The Anniversary

There’s no way to prepare yourself for the loss of a child. There’s no way to fully grasp the concept that the tiny little life you made from scratch, no longer exists. There’s no way to completely accept it. There’s no way to explain it. The emptiness. The guilt. The heartbreak of losing an entire lifetime of joy and memories never to be had.

She cried for him, my god, did she cry for him. Our boy that hardly got to exist at all. I don’t know what was worse: my complete uselessness in comforting her, or the guilt of it being my fault that her heart was so broken. I don’t know how she found it in herself to ever forgive me. And yet, she did, somehow. She stayed. She felt so openly and talked us through our grief, she never let it drive us apart. She never let me shut down. “We’re the only ones who get what we’re going through, we lean on that and hold each other up” she’d say. Her resilience and faith in life kept me going. Keeps me going.

When Leah told me she was pregnant again, we celebrated. We cried and laughed, expressed gratitude at the second chance, as unexpected as it was. What we had kept from Leo’s things stayed in a box in our bedroom closet. I brought it down, wanting to feel like he could be a part of this new life, but Leah took it from me before I could open it and put it back. “Leo will not be replaced, but we’ll start fresh, with new things, with new purpose,” she said.

I understood. Sometimes avoidance is the only way to survive. To move forward.

When we learned the baby was a girl, I’ll never admit it to Leah, but I was relieved. The idea of having a boy, and him grow to look like Leo, but not be Leo… it was too much to think about. I was afraid of the chance that I’d resent my own child for not being the one we’d lost. It’s a strange feeling, being so excited for new life, yet not knowing how to make room within a heart that will never fully heal. But a girl. A daughter. It felt different. New. For the first time in four years, I felt hopeful. I felt capable of allowing genuine joy back into my soul.

She came out looking just like Leah, and only grew more and more into her likeness with her big brown eyes and dark curly locks. The only thing she seemed to share with Leo were my dimples. I was grateful for that. Love for a child is absolutely unconditional, but so is grief. I was so fearful of looking at my daughter and feeling pain, but that was never the case. I looked at her and felt complete adoration, like she was giving something back to us that we never imagined we could have again.

The ten year anniversary of Leo’s drowning seemed to come out of nowhere. I found myself teetering between feeling like time never even moved from that moment to feeling like it passed with a blink. Leah had the idea that we should go back to the lake to commemorate. “We don’t have a grave to visit, all we have is that box. That doesn’t feel like enough right now,” she said. “I want to feel close to him.”

The idea of going back racked me with guilt. I didn’t want to face it. I didn’t want to see it. I didn’t want to go and look out over the water that swallowed my boy and never gave him back. But I agreed. She was so strong for me. She kept me moving when all I wanted to do was lie down and die. If this is what she wanted, what she needed, it was the least I could give her.

We arrived at the lake house just before sunset. I was surprised at its pristine condition. I didn’t know why, I knew that Leah’s brother had taken it over, kept it up, paid the bills, but I was surprised nonetheless. Maybe I just expected it to look as dilapidated as I felt. Leah was the one to open the front door. Our tension shattered as Cassie squealed in excitement, running through the doorway and into the house, exploring every nook and cranny. It was all brand new to her. I did my best to enjoy her happiness, to let her delighted giggles absorb into the walls and floorboards, hoping it would quell the memories of Leo doing the same.

Leah and I followed our eager little girl through the house and into the kitchen where she stopped in awe of the staircase that spiraled up into the next floor. A memory of Leo climbing a few steps, jumping onto the banister and sliding down flashed into my mind. I watched Cassie’s face as she took in the staircase. Something familiar passed across her eyes. A smile crept onto her lips as she caught me watching her. The dimple. It was for a split second, but there seemed to be a knowing in her expression that I recognized but couldn’t quite place. A strange feeling oozed its way through my gut, slow and heavy. A squealing giggle interrupted my thoughts as Cassie skipped toward the stairs and began to climb, Leah trailing behind her with warning to hold onto the rails.

I stayed downstairs in the kitchen, taking it all in. Allowing myself to accept that we had returned here after all this time. It all came rushing back, everything I had held at bay for an entire decade. The memories flash like old fashioned cameras, bright and overwhelming. I can hear Leah’s chimes of laughter as she watches Leo smile at the ducks floating on the lake’s surface. I can feel his tiny hand in mine as we stand at the side of the boat, the tug as he points at a fish swimming by, the breeze hit the inside of my palm as his hand slips out. Leah’s scream vibrates in my bones, as the realization rolls through me, that Leo has fallen over.

There was no sound. There was no splash. There was no rippled water. And after days of searching, there was no body. There were only the ducks and the echoing screams of a mother watching her child disappear.

I felt a hand on my arm. I looked to my right to see Leah standing next to me, looking out at the lake. I don’t even remember walking outside from the kitchen, yet here we were. I watch my wife and I can only imagine she too is allowing herself a moment to remember. Silent tears rolled down her cheeks. I pat her hand as it rested on my arm, my limbs heavy as I force them to move.

This was a terrible idea. Why did I agree to this? How could I have let myself be convinced that this would be helpful or good in anyway? Why did I let-

“Mommy? Daddy?” Cassie called out from the porch behind us and make her way down the steps with all of the grace and coordination of a six year old. “Why are you crying?” She approached us and Leah crouched down to meet her height. Cassie reached out and wiped the tears from her mother’s cheeks.

“It’s ok baby, we just miss your brother is all. I wish you could have met him. He would love you.”

“I wish I was born when he was born.” Cassie looked to her feet, there was a sadness in her voice that I wish she never had to know. Her head shot up suddenly, her eyes meeting mine. There it was again, that tiny glimmer. A shift so small, I would have missed it if not for the eye contact. “Can we go see the ducks?”

“Uhh, yea. Let’s go see if there are any by the dock.” I held my hand out for Cassie to take as we walked down to the dock. I could feel Leah’s eyes on me, studying me for any sign of breakdown. They were almost as heavy as the stone in my gut. It was all becoming too much. The lake in front of us. The sound of the ducks quacking and splashing. The tiny hand in my hand. The familiar look in my daughter’s eye.

I don’t remember reaching the end of the dock, but suddenly we were standing at the edge, looking out onto the lake. I heard Leah take a deep breath. She sat down, letting her legs hang over the side of the dock, her toes dipping into the water. My grip on Cassie’s hand tightened as I watched her peer over the dock’s edge into the water. I studied her reflection as she smiled at the ducks swimming by. My breath caught in my throat. No. It was just the water moving, rippling her image. It was not Leo. Just an illusion. My ears began to ring.

“Hey daddy?”

Terror flowed through my body as I moved my gaze from the reflection to her face. Recognition flooded in as her eyes shifted, that playful little grin taking over her mouth. Her tiny hand felt like ice in mine. Stiff. Cold. Wet.

“This time, don’t drop me.”