The Bars That Hold Us (3 page)

A cold sweat
grips me, my dreams just as agonizing as my waking hours. It’s always the same: Daniel and me standing on the precipice, so close to falling. It’s cruel that he comes to me in dreams like this, teasing me, making me think he’s still real. Still alive. Even though it’s more of a nightmare, it’s the only time I can interact with him. Talk with him; plead with him to come back to me. So I welcome sleep with open arms.

I feel so alone without him, but each time I have these nightmares I get to see him just one more time. That
’s before he’s ripped from my hands again. He always falls, a look of shock on his face. It’s unexpected, and I can see his suffering and distress. He knows it’s not something he can come back from.

When I wake in the frigid night air with my sheets kicked off, I wonder how many more nights these battles can go on. I know I’m trying to save a man already dead, yet my subconscious can’t seem to help itself.

I’m screaming, but no one hears me. No neighbors come running, no family to comfort a tortured soul. It’s just me and the pain that grips me every night. It seems endless sometimes, like the only way to stop this vicious cycle of despair and hope is to end my own life. I wouldn’t, but that’s how eternal my grief feels.

I sit up in bed and run my clammy hands over my face. Now that I’m awake and my fevered sweating has stopped, the night air is quickly turning my body slick with sweat into a shivering mess.

Without my blankets I’ll catch a cold quickly in this weather. A part of me is so apathetic that I really have no desire to reach for them, my own welfare just an inconvenience to my sorrow. But in my mind I hear my dad’s voice, telling me for the hundredth time to move on, to take care of myself. I bid his wishes some thought and grab the duvet, suddenly angry that his concern motivates me to relent.

I want to be angry
; I want to be violent and indifferent, because it makes the everyday seem that much easier to cope with. My life before Daniel’s death used to be filled with love and kindness. Now I’m a callous, selfish, empty-shell of a woman who gleans nothing from interacting with others.

A part of me knows that needs to change; that I can’t be mad at the person who took his life forever
. Another part of me is resilient to my own pleas. Hate is a powerful emotion and I seem to have embraced it with all the zealous enthusiasm of a dog with a bone.

Tossing and turning in bed, I know that sleep will elude me. Ditching the she
ets that have started to warm my body, I replace them with the dressing gown I bought Daniel on our first anniversary. By now it’s ragged and tatty, probably smelling more of me, than him. But I love it. It comforts me to wear it. It makes me feel close to him. It makes me feel loved, even though the man and his warm embrace are absent.

Preferring to keep my dark refuge as it is, I leave the lights off as I make my way down the stairs to the kitchen. I flick the electricity button on the wall to turn the coffee machine on. It hums to life
, eager little noises as the water starts to reach boiling temperature. I used to have coffee after making love with Daniel. We would sip the beverage in bed, basking in the afterglow and talking about our future together. Now I drink it in the middle of the night when I miss him the most. Not conducive to my sleep patterns, I know, but I’m just getting by doing what I can. It’s these times that I reserve for trips down memory lane.

With my mug of coffee already warming me to my core, I
make my way to the couch, ready to see his face again. As much as I try, it fades a little more each day, unprotected from the cruelness of time. So while I sit wide awake in the middle of the night, I go through the photos that illustrate so many good memories.

The box I keep them in is old and worn; open and closed many times until the paper that covers it starts to fray and tear. I sticky-tape it back together, hoping that there’s at least one thing I can fix in my life.

There’s many pictures, some blurred and distorted, some vivid and sharp. Each one tells a story of a couple who met, fell in love, fell in love some more and became so beautifully connected they decided to get engaged. It’s mine and Daniel’s story, only the pictures taken from now on will no longer have him in them.

I look at the photograph that holds the most importance to me. It was taken the day before he died. We went to the zoo on a whim, sick of staying at home because it had rained for weeks on end. We took an umbrella to shield us from the rain. We practically had the place to ourselves, no one else daring enough to brave the weather.

Before we left, we had one of the zoo’s keepers take a picture of us with the elephant. We both look mischievously happy and soaking wet, despite the umbrella.
They printed it out and displayed it in the exit foyer like they do at fun parks, making its visitors unable to resist the purchase as they leave the venue.

Daniel was a sucker, too. He bought it, and I’m so glad he did, because I remember exactly what we felt that day. I know every relationship has its ups and downs, but I’m thankful we ended on a good year. Him dying didn’t take away any of the love I felt for him
—then, now, or forever.

I carefully put the picture back in the box, not wanting to spoil it with the tears that are falling from my cheeks.
I drink the rest of my coffee and sigh. My dad’s right. I do need to get back into the world. Not because I need people, but because I know I can’t go on like this forever. Every little bit of my sadness is leaking through my pores and I know I’m going to die of a broken heart if I don’t do something to block out my misery.

I know I can never forget Daniel, or even stop loving him. But I know that for a few hours each day I could do with a reprieve from the blues that surround me incessantly. I need a distraction; one where I don’t have to deal. Deal with real people, deal with emotions and deal with life.

The money won’t last forever, either. It’s not a driving factor right now, but it’s good to have a motivator that spurs thought towards my future. I’m going to need to start earning again sooner or later, and there’s no way I’m ever going back to the police beat that took Daniels life. That
would
kill me.

I know that I’m not ready to get over Daniel, but perhaps it’s time I softened the blow his absence creates. Without checking the time, I reach for the phone and dial the number that’s as familiar to me as my own.

‘Hello?’ His voice is gruff this early in the morning, still drugged with sleep.

‘Dad?’

‘Yes, love, are you alright?’

‘No, but I think I will be,’ I say, brushing the tears from my face with the back of my hand.

‘What’s up, Mercy? Do you need me to come around?’

‘No, I’m fine. I just wanted to let you know that I’m going to call t
he warden tomorrow and tell him I’ll take the job.’ Silence hangs in the air. I know he doesn’t want to say the wrong thing, but I can tell he’s eager to express how happy he is at my news.

‘That’s great, honey, really great.’

‘Yeah, well, I’m sorry if I woke you…’

‘It’s no problem
. Hey, how about I stop by and take you out for breakfast in the morning, and then we can drive over to Silverwater together?’

‘I’d like that a lot
, Dad.’

‘Alright then; you get s
ome sleep before I come get you, okay, kiddo?’

‘Sure
, Dad.’

I hang up the phone, a spark of trepidation filling me. If I hadn’t just committed to my dad, I’d probably bail on calling about the job. That’s the thing with loving someone to death – you don’t know when to stop mourning. It becomes natural to think that your days should be spen
t crying over the one you loved, rather than functioning in the real world. Because I was the last to love him, I know no one else will ever love him romantically again. So it feels like a bit of a betrayal if I give up being consumed by him and his death.

I take my box of treasured photographs and place it on the mantle, keeping it safe for another night. Despite the caffeine, my eyelids suddenly feel heavy, like the weight of my tears have finally worn me down. I need to sleep, even if it’s fitfully, although I’m hopeful that one nightmare is more than enough for tonight.

Padding up the stairs with Daniel’s nightgown around me, I don’t feel so alone. I’m not peaceful – far from it, but I feel a sense of hope as I climb the last of the stairs. I’m hopeful that one day I’ll be able to look back at our life together with happiness instead of sadness. 

For now, I’m just going through the motions. Some might even compare me to an alcoholic or a drug addict of some sort. One day at a time is all I can hope for. I may need to learn to live my life with a new code of
behavior, I may not like it, but I can learn over time to accept it.

For the first time in months, I sleep with relative peace. I’m actually startled awake by the banging on my front door. It’s almost eight o’clock
when I reluctantly roll out of bed.

‘Shit!’ I scramble out of
the sheets and take the stairs two at a time. When I fling open the front door, my dad is standing out in the cold with a bemused look on his face. He blows warm air from his mouth into his hands, the puff of steam reminding me of a skiing holiday Daniel and I took last winter. A quick stab of pain goes right through my heart, reminding me that my days of anguish are far from over.

‘You sleep in, love?’

‘Must have,’ I say non-committedly.

‘You need a minute?’

‘What do you think?’

‘I’d say you look marginally better than you did yesterday.’

‘Well it’s a start, quit your bitching.’

He chuckles at my teasing. I’ve always played the hard-
ass, the tough guy. That’s the old me.  This soft ball of mush that falls apart at the drop of a hat is a recent addition to my personality, one I don’t think he particularly likes.

No, that’s not right
. He just doesn’t know how to handle those kinds of emotions. He comes from a family of ten boisterous boys – all cops who’ve walked the same beat as him for the last forty years. I’m sure when I first came along he didn’t know what to do with me.

Just before Daniel’s death we were really close, even working at the same precinct together. I’m sure my absence this last year has been just as much of a kick in the nuts to him as what it was to lose his future son-in-law.

I know he persecutes himself, but he never shows it to me. I guess he figures I’ve already got enough on my plate.

While I throw myself in the shower and figure out what to wear, dad helps himself to a cup of coffee. When I come downstairs I find him staring absently out the back door, probably contemplating the knee high weeds I’ve got growing out there.

‘It’s a bit of a jungle, isn’t it?’

‘I like it that way. People probably think I’m a crazy cat lady and won’t dare to come onto my property to rob me.’

He
humphs
in response, ready to make an argument over the state I live my life in. Considering the recent development where I’ve finally decided to leave the house, I guess he’s willing to overlook my sloth-like ways for the time being.

‘You ready to go?’ he asks, dropping his still-warm cup in my hands.

‘As I’ll ever be,’ I say, looking into the bottom of the coffee cup and reminding myself that I don’t have to think of Daniel every time I smell the heady aroma. It’s just coffee.