Don't Go (4 page)

I am so sorry, Chloe. I should have been with you. I vowed to be with you.

Mike felt tears come to his eyes and moved his hand to Emily’s chest. The sleeper was soft, and her body warm under his palm. He opened his fingers, and his hand covered her entire torso. He bit his lip not to cry when he felt her tiny heartbeat. He wondered if Chloe had ever stood over Emily’s crib at night, putting her hand on the baby’s heart, thinking of him. The husband who had let her die alone.

“Are you okay?” whispered a voice, and Mike looked up to see Danielle standing in the threshold, silhouetted by the hallway light, her hand on the doorknob.

“I’m fine,” Mike answered, but he forgot to whisper. Emily started to wake up, moving her head back and forth, then opened her eyes and looked directly at him, something she hadn’t done as a newborn. He felt a bolt of sheer joy and on impulse, reached into the crib and scooped her up. “Hi, Emily, it’s Daddy!”

Emily started to cry, and Danielle rushed into the bedroom, closing the door behind her. “Don’t hold her like that. Support her head.”

“Okay.” Mike tried to support Emily’s head, but she twisted in his arms. She seemed strong for a baby, and it felt great to hold her, despite the decibel-level. She was tangible proof of life, of Chloe, of family.

“Don’t do that.”

“What am I doing wrong?” Mike supported the baby’s head, but she kept turning away from him.

“Here, give her to me.” Danielle reached for the wailing baby, who stretched her tiny arms to her.

“Can’t I do something?” Mike asked, but before he could stop her, Danielle had taken Emily.

“Em, it’s all right, it’s okay, that’s your Daddy.” Danielle cuddled Emily, and the baby quieted quickly.

Mike felt oddly rejected, though he knew he was being silly. He would’ve given it more of a try. “What can I do?”

Danielle shushed him, and Emily twisted around, saw him, and started to cry again. “Do you see her pacifier in the crib? It’s pink.”

Mike crossed to the crib and moved some plush toys around, but didn’t see the pacifier. He wanted to hold Emily and comfort her, on his own. “Can I give it another chance? When she was little, I could get her to stop crying.”

“Not now, Mike. She’s tired.”

“What if you turn her around and let her see me, and we turn on the light?”

“I don’t think so. Another time, okay?” Danielle kept rocking the crying baby. “You go, and I’ll get the binky. She’ll be fine in the morning, you’ll see.”

“You sure I can’t try again?”

Emily wailed loudly.

“Okay, right, I’ll go.” Mike fled past them for the door, opened it, then closed it behind him. Flop sweat had broken out under the heavy cotton of his ACUs, and Bob was coming down the hall, frowning.

“Uh-oh, you woke the baby. Danielle will kill you.”

“I know, sorry. I have to be calmer, next time. I got too excited. I guess I held her wrong.”

“Don’t feel bad, Danielle’s got the touch.” Bob gestured to the bedroom, where the crying was subsiding. “See? Emily loves her. You have to look it at from Emily’s view. You’re a stranger to her.”

I’m her father,
Mike thought, but Bob was right. He was a stranger who was also Emily’s father.

“She’ll come around. Give her time.” Bob touched him on the arm. “You look like you need a drink.”

“No, thanks.” Mike felt lost, dislocated. He belonged with Chloe, but she was gone. He belonged with Emily, but she didn’t know him. He found himself thinking about their cat, which was pathetic. “Bob, what happened to Jake, the cat?”

“Sara took him, and her boys love him already. We couldn’t take him. Danielle hates cats.”

“Sure.” Mike hid his dismay. Sara was Chloe’s best friend, and he’d never get the cat back now. “You know, I think I want to go home.”

“To your house, now? Why?” Bob frowned, surprised. “Aren’t you tired?”

“No.” Mike was still on Afghanistan time, eight and a half hours ahead. “Can I borrow your car?”

“Don’t go, it’s not a pretty sight.” Bob placed a firm hand on Mike’s shoulder. “There was a lot of blood. Danielle cleaned up what she could, then she got professionals in, and even they couldn’t get it all.”

Mike blinked, horrified. He couldn’t picture Chloe’s blood, in their home, in her kitchen.

“I know, it’s tough, and you’ll need a good night’s sleep tonight. There’s a lot to do in the next few days. We didn’t get a chance to talk schedule, but you have to pick out a casket tomorrow.”

Mike couldn’t listen, thinking of Chloe’s loving heart, leaking blood until it stilled. He thought of Emily’s tiny heart, beating down the hall, and his own heart, broken.

“The funeral is the day after tomorrow. It’s the only day we could get the church, with the holidays. I know it’s rushed, but we had no choice.”

Mike felt a flicker of clarity. “Bob, I want to go
home.
”

Chapter Six

Mike felt stricken when he spotted his house toward the end of the quiet, snowy street. He’d dreamed of coming home to Chloe and the baby, but he never imagined the scenario without her. No soldier dreams of coming home to an empty house, and even the sight of the house, white clapboard colonial, reminded him of Chloe. She was the one who’d found it online, obsessively checking the MLS, getting the jump on the Realtors and falling in love with its thumbnail photo. She knew it would be perfect for them, and she had been right. He remembered the day they’d taken possession and celebrated by making love in the empty living room.

On the floor?
Chloe had asked, laughing, but she was already pulling her shirt over her head.

No, on the sales agreement. Did you see how many copies they made? That’s a mattress.

Then you’re on the bottom!
Chloe had unfastened her lacy bra and reached for him.

Mike shook off the memory, approaching the house. Christmas lights lined the porch roof, wound around the downspout, and ran along the side to the kitchen, in back. Chloe must have strung them by herself, for a holiday she wouldn’t live to see.

I am so sorry, honey.

Mike reached the house, steered into his driveway, and pulled in behind her yellow VW Beetle, parked where it always was, since they kept his Grand Cherokee in the garage. His headlights blasted the vanity plate he’d bought her, which read
RTEEST.
Chloe had been confused by the plate, he remembered.

Thanks, but what does it mean? Rit-est?

No. Artiste. Isn’t that French for artist?

Ha! You speak French now!

No, I speak license plate.

Chloe had laughed. She had a wonderful laugh, light and happy, and Mike loved to make her laugh. He was a quiet guy, but he tried to be funny for her. He cut the ignition, plunging
RTEEST
into shadow, then sat still a moment, trying to gather his composure before he went inside. His only shot was that he’d cried all his tears out, though he knew that wasn’t medically possible. He pressed down the emergency brake, yanked the key out of the ignition, and climbed from the car.

The frozen air hit him in the face, and his breath turned to steam. He walked up the driveway to her Beetle, put his hand on the frigid handle, and pressed the button, which he knew would be unlocked. Chloe left everything unlocked, which drove him nuts, until now.

Honey, you should lock up!

In Wilberg? Are you kidding?

Mike got inside the car, sat in the front seat, and closed the door behind him, without knowing why. Because it was hers. Because she sat here last. Because she loved this car. He didn’t readjust the seat, though his knees didn’t fit under the wheel. He sat in darkness, feeling the seat behind him, the shape of her body, fitting his. He closed his eyes. He could have been in bed, with her spooning him, behind. She liked that.

Don’t get any ideas,
she would joke.
I’m just cuddling.

Cuddling is permitted. No ideas at all.

Mike opened his eyes. The dashboard was deep and black, and he glanced around to see how she’d left it. The console held a ChapStick, a ballpoint, half a pack of gum, loose change, and other junk. He dug in the console, spotted a silvery tube of lip gloss, and picked it up. She didn’t wear much makeup, but she was always reapplying this stuff.

Why do you do that?
he asked her, once.

So I look kissable.

You look kissable right now. Want me to prove it?

Mike’s chest tightened. He wished she were here, so she could leave everything unlocked and put on makeup she didn’t need. He put the lip gloss in his pocket and was about to get out of the car when he saw the Dunkin’ Donuts cup in the cupholder. Chloe was never without a cup of coffee.

I’m addicted,
she would say.

Mike thought of Bob and Danielle saying she’d been drunk on vodka, which was impossible. Chloe didn’t even drink vodka, much less to excess. He wondered if there would be police reports or a coroner’s report. He didn’t know the legalities, and it wasn’t as if she’d been murdered. There would have been an autopsy. The thought made him physically sick.

He got out of the car and walked up the driveway to the house, where he climbed the few steps of the porch, then stopped short. Their welcome mat was covered with red roses in shiny foil, a poinsettia plant with a red-and-green ribbon, and a bouquet of red-and-white carnations, wrapped in transparent paper. A pile of sympathy cards sat wedged among the flowers, and there were handwritten cards from her former students. One read, WE MISS YOU, MS. VOULETTE.

Mike felt hit in the chest, as if he’d been shot. The flowers showed him how much Chloe was loved, and also that she was lost. They proved that she had lived and she had died. It was almost more than he could bear. He gathered them up tenderly, unlocked the door, and went inside.

Chapter Seven

Mike set the flowers on the console table, flicked on the light and surveyed the entrance hall. The house was foreign and familiar, both at once. It was the same entrance hall, but something was missing.

Chloe is missing.

Mike set aside the thought, then it struck him. The area rug was gone, an Oriental that Chloe had bought in Lambertville, and the oak floor showed the faintest square of lighter wood. Then he realized why the rug wasn’t here. It must have been stained with blood. He worked his jaw, suppressing a wave of nausea. Chloe must have crawled from the kitchen to the entrance hall. She was trying to save herself. Because he wasn’t there to save her.

He crouched on his haunches and ran his fingers along the hardwood, which was smooth and clean, with barely any grit or dirt. He placed his palm flat against one spot, the way he had on Emily’s heart. He wondered crazily if he would feel Chloe’s heart stop, the way he had felt Emily’s beat. He felt nothing but cold wood, inanimate. It used to be alive, but it wasn’t anymore.

Oh, honey. I’m so very very sorry.

He got down on his hands and knees, scrutinizing the grain of the hardwood, looking for some of her blood. The floorboards were of random width, and the aged oak was rich with browns, golds, and blackish gray. He ran his finger down one dark vein and realized how much it was like a human vein, narrowing to the tiniest of cracks, a wooden capillary. The floorboards were clean, which meant she hadn’t bled through the rug. She must have lost too much blood before she’d even got this far.

Mike, she was drunk.

Mike didn’t believe it, not a word. Bob and Danielle were mistaken. Maybe Chloe had a drink, or maybe a neighbor had stopped in, or Sara or her other teacher friends had come to see the baby. She might have gotten a bottle of vodka out for them. It was the holidays, after all. Mike felt driven to understand what had happened, to retrace the last moments of her life. Maybe if he knew the order of events, he could reverse everything, like hitting a button on a videotape. He would rewind it back to his deployment, then to his enlisting in the Reserves. He wanted to serve his country, but he didn’t want it to cost him his wife. He would have paid the price, but not Chloe. Not her.

He found himself moving on his hands and knees toward the kitchen, the reverse of what Chloe had done in her final hours. He kept running his hands over the wood until he reached the threshold of the kitchen. He couldn’t see the floorboards anymore because the entrance-hall light was behind him. The only light in the kitchen was the colored Christmas lights shining through the windows, so he stood up and flicked on the kitchen light.

Mike took a second to let himself absorb the sight. An unmistakable darkness stained the floor between the table and cabinets. He walked over to it slowly, his heavy boots creaking on the hardwood, profaning it somehow. His kitchen floor had become hallowed ground. He eyed the stain, reflexively estimating its size as if it were a flesh wound, which it was, in a way. The darkness was about four feet wide by five feet long, lethal by any measure.

Please. Please forgive me.

He looked around the kitchen, which had been decorated by Chloe, with her painterly sensibility and her attraction to the happy colors of her native Provence. The walls were a sunny yellow, the woodwork a crisp white, and the curtains had a flower pattern that was bright red, warm gold, and deep blue. Chloe’s collection of Quimper plates ringed the room, each showing a French peasant in primitive dress. Mike remembered the day he had hung them, with her supervising.

Honey, they have to face each other,
Chloe had said.

Why?

They’re married.

Like I said
.

He found his gaze returning to the stain. Chloe’s blood had seeped into the floorboards, running from her veins into its veins, as if to bring it back to life. But it was only wood, not flesh or bone, and Mike knew firsthand that nothing dead ever revivified. He couldn’t imagine her lying here, dying in her own kitchen, in a spreading pool of her own blood.