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“Johnny, dinner will be ready soon. Go wash up.”
“Okay, Mummy.”
A knock at the door interrupted her table-setting. Who on Earth could it be at this hour?
Two men in military uniform awaited her at the door. “Alma Henderson?”
“Yes.” Her stomach twisted into knots at the sight of these men. Military men never visited civilian homes unless…
The man that addressed her removed his hat. “Mrs. Henderson, there is no easy way to say this, so I will get right to the point. Your husband died on Sunday.” As the other man handed her an envelope, he continued, “He hanged himself, and we could not revive him.”
Her skin blanched. She felt dizzy, on the brink of vomiting or fainting or both. This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t.
“He left a note for you, and we included it with the written notice. On behalf of the British Expeditionary Force and the staff of the No. 41 General Neuropathic Hospital, I offer you and your son my deepest condolences.”
She found herself sinking to the ground as he said those words. She felt like she couldn’t breathe.
“Mrs. Henderson,” said the other man, “is there someone you can call? We don’t want to leave you alone like this.”
Before she could answer, her son said from inside the house, “Mummy, who is it?” and he opened the door without waiting for her reply. He looked around confusedly at his mother on her knees and the two strangers that stood before them
“Jonathan…” she said. She was crying. He had never seen her so sad. “Honey, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Your dad … he’s … he’s gone.”
Roger stared ponderously at the specter that stood before him, wondering why this ghost would come to him of all people.
“I would like to apologize.” His voice sounded faint, as if they were in a dream. “My behavior that day was inexcusable. I know that apologies won’t bring George back, but… I’m sorry.”
Roger had forgiven him for the things he said long ago. He was hardly pleasant company when he came home from the Great War, so who was he to begrudge him? “There is nothing to forgive,” he said. “Forgiveness for George isn’t mine to give, but for what it’s worth, I think Peter was right to lie to you.”
“Okay,” he said, speaking so faintly that Roger couldn’t tell if he actually said it. If he doubted his words, he didn’t say so.
“Where will your funeral be?”
He looked at him with surprise.
“I offered help to your mother. Let me do the same for your wife.”
It was influenza, she told her friends and the church. He must have caught it from a comrade, and there was nothing the doctors could do. No one questioned her. The church didn’t ask for documentation to prove his cause of death. The funeral home didn’t question the rope burn on his neck as they dressed him in his wedding suit; she was adamant that he not be buried in his Army uniform.
The funeral was a quiet affair. Despite her wishes otherwise, she allowed the Army to perform their traditional funeral honors. While she wished for complete avoidance of the institution that failed to help him, she feared that the absence of military members would rouse suspicion.
She gave the eulogy – a short one, for she didn’t trust herself to say too much without breaking down. She spoke of his kindness and his devotion to his family. “Daniel had a gift for making others feel loved,” she said. “More than anything, I wish I could have returned the favor one last time.” That wasn’t how she wished to end her eulogy, but she found that she couldn’t continue.
She covered her son’s ears during the salutes and tried not to think about the gunfire that her husband must have heard.
A reception followed, but Alma did not partake of the food. As she stood off to the side watching the attendees mingle and talk in hushed voices, an unfamiliar face caught her eye. Speaking with Daniel’s sister and mother was a balding, unassuming man. Though she had no way of knowing him, the attentive expressions on the women’s faces made her want to introduce herself.
The gentleman bade a polite goodbye to the women and made his way over to her. “You gave a lovely eulogy,” he said.
“Thank you,” she said. “I’m sorry. Have we met?”
“I’m Roger Dawson. My boat picked up your husband during the evacuation of Dunkirk.”
She could have embraced him right then and there, but she stopped herself for fear that it would be inappropriate. Instead she nodded and thanked him again.
“You should eat.”
“Thank you, but I’m not hungry.”
“I know. When you lose someone so suddenly, your appetite vanishes just as quickly. But you should try to eat.”
She didn’t know who he lost and didn’t want to ask. “Well, thank you for coming.”
He handed her a slip of paper containing his address. “Please reach out to me if you need anything.”
After the funeral she began sleeping in the guest bedroom. She couldn’t bear the vacant spot in their bed, and the dressers and closets of clothing that he would never wear again, and the photographs. Every reminder of his presence reminded her tenfold of his absence.
Two weeks after the funeral, she woke up from a typically fitful sleep to Jonathan crying. She quickly went to check on him, doubting that she would be able to help him. “I’m here, Johnny,” she said as she knelt by the side of his bed. I’m here.”
He hugged her as tightly as his little body could. “I want Dad,” he sobbed.
“Me, too,” she said, her tears falling onto his hair.
“How could you do this?” said Florence. “Wasn’t it enough to lose our dad this way?”
“I’m sorry.” He wanted to put a hand on her shoulder, but it would pass right through her while he still had a visible and audible form. “I let my guilt get the better of me, and I feared that I lost myself as Dad lost himself. I thought you and Mum would be better off without me because of it.”
“You thought your loss would be better than your existence?”
“I was wrong. I was stupid, so stupid.”
“Just leave,” she said. “I won’t move on with you here.”
“You said this wouldn’t happen. You said you wouldn’t end up like him.” The traces of tears in his mother’s eyes pierced his heart. “Why would you make me bury my child?”
“I didn’t want to be like him. But, Mum, I … I did something terrible, and it consumed me.”
“What? What did you do? Tell me.”
“I …” He faltered, but he had to keep going. At least he couldn’t cry in this form. “I killed a boy. He was just trying to help. I didn’t even realize what I’d done until…”
“Daniel …” The tears were falling from her eyes now. “Daniel, this isn’t you.”
“I didn’t know who I was anymore.”
“You could have told me. I’m your mother.”
“I’m sorry, Mum. I’m sorry. I should never have done this to you.”
She wiped away her tears. “I love you, and I will miss you for the rest of my life.”
“I will never leave you again.” He seals his promise by kissing away her tears.
She was getting tired of dreaming about him. The bliss of his presence always became a crushing sadness upon waking up. The first couple of times she wished that she would never wake up from those dreams, but it had been a month now, and she had to keep herself going for their son’s sake.
She decided to check on him and make sure he was sleeping. Thankfully, he was asleep, but he wasn’t fully tucked in. She had tucked him in that night and worried that nightmares had made him kick back the blankets. Then she saw him being tucked back in by … something. Or at least that was she thought she saw. Whoever or whatever it was, she couldn’t make it out.
I need to sleep.
But she felt wide awake when she went back to her bedroom, and she knew by now that she wouldn’t feel sleepy any time soon. So she decided to pen a brief letter to Roger, thanking him again for attending Daniel’s funeral and confessing her inability to sleep through the night. While she felt guilty airing her complaints to a man she hardly knew, something about him made her trust him to understand.
“I thought you were dead.”
He guides her hand to his cheek. His flesh is as warm as hers. “Does this feel dead to you?”
She shakes her head as a smile creeps onto her face. “Never do that again.”
“I won’t. I promise,” he says, sealing it with a kiss.
She woke to a draft in the room. That was odd. The window had to be closed; she couldn’t remember the last time it was open. But she wanted to check just in the highly unlikely chance that Jonathan had opened the window without her knowing.
The room felt warmer as she approached the window. As she expected, it was tightly closed. And she felt the draft again as she went back to bed. It was strange to have a draft limited to a small area of the room. But it was too late at night, and she didn’t have the energy to worry about it. If she noticed it tomorrow she would call her father.
Despite her tiredness, her brain wouldn’t settle down enough for sleep. She decided that enough was enough and finally made herself read his suicide note.
Dear Alma,
I am sorry. I am sorry that it came to this. I am sorry to leave you and Jonathan. I just wasn’t strong enough.
I didn’t want to tell you this, but, now more than ever, you should know. A teenage boy died because of me. A family lost their only child because of me. It happened in a moment of cowardice, when I was too cowardly to return to France. His pained whimpers haunt me in my waking hours, and the blood pouring from his head haunts me in my sleeping hours.
I can’t do this. I can’t live with my guilt, and I no longer trust myself. I fear that if I was sent home then your life would become a living hell, and I would have only myself to blame. If harm befell you or Jonathan because of me…
I do not ask or expect your forgiveness. I don’t deserve it. But please don’t blame yourself. My weakness has nothing to do with you.
I am sorry that I couldn’t be strong. I love you.
How could he say that he loved her when he chose to forever separate himself from her? Did he really think she would rather live without him than live with a broken version of him?
And, God, he killed somebody? What the hell happened that could have spurred him to do that?
The shock of this information lingered even after she became too exhausted to stay awake. She dreamed of her husband collapsed to the ground and sobbing over a nondescript body.
The draft was gone the next time she woke up. She pondered Daniel’s note in silence as she and Jonathan had breakfast, but he seemed in good spirits. She had hardly seen him smile since the funeral.
“I saw Dad last night,” he said.
“Really? I dreamed about him, too.”
“No. He was here.”
She looked at him with pity. “Honey,” she said gently, “we’ve been over this. He’s gone. And it’s hard, I know it’s hard, but he isn’t coming back.”
“Mummy, he was here.”
He clearly wasn’t about to give this up, so she decided to play along. “Did he say anything?”
He nodded. “He said he was sorry to leave me, and he said he loved and missed me.”
“And what did you say?”
“I said I missed him, too, and I told him I love him. And he said he missed you.”
“Well, if you see him again, you can tell him that I also miss him.”
She didn’t know what to make of this. Jonathan was probably just dreaming. She was no stranger to vivid, almost lifelike dreams, and she was more prone to those sorts of dreams when emotions got the better of her. But she had heard ghost stories growing up, and they sometimes centered on ghosts who couldn’t find rest in the afterlife.
This was ridiculous. She didn’t believe in ghosts, and she wasn’t about to believe now. Daniel was gone. He had been gone for nearly two months. She and Jonathan had to move on. No matter how much she wanted to wallow in grief, no matter how much she hated the sympathetic looks from her colleagues, no matter how much she wanted to give up and let sorrow consume her, she had to move on eventually.
Dear Roger,
I do not know who you lost, and you do not have to tell me if you wish, but please tell me, and be honest: Does it get easier? I keep having variations of the same dream. Daniel shows up at my front door, somehow alive, and the sight of him makes me cry, and he promises never to leave me again. And I think that maybe I would start to heal if I stopped having these damn dreams.
I know I will never love another half as much as I love him, but for my own sake I can’t keep dwelling on my grief. But I don’t know how to be strong. I want to keep his memory, but I need to move on.
I am sorry to bother you with this, but I don’t know what to do.
Her husband stands at the entrance, a bouquet in his hands.
In her heart she wants to throw her arms around him, but she finds herself instead slapping him in the face.
“I’m sorry, Alma,” he says. “I’m so sorry.”
“You were dead. They told me you were dead.”
“I know, and I can’t tell you how sorry I am. But I’m here now, and I’m here to stay.”
She takes the bouquet from him and tosses it aside. She then gives into her heart’s wish and flings her arms around him, holding him tightly enough to nearly crush him. He holds her just as tightly, tightly enough to lift her slightly off the ground. “I missed you,” she sobs. “I missed you so much.”
“I missed you too.” He kisses her tear-soaked cheeks and then her lips. “I will make it up to you, I promise.”
Dear Alma,
I lost my older son during the third week of the war. The suddenness, the deprivation of a proper farewell, made his loss even worse. Sometimes I still find myself missing him so much that I can’t breathe.
I know that right now it feels like you will never get better, and it never goes away completely. But you will smile and laugh again. His memories will bring you something resembling comfort instead of anguish. Your dreams will leave you replenished, not hurting. You will learn to say his name and tell stories about him without crying.
You must let yourself grieve. The more you try to suppress your sorrow, the more it will consume you. And let your son grieve and lean on you. I am sure that you have explained death to him as well as you could, but remember that he needs you, just as you need him. You may heal at different paces, but you will heal together.
Grief comes in waves, but in time – maybe months, maybe even years – it will be manageable. And while you will never be who you were before Daniel was so cruelly taken from you, you will learn to be yourself again. I am sure that Daniel would want you to heal, but he would also want you to let yourself be sad and not move on when you don’t feel ready.
You are stronger than you believe, I am sure of it. And yes, it does get easier.
She took a day off to go through his belongings. If she didn’t make herself do this, she would never get around to it.
She went through his clothing in the closet first. She planned to divide it among clothes she wanted to keep, clothes that were in good enough condition to give away, and clothes to throw away. Her sister-in-law and mother-in-law trusted her to take proper care of his belongings.
“Alma.” The voice was clear enough to freeze her blood. Feeling shaky, she stepped out of the closet.
Before her stood his specter. Those piercing eyes could only be his. Her body seized. Her brain screamed at her body to move, but her limbs refused to cooperate.
He remained as still as she did. He seemed almost afraid of getting near her.
But she willed herself to move. She took one step, then another, then another until she was as close to him as she comfortably felt she could be. Her arms slowly, hesitantly reached out to him, and his form changed as her arms moved. He looked more … solid, as if upon touching him she would feel something physical rather than empty air.
But she didn’t want to kiss him or even hug him. Her hands clenched into shaky fists, and the next thing she knew she was hitting him. His body felt cold as death.
He let her hit him as many times as she needed, making no attempt to stop her.
“Damn you!” she screamed. “God damn you!” Her cheeks quickly dampened with hot tears. Her hits grew weaker and soon stopped as the small part of her mind that wasn’t furious realized what she was doing. Ghost or not, he was still her husband. But his being her husband made what he did even worse.
“I had to tell our son that you were gone,” she cried, “that you didn’t keep your promise. Every fucking day for weeks and weeks, I had to watch him cry. I held him while he cried for you, and I told him it was okay, but it wasn’t, it never fucking was.
“I can’t look at our son without seeing you. I can’t look at our books without hearing you read to him. I can’t even think about singing without seeing your smile. And I can’t sleep knowing that your side will never be filled again. I can’t move on!” She sank to the ground as her crying became too violent for her to remain standing.
He watched her cry in silence. Of all the people he had to visit, she was the one he most dreaded. His death had hit her hardest, and he feared that his presence wouldn’t help her at all, or worse hurt her.
“How could you?” she said. “How could you do this? To your mother and sister? To our son? To ME?” When his silence continued, she cried, “Say something! Don’t just stand there taunting me!”
He knelt before her, his form once again becoming transparent. “I never wanted to hurt you. I wanted to save you from me.”
“We were married. We took vows. Don’t you remember? Why wouldn’t you just talk to me?”
“I’m trying to talk to you now. Let me talk; please let me talk.”
Her anger had only barely subsided, but she made herself keep quiet anyway.
“I remembered the way my dad changed, how distant he was and how he couldn’t manage his pain. And I felt myself wandering in that direction. I felt nothing but guilt and mistrust. Mistrust in the people around me, mistrust in myself. I couldn’t hurt anyone else. I couldn’t let you or Jonathan get hurt, least of all by me.
“But I felt your sorrow, and I heard your crying and your pleas to know why, even when I couldn’t see you and couldn’t get to you. Alma, I was wrong. I regret everything, everything I did. You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve any of this.”
She forced herself to look at him. His face was etched with remorse, and it was enough to erase the anger in her heart. But her hurt remained. His regret didn’t change the permanence of his actions or the loss that she and his family suffered, and she knew that he knew that.
“What do you want?” he said. “Whatever you want of me, I’ll do it.”
She sighed but gave no other answer.
He waited for her to speak, not knowing what he wished for her to say. If she sent him away, that was her choice and her right, and he hoped that his leaving would do them good. If she asked him to stay, he would do so, and he would do what he could to help the three of them transition.
Eventually she found her voice. Looking directly into his eyes, she said, “I want us to be a family.”