The Holding Place Chapter 1

"A candle in the wind is what my wife Abby was. A flame that may have flickered from time to time but could never be extinguished.”


Michael is standing before the congregation of our church as he is reading off the first sentences of my eulogy that he has hastily written in the past few days. I can see the lack of sleep in the red of his eyes. There is blankness in the depths of his deep blue eyes. He is still in shock. Five days deep into his grief and not once has he admitted to himself that I am gone. He has nursed three bottles of Jack since the accident. He knows that he will not find the answers to his questions at the bottom of a bottle but he is at a loss of how to numb the pain any other way.


My mother sits in the front row, her hair spun into a perfect coif and her posture perfectly erect. There is a fresh manicure on her hands in the shade of her favorite red and her dress is made of the finest black lace. There is hardly a wrinkle to mar her face or body even though she is well into her fifties’. To anybody who didn’t know her they would think that no heart beat in that statue of grace and perfection but there is no person in this chapel who is feeling more pain than her or Michael. The moment she finds a moment of privacy the tears will flow and the make-up so expertly applied will mix with the salt of her breaking heart.


I go to the empty space near my mother and sit down beside her. I cannot feel the cushion of the pew beneath me. I cannot smell the vanilla perfume that I know without a doubt that my mother is wearing. If there is a chill in the air then I am unaware of it. I no longer feel the beat of a heart or the need to draw in a breath of air. Every sense that I took for granted when I was alive is no longer needed in the afterlife. The physical senses have been replaced with cognitive ones. I can sense the thoughts and feelings of the souls in those around me. I feel their pain as much as they feel it. It is the worst kind of agony I could have ever imagined.


I feel the grief that is ruminating inside my mother almost to the point that it is palpable. I cannot put my arms around her and pull her into my embrace. I cannot bring up a memory from my childhood that would make her smile. I cannot let her know that I am sitting right beside her. I can do nothing but sit on this pew and leave her to drown in her pain. This will be my curse for the rest of eternity.


I can bear the torment of my mother’s inner turmoil no longer. I go to the coffin that is surrounded by bouquets of wild flowers, roses, and pictures depicting me in the various stages of life. The display is beautiful and masks the ugly reality that within the coffin lays the remains of my worldly frame. It is the definitive reminder that I am dead and am not going to wake up beside Michael telling myself that this is all just a horrible dream. I have yet to rationalize how I can be taken away from my loved ones but not gone from them. How I ache to let them know that I am still here with them.


Michael’s sister Claire holds my little Norah in her arms in the pew behind my mother. She is dressed in a dress of black taffeta and lace, a color most appropriate for the grief that hangs heavy in the air. A black bow is clipped to her head of white blonde hair. Her breaths are even and steady as she lies asleep in the arms of her aunt. Beneath delicate eyelashes are the stark green eyes of her Irish blood, my Irish blood.


She will wake in a few moments in a fit full of frustrated cries. These past few days have been rough of her, being passed from one set of arms to another. Michael has yet to hold her. I feel the pain that crushes his chest every time he looks at her. I do not even have to be near him to feel the torment of my memory every time he sees Norah’s dancing green eyes. The bond of our hearts survives even past death. I know this because a part of my soul follows him everywhere he goes. All I must do is bring him to mind and I am taken to where ever he is.


Claire begins to stroke Norah’s blonde hair across her brow in an effort to keep her asleep through the service. With two young children of her own she does not miss a beat when it comes to consoling an unhappy baby. That is what is my precious little girl is, unhappy. Too young to understand that she is now motherless, she does know that something is amiss with her equilibrium being so quickly snatched away from her. She is used to being rocked asleep in my arms to the sound of a nonsensical lullaby made up especially for her. Hardly before a cry would escape her tiny lips I would sweep her into my arms and greet her with soft kisses upon her brow. She was the darling of a first-time young mother who was lost more than found when navigating the steps of motherhood.


Norah is responding to the comforts offered to her by Claire. Her face is more relaxed than a few minutes prior and she is falling back into a deeper sleep. I wonder what she dreams about. Does she have any memories of me? Does she know the difference of my scent to Claire’s? How long will it be before she does not need to familiar feel and scent of me to be comforted? My heart sinks at the thought of my little girl never needing me anymore.


I will be there the first time she crawls, pulls herself up using the edge of a coffee table, every milestone she will ever achieve. At the same time I won’t be there. She won’t know I am right there beside her with every step and every breath. When she winces at the pain of her first scraped knee I will wince with her. I will feel everything that she feels, but I won’t be able to comfort her. I will be in the background watching as someone else raises my little girl.


Only a few years my senior it didn’t take very long for Claire and I find a common ground and strike up a solid friendship. The first time I met her was inside a restaurant where she was eating with her family and I was eating with a group of college friends a table over from her. My friends and I kept looking over at her and whispering why she would bring a young baby to a nice place like that, no matter how well behaved the infant was. In fact, the whole night the baby didn’t make so much as a gurgle. It slept contentedly in the car carrier at Claire’s feet.


That was the night that I also first met Michael. He overheard our enduring conversation about the curse of children and kept noticing how increasingly uncomfortable his sister was becoming at listening to the conversation that was obviously directed at her. At the end of the meal I noticed his handsome length out of the corner of my eye and saw that he was coming straight towards me. From the look on his face it was obvious that he thought I was the leader of the pack. Back in those days I was a follower and in any other circumstances I would have rushed out of my chair to the nearest powder room, but the blue of his eyes had me mesmerized.


At six feet he easily towered over my small frame by several inches. I could never put my finger on it but the way he marched up to my table lit a fire inside of me that insisted that I match him with equal intensity. The green of my eyes clashed boldly with his as he came to a stop within only a foot or two from my chair. He had the look of a man with only not so nice things to say. Completely out of character for me, I intended to win this little battle of wills.


“Before you pay your check don’t you think there is something you should do?” he asked bluntly.


He felt there was no need for an introduction, like I already knew what he was coming over to the table. Of course I did. Protective brother bear was looking for a way to protect sister baby bear. I glanced over to his sister. She was a full grown woman with a child; she needed no protection from him.


“What do you think it is that I need to do,” I quipped and added with a sly smirk, “Brother Bear?”


I caught a barely audible gasp of surprise from the girl sitting beside me. I had never been known in the group as the one with claws. Right now was about as perfect a time as ever to flex and show them. I was only a week from college graduation at that point and I preferred not to be remembered as the mousy girl buried in the books. If I didn’t do this then that was exactly who I would always be to them.


It was a comment that Michael was not expecting, it was obvious from the floored look on his face. I felt the first warm glow of victory bloom in my chest. I would simply count to ten silently in my head and he would return to his family, his ego just a little bit deflated. Nothing could have prepared me for what happened next.


He shot out a large hand to cover my own small one and pulled me abruptly from my chair. I was too shocked to pull back and like a ragdoll I was pulled to my feet to stand in front of him. I didn’t realize how intimidating his size was compared to my own from the view I had sitting down. I know he was a big man but not the giant who dwarfed me as I stood beside him under his glowering scowl. I could only look up stupidly at his as I waited for something to happen. Was he a crazy maniac who would carry me out to a cave and beat me senseless? Those kinds died out of modern society over a century ago.


“You owe my sister an apology,” he stated matter-of-factly, all evidence of his shock only moments before replaced with a hard look of masculine confidence. “For your vile conversation that was completely unfounded.”


His voice made me go weak at the knees. It was like a ripe strawberry covered with rich chocolate, rich and decadent. In a span of a few seconds a stark realization came over me: I could not let this man walk out of this restaurant tonight and out of my life. My mind raced for a moment as I struggled for a way for me to get his number and him his apology without me looking like a brainless hussy. The light bulb flickered on and a smile spread across my lips.


“Maybe you are right Big Brother,” I said. “But it will cost you.”


He glared down at me. “It will not cost me anything for me to insist that spoiled little college brat to learn some manners and do what is right.”


I was taken aback a little bit. A spoiled college brat, is that what I came across like to him? If only he listened to five minutes of my childhood story. The only thing spoiled in my life was the meat I was forced to eat as a child because money was so tight my mother could not afford anything else. Spoiled. The nerve of this guy.


“Look Brother Bear, let’s make this easy on each other.”


He raised an eyebrow and looked down at my quizzically. “Easy? I don’t see how this could be any easier or simpler. You go over there and apologize to my…”


I rose up my hand to interrupt him and in a low voice said, “To your sister I know. What I mean is a trade. Give me something I want and you’ll get something you want.”


His look darkened, as if I offered to go over there and say the most outrageous insult possible to his sister. I noticed a slight tick in his jaw as he gathered words in his head to give me a lashing retort. “Sorry Princess, I don’t trade with children. I’m not the type to take candy from a baby.”


I felt my face quickly burn into what I am certain was the shade of beet red. I was beginning to rethink this battle of wits. This guy obviously had practice at this and I was sure that he wasn’t going to let me back out this far into the battle. He seemed to be getting a thrill out of making me sweat. At that thought an epiphany struck me. This dangerous man was flirting was usually safe, mousy me. I think he sensed that I was putting on no more than a badly portrayed persona. He saw the flashes of uncertainty paling my confident green eyes.


I smiled up at him. “I’m hardly a child. To prove it, I’ll apologize to your sister, phone number or not.”


I saw the slight flicker of surprise in his blue eyes. As I walked towards his sister to deliver my apology I knew I had gotten his phone number without even having to ask. No mere child could be that cunning.


The feel of Michael’s pain pulls me from my reverie. I look towards him to see that on either side of the podium his hands are gripped tightly, he is weak at the knees. The memory of our marriage is going through his mind at an agonizing pace. In a span of a few seconds he is reliving every moment he ever shared with me. Tears hang on the edge of his red-rimmed eyes. Five days and his moment of honesty are finally come.


Silence has befallen the chapel and everyone is holding their breath. Michael is nearing the end of his speech but he is far from ready to finish. To finish means that he is finished summing up a marriage that wasn’t ready to be ended. It means that he will finally have to face the truth that he faces an existence without his wife and his daughter without a mother. Every palpable wave of pain that rushes through him becomes my own.


Time is jilting to a standstill. Michael knows he cannot wait to finish. He must proceed forward. He must accept why he stands before all of our loved ones reading aloud the story of our lives to them. It will be the hardest thing he will ever do. Our life was not perfect but so far from broken. We were two people who had found their soul mate in each other.


The sight of Michael going to his knees makes something powerful come over me. His face is cupped in his hands and his chest is heaving with sobs. I am breaking the same way he is. There is a heavy pounding in my chest. My hands touch the cool wood of the podium.


“Abby?” Michael whispers. The flicker of recognition is unmistakable in his blue eyes. He can see me peering over him.


The people who are trying to help him to his feet seem oblivious to my presence as Michael tries to point out to them that I am standing right before him. Several heads shake as sympathetic hands come to rest on his shoulder. They are saying that he is seeing things. I am gone. It has only been five days. He is still in shock and still needs the time to process.


I am really gone? It has only been five days?


Perhaps this is not just a dream. Maybe I really am dead. Michael no longer has a wife and Norah no longer has a mother.