She will never stop needing you,” a soft voice seems to call out to me from the black depths of my mind.


I look at Norah and take in the look on her face. I must stop doing this to myself over and over again. Just when my mind thinks that it is ready to be free of the memories of my wife they come back to be tenfold. I shake my head. She is gone. I say this to myself a dozen times over.


She has been gone for years. It is a long ago memory that I am recalling. I was there at her funeral. I watched as they lowered her casket into the ground. I placed roses beside her tombstone and with all of our friends and family said goodbye to her. I have all of the proof that I need to know that she is gone.


In my grief at the beginning I was hallucinating when I thought I saw her standing over me at the pulpit moments after I gave her eulogy. She was not there. I have told Dr. Leahy about that moment and she agrees with me. The mind can play terrible tricks when clouded with grief. That is all every hallucination has been over the years, simply my grief.


“But then why would I need to tell you that I am finally letting you go?” the soft voices echoes.