Page 7 of His

Astor

“Valerie, wake up.” I gently shake her shoulders.

Her eyes flutter open.

She blinks, coming out of her dream.

Finally, she focuses on me, her brows knitted together.

“What?”

“You were dreaming again.”

My wife peers at me with the same dazed, confused expression she has every time we go through this routine.

“You were saying her name over and over.”

“Chloe’s?”

“Yes.”

Valerie closes her eyes and drags in a long inhale. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Do you remember it this time? The dream?”

“You’ve asked me a hundred times, Astor. No, I don’t remember any of the dreams. I don’t remember even saying her name or asking why. I don’t even know why I’m asking why.”

I pretend to smooth the edge of the sheets while I wait for her to say more—hoping she’ll say more. That she’ll remember whatever it is that’s trying to come out of her.

It’s been five years since our daughter, Chloe, was found dead at the bottom of a sewer drain. An accident, according to the police. She’d fallen, they’d said. While Valerie accepted their final report, I didn’t. I believe our daughter was murdered.

Valerie hasn’t spoken of Chloe in years, until now. It makes me uneasy, unsettled, like the past is coming back to haunt us.

As it always does.

I pick up the empty porcelain cup from the nightstand. “I’ll make you some tea.”

“Hand me my book before you go, please.”

Not long after Chloe died and Valerie went into a downward spiral, I gifted her a book about loss and grief. To Grief and Back, it’s called. Valerie thumbs through it often and asks for it when she’s particularly unsettled. Like now.

Minutes later, I return with a warm cup of chamomile tea. After helping Valerie sit up against the pillows, I click on the lamp. It will be at least an hour before she falls asleep again.

Every night, same routine.

She coughs and I notice she’s more pale than usual.

“Do you remember that stuffed lizard she used to love?” Valerie asks, surprising me.

“Yes, I remember it well.”

“You remember it was missing one eye? And I think even a toe. And then,” she smiles fondly, “remember when I accidentally put it in the washer with Chloe’s sheets and poured bleach on its back? Chloe was so mad at first, but then decided it looks like spilled milk, so every time they’d have a tea party, she’d pour him milk instead of tea.”

Gentle smiles cross both our faces. Until losing a child I never knew that joy and sorrow could be felt simultaneously.

“She loved that thing,” Valerie whispers, lost in memories.

“Carl.”

---