CARA’S
TEARS
Bobby Grace did not think his wife, Cara, would ever get over the loss
of their son, Georgie, and thought there might always be a portion of her
consumed with beliefs of accountability and restless unease. She had said as
much, once, when she thought he was not listening. A few words, never a whole sentence,
spoken in hushed tones. Now, watching her sat at the foot of the bed, he found
himself wishing there was something he could have done to make it better again.
He would have done anything to make it better again.
He sat bolt upright,
flicked on the bedside lamp, and pressed a single hand towards her. She felt
clammy. For the first time she flinched as his fingers fell on her shoulder.
“Cara?”
And she sobbed.
“Come back to bed, you’re
getting cold.”
But she wasn’t going
to come back to bed, not tonight. There would be no more sleep for her tonight
(and perhaps any other, it struck him) unless he could coax her into drinking a
glass of warm milk and take two of the pills doctor Foreman had prescribed two
days previous.
“We’ll go and see Doctor
Foreman in the morning. You can talk to him again – alone if you want. He may
be able to do a little more for you now.” He paused, swallowed hard, and went
on. “Maybe he can fix you up with someone you can talk to.”
“I don’t want to talk. What more do you think
there is to say? They’ve heard it all before – they’ve said all they’re likely
to say. They don’t care.”
“Of course they care,
honey.”
“No, they don’t.” She
looked back at him, her porcelain white face glistening in the 20 watt light
from the bedside lamp. “But they don’t hear the crying. They think I’m nuts.”
Crying? Suddenly the
idea she may be going nuts did not seem so outrageous after all. Suddenly the
room seemed very small; very tight.
“It’s not your
fault,” he said, but always felt there should have been more he could have said.
“What happened to Georgie ... it wasn’t your fault.”
“I should have been
there ... I should have been there to help him.”
“And you were – we both were. But we can’t stay awake
twenty-four hours a day. We were asleep, remember that? All of us. You, me, and
Georgie.”
“Is that supposed to
help?”
A little, he wanted to say but didn’t.
“I don’t know what
it’s supposed to do, but you need to remember that. Actually, I think you really
need to accept that.”
He could see from the
look in her eyes that he was wading into dangerous, uncharted, territory, and
thought: God, if I keep talking, she’s
going to knife me in the back.
“It was cot death,” he finished. “There was nothing you,
I, or anyone else could have done about it. Tommy died in his sleep. He would
have ever known.”
Thank the lord for small mercies.
“That doesn't help.”
“You’re not
accountable for what happened. Nobody is.”
She turned away and
began weeping afresh.
“Go to sleep, Bobby,”
she said, dolefully. “You’re not helping.”
The conversation ended
there. A moment later, she padded down the hall towards the nursery, towards
the door with the blue unicorn painted on it, her sobbing tapering away to almost
nothing at all.
In the hall, Cara
said, “I’m here baby. Mama’s here.”
Bobby sighed. He
wondered if it would end soon. He was hopeful, but a tiny part of him continued
to erode what little hope remained. Eventually, they would admit her to Pine
Hills. Doctor Foreman had assured him of as much the day Cara walked out of the
clinic. Once there she would endure therapies and pills until they fixed the
wiring in her head. He hoped that day would never come of course, but hope, he
knew, was the bastion of a desperate man.
After the sound of her
voice was gone, something old, brooding, and not very comfortable struck him.
Maybe he would have to make the call himself, put in the recommendation to
Doctor Foreman, and have her treated before things got too bad.
Yes, yes maybe he
would have to do that. He didn’t much like the idea, but what could he do? Wait
until she broke down completely? He could not do that, couldn’t even imagine
himself doing that, in fact, especially when he had seen the threads of her
life pulled so neatly from underneath her. He reached for the phone perched
beside the bed and dialed.
“Hello?” Doctor
Foreman said, he sounded groggy; half-asleep. “Do you have any idea what time
it is?” He paused, sighed, and said, “Who’s this?” .....
(NOTE: If you would be interested in reading the first draft of Cara's tears when it's done to give some creative criticism, you can either comment bellow with your e-mail address or send me a mail via the link to the right of the page, and I will send you the first draft in .Doc format as soon as it's done.)
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