Page 63 of All In
None of this makes sense.
The guilt builds in my stomach, coupled with rage due to what I just walked into.
A thought pops into my mind, and I race to the spare bedroom, hoping she didn’t do something to the Nike box. I immediately get on my hands and kneesand peer under the bed. The orange box sits undisturbed where I left it. “Erica!” I call out again.
Tick … tick … tick.
No answer.
Engulfing the house is an eerie quietness, as if it’s holding its breath. My nerves are suddenly on edge because if she isn’t here, then where is she? Because she is in no condition to be out and about if she drank this much. We may not be married, but I’m not a monster. I care about her well-being and would hate for something to happen to her.
My emotions are being pulled in two different directions. I’m starting to get irritated. I pick myself up and let out a huff because now I have to search for her since she’s being a brat and not answering me. Judging by the chaos in the living room, it’s safe to assume she’s passed out in my bed. This isn’t my first go-around with her. Before the divorce, more often than not, I’d come home, Mikey in my arms, to Erica passed out on the couch or in the bed. But now that we are divorced, I wonder if she stumbled in there so drunk that she didn’t realize where she was.
As I walk down the hallway, my footsteps echo off the walls. Stepping inside, I look at the bed, undisturbed and still made.Instead, the bathroom light is gleaming, casting a warm glow onto the far wall where Mikey’s picture hangs.
I march toward the light. “Erica, I know you’re in here. Why haven’t you—” The question stops on my tongue. Because there, in the tub, full of water, where Mikey takes his nightly bubble baths, is my dead ex-wife.
Nothing prepares you for this. Nothing.
I’m staring straight ahead at a family photo of us smiling and happy when the coroner wheels the gurney past me. Erica zipped up in the black plastic. They stop in front of me. “Would you like a minute alone with her?” the overweight, balding man asks me. I take a second to ponder his question. Myanswer comes quickly as I shake my head, and out the door she goes into the waiting ambulance with its doors open wide.
After pulling her from the bath water, I whispered my goodbyes as I cradled her, cried from the shock, and pleaded with her for forgiveness. Forgiveness I will never get.
The words “I’m sorry” spread throughout the small bathroom, too numerous to count. How do you apologize to someone who will never hear your remorse?
I called 911 and held her as I waited to hear the sirens. Her skin was cold, wet, and pale.
I know deep down what caused this. Me, I did this to her. I should never have let her go out into the night. I should have called her, or maybe had Big C or Jasmine come and check in. I should never have been emailing Maria.
There’s no going back now.
Erica is gone. Mikey no longer has a mother. Erica’s father lost his daughter.
Nothing will ever be the same.
I watch as they drive away. Once the ambulance turns the corner, I shut the door. The heaviness and guilt in my chest are too much as I crumble to the floor.
“How ya doing, man?” Big C’s huge hand grasps my shoulder as he sits next to me on my couch, his weight causing the cushion to sink. He’s yanking off his tie and chucks it across the room. It sails through the air and lands on the Lazy-Boy. “God, I hate those things,” he says as he hands me a bottled water.
I grab it from him, swiftly unscrew the cap, and gulp down a mouthful. “I’m dealing.” He nods.
Neither of us say anything for a few minutes. My intense stare locks on the framed photograph. C turns and looks over his shoulder. “Where’s Mikey?”
I peek down the hall toward his room, then pivot my focus back to the picture. “Jasmine is putting him down for his nap.”
Erica’s memorial service was this afternoon. It was small, spiritual, and the worst hour of my life. Ricky flew down for it, as well as my mom and sisters. They are all still at the funeral home, collecting the flowers and donating them as I asked. I don’t want any part of this day to remain with me.
Memorials, funerals, life celebrations, whatever you choose to call them, they’re the same. A final way to say goodbye to a loved one or friend. They are depressing and awful. I hate them.
Before this happened, I agreed with the mantra of “Death is a natural part of life.”
That’s the biggest lie ever told.
Anything that happens in life that is ‘natural’ brings us joy. The birth of a child, marriage, watching your kid take their first steps, having grandchildren … those things bring happiness. Death is nothing but sadness. Right now, what I’m feeling is anything but natural.
“Eventually, you are going to have to stop blaming yourself.” C takes a swig of water.
I scoff. “Eventually, sure. But not right now.”
