Bob stood there and swallowed. Looked at the eyes on that hare. No, they didn’t need to talk about it. It had worked just fine so far, hadn’t it? Not talking about it? Just let the wound heal over and knock back a stiff drink when the pain gets too much or the thoughts can’t be driven off. Her eyes were brown. Like caramel, said Alice. He preferred amber.
“We lost our daughter,” said Bob. “Frankie. She was three years old.”
Lunde stopped working. Briefly wiped his hands together and let his arms drop to his sides. The look he gave Bob was open, naked, direct. What Bob saw wasn’t a look that asked for something, some further explanation. And Mike Lunde didn’t say anything either, it was as though he was someone who understood that no words added to those just spoken could give them meaning. Daughter. Lost. Three years old.
“She found my service pistol in our bedroom drawer,” said Bob. “She was playing with it. Alice was home and heard the shot. An hour later our daughter died at the hospital.”
Bob chose his words the same way he always did wheneverthe situation demanded that he explain what had happened. It was a formula he had learned by heart. After a while he could recite it without too much alteration. Sometimes, like when he gave his statement to the police, he would add details, volunteer facts. Such as that he had kept the pistol and ammunition easily accessible in the drawer of the bedside table because there had recently been two nighttime burglaries in the area. But never a word about what it felt like or about Frankie herself. That would be like opening the floodgates. He knew he would lose it. And still, as he stood there reciting the formulaic sentences, he could feel the pressure.
“I’m so terribly sorry to hear that, Bob,” said Mike.
Bob could see he meant it. There was empathy in his eyes, a mute pain like an echo of Bob’s own. Bob could only wonder at the arbitrary way empathy was distributed among humans.
“Alice is a psychologist, and she persuaded me to see various professionals who specialized in grief management. They all said the same thing: that experience shows that grief like this often leads to divorce; that it was important to give each other space and not apportion any blame. Of course, none of this was new to Alice, she explained the mechanisms involved to me, described in detail what typically happens to a young couple who lose their only child. We knew. And yet still we didn’t manage to stop a single thing from happening. The exhaustion. The apathy. The silence. The outbursts of rage one person feels when they think they’re being blamed by the other person. Because of the guilt youfeel.Hatred for the other, because you feel they share the guilt. Alcohol. Rejection. We completely forgot that we loved each other, we dragged ourselves along with this millstone of grief around our necks that was pulling us both down. Just the sight of each other at the breakfast table was a reminder of what had happened. Neither one of us would let the other forget, because forgetting,escape from the pain the other felt, would be a betrayal. Until in the end we just couldn’t take it anymore.”
“So the reason wasn’t that she found someone else?”
“Oh yes. But…she threw me out first.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“About what?”
“That she threw you out?”
“Why wouldn’t I be sure about that?”
Mike shrugged.
Bob felt the metallic tang of blood in his mouth—he hadn’t even noticed that he’d bitten his tongue.
“Maybe she didn’t say it in so many words, but she froze me out. Wouldn’t talk to me, wouldn’t touch me. So I took the consequences. I packed my bag and I left.”
“So you were the one who left?”
“What? No.”
“No?”
“No! She could have phoned and asked me to come back. But she didn’t.”
“I see.”
“Okay, she did call. Twice. At the most. Directly afterward. But my life right then was just a chaotic mess and I…I needed it to be, I guess. When I began to get things sorted out and started remembering all the good times we’d shared I got in touch with her. But she told me she’d met this guy, Stan. Stan the Man. It was only a matter of a few months, remember. So…” Bob had located the wound in his tongue and pressed it hard against the back of his teeth. “…in my book, she had the last word.”
“This Stan…”
“A guy who works with Alice. Psychologist. I talked to someone I’d gotten to know a bit there and he figured Stan had been interested in her for a long time. I guess he was just waiting for hischance. He claims to be a researcher, but I checked out a couple of articles he published and I wasn’t impressed.”
“But do you think they love each other?”
“Love?” Bob spat it out as though it was a dirty word. But the rushing in his head didn’t come. Instead he thought about it, discovering as he did so that if he put the wound on his tongue between his teeth and clamped down hard on it, the pain brought tears to his eyes. “Maybe. I guess so. Yes, they probably do.”
“Then why are you so angry with her? You were the one who left, and I’m guessing you weren’t exactly celibate once you were gone.”
“Not exactly, no.”
“So maybe you’re not really angry because she found someone else but because she’s happy. And since your daughter’s death you feel she has no right to be.”
