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The under-appreciated sixth stage of grief: breaking old habits.
Hannah has always been a creature of habit. No, not a creature—a ship, in which each crew member is a habit that unwaveringly does its job to keep the vessel speeding onwards. Autopilot is always at hand, and that’s part of why she’s become so skilled at so many things.
It’s also why she still checks for vidmail every morning, even six months after they told us how our daughter had fallen out of the sky and onto a planet called Alchera, like a living, breathing, amber-eyed meteor.
The moment I first saw her as a glowing outline in an ultrasound—as vague and promising as an unfinished sketch—I wanted to protect her from every pain in the world. I knew that I would fail, but I never thought that I would fail quite so spectacularly. All that’s left for me is to do what little I can to help Hannah.
I’m awake before her, for a change. I’m perched by the terminal in the kitchen, clutching a glass of water and fidgeting as badly as I did the first time I ever spoke to her. I laugh a little at the memory, which helps to keep me from crying.
Footfalls march in the hallway outside, the door slides open, and there she is, trapping me in an iron gaze.
“You’re awake? What’s wrong?”
“Just thirsty.” I brandish the glass so that its contents slosh against the sides, readily proving that I am in fact consuming a liquid. She raises one impeccable eyebrow as she makes for the terminal.
“Hannah, wait. You’re checking vidmail?”
She stops. “Why do you ask?”
“It’s just… I know how much it hurts to see the empty inbox. And I… we need to accept that we won’t hear from her again, not in this world.”
She presses a hand to her forehead. I hate what I’ve said. Preachy, condescending, impudent. Not in this world, a provision that I cling to for my own comfort rather than hers.
“Hannah, I’m sorry. I just can’t bear to see how…”
There are times when the words in your mind march onward to the horizon, while your voice falls on its knees and is left far behind. Then the tears find you. They always do.
All at once, her hands are on my face. Her cool, bony fingers—have they always been so small?—catch the scalding tears.
“It’s okay. Thank you, Jon.”
To observe, to understand, to intervene when needed. These, too, are her habits.