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The Basement Angel

By LeeAnn McChristian

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CHAPTER 1
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
The predicted cold front furiously roars across the Red River from Oklahoma into North Texas, smashing against the man's house just before midnight. Each blast of frigid wind hammers the old house, rattling its weary bones and snatching the man from a deep, uneasy sleep. In the blue-tinged twilight of the television's glow, he raises his head, blinking away sleep. He glances at the clock, its hands barely visible in the darkness. Not only is a new day approaching, but also a new year. He slumps back against the chair, a low curse escaping his lips. Now wide awake, he knows another long night looms ahead. Another sleepless night wrestling with the relentless grip of the past. The storm raging outside mirrors his own turmoil within. The past holds him in its cruel embrace, a constant, echoing voice reminding him that there is no escape.
Covered under a mound of quilts, he brushes his hands over the surface in a desperate hunt for the television remote. Television is his escape, his only defense against the storm of his own internal thoughts. Impatience flares. "Where is that damn remote?" he snarls, patting his lap furiously. Changing the channel will shield him from the torment of watching the superficial smiling faces of revelers celebrating a new year. A celebration he finds meaningless. Too late. A deafening cheer erupts from the screen, "5...4...3...2...1...HAPPY NEW YEAR!" followed at once by a chorus of drunken voices singing "Auld Lang Syne."
The camera slowly pans the crowd of happy people, stopping to focus on the proverbial lovers sharing a kiss in anticipation of their new year together. Their happiness is a stark contrast to his solitary existence. He raises an empty hand in a phantom toast. "Happy New Year," he whispers, his voice dry and hollow. Then, raising his arm higher, he adds, "And to hell with all of you." Bitter sarcasm is an automatic defense, a shield against the pain, but it offers no warmth in the empty room. "Now, where's that stupid remote?" he mutters, fingers still blindly searching. Finally, buried under layers of quilts, he finds it. With the same cold precision usually reserved for his Colt 45 when at the gun range, he aims the remote across his arm at the television screen. His final act of defiance. "And that's a good night to all of you," he whispers. A simple click extinguishes the dim glow of the television, plunging the room into total darkness. The chill is immediate, a tangible presence that seeps through the walls with each gust of wind. He rubs his arms against the chill, pulling the top quilt closer to his chin. Powerless to stop the encroaching cold, he sinks deeper into the recliner. The gruffness of his voice reflects his despair. "I may know a lot about carpentry, but an old broken-down gas furnace," his voice trails off, "not so much. And those damn repairmen are expensive, too. Hell, everything's expensive when you're broke." He shivers, despite the heavy layers of warmth, as the familiar voice continues its assault, holding him captive, reminding him that there is no escape.
Attempting to stop the onslaught of self-pity rarely occurs to him any longer. After all, the past year had been brutal, especially for carpenters such as himself. Now, the current mortgage crisis has given little hope that 2009 would be any better. People no longer enjoyed luxuries such as building or remodeling, and, if they did, they were cautious of a failing economy. Large jobs were gone, leaving only minor ones, few and far between. He has every right to curse his luck. His face hardens as bitter thoughts swirl through his mind. "They can keep sending me bills month after month," he growls, "and I'll keep ignoring them. You can't get blood from a turnip."
Unopened envelopes lay scattered about on the kitchen table, a rising tide of demands he refuses to acknowledge. He knows their contents: the electric company, the gas company, the phone company, the mortgage company, everyone wanted their share of what he did not have—money. His bank account is a barren wasteland, with only a few dollars as its occupants. He does not have a credit card. "Never believed in 'em. I pay as I go," he often proudly declared as though that fact made him a little better than the average person. Truthfully, he hated having debt, but what can he do? After all, it is not his fault, but the damn economy, or so he tells himself.
Among the unopened bills, the remains of several half-eaten meals lay like forgotten dreams. Sniffing the air, he lightly pinches his nose. The rancid smell of rotten food is more noticeable in the dark. This place stinks just like my life stinks. He is unable to remember the last time his home was thoroughly cleaned. Probably not in the last fourteen years, he guesses. And, probably not in the next fourteen years. He is not about to clean on New Year's Day, not with football games on all day. He is an expert at excuses, not just for cleaning but for whatever he does not want to do. Sarcasm, blaming others, and excusing his actions help him justify his pitiful life.
Desperately yearning to sleep, he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to clear his mind, but it is useless. He cracks one eye open. The blinking red light of the answering machine pulses incessantly, reminding him of the encroaching disaster. The mortgage lender calls daily now. "Eighteen years of faithful payment," he mumbles to the silence. "Now, I miss a few months, and they're threatening foreclosure? Fine, let them take this crumbling shell. It ain't worth much anyway." Complaining was useless. To them, he was just an account number in their ledger, not a person.
The passage of time had taken its toll on his little house, making it unsellable in the current downturned market. A long, shaky breath fills his lungs with the cold air. "I should've sold," he sighs, the words heavy with a regret that was unfamiliar, unwelcome. He saw again the faces of the young family next door, their earnest request, his own self-serving refusal to budge on the price. His pride, his greed, had driven them to another house a block away. He pushes the memory aside, a familiar defense mechanism kicking in. "No one takes advantage of me," he declares to the empty room, "not then and not now." His words are only an attempt to drown out the voice of his conscience.
The night air offers no comfort, leaving him chasing sleep in vain. His thoughts, unwelcome guests, turn inevitably to Mandy. He fights to keep them at bay, but tonight, the memories flood his mind. This was the year, the year she would have stepped across the stage as a young woman of eighteen and accepted her high school diploma. But her face at that age is a ghost, a blur of his mind's eye. Only glimpses of the four-year-old remained, sharp, vivid details. She had long, soft brown hair and the sweetest little gummy smile. She had her mother's smile. The bigger she grinned, the more gum you saw rather than teeth. His little girl had a precocious sense of humor, too. Strange how a four-year-old could deliver a punch line with the finesse of a professional, but she could. And then, a memory, a sudden burst of laughter, of a joke told, and she was before him, vibrant and real, as if the years had not passed, as if she had not been gone.
"Knock, knock, Daddy." Mandy's eyes gleamed with anticipation.
"Who's there?" He always played along, even with a familiar joke.
"Mandy." Her lips twitched, trying to hide a mischievous smile.
He had not heard this little joke before. "Mandy who?" Dutifully, he answered as expected.
Putting her hands on her hips, she rolled her eyes, pretending to be indignant. "Duh, you're my Daddy! Shouldn't you know my last name?" Unable to keep a straight face any longer, she fell to the floor in a fit of giggles. "I got you, Daddy!"
She got him, all right. Got him right in the heart!
Memories of his little girl flood his mind, a bittersweet tide. His life as a carpenter, chasing jobs wherever they led, had meant long stretches away, and Mandy hated it. He could still feel the small, firm grip of her hand on his, hear her voice, earnest and demanding, "Promise you won't be gone so long next time, Daddy. You have to pinkie swear!" she exclaimed, holding up her chubby, pink finger.
He drew a deep breath, exhaling slowly. "Mandy, sweetie, I can't make that promise. You know I must work hard because a man takes care of his family." He gave her a pleading look, but Mandy's stubborn persistence showed no signs of backing down. "Sometimes that means I must go out of town. Just remember, I only do it because I love you and Mommy so much."
"I know, I know, Daddy. Mommy said the same thing." Hands on tiny hips, she stuck out her jaw in defiance. "But that doesn't mean I have to like it!" She ended her last statement with a slight stamp of her tiny foot for emphasis.
He could not help but laugh. "Good! I don't want you to ever like it when I'm gone. You know, Mandy, I'm in big trouble the day you and Mommy stop fussing at me for being gone!"
Mandy wagged her tiny finger at him. "I'm not gonna ever stop fussin' at you, Daddy. Mommy says it's our job."
He continued to grin. "And you both are good at your job!"
People referred to Mandy as a "daddy's girl," and it was true. Of course, she adored her mother, but whenever she needed comfort, she came to him first. At times, he worried Liz might be jealous, but she was quick to give reassurance.
"Little girls need strong relationships with their daddies," Liz often reminded him. "I have a great relationship with my dad, and look how good I turned out!"
A heavy sigh escapes him as he closes his eyes, the memories crashing in like waves. The thought of Mandy brought sorrow, but Liz…Liz was a different kind of pain, a profound, lingering emptiness. Liz was right, though. She was more than good. She was perfect.
He had married later than some, but, for him, he had found Liz exactly when he was meant to. That moment arrived one beautiful spring day in 1989 when a captivating young woman had simply asked to sit beside him on a park bench.
"Not my bench." He did not mean to sound so brusque—especially upon seeing how pretty she was, so he quickly softened his tone. "You can sit wherever you like."
"Oh, it is your bench...your butt's on it, so it must be yours."
Her warm smile, along with the sparkle in her big brown eyes, instantly impressed him. Reluctantly, he gave a shrug, then moved over. "Fine then. Have a seat."
Sitting side by side, they both silently stared off into the distance. He was a quiet man, not necessarily shy, but quiet. Thoughtful conversation in a small group was fine, but idle chit-chat was something he detested. Usually, he said what needed to be told and not much more, but now, he found himself trying to think of something to say to the beautiful woman sitting next to him. Thankfully, she was the one who finally broke the awkward silence.
"So, what do you think about the Rangers bringing on Nolan Ryan?" She stared in the distance, only a slight smile played on her lips.
"Can't hurt and possibly could help. I suppose he still has a few good years left in him." He could not believe she was talking about sports, especially baseball!
"I don't know about that," she said, turning towards him, cocking her head. "Seems to me, forty-two is a little too old for a pitcher in the major leagues. I know he's the strike-out king, but his arm can't last forever. I think the Rangers should have gone after younger blood. Someone with a longer career ahead of them rather than a guy who's on his way out."
"Oh, so you think forty-two is old?" The beginning of a smile formed on his lips, his eyes gleamed.
"It's certainly not young! I mean, for a pitcher, you gotta admit, it's pretty old."
"Maybe so. Come October, we will see what 'old man Ryan' has done for the team. Could be the shot in the arm the Rangers desperately need." He paused, then added casually. "I'm forty-three myself and not even close to being on my way out."
She smiled lamely, giving him a sideways glance. "Oops! You don't look that old...not that forty-three is old..."
He grinned broadly, thoroughly enjoying her frantic backtrack as she tried to convince him of what she really meant.
"Of course, I was speaking in the context of baseball. I never meant to imply an ordinary man in his forties was old...not that you are ordinary...I just meant, for baseball, forty-two is old...but it's not really old when you're a man like Nolan Ryan...not that you're not a man like Nolan Ryan..." The more she talked, the more flustered she became, finally giving him a pleading look. "Please, help me out of this hole I'm digging for myself!"
Unable to contain his amusement, he began to laugh. "It's okay. I knew what you meant. But you must admit, you set yourself up for that one."
"Yeah, open mouth, insert foot." Rolling her eyes upwards, she exhaled deeply. "This may surprise you, but that's not the first time I've done so."
He chuckled. "I have a feeling you're a gal full of surprises."
"Maybe I am!" She stuck out her hand. "By the way, my name is Elizabeth, and, since I know how old you are...you should know I'm twenty-eight. Obviously, a very young and stupid twenty-eight."
His rough hand engulfed hers. Delicate and warm, he held on a little longer than intended. "Young, yes…stupid, no," he assured her. "Nice to meet you, Elizabeth. You wouldn't have any opinions about the Cowboys, would you?"
Raising her eyebrows, she looked at him questioningly. "Do you really want to know, or are you just hoping I'll make a fool of myself again?"
He liked this girl. "I really want to know."
Time passed quickly that afternoon. Lunch, work, errands—all became unimportant the longer they talked. Mostly, Elizabeth did the talking. She accomplished what most people found extremely difficult with him—conversation. And much to his surprise, he enjoyed it. This young woman had depth and maturity equal to his own. In addition, the twinkle in her eyes was mesmerizing.
"You seem like the strong, silent type," she observed through the course of their discussion. "Me, well, I'm the strong, talkative type! My dad always said I could talk the ears off a stalk of corn."
He agreed with her father's observation, yet every word from her lips held him captive. Usually, talkative people annoyed him. Their chatter was simply filling empty air in his estimation, but Elizabeth was different. She was genuinely eager to know more about him. Being quiet, he was often overlooked by women and rarely dated. However, by most people's standards, he was considered a handsome man. Chatty women seemed foolish to him, and as for quiet women—well, there rarely was enough conversation to even start a relationship. This time, the beautiful woman sitting next to him seemingly possessed every quality for which he had searched. Interestingly, he had not known he was searching.
"So, what makes you happy?" she asked, tilting her head slightly. Such a personal question surprised him, yet he did not mind.
"I don't know. Never really thought about it."
"Well then, let me rephrase my question. What do you do for fun?"
He shrugged his shoulders. "I like to go to the shooting range and fish a little now and then, but mostly, I just work. I suppose my work makes me happy if you want to call it that. It certainly leaves me feeling satisfied."
Her face lit up. "Work makes me happy, too. I am a schoolteacher. Fourth grade. What do you do?"
"I'm a carpenter. I mainly do remodels, but I've built a few houses, too, from the ground up."
"You must be quite creative," she said, smiling. "I like people who enjoy working with their hands."
"I don't know how creative I am, but I do like to take a piece of wood and make something useful out of it. My father was a carpenter and taught me all I know. He took me to work with him from the time I was five years old. I guess you could say it's in my blood."
"There must be other things you like to do?" Her persistence amused him.
"I like sports, but you've probably figured that out. I am more of a spectator these days, but, once, in my younger days..." He paused and glanced in her direction. Did she get the joke?
She smiled. "You aren't going to let me forget how foolish I was, are you?"
"Nope." He returned her smile with a wink. "As I was saying, in my younger days, I was quite an athlete. Growing up in a small town, I played a variety of sports, including football, baseball, and basketball. But baseball has always been my favorite. I even coached a Little League team for a few years. What about you? Play any sports?"
"Nothing conventional. I rode horses. I dreamed of being a professional barrel racer when I was a little girl, but God had different plans for me."
"How could you know that?" He was genuinely curious. How could she really know?
"I prayed and asked Him what He wanted me to do with my life. I left it up to God to close or open the doors He wanted me to go through. The barrel racing door closed, and the teaching door opened." She gave a little shrug. "So here I am!"
"And teaching little kids makes you happy?"
"Why, yes, it does," she replied in earnest. "I love my students. Sometimes, I learn more from them than they learn from me. But I love lots of other things as well."
"Such as?" he asked innocently, not knowing how long the list would be.
"Of course, I love my family. We are all close, but my sister, Leslie, is my best friend. Let's see…I love horses, obviously, but then, I love all animals. I love Texas and being from Texas. The bluebonnets this spring are amazing. So, where are you from?"
"Texas! Born and raised. Wouldn't want to live any other place." Good to know they shared the same passion for their beloved state. "Is that the end of your list?"
She laughed. "I'm just getting started! How much time do you have?"
"Go on. I'm listening." He suddenly had all the time in the world.
"Let's see…I love country music. I prefer the older stuff, like Waylon and Willie, more than what you hear on the radio today." She took a quick breath, then continued. "Oh, and I love going out to Lake Texoma. My dad brings his boat up here every summer, and we spend all day water skiing, fishing, and exploring the coves. I love Mexican food, and I love ice cream. Chocolate mint is my favorite!" She paused, turning serious. "My list could go on and on, but there is one thing I love more than anything else."
"And, what's that?" Her list was already extensive; what more could she possibly love?
She took a deep breath. "I love God. I love Him above and beyond anyone or anything else."
Her declaration was unexpected, leaving him unsure how to respond. Clergymen might feel like this, or maybe a nun, but ordinary people? How do you love someone you can't see or touch? It was a mystery to him, but he did not care. All he knew by the end of the day was how desperately he wanted to be on her Love List.
Bachelorhood had offered a comfortable simplicity. He did as he pleased when he pleased, responsible only for himself. But his world shifted the day he married Elizabeth, just six months after their chance meeting in the park. On their wedding day, a new kind of responsibility began, one he embraced wholeheartedly. Love, he discovered, was never as complete or fulfilling until it meant caring for another. He loved Elizabeth fiercely, loved their life together. He knew his place was not first, but he was happy to be on her Love List, a list where God held the top spot. He understood that her love for him was woven into her faith, and if that meant God was part of the deal, he gladly took the whole package.
But now, he did not think much about God. At least not since Elizabeth and Mandy were gone. Elizabeth's lifelong faith contrasted sharply with his own fragmented experience. Occasionally, his mother had taken him and his brother to the local Baptist church when they were children, but his father had refused to attend.
"That place is full of hypocrites." It was always the same old excuse from his father. "Besides, the good Lord and I have an understanding. I can worship Him just as well from my fishing boat as I can sittin' in a pew."
It had been hard to argue with his dad's logic, and eventually even his mother stopped trying. Occasionally, he had attended Vacation Bible School, but only to be with friends. One summer, his best friend invited him to a revival. He was not sure what a "revival" was, but his mother encouraged him to attend. At the end of the week, all the kids "walked the aisle," including him. The pastor declared they were all saved, but, truthfully, he never quite understood the significance. Not much changed after that, but his mother was happy, and that was important.
Elizabeth's deep reliance on God had always intrigued and baffled him. His upbringing had preached independence. "Seems a good man takes care of him and his," a statement he often proudly quoted. Sure, he believed in something, a Higher Power, but daily prayer? Regular interaction? That was not part of his world of self-reliance. Even in a tight spot, he was not likely to ask for God's help. "The good Lord helps those who help themselves. I got myself in this mess; I can get myself out. God has more important things to deal with than my problems." A mantra he often quoted. His stubborn principles had never changed throughout the years.
Fifteen months into their marriage, Amanda Joy burst into their world. She instantly stole their hearts, securing a permanent spot on both of their "Love Lists." Though a brief period of colic challenged them, she blossomed into a perfect little girl—bright, energetic, beautiful, and completely adored by him. He eagerly tracked her growth, cherishing every milestone: her first tooth, the wobbly sits, triumphant first steps, the joyful pedaling of her tricycle, and that poignant first day of preschool. In hindsight, he wished he had slowed down, allowed those precious moments to linger instead of rushing to the next achievement, for, as the saying goes, hindsight is truly 20/20.
During the early nineties, his skills as a master carpenter kept him busy, in high demand for projects both grand and small. Bachelorhood faded into a distant memory, replaced by the profound pride of being a family man, devoted to his young wife and cherished daughter. Their days were predictable yet filled with happiness. As a teacher, Liz relished the summer months spent at home with Mandy, a time she deeply desired. Through careful saving and sacrifice, they bought a modest house south of Sherman, brimming with dreams of transforming it into a testament to his carpentry talents. Their life was not without its challenges, but it was good– wonderfully good.
A fleeting moment of peace comes with thoughts of Elizabeth and Mandy. The cozy cocoon of blankets finally warms his chilled body, allowing his eyelids to grow heavy with much-needed sleep. Drowsiness is a welcome relief. Eventually, he relaxes, and his chin falls to his chest, only to be snapped back up by a familiar, venomous voice.
"Yeah, but memories are not reality," it hisses. It is the same discouraging voice he hears most days. "You have enough trouble without dredging up the past. When was the last time you put your arms around a memory? They were the only people who truly cared about you, and now they're gone, never to return. You're all alone in this world, so what's the use in trying anymore?"
Fully awake again, he tries to push the voice out of his head, but it is useless. The voice is right. The voice tells the truth, and there is nothing he can do about it. God had cruelly taken his girls, leaving him alone for the rest of his life, but it is hardly a life. He might go through the motions of life, but he is not truly alive. Even his home is just the shell of a house. Photographs, toys, candles, jewelry, clothes, Liz's trinkets—all were given away. He wants no reminders of what he has lost. Erasing their memory might help erase his hurt. But it was no use; the ache remains. Elizabeth would be horrified by his neglect, the peeling paint, the leaking roof, the rot, the failing systems. But her potential disapproval does not penetrate the wall of his apathy. The house he dreamed of transforming into a home became just "a wooden building" fourteen years ago, offering only inadequate shelter from the elements: cold in winter, hot in summer.
The night drags on as his thoughts race from one subject to another. Sleep is not going to happen tonight. The last time he had slept through the entire night without periods of wakefulness was nothing more than a dim memory. It had not always been that way. His ability to fall asleep easily, even in the middle of an argument, had once been a source of frustration to Elizabeth.
"How can you sleep when we haven't settled this issue?" Liz would sit up in bed, prop a pillow behind her back, thus indicating she was settling in for a long talk.
"Because we don't have to resolve everything tonight." He made no attempt to hide his irritation. "Please, Lizzie, let's talk tomorrow. I must get some sleep. I have an early day tomorrow."
"Well, I can't sleep knowing..." Too tired to keep his eyes open, he never heard the end of her sentence.
Things are certainly different now. Most nights, he attempted to sleep in his old recliner. Although held together with duct tape, it was the one thing he had not parted with after Liz had left. A poor substitute for a bed, it was not necessarily comfortable, but it was comforting. It had been a gift from Elizabeth on their first anniversary.
"I need you to take a stroll with me," Liz had told him early that Saturday morning.
"Now?" he asked. "I need to call the dealership and find out what time my truck will be ready."
"Okay, but hurry because I want to show you something, and we need to get back here before the Longhorns play this afternoon." Her eyes sparkled, telling him that whatever she had planned must have something to do with their anniversary.
He left the room while she waited patiently for him to make the call. After a few minutes, he came back, brows furrowed, frustration written on his face.
"We can take that walk now. My truck won't be ready until Monday. I guess I'll have to call and get someone to pick me up for work." He hated depending on others, even for something as simple as a ride to work.
"Maybe you'll cheer up when you see my surprise. Come on." She took him by the hand and led him a few blocks down the street to a house with numerous items for sale in the front yard.
"It's over here." She guided him to the front porch, where a large, ugly, olive green and dirty yellow striped recliner sat. "Well, what do you think?" Her eyes beamed brightly. She could barely contain her excitement.
"Uh...you want the truth?" he asked, scratching his jaw. Liz eagerly nodded. "That's about the ugliest piece of furniture I've ever seen." The words had barely left his mouth before he instantly regretted his honesty. The disappointment and hurt on Liz's face was heartbreaking. There were times the truth was not necessary, and this was one of those times. "I mean, it may be ugly, but it certainly appears comfortable." He walked to the recliner and sat down. It was an ill attempt to rectify his tactlessness, something his mother had warned him about long ago. Words, once spoken, may be forgiven, but not soon forgotten.
Liz gave him a long, thoughtful look. "It's okay," she said calmly. "I thought you would enjoy a recliner to sit in while watching ball games. My dad always had one, so I thought you needed one too. I'll talk to the owner and see if I can get my money back." Her earlier excitement had dissipated faster than a puff of smoke in the wind. He quickly stood up, grabbing her hand.
"No, Lizzie, please don't do that. I'm sorry. I spoke without thinking. You know I have no taste when it comes to furniture." With a sheepish grin, he knelt on one knee. "I would love to have this fine piece of furniture from which to watch ballgames. My dad had one too, and I've always wanted one. It is an extremely thoughtful anniversary gift. Thank you, Babe."
"Are you sure?" she asked tentatively, eyeing him with suspicion
"I am absolutely positive!" He replied enthusiastically. He genuinely did not want to hurt her feelings.
"As soon as we get a little extra money, I promise I'll get the recliner recovered. In the meantime, I can clean the upholstery," Liz said, cheerfully optimistic once again.
"OK, done!" His smile quickly faded. "But how will we get it home since my truck is still in the shop?"
Liz looked down the street and then back at him. "Well, we could carry it home. It's not all that far."
Off they went, carrying that heavy recliner home between the two of them, arriving just in time for the Texas Longhorn game that afternoon—sitting in his new recliner. That game was just the first of many he would watch from the old recliner over the years. Too many to count, but hundreds, he supposed. Now, he rarely leaves it except to grab something to eat or use the toilet. Funny thing, they never recovered it and, more than likely, he never would. It was old, worn, and tattered…just like him.
Like a train jumping the tracks, his memories jump to the night his perfectly created world came crashing down. He did not remember much about that night, and he did not want to remember. Squirming uneasily in the recliner, he begins to form beads of sweat on his brow. It has been fourteen years, but the sickening feeling in his stomach is the same. Time heals all wounds? Not in his case. It seems like time stopped that night and never started again.
September of 1995 was typically hot that year. Autumn did not arrive in Texas until November, so September was simply another month of summer. Elizabeth and Mandy had traveled down to the Hill Country to visit her parents for a long weekend. Too busy on a job to go along on the trip, he encouraged them to go regardless. The phone rang around four p.m., the afternoon they were to return, waking him from a nap. It was Liz.
"Hey, Babe, hate to tell you, but we haven't left Mom and Dad's yet."
"You should be halfway home by now. What happened?" He asked, trying to hide his disappointment at this unexpected news. "Are you staying another night?"
"No...no, we're leaving in the next hour. Mandy's had such a wonderful time and begged me to let Dad take her fishing one last time this afternoon. They just got home, so we'll leave as soon as I wash the 'fish' smell off Mandy. Want to say hi to her before we leave?" He heard the muffled sound of the phone being passed to Mandy.
"Hi, Daddy. I caught a fish!" Mandy proudly exclaimed before he could even say hello.
"You did? That's great! What kind of fish did you catch?
"It was a kitty fish, and it was really ugly, with whiskers. Papa took it off the hook for me and threw it back in the water. We used old bread rolled up in a little ball to catch it. Did you know kitty fish like bread? Papa said the fish was too small for Nana to cook. I don't like fish. Not even the fish that Nana cooks. Have you ever seen a kitty fish before, Daddy? I think..." He hated to interrupt, but he also knew Mandy could talk without taking a breath—much like her mother.
"Whoa, little lady, I can only answer one question at a time. First, do you mean catfish instead of kitty fish?"
Mandy giggled. "Uh, yeah, I think Papa said catfish. But it didn't look like a cat!"
"I've caught several catfish before, and I've even caught a few with your Papa. Have you had a fun time with your grandparents?"
"I've had the best time, Daddy. We went out on the boat, and the water was still warm enough to swim. Then, Papa made a big fire in the fire pit, and Mommy let me cook my own hot dog, and Nana let me make a some mores'!" Her voice, full of excitement, made him smile.
"'Some more what?" he teased.
"You know, Daddy!" She didn't miss a beat. "Those things you like with graham crackers, chocolate, and marshmallows. 'member, you always say, 'I want some mores.'"
"I know what they are, honey. I was just teasing. I'm glad you've had a fun time, but I'm ready for my girls to come home. This old house has been lonely without your giggles." Mandy giggled in response. "Now, go get cleaned up and hurry home. Tell Nana and Papa 'hi' from me and put your mother back on the phone."
"Hey," Elizabeth said. "If we leave by five, then we should be home before ten. Hopefully, Mandy will sleep most of the way. That little girl is worn out from her busy weekend. Don't feel like you need to wait up for us."
"Oh yeah, like that's gonna happen. Of course, I'll wait up. I can't wait to see my girls. Please be careful and get some coffee if you get sleepy."
"We'll be fine. Don't worry," she reassured him. "I can't wait to sleep in my own bed tonight next to you."
"Same here," he replied with a sigh. "See you soon. Bye, Babe." He brought the receiver down from his ear, then quickly back up. "Wait…wait!" he said, breathlessly.
"I'm still here. What is it?" she asked.
"I love you." Those three words, spoken often between them, were his last words to Elizabeth.
She chuckled lightly, "I love you too, honey. Bye." Her last words to him.
He waited, counting the seconds on the clock, each tick echoing the emptiness that had already begun to settle in. The drone of the nightly news faded as his eyelids grew heavy. He soon sank deep into the recliner, his eyes falling shut despite his best efforts. A jarring ring around midnight shattered the quiet, yanking him from a restless sleep. Panic, cold and sharp, seized his chest the instant he saw the late hour. Elizabeth was not home.
"Hello?" His voice trembled with fear. He longed to hear his wife's sweet voice on the other end of the line, but a man's deep tones answered instead.
The call was brief but chilling, lasting only a few minutes. He hung up and stumbled across the room, collapsing to the floor, his mind in disbelief of the officer's sorrowful news. This cannot be real; it had to be a nightmare. "Oh my God!" He choked out the words. "This… can't…be…happening!" He huddled there on the floor for several minutes, unable to grasp the officer's words: drunk driver, head-on, both died upon impact. The phrases became a broken record in his throbbing head. His voice grew louder. "This… can't…be…happening!" His words escalated into a tormented wail of despair. "NO—NO—NO!" Fist clenched, he pounded his skull. The room began to spin with the rush of blood to his head. A wave of nausea doubled him over. Retching violently, he emptied his stomach until his body was empty of everything but the grief. He lay his head on the tile floor, hoping the coolness would soothe his burning skin. Tears began to flow. Hesitant at first, they became a torrent, turning into a tidal wave of anguish. Sorrow and grief devoured his heart, leaving him bereft of any feelings. In a sense, he died that day as well.
Following the accident, the days blurred into one another. Liz's parents and her sister arrived in the early morning hours, taking over the sad preparation of the funeral for the two people he loved most in the world. His parents had passed on years earlier, and he had not seen his estranged brother, Gabe, since high school. As a result, he found no comfort from his side of the family.
He stood in line with Liz's family, greeting those who attended the memorial service. Above his mumbled "thanks," he could hear the hushed whispers of "lovely service," but to him, it was anything but. What was "lovely" about burying Liz and Mandy? They had barely lived, and now they were gone. He could not recall the pastor's sermon, except for a snippet: Liz's words about having no fear of death, believing God had a purpose for her, that life wasn't random, but full of "God-cidents." That was so like her, always so sure. But what about him? They might be with God, but he was left here, a hollow shell where a husband and father used to be.
He shivers, despite the rising heat in his face. Fourteen years of buried rage and frustration rise to the surface, like scum on a pond. Anger, bitterness, and resentment gnaw at him, just as cancer consumes a body, and the blame is clear…in fact, it has never been clearer. God. God is to blame for his misery. If this is how God loves, then he wants no part. How could anyone believe in—let alone love—a God so merciless, so vengeful, so selfish? A sneer twists his lips, his face resolute. "Not me," the words a raw whisper. "No, sir, not me!"

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