the textured ceiling and the line of recessed lights. One bulb sat dark and I frowned. When had that happened? Today? Yesterday? Last week?
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to stem the steady trickle of tears, trying to regain my composure but I couldn’t. Tears streamed from the corners of my eyes down the sides of my face, running into my hair and my ears. Slick. Wet. Cold.
A cold nose nudged the side of my face and I blinked my eyes open. Poindexter hovered above me, probably more concerned over whether or not I’d be able to provide for his nutritional needs than he was about my emotional state. But then his expression changed. I mean, I think it changed. Maybe my imagination was simply more active than usual, and that was saying something.
Poindexter frowned a little, tipped his head to one side and dropped to his belly. He sprawled beside me on the carpet and lowered his chin to my stomach. I looped one arm around his neck, sinking my fingers into his fur.
We stayed like that for a long time. I’m not even sure for how long. It seemed like hours, but could have been just minutes. All I knew was that Poindexter loved me. Okay, so his actions may not have been entirely unselfish, but I’d like to think they were.
He loved me enough to flop down with me on the family room floor while I succumbed to my latest wave of grief. And for however long we stayed there, Poindexter’s nearness comforted me, soothed me. Sure, I had a momentary flash of realization that this was what my life had come to--me in tears, comforted by the dog.
Then I realized, just as I had the night before, that only by lying like a slug in the middle of my floor would I be a complete and total failure. All I had to do was get up.
Get up.
I gave Poindexter a squeeze before I headed for the kitchen. After I tossed him a treat and put on a fresh pot of coffee, I decided I was ready to face my dad’s paperwork. Ready to face whatever else life had to dish out. Though I sincerely hoped the surprises were through for at least a little while.
I carried my steaming mug back to the coffee table, took a deep breath and reached for the first pile.
o0o
“Everyone who got where he is had to begin where he was.”
–Richard L. Evans
NINE
“UBO QODU HPSUKPF PN G ZGF’D RKNO KD BKD RKUURO, FGZORODD, JFSOZOZQOSOY GTUD PN IKFYFODD GFY RPAO.”
-EKRRKGZ EPSYDEPSUB
I turned on the television a little after one o’clock in the morning. I’d been unable to sleep. My mind had shifted into overdrive trying to process my new normal.
Separated. Fatherless. Unemployed.
Now, there was a winning combination if ever there were one.
I sighed, exhaustion easing through me, my body fatigued, my brain set on obsessed.
I missed Diane.
We’d had our share of arguments over the past thirty-six years, but this was the hardest she’d ever thrown the kid card.
I realized I couldn’t have my cake and eat it too. I hated when she gave me the pity face, hated when she tiptoed around my inability to have more children. There was also a very real part of me that hated the fact she’d become pregnant at age forty-one without trying. It smacked of sacrilege.
Don’t get me wrong. I was happy for her. I knew once she got over her compulsion to shop and David got over his compulsion to be a grouch, they’d work along with Ashley to integrate the newest arrival into their family.
They’d achieve a new sense of balance--a new sense of reality--and hopefully I’d be part of that, as I always had been.
The thing was, Diane had never spoken to me as she had after I’d driven Ashley to the party. And she’d been right. I didn’t know what it was like to sit up at night wondering where my child was. I’d always known exactly where she was. In the neonatal unit.
I’d sat up at night wondering if she’d keep breathing, if the hole in her heart had healed, if she was in pain. If she knew how very much we loved her--how much we’d fought for her life.
I’d never gotten a chance to worry about all the other things in a child’s life--the teething, the eating, the first bike ride, report cards, chicken pox, boys. You name it. I’d had only a tiny taste of just how much a