“Wait,” he says. “So you were the same size then, as you are now?”
“Yeah?” At 5’8, I’m a size 8 some days and some days I’m a size 12. I have never felt less beautiful for it, and I’m healthier than most people I know.
“Well, if it means anything, I think your body is perfect,” he says.
“Oh yeah?”
He whistles, brows knitted as he drags his eyes down the length of my body. Girly giggles bubble in my chest at his response, and the smile that blooms on his lips makes me feel like this was his goal.
We talk more about life and past experiences, but eventually, his eyes grow heavy and he falls asleep. The sun is just starting to rise, and I don’t feel the least bit tired. After finding my phone, I get my earbuds and search his name on my browser. His photography is beautiful, but he speaks about film with such reverence…I’m eager to see his work.
A link to a documentary pops up:Epitaph.
I know from what he’s told me and the synopsis that this is a documentary about the year after his son died. Still, I don’t expect the bone-chilling opening that strikes me to my core.
The movie opens with a scene of a short, white casket being lowered into a freshly dug grave. There seems to be a large crowd, singingWill You Be Thereby Michael Jackson as the casket falls deeper and deeper. They’re loud, but not loud enough to drown out the wailing. Over the song, you can hear the moaning cries — cries that I feel in the bottom of my belly, that can only come from a mother. In the middle of the song’s climax, the scene cuts to Nick, sitting alone on one of the folding chairs, staring at the fresh soil piled on top of his son’s grave.
Tears burn the backs of my eyes when the scene changes again. This framing is the same, his position is the same, the only thing different is the setting. He sits now in a small dining room. There are dishes on the table, and the chairs are pulled away. The energy of the space feels disheveled, and his eyes are empty.
The singing crowd returns, muffled this time as if the voices are filtered through a speaker or radio. “Come on, Nicholas. I asked you to stop watching it,” the voice pleads.
He continues staring blankly into the distance.
“Nicholas,” she says.
He doesn’t respond.
“Nick!” She screams, the shift in her voice makes me jump, and I try to stop the reaction so I don’t wake the man sleeping next to me. “Nicholas! Please,” she begs, her voice wet with tears, cracking. “You have to stop doing this…you can’t keep watching it over and over again,” she says.
Her voice carries on, but the video on the screen changes. We see flashes from home videos, from when Juno was still alive. Past Christmases, random moments caught on camerawhere he’s laughing uncontrollably, his first steps. All the while, Marie carries on. “How could you sit here and watch this. Why did you even record it in the first place?”
When Nick doesn’t respond, her anger rages. Her voice rises with every inquiry and accusation. “This isn’t normal!” She screams. “He’s dead! Our son is dead!” When this doesn’t illicit a response either, she adds, “You’re sick, you know that? Something is wrong with you! Are—are you recording this right now?”
The screen fades to black, and the title rolls across the screen.
I hit pause, only ten minutes in, and reckless tears already streak across my skin. I look over at him, his face serene as his chest rises and falls. My heart breaks for him. The longer I watch him, the more I recognize the features he passed down to his son. I wonder how difficult it must be to look in the mirror and see reminders that the most important person in the world is gone.
My chest caves, the genesis of a sob forming behind my ribs. I slap an open palm over my mouth to muffle the sound. I’ve never been a mother, but I feel the depth of such a loss in the marrow of my bones, and even then I can’t imagine — don’t want to imagine the pain he must have felt.
I nestle into his side, let my tears mingle with the chemistry of his body. Still sleeping, he wraps his arm around me and pulls me close. I cry silently into his chest, snaking my arm around his waist and squeezing him back. I shouldn’t need to be comforted, but the warmth of his skin and steady heartbeat grounds my emotions. I feel safe here, I feel seen, even in the unconsciousness of his actions.
I’m so grateful to have met him, to have him now, even if I only get a few more days with him. But if I could rewind time, even if it means we would never have this Christmas together…I would give back to him everything he’s lost in a heartbeat.
Krystal
We arrive at Sun Bean in the afternoon. This time, the entire B&B crew is here. We’re having a gingerbread house decorating competition, and we’ve arrived earlier than scheduled since the light show got postponed to this evening. We’ll do this now and check it out later.
Nick sticks by my side the entire time, determined not to let a repeat of the cocktail-making competition occur.
“And today’s prize,” Gayle announces. Collette rounds the counter, holding a bright red tin. “Collette’s highly coveted gourmet gingerbread cookies.” The crowd responds brightly. Gayle hasn’t disappointed with the prizes yet.
My mouth waters at the thought. I sneak a tiny crumb of one of the large sheets of cookies in front of us, wondering if it’s what they taste like.
Nick chuckles behind me. “You always had this bad of a sweet tooth?”
I offer him a cheeky smile. “I’ve had a sweet tooth since before I even had teeth.”
His head falls back with easy laughter, pulling a bright smile to my face. I haven’t told him I watched the beginning of hismovie. I don’t know if I ever will. How do I tell him it was good? Watching such an overt expression of his grief?
