Funny how everything seems unchanged.

The yellow daffodils are alive in their glass vase, sunlight reflecting through green leaves. A woman’s light perfume hanging in the air. The dog curved into her basket under the corner table. She came towards him earlier, seeking/giving comfort. He has none left to give her, needing to protect what’s left for what he must do next.

This is so impossible.

“Sarah?”

“Yes, daddy?”

His daughter plays with her toy rabbit, its little pink and grey ear raggedy from where she’s chewed at it. Better than chewing her fingernails, I suppose. At least that’s what her mother would say, did say…

David notices the careful stitches in matching pink wool, an old rabbit ‘wound’ healed by his wife’s ministrations. That’s one of the last things he remembers – Joan’s gentle smile as she looks up at him, then down again, continuing to make those loving repairs to the rabbit’s torn ear. The shiny needle, slipping soothingly between the fabrics, healing the torn pieces. A mother’s natural kindness for her young daughter. 
 
He can feel the grief welling again, almost out of control. He mentally sits on the fetid bubble.

“Daddy?”

Sarah’s face is turned up to his, her eyes watchful, a little scared.

I must pull myself together. She needs me now, and I can’t afford to let her down.

“Sarah, sweetheart, there’s something…”

I can’t do this!

“Would you like a fizzy drink? There’s some orange… “

I bought that bottle for Joan, just yesterday. It’s only one lonely glass lower.

David heaves out of the worn leather sofa where he’s been sitting next to his young daughter. Five steps across the small kitchen take him to the fridge. Each step is another chance to gulp back his fears and tears.

Opening the white fridge door, taking out the bright orange bottle, finding a clean mug in the kitchen cupboard. The practical actions calm him and centre his grief into a manageable ball. Until he sees the half-opened box of Joan’s chamomile tea. And the ground coffee beans waiting to be used in her favourite mug. Her soft voice floats into his mind: ‘It’s only half a mug, David’ (Laughter) ‘Yes, I know it’s a big mug!’

David, for God’s sake, pull yourself together, man – his father’s stern, stentorian voice echoes in his head. The practical voice of a man used to being right, his orders obeyed. This won’t do, David – you have to tell her. It’s not going to get any easier. Don’t be so weak, boy – just tell her, get on with it.

Thanks, Dad. All heart.

“OK, sweetheart, here you go!”

He hands Sarah the mug with the yellow rabbit-ear handles. The orange drink fizzes, bubbles friskily catching the sun. Her small, seven-year-old hands reach out, and one of her shiny grins spreads across her face.

How can I do this? Become the destroyer of such unalloyed innocence, simple happiness.

He takes another deep breath, although it doesn’t seem to clear the obstruction in his heart; his throat congeals on the phrases he knows he has to utter.

“Sweetheart, put your drink down for a minute; I want to talk to you about something.”

“OK, daddy!”

She carefully puts the barely tasted drink on the small kitchen table beside the couch.

“Is it about Mum? Is she getting better?”

Sarah’s voice rises in excitement.

“Can we go see her again today? Is that why you got me out of school early? The other kids were really jealous when I said my daddy was taking me for a special treat!”
 
The excitement in her face stabs deep in him.

“No, not exactly, darling.”
 He grasps at the opening she’s unconsciously given him.

“Although, in a way, Mum has gone away.”

This is so much worse than he could ever have imagined; ‘Mum’s gone away’ – what the hell’s that supposed to mean?
 
A conflicting concert of voices penetrates his mind, each clawing for attention.

         – Don’t tell her; she doesn’t need to know yet about the finality of death…

         – She’s just a wee lassie – let her think her mum’s comin’ back sometime… 

         – It’s up to you, of course, Mister Johnstone. But we usually suggest counselling – for you both. If you lock your feelings away in a black box, it won’t make you any stronger. It won’t help Sarah either. Cutting back a little on that whisky might also be a good idea.

         – The child is old enough to understand the basic concept of Heaven, David! Surely, you and Joan brought her up in a Christian home!

His daughter’s small, puzzled voice abruptly stops the mental assault.

“What d’you mean, Daddy? Gone where? And why’s she gone without me?”

Her face is crumpling, her mouth trembling, and the forgotten rabbit drops forlornly to the rug.

 Pull yourself together, man. She’ll remember this moment, this time, for the rest of her life. Make it right – or at least as right as it ever can be.

“Well, sweetheart…”

He moves tight alongside his daughter, and she cuddles into him for a moment as he rests his head on hers. A second or two of peace. Then, she looks up at him.

“Where’s she gone, Daddy? When’s she coming back?”

“Here’s the thing, Sarah. She’s not coming back.”

That was a lot of help, David. Very good.

He tries again. He looks into his young daughter’s trusting face; she believes in him. He needs to be honest.

“Sweetheart, you know how mum’s been ill lately?”

He waits for his daughter’s hesitant nod.

“Well, she’s got a lot worse, and … well, she died, sweetheart. Mum died.”

His daughter’s face is uncomprehending. Of course, it is – how did he ever think this child would comprehend death. She’s obviously trying to understand.

“Won’t she be lonely, Daddy? Is she all alone? Will she be cold? Can I talk to her? Maybe she’s gone to a lovely magic place, and they’ll make her better, and then she’ll come back to us again?”

The words pour out of her in desperate hope. Her eyes pinion his with naked pain.

It would be so easy to say yes. No, that’s not right. I can’t lie to this child, my child, our daughter.
  “Maybe. Probably not, sweetheart. Sarah. Mum’s not coming back. Not ever. I’m so sorry.”

This is how it feels to maim your daughter, to wound her irrevocably.

David feels his soul tearing, and rips his gaze away from his daughter’s terrifying face. His eyes rest on the small piece of linen on the kitchen table, embroidered in just one corner with yellow silk petals and meandering green stalks. Joan’s needle is still stuck in the cloth, waiting for her warm hands to pick it up and continue the pattern. Discontinued patterns. Such impossible grief. 

His child – their child – is crying now, shedding slow, sad tears. He lifts her shuddering little body onto his knee and holds her tight, feeling the wet drops falling on his hands.

I don’t know how to do this, to comfort her. It’s a woman’s job, her mother’s job.    

Despair, released, floods him again.

“Daddy?”

She’s putting her small hand on his big one. Moving in his clutching embrace, she looks up at his face.

“Are you OK, Daddy? Shall we play a song together? That’ll make you feel better, won’t it? And then we can practice a new one for Mum; maybe she’ll hear it and come back again?”

Her voice bubbles up, then down. Her stricken hope tears at his heart. He’s got to find a way to do this. There’s no choice. Whatever it takes, his daughter needs him now. As he needs her. He takes a shudderingly deep breath.

“C’mon on then, sweetheart – let’s find something to play.”

Hand in hand, father and daughter get off the big couch. Sarah reaches down and picks up the discarded bunny rabbit; she holds it tight.

Leaving the small kitchen, they cross the cold hallway, and David opens the door to the warm, sun-lit lounge. Here, the windows face the sea, and the susurrating sound of the waves seems to calm the air. Fresh flowers scent the air; the smell of Joan’s perfume is less intense.

Moving over the cream carpet to the black piano sitting against the far wall, David pulls out the heavy piano bench. He settles himself down, feet on the pedals. Sarah snuggles up alongside him, getting comfortable on the cross-stitch cushion, legs dangling.

His fingers crave the solace of familiar chords.

“Can I turn the pages, Daddy?”

“Of course, sweetheart.”

Sarah pulls down the bulky music book, favourite songs marked by dog-eared edges, loose slips of paper falling out, scattering new songs. Her father reaches for the cut-glass whisky tumbler, lifting it from the felt-backed drinks coaster on the piano. Joan would’ve told him off about leaving it there.
 It’s been refilled twice already today. Funny that.

Its fiery warmth doesn’t seem to touch the coldness. Still, it numbs the pain a little. It helps. For now.
 David watches his daughter’s face as she searches for a new song. His hands are raised, ready to attempt the next piece of unfamiliar music; his young daughter makes her careful choices.