Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
D uring the first year after Grace had died nothing inspired me. My total disinterest in life, apart from Layla, continued to worry Dorian—a single, quiet guy who had, by then, rerooted himself permanently in my house.
At the nine-month mark, he sat me down and did some straight talking about how he saw things, and at that point I was still too lost to disagree.
“I’ve called a local architect to come and discuss building a house next door to this one for me. Nothing fancy, just a space of my own. What we have here is a long-term situation, and I figured it was time I did something about these temporary living arrangements.”
My house was massive, even emptier without Grace, and there were plenty of spare rooms to create a suite for him, but Dorian was determined to have a place to call home. I couldn’t fault him for that.
Being a computer geek, he carried his business in a soft-top sports bag and a fine leather satchel. He’d been known to work from all around the world because as long as there was Internet and electricity, Dorian’s office went with him. It wasn’t a surprise he wanted to stay; we’d always been close, and he wanted to be near Layla and me.
By the time he’d been with me almost a year, he’d all but driven me crazy with his techno music while he worked and punk rock when he relaxed. If I’d ever asked myself the question, who the fuck relaxes to punk? I had the answer. Being a rocker, the tunes he played were disturbing to my ears and as irritating as marker pens squeaking painfully on a whiteboard.
It was the music that finally broke my patience at his intrusion, and with plenty of land around the property, I was thankful he’d taken the decision out of my hands. My only stipulation was soundproof walls and acoustic glass to deaden the drone from his taste in music.
Secretly, the concept of Dorian living right next door actually appealed to me. It was a win-win situation because as Layla grew she’d have her uncle next door, and when I went back to work; he’d be able to oversee her welfare while I was away on the road.
Going away was a subject that had been a constant blot on my mind once I’d had some space and time to absorb Grace’s passing.
Eventually, my sense of perspective returned, and I was finally able to consider how my wife suddenly dying had impacted the lives of my bandmates. They had all been incredibly supportive but had ultimately been left hanging since my bereavement. It was another thought that depressed me, because with a tiny infant to care for, my mind just wouldn’t go there.
Then as time ticked by, I struggled between depression and dread as Layla’s first birthday approached. The day she was born was anything but happy. There was no excitement leading up to my daughter’s milestone because it was the day my life as a father had begun and my ability to feel any real joy had come to an end.
It was a blessing that Harper was so in tune with Layla—instilling a sense of fun into an otherwise dull world for her, with me as her father—and Harper had proved her patience by putting up with me. The girl never complained about anything and took everything thrown at her in her stride, and because of this, we’d effortlessly grown to be close friends.
With each day that passed, Layla’s features changed and the resemblance to Grace as a child became more remarkable. There were times when she stole the breath from my chest when she’d give me a look, scrunch up her nose, or make an expression that brought my late wife right back into the room.
The fleeting lighter moments we shared felt like a sliver of light, like the glow of something bright from the other side of a door. The door of grief was still heavy and firmly closed in my mind, but I figured if anyone could shift my dark depressive state, it would be Layla.
When my daughter’s birthday arrived, it was a difficult day—a highly emotional day—and apart from the hour where we opened her gifts, sang “Happy Birthday,” and shared a small tea party, my evening was spent in deep reflection. It was the night I tried to face some of the demons I had blocked from my mind.
In my bedroom closet, stacked high and out of sight, was a small six by nine inch box I’d been given by the staff at the hospital before we’d left. I’d stowed it away the minute we’d arrived home. Moving the small bedroom chair to the door, I climbed up and shoved the items away that I had originally used to hide it.
Taking the box from the shelf, I stepped down from the chair and slowly walked to my bed. As I sat down, my eyes came to rest on the poignant picture on the lid of the box. The image of a mother’s curled hand with the fist of a newborn resting in it made my stomach clench. I sighed heavily and swallowed back a rising burn from deep in my throat as the warning of it threatened me with tears.
Smoothing my hand over the board, I covered the picture with mine as memories flashed in front of my closed eyes of the anguish-stricken faces of all those connected with our harrowing tragic event.
Drawing a deep breath, I placed my fingertips on the edge of the box and flipped off the lid. My breath hitched and my heart momentarily stopped when a long lock of Grace’s smooth dark hair snaked around all the other items.
My eyes instantly shut out the tangible evidence of my once vibrant beauty lying curled in the box in front of me. It took courage for me to touch it, but I lifted it out, slid it slowly through my fingers and held it to my nose. Inhaling deeply, I expected to find a reminder of her in it, but all it smelled of was the cardboard box itself.
Gently, I smoothed it out on top of the white comforter and noted the dark color was still as vivid as the hair on her head had been when she’d died. I turned my attention back to the box. Scanning over the items, I noted Grace’s hospital bracelet and I swallowed, remembering the way the nurse smiled as she tagged her when we had first arrived.
A pile of Polaroid pictures, pink baby name tags, and a little book full of all Layla’s important birth details—weight, length, head circumference—lay inside. I picked up a small piece of the monitor tracing used to measure Grace’s contractions and Layla’s heartbeat, before I noticed a piece of card with two painted palm prints of Grace’s, one of hers on its own and one with Grace’s in purple with Layla’s pale pink handprint carefully placed inside.
Pain, pleasure, and everything in between flowed through my veins as I stared again with a swell of sadness at the inside of the box. A lump in my throat swelled tight, temporarily suffocating me from drawing another breath and tightened my chest. The sensation overwhelmed me, pulling me to my feet in distress.
Gulping for air, I staggered into my bathroom and clung to the sink in the vanity unit until my knuckles blanched white. Quickly, the sight disappeared when a wave of tears blurred my vision.
“Fuck,” I screamed loudly. I banged my fist on the wooden surround, then turned toward the shower stall and repeated the action. To my shock a large crack appeared in the toughened glass, bringing me instantly to my senses.
A soft knock sounded at the door, followed by Harper’s alarmed voice as the door cracked open. “Cole, are you, okay…” Her voice trailed away as I came from the bathroom and noted her eyes had fallen on the box on my bed.
“Yeah, I…” Gesturing toward the box, I shrugged, not trusting myself to explain for fear of losing my composure again.
“Sorry, I heard you shout and thought for a second you’d hurt yourself,” she offered by way of her intrusion.
“I did,” I admitted, although not in the way she had thought. I nodded my head toward the contents spilled onto the bed. “Thought I was brave enough to go there. I guess it was a mistake.”
Instead of leaving, Harper pushed the door farther open and wandered closer to the bed. Meeting her back at the bedside, I stared intently, watching her looking down to avoid looking toward the bed myself.
“Are these from the day Layla was born?” she probed. Normally I’d have told her to mind her own goddamned business, but for some reason I drew strength from having her there. Maybe because she had no memories of Grace, and therefore nothing of her own to share about her that my mind could use as a trigger to fuck me over with.
“Would you mind?” Glancing up at me with kind eyes, Harper’s gaze was soft—sympathetic—but her voice was laced with sad curiosity. I nodded my head, thinking if she saw them first it would somehow soften the blow when I took another look.
“Layla definitely takes after her mother.” Harper’s innocent comment made my breath hitch. Hearing the audible sound I made, she glanced at me with concern. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have—”
“Yeah, yeah you should have. She is, and she’s getting more like her every single day.”
“This may sound awkward, given what you guys were going through at the time, but Grace looks so happy with Layla in her arms. The look of love just flies right out of the picture. They look perfect together.”
Giving her a look of suspicion, I couldn’t stop myself from checking out the tiny Polaroid photograph she held in her hand. Taking it from her for closer inspection, I noted my grazed and bruised knuckles from my run-in with the shower stall.
Turning away from her, I sat down heavily on the bed and let out a deep sigh as I focused on one of the last pictures of Grace for the first time. I stared at the memory caught on camera for me and Layla of the day she was born.
Every observation Harper had made was true. If Grace had lived to be a hundred years, I figured I’d never have witnessed a happier, more contented smile on her lips, or the look of love that emanated from her bright blue eyes toward our baby daughter. It had been one of her two lucid days; the picture had been taken two days after Layla had been born. I had needed to feel detached in order to get through it as I watched her say hello and goodbye to our child.
Absentmindedly, I traced my fingertip delicately over the snap, my head already wondering if it could be expertly processed into a larger frame for Layla to keep.
“May I?” Harper interjected as she pointed to the rest of the pile of prints. I nodded and she scooped them together in one hand. Flipping through them she made no comment until she came to the final one and I heard her gasp.
Faltering, she slowly lowered the photographs back onto the bed and stood. “I’m sorry for the intrusion, I’ve overstepped… I just thought… I’ll leave you to it. I’d better get back and check on Layla, she should be waking from her nap soon,” she babbled hurriedly as she made for the door. Sensing her discomfort, my eyes narrowed as she opened it.
“Harper?” I probed in a questioning tone.
With her hand on the doorknob, she stopped opening the door but stayed facing away from me.
“Yeah?”
“Thanks. Your ‘intrusion’ as you call it was most welcome. It gave me the strength I need right now to help me move forward with this. I’d been dreading opening this box… you made it a damned sight easier for me to…” To what? Put these memories to rest? I didn’t know how to finish what I’d started to say.
“Glad I could be here for you. Thank you for letting me in,” she replied, before opening the door fully and closing it softly behind her.
Inhaling deeply, I exhaled and returned my focus to the mementos on the bed. Picking the pictures up, I flicked slowly through them until I came to the last one.
The second I saw it, my heart splintered and my mind traveled faster than the speed of light to the moment in the picture. In my hand, captured for posterity, was the last kiss in life I ever gave to my beautiful dying wife.
The memory of that day had sat heavily on my chest like some cruel medieval torture implement, unrelenting and designed to inflict the maximum pain, which it had.
If the picture was meant to comfort me, it didn’t. If it was designed to commemorate the awful experience, it did that for the sake of others, because in my mind it was a daily vivid event and I had no use for such an image.
Going back to the palm print image, I placed my hand on top of the two already there and I groaned, heaved a heavy sigh, then returned the items to the box. After placing it neatly back in its place in the closet, I closed the door. I had an overwhelming emotional need to be close to my daughter.
Pushing open the door of the nursery, Harper’s eyes caught mine and I saw she’d been crying. After seeing the picture of myself with Grace at the end of her life, I couldn’t blame her.
“Want to take an hour out? It’s been a heavy day. I’d like a little alone time with my daughter.”
Harper gave me a knowing smile, one that hinted Layla was exactly what I needed to escape my feelings of despair.
“Absolutely. I could do with a change of sweater. Your gorgeous, but highly productive, daughter slobbered down my back when she ate too much cake.”
A chuckle escaped my lips as I shook my head. “That’s my little rocker girl, living life to excess,” I replied, and my grin grew bigger.
If you need me, you know where I am,” she offered and scooted out the door before I could argue with her.
“So…” I began as I sat down, placing Layla on my knee. She was facing me, her bright gray eyes in an innocent stare. Gazing up at me, she lay quietly, as if I held the answers to the universe in my grasp.
“What are we gonna do with you, Baby?” I asked sadly, while I thought of something else to say.
Layla lurched forward and grabbed my beard. “It isn’t spiky, right? It’s soft and loveable. Your mom loved my beard,” I added, suddenly realizing I’d shared something about Grace with Layla without a second thought.
Grabbing a fistful, my daughter held it tight and pulled my face forward. The child’s grip was a force I never knew such a little person could possess. “Ouch,” I muttered, one hand leaving her body to circle her fist, thus preventing her from ripping a chunk of my beard clean off my face .
“Ow,” I scowled again and Layla immediately let out a gummy, wide-mouthed laugh.
“Seriously, Baby? You almost disfigured me and it’s funny?”
The sterner I spoke, the more infectious her laughter became until she had me laughing aloud too.
“I can see I’m going to have to up my game in the scolding department,” I told her through another chuckle.
Once her laughing wound down, Layla yawned and I cradled her in my arms. When I stared down at my sleepy looking infant, I felt my heart clench and I admitted she had fast become my world. A sobering thought washed over me. At some point I was going to have to go back to work and leave her and this thought hurt me more than I ever knew it would.
I had no concerns over the day-to-day childcare for my daughter. My mom was a hard woman to please and she’d chosen well, because Harper was sweet-natured, coolheaded, and more than capable of taking care of Layla.
Matty, our housekeeper, was like a second mom and had been with me since the week after Grace and I had moved in. I knew she’d be an awesome backup for Harper if she ever needed anything.
In fact, all my employees were akin to family since Grace had passed; and the fact my brother, Dorian, was a permanent fixture was incredibly comforting to me as well. The acid test wouldn’t be who could look after Layla once I was back out there, it would be who would look after me?
Derek, my manager knew how close we were as a band and had no doubt I’d be supported to the max by them on the road and so after consultations with my counselor, my mom, Dorian, my manager, and the band, I decided to go back to work.
In my line of work everyone thought it would be better for Layla to grow up not expecting me to be home all the time. As much as I hated this idea, I could see their reasoning behind it. If Layla was too young to remember anything else she may regard this as normal.
Having been home for so long, I found the prospect of getting back out there daunting: both from the prospect of being sociable to people, and the soul-crushing dilemma of not having daily physical contact with my daughter.
Dorian, Stuart, and Matty pushed advancements in social media forward as an argument for keeping in touch with Layla every day. The last thing I had wanted was to miss key milestones in my baby’s life by being gone.
Eventually, I resigned myself to the fact that Skype was better than nothing for keeping in touch with my daughter, but I also stipulated that none of the tours lasted for more than a month at a time.
So, fifteen months after my daughter was born, and I was widowed, I was reluctantly thrust back into the public eye, severed abruptly from the secluded limbo I had found myself in since Grace’s death.
Scuds, Moz, and Fletch, my bandmates, had been amazingly patient and supportive of me. All three were single guys, but we’d played together since before we’d turned twenty years old, and after almost ten years together—six of those famous—there wasn’t anything we wouldn’t have done for each other.
The guys loved Grace almost as much as me, and fortunately, not one of them wavered in their loyalty to me. This lack of pressure helped me to get my head straight enough to return to the band.
At first our rehearsals were slow. Music had been the last thing on my mind and the last song I had played was the song for my wife. God alone knows how I got through that first emotional day back without breaking down in tears. Half the songs we sang had been inspired by Grace.
I underestimated the power of music—less than a week in—my fingers felt less stiff and my effortless fretwork had returned. I poured my feelings into the songs as they began to course through my veins; the melodies making my heart feel lighter. Playing our familiar songs came effortlessly, their words reminding me of happier times, of emotional times, and of Grace.
In time life found its new normalcy. Mine was boozing on the road to forget and drying out at home. Unlike Scuds and Moz, I did what I needed to do to avoid women when I was on tour. I’d married Grace, and I didn’t want to be with anyone else.
On several occasions, during the first month on the road, the guys tried to hook me up with some groupie as a way of pushing past my grief. None of them really understood what it was like to lose someone who was irreplaceable.
Meet and greets, partying, and being sociable in a room full of fine-looking women with the smell of perfume in the air, didn’t come easy for me. My head was still locked down with the memory of Grace, while my body’s physical needs defied my honoring her by rebelling in my pants.
After I met Grace, I never wanted anyone else. She was an intricate mix of wildly sexy and soberingly cute and so incredibly intoxicating. The instant chemistry between us was electric. Witnessing Scuds balls deep in a blow job made me hard, despite my grief and I was riddled with guilt because even after her death my faith was still Grace’s.
Life on the road was hard in the circumstance I’d found myself in. Being famous as well, I was wary and being extra careful because I knew women saw me as vulnerable prey. The same could have been perceived by the guys. In the past everyone wanted to know me… until they did.