I needed forgiveness for the feeling I felt when I’d picked her up in the hospital, the feeling of detachment. She hadn’t felt like my baby, which was why I’d laid her straight back down. I needed forgiveness for not loving her enough in those moments.
The realisation that I finally understood the feelings coursing through me had me double over in pain. I wasn’t just grieving the loss of my husband, of my daughter, I was grieving the loss of birthing a child, of bonding with that child.
It was conflicting. I loved Hannah, yet I hadn’t wanted to spend time with her. I’d picked her up and laid her with her father, after holding her for the briefest of moments.
I angrily wiped tears from my cheeks when I heard the back door slide open.
“Dani, it’s freezing out here, come on in,” Dad said, as he came to stand beside me.
I reached for my pad.
I’m wrapped up warm. I was getting a headache. I thought this would help.
“Okay, baby, but at least let me make you a fresh tea.”
I held up the cold mug for him to take. I heard the door slide open then close again. The sun was low on the horizon, and even though I dreaded to think about the temperature of the water, I could see the silhouette of a surfer standing on the sand, watching the waves with his board beside him. The summer would see surfers from around the country, the world. That beach was home to some of the best waves in the U.K., not that I’d ever mastered surfing.
“Patricia rang after you’d gone to bed, I guess she forgot about the time difference. She asked after you,” Dad said, when I’d joined him in the kitchen. All I could do was nod.
“She said the weather was getting bad out there, they have a lot of snow predicted.”
He poured hot water into mugs.
“Can you imagine having to shovel that amount of snow from your drive every year. Three, four feet deep, she said.”
He rambled on as he poured the milk and stirred sugar into his mug.
“Anyway, I said I’d pass her message on. She’s hoping to come over for a few days. I told her, she’s more than welcome to come and stay here with us.”
I noticed he hadn’t said ‘Christmas.’ Not that I had any intention of celebrating. Another thing to grieve for, Trey had loved Christmas.
He placed the two mugs on the kitchen table and sat. “Anyway, I have a doctor’s this morning, and then I have to go to the vet to pick up Lucy’s meds. Do you fancy a walk with me?”
I reached for the pad.
Why do you need the doctor?
“Just the usual, old man check up. Nothing to worry about. It would be nice if you’d walk with me.”
I looked at his face that held hope and I gently shook my head.
I’m sorry.
“Nothing to be sorry about, Dani. It’s okay, I know, baby.”
It must be so fucking frustrating for him. Having one-sided conversations with a daughter that had holed up in his house.
He placed his hand on my head and gently ruffled my hair, as he’d done so many times in the past.
As soon as Dad left, I retrieved the letter I’d received from my pocket. I read again, trying to picture the narrator in my mind. An older gentleman with grey hair; perhaps he had an old scratched writing desk beside an open fireplace. The paper looked to be high quality, the kind with the blue tint and faint blue lines. If handwriting could be described as stunning, his would. The letters were so perfectly joined up, on a slant and sharp. Maybe he had a convent education, or at least somewhere where handwriting was taught, old school. For that moment, my mind wasn’t focused on my misery but on the writer of the letter.
I analysed each word, found meaning behind the sentiment. I hoped he would reply.
It was hard not to pull on my shoes and walk down the beach; it was an effort to hope that he had replied. I’d been offered counselling, I’d turned that down. What could anyone say to make it better? But just a couple of lines of pure honesty in his words had struck a cord.
I won’t tell you it gets better in time, it doesn’t. It becomes different, bearable.
Only someone who had suffered loss could have written those words.
Unless a therapist had experienced the same, how could they possibly expect to sit with me and understand?
I thought I heard the rattle of something metal. I turned to look down the hallway and to the front door, expecting my dad to walk in. When he didn’t, I got up to investigate. On the odd occasion we’d have visitors, I would take myself to my bedroom, saving them, and me, the embarrassment of having to converse. I prayed we didn’t have a visitor waiting outside for me to open the door.
I must have stood for a minute or two before I noticed it. On the mat just inside the front door was an envelope. A purple envelope. I bent down to pick it up. My name was handwritten on the outside. The writing was familiar and my hand shook as I stared at it.
I walked the stairs to my bedroom and curled into the leather chair placed in front of the window. I gently opened the envelope and pulled out a piece of paper, neatly folded in half.
Dani,
I think you needed me to reply, and I didn’t want to run the risk of leaving this letter in a bottle on a beach. I didn’t think you’d mind if I dropped it through your door. Of course, I know where you live. It’s a small village, and I knew you when you were a child.
So, how does it become different? I can only tell you my story. The pain will subside; the numbness will chase it away. And maybe, for a while, the numbness is all you will feel. You might get scared that you won’t ever feel again. I forced the feelings to come back, Dani. I did stupid things before I discovered that wasn’t the answer.
Time is the only thing you have and if, like me, you’re impatient, you’ll find that time drags so very slowly. Let nature heal you, let time just tick away as it’s supposed to.
You will survive this, but you will be different. You can’t possibly be the same person. How you end up is your decision. You can drown yourself in alcohol, and hate the world more, or you can learn that life isn’t fair. It’s fucking shit sometimes, but there is nothing we can do about that. You can stop fighting and start accepting. Only then will you be able to come out the other side with part of you left intact. And it’s that part that is the foundation from which the new you will emerge.
It’s hard work, Dani. It’s not easy; don’t let anyone try to tell you differently. It’s an effort to get up each morning, shower, and dress. It’s hard work to force food into a stomach coiled so tight with acid and pain. But you have to.
Each day, without you even noticing, you are one step closer to being able to function without the crushing guilt and the endless pain.
Whether this is right or wrong, I’m pleased to have made your acquaintance. Maybe, we both need this.
If you want to reply, let’s get creative. Just a short walk up the lane is the entrance to the farm. Don’t worry, it’s not mine, I don’t live there. Outside the gate you’ll see an old wooden box. It used to be an honesty box, maybe you remember. They would put a small table outside with apples; we’d drop a few coins in the box as payment. Leave your response there, Dani.
Soon enough the bottle will be taken out to sea and won’t return. And I’d hate for you to think I didn’t reply.
Lincoln.
Lincoln? I racked my brain; I didn’t know a Lincoln, but he said he knew me as a child. Maybe he was a teacher and I’d only know him by his surname. I read the letter again. There were parts where I thought he was actually writing to himself, giving himself the advice he needed. His letter wasn’t just to help me; it was to help him as well.