Pandora's Box (41 page)

She didn’t lose time. “I hope you don’t mind my intruding, Dr. Volk.”

“Andrew,” he interrupted. “As long as Alistair wants you to come, you’re welcome.”

“Thank you. I know that grieving is a personal process. It has no time limit, nor a right way to do it. An unexpected death, especially an unnatural death, brings out emotions which don’t allow us to see beyond our anger or denial.” She gave Dr. Volk a self-deprecatory smile.

She was not talking about Alistair’s but of her own experience and the doctor understood.

“It doesn’t necessarily take bravery to resist the inevitable and to deny ourselves the opportunity to make our peace. Many times, we need a phase of cuddling.”

“I know.” She sighed and turned her head to gaze deeply into Alistair’s eyes and back to the doctor. “What we both didn’t allow ourselves was this immediate phase of withdrawal, or a depression period to get acquainted with what happened. I’m trying to reach out of the darkness, to find a new way. But I’m still in the necessary bloody soul-deep plunge; the one that feels like we are lost in the darkness of life, of hell, of suffering.”

Alistair had already told him Sophia talked with her eyes, they could darken or brighten, depending on her mood, and her face held nothing back.

However Dr. Volk had never seen such an impressive display of so many emotions at the same time. She was anguished; sadness could be heard in her voice; her eyes were dark and he knew she was on the verge of tears, not for her loss but for a bigger one. Maybe even bigger than Alistair’s.

He didn’t know her but from Alistair’s words. Nonetheless it seemed to him that Sophia was looking at the world with a hopeless stare.

“You have a poetic voice, Sophia, not exactly rhymed and metrical. Although the idea you harvest is sensible, it’s quite difficult to achieve.” Probing lightly, he smiled at her, “Are you sure you haven’t found your way out of the darkness?”

A profound sigh left her body and Alistair passed an arm around her shoulders, careful of his hand, bringing her closer to him.

“I thought I had, Andrew, and then I realized… There is no real light but just small sparks of happiness we should photograph to contain. But if we stop to photograph, we can’t enjoy them; the flash overexposes them and they disappear.”

With an exaggerated pose, Dr. Volk paused with his pencil in the air. “Can you repeat that, please? I’ve just decided I’m going to write a poem based on your last words.”

That drew a watery smile from her. “I’m sorry. I tend to be a bit dramatic when I’m nervous.”

“That was really beautiful, Sophia. Reaching this stage of mourning is a gift not afforded to everyone. Grieving is a personal and highly individual experience. How you grieve depends on many factors, including your personality and how you cope, your life experiences, your faith, and the nature of the loss. The grieving process takes time. Healing happens gradually; it can’t be forced or hurried, and there is no
normal
timetable for grieving.”

“But usually it takes weeks or months,” Alistair whispered. “A year, perhaps.”

“For others, it takes forever. It’s important to be patient with yourself and allow the process to unfold naturally. Trying to ignore the pain only makes it worse in the long run. For real healing, it’s necessary to face your grief and actively deal with it, to feel your fragility and impotence, to show your true feelings. Crying is a normal response to death, fear, or loneliness. It doesn’t mean you are weak. On the contrary, it’s simply another way of showing strength.”

“I cry,” he breathed.
But it doesn’t lessen the sorrow.

Dr. Volk could see Alistair was enduring terrible pain to rebuild his life and feel happiness again, but still there was something he couldn’t put his finger on. “A significant loss triggers worries and fears. But, Alistair, life is like this. If you fear your mortality all the time, or of the ones’ you love, you will forget to live and be happy. You’ll be alone. Draw comfort from Sophia, from your new daughter, and from this little baby you are planning. Seek your families. Maybe Father Bruce. And you can call me outside of our therapy sessions. You’ve already been doing video-call therapy,” the doctor said. He gave Alistair a gentle smile, encouraging him to talk.

“He needs to know the truth, Alistair Connor,” Sophia breathed. But she saw in his eyes he was determined not to tell.

Alistair frowned at her. “Sophia.”
We’re not doing this.

Damn you.
“Please,” she begged.

“Nae. We agreed—”

I’m sorry, my love. This is for your own good.
Steeling herself, she faced him, “I see your trust exceeds your wisdom, Lord
Veritas-vos-liberabit
.”

“Sophia MacCraig!” Alistair thundered.

Sophia picked up his wrists firmly in her hands and turned his palms to Doctor Volk, showing the many bandages. “He cuts himself. To avoid feeling the real pain, he hurts himself physically.”

Chapter 24

Dr. Volk stilled, looking thoughtfully at Sophia, but did not immediately speak. After several moments, he asked, “How?”

“He cuts his fingers and hands on the sharp marble spikes he put around Nathalie’s little grave. He made them for the purpose of hurting himself.”

“It was more beautiful like that,” Alistair whispered. “Protective.”

Beautiful?! Oh, screw you!
Sophia raised her voice. “Don’t you dare lie here, Alistair Connor.”

Dr. Volk put his pencil and notepad on the side table and stared at Alistair. He spoke in carefully measured words, “You have to be truthful to heal. Only through trust will you both see it through together.”

“It was more beautiful.” His eyes filled with tears.
Shameful, childish, Alistair Connor.
“With all the small marble spikes protecting the flat smooth white marble.”

“Andrew, he didn’t even write her name on it. There is nothing etched on the marble, no plaque, nothing. I found him there at midnight.”

“Sophia,” he hissed.

“Cutting his hands. There was blood all over, Andrew, I was terrified.”

Christ!
“I didn’t ask—”
you to follow me.

“That is not a grave for a child—”
your daughter.

Don’t
. “Sophia. Stop.”
Don’t go on.

“That was a macabre, masochistic—”
grave.

Oh, fuck you!
“Put yourself in my shoes!” he exclaimed. Ignoring the ache in his hands, he turned her to him by the shoulders. In the green inferno of his eyes, there was a pain so raw it burned her. “Your daughter is happily playing in school. Mine…” A dark mask descended over his features and his control snapped. “MINE IS BEING EATEN BY WORMS!”

A heart-wrenching sob left Sophia, who, crying, rose from the sofa and walked swiftly to the window.
Oh, my God! I didn’t think about this. I’m so sorry, my love!

That was cruel, Alistair Connor. Cruel and unnecessary.
He was feeling so much pain that he couldn’t go after her.
Control yourself, for fuck’s sake.

An awkward stillness came over the office. Dr. Volk didn’t move a finger, watching Alistair, who had put his forehead on his hands and was panting.

From Sophia’s hunched shoulders came another sob.

“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry,” Alistair breathed, already behind her. She turned and wound her arms around his waist under his jacket. “That was uncalled for. I didn’t mean to be so—”

“Realistic?” Dr. Volk intervened from his place. “You stated nothing more than reality, Alistair. You could have been more polite, but your daughter’s corpse is disintegrating.”

Dr. Volk saw Alistair’s big body shake from head to toe and Sophia’s hands moving under his jacket, soothing him. Nonetheless, it was not time for pity. “Are you going to do the same with your love for her?”

“Nae,” came back the hoarse whisper, as he fiercely shook his head, his long hair swinging and catching the light. “Nae, never.” 

“So, stop hurting yourself and the ones who want to help you.” He watched Alistair crush Sophia in his arms, murmuring again he was sorry, and she squeeze him back, saying it was okay; that she was sorry too.

In spite of the painful situation, the couple was so in sync, they were almost one in their sorrow.

Dr. Volk waited until they were seated again to proceed. “In one of our meetings, Alistair, I explained that in the early stages of grief it is normal to feel crazy, to have nightmares, or to question your religious beliefs. It can be a roller-coaster. As time goes by, the difficult periods become less intense and shorter, but it takes time to work through a loss. Even years after a loss, especially at special events such as a family wedding or the birth of a child, we may still experience a strong sense of grief.”

Alistair looked at his hands on Sophia’s lap as she caressed his wrists. “I felt guilty, sad and lonely, angry at the world, at myself, at God, at the devil. I haven’t been there for more than a month. I have to tell her about her films, her dolls—”

“Wait a minute, Alistair,” Doctor Volk interrupted him. “I’m very sorry to say, but she is dead. She cannot hear you anymore.”

A sob shook Alistair’s chest and he buried his face in the hollow of Sophia’s neck. “I don’t want her to be. Two years, Andrew, she was Gabriela’s age when she died.”

Sophia embraced him, crying too.

“Keeping the illusion that Nathalie is alive makes
you
the victim, Alistair. Keeping problems alive that should be solved, maintains the pain inside you. It makes you remain special; a deserver of pity. Besides, illusion is the extreme way in which pain disguises itself to avoid contact with the normal possibilities of life. Feeding and keeping the pain inside you, makes you feel sorry for yourself. Do you understand?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Alistair was calm once more, his bandaged hands roaming over Sophia’s softly heaving back.

Dr. Volk saw her draw a steadying breath, and compose herself. Nonetheless, what he was about to say was going to make her unbalanced again. “Do you want to explain to me why you went to such lengths this time?”

Oh, no, you bastard. Not in front of her.
Alistair’s eyes widened and he shook his head.  “Andrew, I don’t think—” But he shut his mouth. He saw the doctor was going to say it to Sophia. One way or another.
Maybe it’s better to discuss it here and now.

Dr. Volk reclined in the chair and gazed directly into Sophia’s eyes. “Sophia, Alistair and I have discussed many times the possibilities of you having or adopting a baby. So, I guess a baby is coming soon. I know he is afraid, and it’s normal. I can fairly say, you are afraid too. What I am wondering here is, was it the prospect of having another baby that made him edgier?”

Not again, please.
Her mouth opened but not a word formed.

“Nae, nae.” He kissed her forehead, pulling her even closer. “It was because of its conception. I shouldn’t have pushed you to accept a sperm donor. Maybe, we should forget this whole idea of another baby.”
And what if something happens?
“For a few months.”
Forever.
“We don’t have to decide anything now.”
Ever.

Sophia tilted her head to the side, observing him.
Liar. Damn you, Alistair Connor.

Before she could speak, Dr. Volk said, “Alistair, remember Gabriela’s request for Chanukah? Why don’t you start with taking her to visit her half-sister? Children deal with loss and the unknown more easily. You still have time to think about the baby. So the sooner you take her there, the better. She will form better bonds with the baby that is coming.”

Sophia squinted her eyes, looking intrigued at the doctor.
Why does he keep insisting on the baby? Doesn’t he know Alistair Connor will never agree to one? Didn’t he hear him say it just now?

“I’ll think about this,” Alistair spoke.

“No, don’t postpone it,” Dr. Volk contradicted him. “Alistair, it’s a good thing to lean on the people who care and love you. Don’t avoid them; accept what is offered. You hold too much inside. You control too much. That is not good. Oftentimes, people want to help but don’t know how, so tell them what you need. Whether it’s a shoulder to cry on, like now, or just someone to hold your hand.”

“I—” Sophia bit her lower lip.
Say it, Sophia.
She took her iPad from her bag and a folded sheet of paper.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Sophia’s folded sheets.
Alistair never knew what to expect from her folded sheets. They were uncontrollable as her ideas spread and took the leashes out of his hands.

“I have a proposition. Nathalie’s grave—” Alistair’s ink-black eyebrows came together, but she forged on quickly and smoothly. “Nathalie deserves roses and angels, not spikes. She deserves a plaque marking her existence and words that shows the world all the love her father felt for her, not a blank marble slab as if she had not been loved, or the feelings were not important enough to be written down.”

Sophia knelt between Alistair and Dr. Volk. Both men leaned forward, their gazes following her to the floor when she lit her iPad.

On the screen appeared a photo of Nathalie’s sinister grave; on the thin paper, there were a few scattered water-color drawings that made no sense. Then she put the sheet of paper over the screen.

Vines with delicate leaves opening to show little roses buds entwined to the top of the spikes, where a white blossoming rose covered the points. For the spikes at the corners, Sophia designed little angels.

With very few changes, what was the most horrible grave Dr. Volk had ever seen, had turned into a loving one.

“Can we do it? Please? Valentina can order the angels in Italy. No better place for marble. Felipe can send me the flexible wires from Rio. In any form, size and color I want. We can order a platinum plaque from Mr. Arkade with a few words inscribed. In a week or two, we’ll have everything and we’ll embellish her place of rest. Before your birthday. Without having to move her.” He hadn’t said a word, frowning at her iPad. She picked up his wrists in her hands and gazed into his eyes. “Together,
we
can do it. No one will need to touch her place. Just you and me. And maybe Ers—”