Found With You (With You #1)
Prologue - Millie
Seven Years Earlier
In Memory of Richard Justin Adams.
I run a finger across the photograph on the front page of the order of service. He looks nothing like the man I knew. He’s much younger and full of life, something I never had the chance to see in him.
I fold the pamphlet in half, sliding it behind the radio on the kitchen counter. I’m not sure why I’m keeping it. It’d be better placed in the trash, but even after everything he’s done, I can’t bring myself to throw away his memory so carelessly.
“So,” Mom huffs out, “where do we go from here?” There’s a humorous lilt to her voice, but I don’t miss the quiet fatigue that’s resting underneath it. She’s tired, not just from the chaos of the past few weeks but from the entirety of the life we’ve lived.
I don’t have the right words. I’m not sure there’s ever a right thing to say when it comes to death, but a situation like ours is even more awkward to navigate.
I load up our dinner plates with roast chicken, glancing over to the living area where Maddie lies curled up in a blanket on the sofa, absorbed in her favourite show. “Maybe we should wait until Mads is asleep before we get into it.”
Mom nods her agreement, passing me the gravy bowl as she shifts her attention back to the stove.
There’s three plates and three place settings, yet the empty chair to my right serves as a reminder that we were once four. I half expect to see his drunken figure stumbling through the door. He’d collapse at the table, popping a beer open with his teeth and we’d all sit a little straighter, waiting for the first stone to be thrown. Assuming our parts in the dance we know all too well.
I don’t know what I expected this day to feel like. I thought it would all feel more final – that everything would be different, but we’re doing the same things we’ve always done.
He’s gone, but we’re still here in the mess he’s left behind.
I watch Maddie as she moves her fork around her plate, shifting food from one side to the other. It’d be hypocritical to ask her to finish her dinner while I sit here with a full plate and similarly missing appetite.
She’s dressed in the same cow print pyjamas and matching pink dressing gown she’s been wearing all day, a stark contrast to the dark formal wear Mom and I are still wearing. Yet she wears a sober look not so different from ours.
I want to believe that at eight years old this won’t be something that sticks with her.
She’s still so young .
But I know that’s just wishful thinking, she’ll hold onto the memories in the same way I do – a childhood like ours isn’t something that comes with the luxury of forgetting.
No matter how hard my brain tries to push all of this to the back of my mind, I know that with every raised voice, shattered glass, or forced smile, my body will still remember.
I gulp down the thought and force a small forkful of potato across the threshold of my lips by way of example. Deafening silence forms the soundtrack to the rest of our meal.
“Time for bed, little darling.” Mom pushes up from her chair, scraping our untouched dinners onto her own plate.
“Sweet dreams, Moo.” Maddie’s tiny body rests in mine as I pull her into a hug, kissing her forehead.
I wish I could hold her like this forever.
I let a single tear slip down my cheek, my thoughts heavy with grief for the life we were meant to have.
10.35 p.m .
Twelve hours ago, we stood around the grave site that is now the keeper of my father’s broken bones and torn flesh. A handful of his colleagues donned suits to pay their respects to Dr Richard Adams, a man they only knew on the surface. It felt strange to accept their muttered condolences – handshakes and acknowledgments that he was a good man.
Good man, my ass.
I’m not sure I can say I knew him for who he really was either, but he certainly wasn’t as honourable as his public persona would make it seem. The bruises have faded, but the damage he’s done on the inside remains testament to his true character.
Funerals are awful.
We’re expected to do all of the right things – cry, reminisce, and mourn. We show up dressed in black and go through the motions of every exchange – the poems, the flowers, and lengthy silences. There’s an allotted time for grieving and then once the day is over, we’re supposed to go back to normality and move on with our lives.
Move on .
I’m not sure I can do that.
I’m not so much mourning the death of my father, as I am the loss of everything that could’ve been, twenty years of my life that I won’t get back. There are so many greyed-out moments in my memory, ones I wish I could go back to and paint over with the right colours, or with the right kind of man.
Most people leave behind some sort of pain in their wake. Sometimes it’s nothing but love, other times, it’s wounds or scars. But then there are those who tear you apart so badly that you’re left unrecognizable against the person you could’ve become without them.
That’s what he’s done to us. That’s what he’s left behind.
A soft hand on my shoulder pulls me back to the present and I glance up to find Mom holding out a fresh pair of cotton pyjamas and a damp face cloth.
“What’s going on in that head of yours, Mills?”
I wish I knew.
My damp cheeks and tight chest are a clear indicator that I’ve slipped into the corner of my head that I usually try to stay away from. I let my breathing settle as I slip into the soft bottoms and pull my hair up into a loose bun.
Mom busies herself in delicate movements as she begins cleaning the kitchen. She’s still so good, even after the world dealt her a shit hand of cards.
She eases her sun-spotted skin into the soapy water, a gentle sigh of relief escaping her lips. The creases and purple shadows under her eyes are still there, but there’s a subtle change in her. She appears lighter, as if a new lease on life has whispered to her, letting her know it’s waiting in the wings whenever she is ready.
“I feel some kind of way, Mom.” I sigh, grabbing a dish towel and picking up the bowl she just placed on the rack. “I don’t know what to think or how to feel.”
“I get that,” she muses.
“I think I’m supposed to feel sadness, or loss, or regret.” I puff out a short laugh. “But I don’t know if I feel any of that – or not in the way I should.”
Her eyes find me as she releases the plate she was holding into the sink with a splash. “Millie…” Her soft lips plant a kiss on my forehead as she pulls me into her arms. “Stop beating yourself up. You don’t need to feel anything. Especially not guilt about how you think you should be feeling. None of this was ever going to be easy, and there’s no guidebook to walk us through this.”
“Mmm,” is the only reply I can manage as my throat closes up and roils with emotion.
The silence sits between us for a while, as though neither of us can find the right words.
“You know,” she pauses, waiting for my eyes to meet hers, “I watched my husband’s coffin lower into the ground this morning, knowing everyone was looking at me with pity, wondering how I’d go on after this. But inside? I was saying my silent thank yous. Thinking, ‘Thank God. Thank God that my girls now have a chance at the life I didn’t give them with their father. Thank God fate finally made the decision to take him away when I couldn’t find it in me to leave. Just… Thank God. ’ And I’m feeling lots of things right now, but I don’t feel guilty for thinking those thoughts, not one bit. So if you’re going to feel anything in the wake of this, Millie, let it be hope or relief or the want for something better… because we didn’t go through all of this for nothing. The worst of this life is behind us.”