The Drowned Boy

26

Pappa Zita was a kind and generous man and he really loved the two youngsters. He felt that they were under his wing and that he was responsible for them. And now he wanted to give them a vacation. It was of course well meant, but a trip to the Mediterranean to help them forget was not something Nicolai believed would work. He couldn’t run away from his grief; the idea was impossible.

“Well, take your grief with you, then,” Carmen said, exasperated, “if you need to have it close by at all times. I don’t understand you. Surely forgetting is a good thing.”

He didn’t answer. Yes, the grief would follow them. The loss of Tommy was like a constant scream in his befuddled brain. He tried to be kind and cooperative — arguing just made things worse — and there had been enough tears and suffering now, surely. They had to get on with their lives, despite all that had happened. He was painfully aware of this, but deep in his heart, he didn’t want to go on. Only when his grief was at its most intense was he close to Tommy; if he opened his life to joy again, his boy would slip from his arms and disappear. The thought of living the rest of his life without Tommy left him weak and breathless. He spent a lot of time in the cellar. He liked being down there in the semi-dark with the broken bicycles. It was cool and pleasant, and he didn’t like the heat. It only made him tired and listless. He never had enough energy, whereas it was so much easier for Carmen. Everything was easier for her. And that was exactly what he had fallen for once upon a time — that she was always upbeat and always found a solution. She could cry like a baby one minute, and then suddenly be happy and forget her woes the next. He had fallen for her ability to survive. He had seen it as a great strength, something that impressed him both in body and soul. Now it bothered him that she was taking Tommy’s death so lightly. That she wanted to move so quickly, that she wanted to forget: the crib in the cellar, the clothes out of the drawers into garbage bags and all the way to the thrift shop. Other unknown children would play in Tommy’s clothes, laugh and cry in his onesies, sleep on his pillow, under his comforter. He couldn’t bear the thought of it. One day he noticed to his horror that the beautiful photograph of their boy had been taken down from its place above the sofa. He stopped in his tracks and put his face in his hands. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing; he was dismayed.

“There’s no need to get so wound up,” Carmen said. “I’ve just moved it. It’s hanging in the bedroom now, above our bed. Isn’t that better? Now we can look up at his smiling face before we go to sleep. Get over it; I meant well.”

He tried to calm himself down. But his pulse was racing and his cheeks were flushed. He wanted so badly to be patient. He really wanted them to agree, but she was too fast. She thought and acted on impulse, while he sat and wallowed and watched her actions with alarm. She managed to hurt him all the time. She raised her voice and called him a whiner, and he couldn’t stand it. When she said that, he felt desperate and lost any hope. It was so mean, so heartless. No, he couldn’t take it anymore. He didn’t often cry, but sometimes when they argued, he made straight for the cellar to stand over an old bicycle and weep.

“Well, if you don’t want to go, I’ll go on my own,” Carmen said firmly. “And then while you sit down by the pond wallowing, I’ll be lying on the beach. What should I say to Pappa Zita? Any suggestions?”

“No,” he said hesitantly, taking his time. “It would be betraying Tommy somehow. Long days in the warm sun, when he’s lying there alone in the graveyard.”

“Mom will look after his grave,” she said. “Every day. And by the way, I forgot to tell you that she’s planted some ivy.”