Hal-loween

It was as if she was looking into the face of her best friend, her companion. His teeth, just a little crooked, his cross eyes reveal a playful expression, and his skin, lined, bumpy and orange, but that’s what she loves about him. After all, he is the first pumpkin Gracie carved almost entirely by herself. She was no novice when it came to Halloween, carving pumpkins had been a tradition since before she was born.

I remember the first Halloween Emmy and I spent together. We’d only been dating for a month when she insisted on us carving pumpkins. It ended up being the moment I realised I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. From then on, whenever the world turned orange and black, my wife transformed into a giddy child, and it was contagious. Her infectious spirit made me long for the typical suburban family life. The kind of life a city guy like me never thought I’d want, but the kind Emmy grew up with. Let’s face it, pumpkin carving in a tiny one-bedroom apartment in the heart of New York City is no easy feat, so when the opportunity arose for Emmy to become partner at her childhood friend’s law firm, in the town where she grew up, we knew it was time to say bye-bye fast-paced, cramped city life and hello to Tarrytown.

Emmy was 5 months pregnant with Gracie when we found our new house, our dream home. A grey Victorian two story with a huge yard, cherry blossom tree out front and what sealed the deal, the large wrap around porch.

“Just imagine how many pumpkins we’ll be able to carve on this porch,” said Emmy, spreading her arms out as far as they could go to indicate just how wide the porch was.

“You’ll spend all October out here,” I laughed.

“I’ll settle for just one day. One full day before Halloween with the three of us carving pumpkins,” she said, gently stroking her baby bump.

“That can be our yearly tradition.”

Emmy turned to me, “do you promise?”

I reply as seriously as the day I asked her to marry me, “I promise.”

And that’s exactly what happened.

“Oh no,” Gracie cried, “I broke his tooth!”

“Hey,” said Emmy looking at the pumpkin and seeing his snapped tooth, “I quite like it. It gives him character.”

Gracie turned her head from side to side, examining the pumpkin as if trying to convince herself.

“But what does character mean?” she asked curiously.

“It means you might see his broken tooth as something bad because it makes him different from all these other pumpkins,” Emmy gestures towards the sea of orange covering the ground, “but I think it’s what makes him unique, special and sets him apart from everyone else.”

Gracie looks up and smiles, “you’re right Mommy, he’s the best pumpkin ever!”

Swinging on the hanging bench seat I installed 6 years ago when Gracie was a baby, I watch my wife and daughter sitting together, surrounded by pumpkin pulp, seeds and discarded flesh, “it’s a pumpkin massacre,” I laugh to myself before calling out, “this pumpkin needs a name.”

“Yeah!” Gracie exclaims, jumping up, holding out her latest creation. “His name is Hal.”

“Hal?” asks Emmy, clearly intrigued and amused, “why Hal?”

“Because his name is short for Halloween, silly,” Gracie says as if it’s the most obvious name for a jack-o-lantern.

“It’s perfect,” says Emmy and in that instant, I knew, life couldn’t get any better.

The next day is October 31st, Halloween, the day we’ve been looking forward to all year. We’d typically meet up with a couple of friends to go trick or treating before going back to one of our houses for a Halloween feast while the kids explore their loot and get hyped up on sugar for the rest of the night. Today is slightly different though. Emmy has a meeting with a new client that is apparently a big deal.

“Landing this account will set us up for other high-profile cases in the future and really put us on the map,” she tells me in between fixing Gracie’s Halloween costume (Elsa from Frozen of course) and slipping on her favourite pair of black patent pumps.

She’s nervous, I can tell, but she still has that excitement in her voice, unique to her, that is so intoxicating you hang on her every word. I wish her luck and kiss her goodbye as she rushes out to the car, my eyes lingering on the door for just a few seconds before going to wake Gracie to begin our day.

Somehow, Gracie convinces me to bring Hal with us as we run some last-minute errands before making our way to Tip Top Diner where Emmy plans to meet us for lunch at midday.

Midday comes and goes, no Emmy.

After twenty minutes of waiting and countless, “I’m hungry Daddy,” I order. Gracie (“and Hal” she quickly reminds me) mac and cheese and me the club sandwich.

“She’ll be here before the food arrives,” I try to suppress the worry that’s starting to build.

Forty-five minutes later, still no Emmy, no reply when I message and no answer when I call.

“This is not like her, something must have happened,” I push the thought to the back of my mind, reasoning her meeting could have gone longer than planned, or her phone could have died, but I can’t help the sense that something was wrong.

Quarter past one, frustrated, worried and my sandwich untouched, we decide to head on home and wait for Emmy there when my phone rings. Relief rushes through me until I see ‘unknown caller’. I answer, my heart sinking when I hear the words, “I’m so sorry…”

“Daddy, Daddy!” Gracie comes running into my bedroom.

I open my eyes slightly and can tell from the light shining through the blinds the sun is barely on the horizon. It’s been over two months since we lost Emmy, and we’re still struggling to navigate our life without her.

“What is it, baby?” I ask, trying not to fall back asleep.

“Something’s wrong with Hal.”

I can hear the panic in her voice and know this is not going to be a quick ‘he’ll be fine, go back to bed’ conversation so I sit up.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Look at him, Daddy,” she says, switching on the light. “I think he’s sick.”

Gracie pushes Hal up close as if seeing him like this will identify the problem. I see his orange skin has become wrinkled, with brown and grey patches developing. He’s started to rot. I knew this day was coming, but still can’t help thinking, “this is going to crush her.”

Trying to navigate the conversation as carefully as possible, I say, “Gracie, you know all the other pumpkins that we had to throw out because they got sick? Well, the same thing is happening with Hal.”

“No, it’s not!” she says defiantly, stamping her foot, “those other pumpkins are rotten. Hal’s not rotten, he’s just sick.”

“I’m sorry baby, but pumpkins don’t last forever.”

“But Hal’s different. Mommy told me he was special. He is special” the last few words come out as a whisper as tears well in her eyes.

I wrap my arms around Gracie and pull her into bed with me, holding her tight as she sobs. Emmy would have known the right thing to say, she always knew the right thing to say, but all I can do is hold and rock Gracie like I did when she was a baby and try not to scream out at the world for taking the very person we both need right now.

Eventually, Gracie cries herself back to sleep, but I just lay there, looking at the slowly sinking pumpkin staring back at me and wondering what I was going to do. Suddenly the solution occurs to me.

Delicately pulling myself out of bed so not to wake Gracie, I make my way to the stack of spare pumpkins in the back of the pantry.

“Always buy spares,” Emmy once told me, “then you can practice for months.”

For the next two hours, I feel like an artist working on his greatest creation. Stopping every so often to decipher where to make the next incision. Placing the knife on the table, soiled with orange flesh, I hold up the pumpkin admiring my work.

“Welcome back, Hal.”

I had just drifted off to sleep on the couch after placing the new Hal on my nightstand when the sound of Gracie screaming jolts me awake. Rushing into the bedroom not knowing whether I’d need to comfort Gracie or phone an ambulance, I see her jumping up and down exuberantly with Hal securely enveloped in her arms, shouting, “he’s healed, he’s healed. Mommy healed him. It’s magic.”

Relief rushes through me when I notice she’s not hurt but happy, genuinely happy. At that moment I feel my daughter is back to the once vibrant, sassy, carefree kid I lost a couple of months ago.

Closing my eyes, I am taken back to a little girl in a crowd of familiar faces all dressed in black offering condolences. Gracie looked so out of place in a black dress Emmy’s mother bought her for the funeral. Her shoulder-length blonde hair tied up in a sombre black ribbon. The illustrious pumpkin snugly in her arms. All joy drained from her face.

That image haunts me.

Over the next few days, Hal did not leave Gracie’s side. They had tea parties where Hal wore the most elaborate hat that could be found in the closet. “He needs to look his best,” Gracie told me. There were adventures to the cherry blossom tree in the front yard and she even built a fort in the living room for the two of them. Her friend was back, but new Hal was slowly, in Gracie’s words “getting sick again.” He was starting to rot.

“But how?” I wonder, “the other Hal lasted two months.”

Then it occurs to me, Emmy always had a way of preserving her carvings. That night, while Gracie slept soundly, I researched, carved and preserved the next Hal.

When Gracie awoke the next morning, she believed Emmy had magically healed Hal again and would soon be telling anyone that would listen.

Thanks to my new preservation techniques, each Hal was lasting close to two months and every time Gracie woke to a new, healthier Hal, she believed her mother was healing him with magic.

“My Mommy must be an angel,” she’d tell everyone, “she can heal my Hal every time he gets sick.”

I must admit, at the start I found it quite sweet and comforting whenever I overheard Gracie talking about her mother as an angel but when she was told Hal couldn’t go to school, I grew concerned about her defiant and changing behaviour.

“Hal’s coming with me,” “I’m not leaving him,” and “Hal needs school too” developed into staple sentences. Each morning was a battle of wills. Gracie screaming at the top of her lungs while I attempt to pry her tiny fingertips off the front door frame, praying the neighbours didn’t think I was actually hurting her. Phone calls from school followed soon after. Then came the suggestion of therapy.

“We believe Gracie would benefit greatly from regular visits to a psychologist specializing in child behavioural problems.”

“They’re saying Gracie has behavioural issues, that’s what they mean,” I furiously tell my mother when I call her as I leave the principal’s office, “she’s still grieving for Pete’s sake.”

I’m almost shaking with anger walking down the hallway, gripping Gracie’s hand as if that will protect her.

“Of course she’s still grieving, therapy might do her some good though.”

“They just want her in therapy because they don’t want to deal with her, that’s what it is. The people in this school have no heart!”

“Oh listen to yourself, Nick,” I can hear my mother’s voice change, she’s frustrated. “Gracie’s extremely attached to that pumpkin and is struggling in school. You’re in the middle of an elementary school shouting like a lunatic. Maybe it’s time you look into therapy for the both of you.”

“I don’t need therapy. I need Emmy back.”

She sighs, “we love you and are here for you, Nick, whenever you’re ready to accept the help,” and hangs up. My mother isn’t the type of person to get frustrated easily, but when she does, there’s a reason for it.

I look down at Gracie dutifully walking beside me and feel a pang of guilt.

“Maybe she does need help,” I think, “maybe we both do.”

I decide to take my mother’s advice and book the next available appointment at Happier Life, the first practice I find online. The psychologist I meet with views any advice from the 21st century as too ‘alternative’. He tells me that Gracie’s attachment is harmful and that I need to “remove the object before the child’s psyche is irreparably damaged.” I'm torn between rolling my eyes so far back I would be able to see behind me and telling him exactly what I think of his outdated views, but instead settle on politely paying for his useless services and never going back.

Finally, I decide group therapy would be more for me and find a regular session specifically for grieving families. Well, what I thought was grieving families turns out to be grieving widows, most of whom are pleased to have a young widower among them.

In a sea of women, everyone has their own story to tell and almost half have very strong opinions about my situation.

One woman in the group, Jackie, I think her name is, begins a drawn-out story about how after her husband died ten years ago her nine-year-old son reverted to sucking his thumb and ended up needing braces.

“Why is she still coming to the meeting after ten years?” I silently wonder during her endless story, “will I be here in ten years’ time reliving Emmy’s death just like… maybe her name was Julie? Is this what being a widower entails?”

“And let me tell you,” said Julie, no Jenny, her name was definitely Jenny, “three years of braces are expensive,” she finishes off with an awkward laugh.

Though I’m sceptical about the grieving widows group helping, I stick with it and by September I start to see myself making progress. To top it off, I find myself looking forward to Jackie’s (turns out it was Jackie) repetitive story each week.

What I’m most thankful for from the group is the number of a brilliant therapist for Gracie. With weekly sessions, it doesn’t take long before the trips to the principal’s office stop completely, and Gracie’s attachment to Hal becomes less worrisome.

I stroke Gracie’s hair as she closes her eyes. Ever since we lost Emmy, moments like these have become my moments to treasure. Most nights, I like to sit beside Gracie’s bed long after she falls asleep and just listen to her breathe. The sound is comforting, soothing, like white noise. Every so often she’ll make a little sound, a barely audible murmur that always manages to bring a smile to my lips. Emmy used to do the same thing when she slept. She once told me it happened when she was having a good dream. The morning after I heard those sleeping whispers, she’d tell me all about the extraordinary dream she’d had with the enthusiasm of a child. I like to think it’s the same with Gracie and imagine what she’s dreaming about every time I hear those sweet sounds.

“She’s so like her mother,” I reflect, trying to find her features through the darkness.

Moonlight shines through pink butterfly curtains, lighting up the wrinkly orange skin sitting on the nightstand. I could stay here all night, fall into a meditative state listening to the air flowing in and out of my baby’s lungs… but it’s getting late and Hal is getting worse.

Waiting until Gracie has kept her eyes closed for more than a couple of minutes, meaning she should be asleep, I slowly open the bedroom door when I hear the soft voice call, “Daddy?”

“Yeah, baby?” I reply in my soothing night-time tone.

“I know you’ve been making new Hal’s when my Hal gets sick. I’ll miss him, but it’s ok, you don’t need to pretend. I know Hal is in heaven with Mommy.”

I’m frozen in the doorway, tears threatening to break free. Perhaps it’s the matter of fact way she says it that has me so emotional, or that she’s healing.

“But Daddy?” she asks, “can you make him one last time?”

“I have a better idea. How about we make him together?”

“We can make him for Mommy,” Gracie replies excitedly, “can we make a Hal for Mommy next Halloween as well?”

“We can make a Hal for Mommy every single Halloween.”

“Do you promise?”

“I promise.”

And that’s exactly what happened.