Leaving Lego, Loss, and Ligature Points

The internal surface area of my home is an active minefield. Camouflaged, a stealth dagger caught me forgetting slippers in my hurry to feed Benji. I stifle a howl, managing not to curse, but I can’t be the only parent who’s let a “shit” or a “dammit” slip out after stepping on yet another Lego piece.

“Max, honey? You alright?” calls a tired bedroom voice.

My wife Raya, the Telepath.

“Yeah babes,” I say, peeling the detonated offender from my bare foot. Invisible against the sandstone living room low shag carpet, I place the clear crystal four-point piece into the pocket of my shorts, continuing towards the frantic paw pacing and whining.

If left by my seven-year-old, Julian the Explorer, I could expect to find more “devices” scattered throughout the house. However, if Arabella my four-year-old Archaeologist managed to grab a few pieces without her brother noticing (quite likely), I’d need to check the dishwasher, monitor the sinks, and shake out all my leather shoes and crusty sneakers.

Between taking care of the kids and simple routines, liability insurance is required, but I couldn’t remember the last time Raya and I had money left over in our account after the bills and essentials were paid. Abiding love and the childrens’ antics kept us in stitches; easing worries.

Beep.

“Ra-aawrf!”

Benji’s impatience pierces my thinking along with blinding sunbeams flooding from skylights and bay windows in the kitchen. We refurbished it two years ago. The German Shepherd’s whines reach full crescendo as I pass through the entrance archway.

“Hey Benji-boy,” I say, rubbing his head all over with both hands. His tail is a furious blur even though I’m late. Again.

“Who’s a good boy?!” I ask with an exaggerated grin until___¬

“Ungghh__Benji, you stink!” I snort.

The kids will have fun washing him. Hey, two birds. One stone. Just grateful he’s not peeing all over the floor like his former shelter puppy self of last year.

I slide the child lock on the safety gate in front of the pantry door and flip the light switch. At the bottom of the stairs, I reach Benji’s dry food on the floor with the canned food above on a wooden shelf. I realize too late that I’ve forgotten to bring Benji’s bowl from the kitchen. Dammit. With a can and the dog food bag in each hand, I mount the steps and weigh options. Raya hates the dog food odor when cooking, so she prefers Benji’s meals prepped in the pantry. As if in punishment there’s an uncomfortable growing pressure in my left arm. Sorry honey, I deliberate silently, if I don’t feed him now, he’ll be chewing the table legs. As if in acceptance, the pressure starts to ease.

I take a pellet handful of dry food and rest it as close to soundless as I can on the floor to placate my canine companion then slide a metal bowl toward me. It’s trickier now to eliminate the noise. Benji clears my appetizer and heads for his bowl. Letting go of the bag with a jump, I shove him back hard, retrieving a small red Lego brick from his food. Benji gives a low growl as he eyes me then comes back to eat. His shock doesn’t last, but mine does.

“Ohh, Dad-day,” Bella beamed when I brought Benji home, “I luuvvv him!”

I think about the times I laughed at Bella’s stealth and exploits.

This had the Archaeologist’s signature all over it, but how the devil did she get past the safety gate and door which I always close? When did I feed Benji last? I mind-walk backward through yesterday but draw nothing but a blank wall.

Removing the top off the beef dinner, I dump it into Benji’s empty water dish, promising myself to clean it and fill it later. I rest the Lego on the counter. I can already smell arôme de nourriture pour chien permeating the kitchen. Raya will have my head.

I move to open the sliding glass doors, letting in fresh hot air.

Growing up in this house, the kitchen roasted no matter what. Dad installed a ceiling fan so Mom wouldn’t faint while cooking. During summers, Mom had sure-fire strategies for my brothers and me. Barbecues right by the pool. As a youngster, I clung to Mom’s wisdom.

“You can always adapt Maximilian,” she would say, “but the question is, do you want to?"

That oft-repeated adage saw me through adulting hell.

Had my parents not scrimped and saved to pay off the mortgage, I don’t think we’d manage. I miss them. I watched spellbound as each held Julian as a newborn. I blinked back tears when Bella was born, wishing they could have lived to see the first granddaughter in two generations.

Beep.

Thick cotton explodes my brain taking up all space of rational thought and I’m with Bella last summer at the beach in Rhyl. She’s been enthusiastically digging holes while Raya and Julian hunt for ice cream. I’m distracted by keeping passers-by from falling into them as they’re so spread out. I survey trees in the distance for a possible photo shoot. Arboreal photography is a hobby from college. Trees are filled with such majesty. I could study them for hours.

Off and on Bella pats my leg passing me shells and rocks since I was taking too long to answer her calls. I hear a gasp and turn when she finds skeletal fish remains.

But the next pat is insistent.

“Yes, baby,” I say, glancing down to tiny hands holding up a small black notebook. It smells musty and is ragged, filthy, and faded with its sandy coating. I use my pleased proud Daddy face. I am Catalog Assistant for the dig after all, but I wonder if I can make it to the refuse container undetected. Seeing Raya and Julian trudging back over the hot sand in the distance with four ice cream cones…I’d guess not a chance.

I am partly to blame. At six, Julian explained to his sister what Daddy did for a living. I’m still training for certification as a Product Appraiser at the auction house where I work in Bristol and have a passion for antiques. I like that items tell a story and are valuable to boot. Bella was fascinated. Then borderline obsessed. Raya and I had to get her an archaeologist’s tool kit last spring. I kept her ‘finds’ in a Quality Street tin in the garage. Bella insists I take them to work to “’Valu-er-ate them Dad-day.” When your four-year-old makes a reasonable demand…

The tin sat on my desk at the office when the mist in my brain rolled into a thick fog, massive and suffocating, causing rising panic in my throat. I could hear Steve, my co-worker, asking for candy while simultaneously pulling off the lid as clarity was improving. He shot me a puzzled look.

“Bella,” I said, not having to explain.

He has twin girls; Alexa and Alexis, aged seven.

He poked around the tin as I willed my mind to clear permanently. I could feel him sneaking glances. I wondered if I looked as weird as I felt. I couldn’t afford a sick day. Not this close to certification and potential promotion.

Bleep.

“Max, have you taken a look at this book in here?” he said in a low voice. He looked at me unblinking. My face was probably still a confusing mess.

“The outer cover has a newer adhesive on the inside binding that wasn’t done at the original printing.” Steve continued, “Notice how the pages inside don’t really fit?”

I had just thrown the book in the tin along with Bella’s other ‘treasures.’

Steve gingerly lifted the book, placed it in front of me, and peeled back the cover. An author’s faded ink signature under the title lay concealed with black leather covering. It read The Maltese Falcon by Dashiell Hammett. He was an American writer.

I stopped breathing. Locking eyes with Steve, I was unable to hide my shock. This damp, dirty, unkempt disguise still remained a first edition print valued easily at $20,000.

I spent the rest of the day searching directories for restoration experts. How on earth could Bella find this buried on a beach in Rhyl?

Whrrrrr__bleep.

A ringing phone jars me back to the present, standing in front of the open sliding glass door facing the back garden. Benji pants rhythmically beside me. I step out onto the crisp grass that separates the house from the pool gate and Benji follows. I lift the latch on the gate and walk to the edge of the small swimming pool.

Reflected sparkling water dances around adjacent buildings and I feel disoriented. Something’s very wrong. I’m straining in my head with all my thoughts vanishing into a void. I sit down at the pool edge bringing my legs to rest in the water, but darkness overtakes me and my heart plummets. Squeezing builds around my arm and over my labored breathing. What’s the matter with me?

Raya comes through the gate and stops. I turn to see reflected sparkles on her face with red, puffy eyes failing to blink back tears.

Bleep.

She’s in yesterday’s baggy shorts and a tank top and slides next to me. Her head drops on my shoulder. The water is lapping undisturbed at the borders. Benji’s bowl.

“Damn!” I say and start to get up but Raya interrupts.

“That was Cassandra calling.” Raya’s voice is strained. “She knows it’s a difficult time, but the childrens’ clothes are needed at the funeral home today. Viewing’s tomorrow.”

Distorted images of small bodies floating lifeless in the pool are instant and excruciating.

I don’t care about the pressure in my arm this time. I cannot be here if my children are not.

Voices and sounds come before I can open my eyes.

“I understand Mrs. Perinchief, but I advise against it.”

“Why?” Raya implores. “He needs me. I can’t be this far away.”

The other voice sighs, “ I’ll see if they can risk assess and check for ligature points at South Community, but Dr. Shiran’s got a full caseload. Your husband’s treatment requires specialized psychiatric care. I can’t make promises.”

My eyes blink open and focus comes in spurts.

A nurse adjusting an IV bag flashes friendliness.

“Mrs. Perinchief, your husband’s awake,” she says with relish.

Before I blink again, Raya is close, her face pale and drawn, but kissing my cheek as though each life-breath depended on it. Between sobs, she expresses relief that I’m alive and something about a medically induced coma three weeks ago, while the blood pressure cuff inflates around my left arm. The obs machine bleeps.

The doctor and nurse must have temporarily left the room because my wife smacks me so hard on the shoulder it stings.

“Don’t you ever Maximilian,” she snarls. “Never do that again! You can’t leave me, you hear? Not now.”

Ligature points assessment. They want to make sure that there’s nothing in the room I can use to hang myself.

My increasing realization is an apology that searches her to find answers.

“The kids drowned 14 days ago. You’ve been here a week. Under the circumstances, the funeral director allowed an extension.” Her voice is lead. She stuffs down sobs. “Max…I had my first ultrasound today…We’re expecting twins.”

There aren’t enough emotions. Everything is inadequate. Splintered pieces of shattered memories. Screams and whispers.

"You can always adapt Maximilian..."

I turn my head and my wife collapses on me in a gentle heap. Noises erupt from me, primitive and guttural. Raya straightens all concern, probably thinking I’m choking and about to scream bloody murder. Since it’s been ages when last I laughed, that is just what it sounds like.

In a raspy voice, I tell her, “I’m not going anywhere,” and to “please pass me the Quality Street tin” from the dresser behind her.