Page 1 of Kansas Keeper
1
BECKETT
Nobody prepares you for the dying portion of the ‘until death do us part’ section of your wedding vows. I had never given much thought to either one of us passing away so soon, but if I had thought about it, I would have assumed that I would be the one to go first.
Losing my wife at such a young age is still inconceivable to my muddled brain––even though it happened over a year ago. Living in this horrible reality and attempting to guide our innocent, sweet daughter, Embry, through it is a thousand times worse than anything I could have ever imagined.
Each day, I wake up and stumble through the bare minimum motions of living––going to work at a job that now feels utterly mundane, forcing down food that tastes like sawdust, and making sure Embry sleeps, bathes, eats, and plays.
Trying to make sense of it all is impossible because cancer isn’t logical. It doesn’t care if you are young and full of life. It doesn’t care if you’re loved and have so much to live for. It doesn’t care if you are needed or if you are someone else’s entire world. It simply attacks without justification.
Cancer strikes whoever it wants, whenever it feels like it, and that is what makes it so damn scary. It’s not fair. The slogans are right…Cancer sucks. Fuck cancer.
But hating the disease and railing against it won’t bring my beautiful, amazing wife, Sandra, back. She’s gone. No amount of cussing, begging, crying, or screaming changes that harsh reality.
If she could come back, she would. I know that.
I spent a few months trying to see signs of her in every cardinal, butterfly, or shiny penny that crossed my path. But nothing helps the dry, dull ache that has now settled firmly in my chest, filling me with emptiness.
Her absence permeates everything. There is no doubt in my mind that I would have simply given up if it weren’t for Embry. My little girl needs me, and she gives me a reason to get up and fight to live every single day, despite the giant void in my heart that used to be overflowing with love for my wife.
I plaster on a smile and do my best to act like a proper human and doting dad when I’m with Embry, but each night, right after I tuck her into bed and turn out her light, the façade falls. After I shuffle to the living room, I lie on the couch and stare at the ceiling until it’s time to get up and start the pretense all over again.
Nothing brings me joy anymore and sleep completely eludes me. I used to be a world-class napper, who could then go to bed and sleep all night. It drove Sandra completely crazy that I could nod off anytime, anywhere––without a care in the world.
But those days are gone. Now, the staggering weight of her absence presses on my chest and I lie awake all night, wishing for the peaceful oblivion of sleep that never comes. Part of the problem might be that I stay on the sofa, but our bed feels empty and wrong without Sandra snuggled by my side.
I turn on the television and scroll through my phone, but nothing captures my attention. Eventually, I give up and resume my new normal of counting the ceiling tiles.
The drudgery of a long, boring night ahead has me feeling antsy. A glance at the time on my cell phone tells me it isn’t quite 9 p.m., so I make the slam decision to return a call to my high school friend, Brock Mann.
Brock is a professional ice hockey player. He reached out to me a few weeks ago about some scammers who were pretending to be him and asking for cash handouts from all of his family and friends. Of course, I’d known Brock would never do that, so I hadn’t fallen for the ruse, but I feel bad that I haven’t yet worked up the energy to return his call.
So many of my family and friends reached out to me right after Sandra passed away, but I was too numb to help carry the conversations. After a few failed attempts, the check-ins petered out, but my overwhelming sadness didn’t.
I don’t blame anyone for not continuing to contact me. Afterall, no one knows what to say to help someone who is lost in grief. And it’s not like I’ve been pleasant to speak to with my monotone, one-word responses and lengthy, awkward silences.
Even though Brock still lives in Iowa, and I moved to Kansas so Sandra could live close to her family, the two of us have remained good friends. He has tried to be there for me over the past year, but I haven’t been very receptive to his attempts at reaching out to me.
Deciding that ends now, I tap the button to call my friend. We have a great chat, but I’m stunned to learn that his latest head injury has caused him to have to give up playing ice hockey. I would have thought this would be devastating news to the athletic man, but he has met the love of his life and sounds truly at peace with his new lot in life.
I find myself chuckling for the first time in longer than I can remember as Brock fills me in on his recent adventures. The lighthearted sound and feeling both seem foreign to me after all this time.
We are just getting ready to sign off the call when my doorbell rings. I hurry to answer it, hoping that the semi-late house call doesn’t awaken Embry.
I fling open the door, prepared to give the visitor a piece of my mind, but the anxious look pinching the beautiful woman’s expression stops me. She drops the manilla file folder she’d been holding, and we both stoop to pick it up.
After an awkward laugh, we both stand back up and I hand her the dropped papers. I can’t stop staring at her. Even though I’m fairly certain I would remember meeting the stranger, there is something oddly familiar about her. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but something about the curve of her face, the shape and color of her lovely blue eyes, and even the lilting ring of her laughter make me feel like I know her.
I’m likely giving her a dopey smile as I continue holding the phone up to my ear while I say to her, “Hello.”
The woman licks her lips before clearing her throat and saying in an obviously practiced voice, “Hello. My name is Mara Gold, and I am your daughter’s birth mother.”
Air whooshes out my lungs at this bombshell. We were told that Embry’s adoption records were sealed, so we thought we would never have to deal with a birth parent having second thoughts and showing up to disrupt our lives.
Staring at the woman with wide eyes, I say into the phone’s speaker. “Brock, I’m going to have to let you go. There’s a crazy lady at my door trying to insert herself intomydaughter’s life.”
I barely register Brock’s response, but the concern is evident in his tone, so I say, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll never let anyone come between me and my child.”
