A War Like Ours Page 3

  Then a thought popped up in my head. It wasn’t me. The bowl slipped. I didn’t know where it came from, but it was there, and I felt a sense of instant relief. I thought that if I said it enough times in my head, it would become the truth. And it did.

  That was the day I became a believer—a liar.

  ****

  Sleep eluded me like it always had. I wandered through the small space of the cottage my daughter, Katie, and I had moved into yesterday. This would be our home for the next six weeks.

  Katie had immediately taken a liking to our accommodations and to the town of Hedge Lake. She had squealed and jumped at the sight of the lake. She was like her mother in that regard. Natalie—Nat—had loved water, too. She was a marine biologist, after all.

  As for the inside of the cottage, Katie had fallen in love with the velvet armchair in front of the fifty-inch TV. She loved that the walls were painted blue and had several pictures and ceramic replicas of sea animals hung on them. But most of all, she loved her finger painting class.

  At the end of my wanderings, I ended up here, in the bathroom. The yellowish nightlight illuminated the tiled space with more shadows than light. I walked to the white claw-foot tub cradled on silver legs and turned on the faucet to fill it with hot water.

  Like Katie and Nat, I loved water, too. I was fascinated by it. However, my reasons were different. I found water to be twisted, distorted. The laws of nature were different; anything could happen down there. I felt lighter, alive, full of possibilities rather than my tired self. Despite the contrary evidence, I had always assumed death by drowning would be peaceful and electric, simultaneously.

  Shedding my clothes, I stepped inside the tub and hot water sloshed around my feet. I lowered myself into a sitting position and a warmth surged inside my chest. As if the water had penetrated the skin barrier and was now filling up the hollowed places on the inside.

  With a deep breath, I submerged myself and stared up at the bubbles gurgling out of my mouth; my heavy fingers floated, reaching for the surface.

  The burn in my lungs from lack of oxygen, the overly hot water heating my flesh, reminded me I was alive and Nat was dead. How could this have happened? Why was I alive when my wife was dead? What was I supposed to do without her?

  She had died three weeks ago in a car accident while she was on her way to the airport. It was a rear-end collision while she was merging lanes on the highway. They told me it was the other driver’s fault; he was speeding and didn’t see Nat’s car. At the harsh impact, her body jostled to the side and her neck snapped as she hit the window. The window shattered and six out of a thousand pieces lodged inside her face and skull. She also suffered four ruptures on her spinal cord and had died on the spot, much like the driver of the other car. I knew all this because that was what they had written on the hospital report.

  What they had not written was that Nat had been on her way to the Florida Keys to participate in an experiment held on the waters of the Atlantic Ocean. That project was going to be her first on-site experiment. She was excited to go, to contribute something to the world of science. But she was more excited to get away from me for the next four months.

  I had not been an ideal husband. I wasn’t an ideal man to begin with. I was wrong in the head.

  I would daydream about going to sleep in my bed and never waking up. My body felt too big, too heavy for me to lug around. Breathing was a chore, too. Several times I had imagined my blood being tainted and thick.

  Why was I the way I was? I never knew. There was no rhyme or reason to it. I was born this way.

  And maybe that was why Father had left all those years ago. Mother had said he didn’t want a family. But what if he just didn’t want me?

  After six long years with me, Nat realized the same thing.

  We had met the first day of Grad school at NYU. She was beautiful, lively, an exact opposite of my shy and quiet self. I should have pushed her away the moment she started talking to me. But I wanted to bask in her radiance. If I had known being with me would kill her one day, I would have told her about my deficiencies. I would’ve told her that I knew, I knew about the man she was seeing behind my back. That I’d gladly let her go even though it would kill me to be left alone once again.

  I didn’t, because I was afraid if I acknowledged her love for him, it would become real.

  I emerged from the water and dragged a deep breath inside my burning lungs. I was assaulted by the sounds of a quiet night—the ticking of a clock, the whirr of the AC, the hum of critters. Water splashed on the floor as I exited the tub. Heat and humidity stuck to the very molecules of the air.

  Standing before the rectangular mirror above the vanity, I stared at my reflection, studied my biceps and pectorals, sweaty and wet. I looked so…human, so normal. So unlike the monster I considered myself to be. The blade sitting on the black vanity was shining under the light, and my skin itched. I wanted to feel its cold, sharp edge.

  A startled cry carried over to the bathroom and halted my hand, reaching to the blade. Katie. Water dripped off my body in rivulets, yet I put on my track pants and snatched the door open to step inside the darkened bedroom. The plush carpet seemed to suck my toes in, making my approach to the bed difficult. Katie was curled into herself, a fetus inside a womb, rocking back and forth, whimpering in her sleep.

  The mattress sagged as I sat and gathered her in my wooden arms. Her tiny arms twined around my torso as she clung to me in tight desperation. She was having a nightmare. I felt her fear deep in my marrow. Tightening my hold around her body, I shushed her the best I knew how, though I had never been very successful in calming her when she was like this.

  Shutting my eyes, I concentrated on synchronizing our breaths. I had read an article in Clinical Psychology about it the previous night. The simultaneous breaths showed an effect on putting children to sleep.

  Another whimper escaped Katie and arrowed my heart. My arms locked around her, tighter than before. Her tiny body radiated heat, and perspiration covered my already-wet torso. I hummed in the back of my throat like I had observed Nat doing with her a few times.

  Something would work. Something had to.

  The coppery flavor of blood consumed my tongue, and I realized I had been gnawing on my lip. It was a sick satisfaction, breaking my skin, the sting.

  Finally, Katie fell into a restful sleep. I slid her off me and placed her on the bed. She turned on her side, facing me, and I studied her innocent face—her rounded cheeks, her freckled nose, her jutting chin. Katie had an aversion to it. She thought it was a witch’s chin. I had never seen anything more adorable in my life.

  Katie had come as a shock to both of us. She was the only reason why Nat and I had married. By then, our almost-two-year-old relationship was dead. I had a suspicion she was going to leave me. But then she fell pregnant.

  Nat blamed me. She said I had done it on purpose to trap her. Had I? Had I deliberately gotten her pregnant so she would have no choice but to stay with me? I must have. I was a monster, wasn’t I? Crazy, weird monster. I remained quiet and took the blame, and we had gotten married, quietly, in the city hall with my mother and her parents as witnesses. I had never seen Nat so unhappy, and I had never been more torn between unhappiness and elation.

  It was four twenty-three a.m., and I knew I would hardly fall asleep now, after Katie’s nightmare. I got out of bed and, closing the bedroom door behind me, fumbled my way around the kitchen. My laptop sat on the granite kitchen counter, and I powered it up. Sliding on my reading glasses, I opened up my university email and found a new one from the Dean.

  On the first scan, I came up confused. He seemed to be talking about my research into genetic testing of colorectal cancer and how it had been a success in the past. And then I came upon this bizarre line saying, I take this opportunity to congratulate you on receiving the National Science Funding of five million dollars for the next three years. I also take this opportunity to inform you that you are the youngest
recipient of this award at NYU School of Medicine, and we would like to host a celebration in your honor. Please confirm if the following dates work for you…

  I took off my glasses, scrubbed my eyes, and put them back on before reading it again, and then again. How was that even possible? I never even submitted for the grant. Nor did I have any intention of doing so. I was the associate principal investigator at one of the genetics labs, working under Dr. Robert Weber, and I was happy where I was. This much money would, most likely, mean setting up my own lab, getting more students to work under me. It was certainly not a bad thing, but I was hardly capable of it, especially not now.

  And then it occurred to me who would have done it. I snapped my laptop shut and picked up my phone sitting next to it, dialing Brandon’s number.

  “Dr. M,” he exclaimed, his boyish voice almost making me smile. “Oh man, how’s it hanging, Dr. M? We’ve missed you around here.” I heard a commotion in the background, followed by a muffled whisper, “Hey, it’s Dr. M, you asshat. Get in here.”

  I rubbed my forehead. “Why are you awake at this hour?” I would never admit it, but I wanted to jar him awake and demand an explanation for this email. But he denied me the pleasure.

  “Because we have a time point,” he told me. “We had to spin down some cells. We’re in the lab right now.”

  “Are they the ones I was talking about, the mutated HeLa?” I asked, feeling suddenly excited. “Did you get something?”

  “Nah, not yet. We’re running the test again. Mason here fucked it up the last time.”

  A muffled reply of outrage came from Mason. “Hey, you asshole. I did not fuck up.”

  “Language, guys.”

  “Fine,” Brandon grumbled. “I’m a senior, you know. All the kids are doing it.”

  “Yes, you’re a senior in high school, and you’re not doing it. Tell Mason, too.”

  “Okay,” he sing-songed, and I finally smiled.

  “Update me on what’s been going on.”

  Brandon put me on speakerphone, and then both Mason and Brandon jumped into last week’s results.

  “Where are you guys now?” I asked when they were finished.

  “In the centrifuge room on the third floor. The one on our floor doesn’t work anymore,” Mason complained.

  “Is that the one that is temperature regulated?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you lock the door?” I knew they would not have.

  “Fucking shit,” Brandon muttered. “Sorry, Dr. M.” I heard the footsteps shuffling, and then a click of the door. “Okay, all done.”

  Sighing, I revealed the real purpose of the call. “I know about the grant, guys. It wasn’t very, uh, cool, as you guys might say.”

  “Did you get it?” This was from Mason.

  “That’s not the point. I can’t take it, not now, after…” I swallowed. “Nat.”

  A short, awkward silence followed. I did not begrudge them that. Death had a way of swallowing the sounds of life. In fact, I never would have brought it up if not for the grant.

  “But Dr. M—” both of them whined.

  “Whose idea was it?”

  A sigh, and then Mason admitted, “I, uh, I was the one.”

  “We did it because we knew you’d get it,” Brandon supplied and finally spilled the beans. “Besides, Dr. Weber was in on it, too. I mean, after we told him that you wanted us to handle the results and stuff, and well, you know, after we forged your signature.”

  Mason’s outraged, “Why the hell did you tell him that?” followed, and then an oomph, most probably Brandon’s.

  I realized I should be more outraged, but I couldn’t be, not with them, not when they believed in me, even though that belief was misplaced and undeserved.

  “You do know you’re going to need a code to get out of that locked room, don’t you?” I said at last, a smile tugging at my lips.

  Several expletives followed before Mason muttered, “And you’re gonna give it to us, right, Dr. M?”

  “Why don’t you figure it out and call me? If you get two of the four numbers right, in the right order, of course, I’ll tell you.”

  Another string of curses, which I halted by saying, “If you’re smart enough to forge my signature, you’re smart enough for this.” Then I hung up.

  The code was the usual 1234, and I knew they would figure it out soon. So I wasn’t so worried about it.

  I had left so abruptly that I never got the chance to say good-bye or even see them. Listening to their voices just now made me realize how much I had enjoyed working with these kids this past year. They had a passion for science that easily rivaled mine. They made me feel…something other than this constant depression. They looked up to me and for a man like me that was a novelty.

  Getting up, I retrieved a bottle of Jack Daniels from the blue cupboards and gulped a mouthful. It sizzled down straight to my stomach and left a foul taste on my tongue. I took another sip before placing the bottle back with utmost reluctance. Getting drunk while Katie was with me would get me nowhere.

  The window over the farm sink overlooked the lake and a running trail. The water appeared black—rippling, mesmerizing, beckoning. I thought I saw Nat’s golden hair floating on the dark surface. My heart lurched, and I tore my eyes away. I saw her everywhere but especially the lake.

  I discerned a movement from the corner of my eyes and, under the yellow light of the lamp post, spied a woman running along the trail. She appeared too small from here, insignificant against the grand backdrop of nature. A lonely speck running through the woods. My eyes followed her progress, her dark hair pulled into a ponytail that bounced with her steps, until she disappeared among the hulking trees. She reminded me of my own smallness in the world.

  She reminded me of my insignificance. My sins. My lies.

  ****

  Hours later, I had Katie’s every favorite breakfast dish piled up on the counter. Cooking had been another thing that I did because it let me forget things for a while. It was like working in a lab, mixing ingredients for results, only these results were edible.

  “Daddy?” Katie’s voice interrupted me, and I looked up. She stood rubbing sleep from her gray eyes, her curls mussed up in a feathery mess.

  Katie had a habit of tossing and turning while sleeping, and she always woke up with tangles in her hair. Nat would patiently sit her down and comb them free. I wondered if I would be able to do that for her, too. Or if my ungainly fingers would make a mess of things. Probably the latter.

  I studied her closely, looking for any signs that she remembered her nightmare. But she noticed pancakes on the counter and broke into a grin. “Whoa! There’s soooo many pancakes!” She skipped closer and poked a finger at the stack. “I love them.”

  My lips threatened a smile at her innocent enthusiasm. “I know.”

  I remembered how she insisted we serve only pancakes for her fourth birthday party a few months back. Nat protested, and it ended up being a huge argument between them. Katie went to bed, crying. That night, I called the catering service and replaced Nat’s original order with dozens of pancakes. Katie was ecstatic, but Nat and I fought over it. It was worth it.

  “Do we have chocolate syrup, too? I love chocolate syrup.” She gripped the counter with pudgy fingers and leaned closer, her nose threatening to topple the stack over. “Do you know that if we eat chocolate everyday, our kisses taste sweet?”

  “Is that so?”

  She threw me a grave nod. “Yeah. Do you wanna see?” She shot her small hands up and beckoned me to bend toward her.

  I squatted down in front of her, and she reached over to kiss me on the cheek. My arms twitched with the urge to hold her close and never let go, protect her, keep her hidden.

  “So? Does it taste sweet?”

  “It does. Sweetest of all.”

  Her eyes glowed, but then a shadow crossed her face. She chewed on her lips, mimicking my habit. “Do you think Mommy misses my chocolate kisses?”
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  A pain originated in my chest, as if someone was squeezing my heart. I simply nodded. My throat had closed up, rendering me speechless.

  “Daddy? Why doesn’t Mommy call? I wanna talk to her. I miss her.”

  I stood there, petrified with the truth stuck in my throat. She’s dead. Gone forever. I willed myself to say the words, but nothing came out.

  Like a coward, I had not told her yet that Nat was dead.

  Katie was with my mother when the call of the accident came. In the days that followed, all I did was ramble around an empty house drunk and dazed. The silence that coated the walls and every surface of our home was too unbearable, but I had nowhere else to go. So I bellowed for minutes or hours or it could have been days. Not once during that time had I cried. I was incapable of shedding tears, and everything was magnified tenfold in the absence of them.

  A few days ago, my mother had called, snapping me awake from my dead slumber on the floor, my cheek daubed in my own vomit. She had been upset with me for not calling Katie, not talking to her, and where the hell had Nat been for the past few days, she asked. How could she not have called her own daughter? I told her then. She was the first person I told about Nat’s death.

  But when it came to telling Katie, my throat closed up. I imagined how much I loved her, her smile, her voice, her laughter. How when I told her, she’d never be the same. How possible it was that she’d turn into me. She already looked like me on the outside. What if she turned into me on the inside, too? Depressed and hollow. So I did what I had always done. I lied. And I was still lying.

  “Daddy? Why doesn’t she call?” Katie asked again.

  “She will,” I rumbled, somehow. “I promise she misses you a lot. But she’s just busy.”

  She pursed her lips. “But I want her to call now.”

  Shaking my head, I choked out, “Soon. A few more days.” I had no idea if that was meant for her or for me. A few more days of Katie’s smiles. A few more days of her shimmering eyes before I destroyed her world by the news.