The stench of white lilies clouded the room. Michael was long familiar with the cheap navy carpeting, imprinted with golden flora. He learned the feeling of sealed mahogany beneath his fingertips. But more than anything, he remembered the shallow cushioning on his knees, and the stiffness of his bicep when he used it to shield his swelling eyelids. He knelt.
"You look so much like her," he whispered. He crossed his fingers to keep himself from reaching, touching. He closed his eyes and smiled.
"Daddy, why are you crying?"The imaginary voice was light. He sucked in his lips, silencing himself. He longed to feel the warmth of her skin, to cover her childish frame and promise nothing was wrong.
"A coffin shouldn't be this small, Princess," his thoughts responded, "Daddy shouldn't be the one watching you like this."His eyes roamed over the length of the box, no bigger than three feet.
"Rebember when we came here with Mumma?"Her childish slurs seemed real,as though she were talking in front of him. But her lips didn't move; none of her did.
"You were very little."
"Yeah. I didn't know why she wouldn't come with us, Daddy." The memories were vibrant in the forefront of his head now. He let himself spiral into that day, just over a year ago when he was in that very room. It was still flooded with white lilies. He was there, here, in the room with his daughter.
He held the baby into his chest. People couldn't help but stare, tragedy always implemented staring. His peripheral vision was cloudy with terror and tears. His cheeks had lost color. Michael tried to hand her to his mother-in-law, but his daughter began to whimper and grabbed a firm hold of her father's gelled hair.
There they knelt together, hand-in-hand, in front of the coffin. The dark sprouts of toddler hair came no higher than Michael's bellybutton, but it didn't matter; the coffin was closed, and she felt included.
"See Mumma," she pointed, asked, demanded, with a familiar pout and two dark orbital eyes that penetrated his stability. The accident had been too debilitating, she was beat up, broken, twisted under the compact car's metal frame.
"We can look at the pictures, baby girl. We can talk all about Mumma." The infant, confused, began to tear up and fell face-first into her father's suit.
"Oh Bretta," he thought, "I would do anything for you could come back, for her, for our daughter. She needs you." He took an unsteady breath. "We need you."
Micheal began to sob grossly, and loudly. He let out a horrific groan of internal agony, stuck between memory and reality, pulled between funerals. Silence surrounded the man, the one who had lost everything. He hadn't realized that his composure had feel. All he knew was the pain, all he felt was guilt.
"I'm- I'm- I'm so s-sorry Bretta," he coughed between tears. "She was everything! She was the greatest person I'd ever met," his voice was getting louder. He let out a husky whisper.
"Except for you. She was perfect because you made her." He reached out a hand and brushed the long strands of brunette on the three-year-old's still face. She was cold, her full cheeks were sallow, somehow. He longed for Bretta's vibrance.
"You deserved a better Daddy," he told the child in hysterics.
"Michael, why don't I lead you to the bathroom for some privacy?" His mother had reached out an arm and touched his shoulder. Everyone else stared- he was the tragedy.
"It's my fault, just say it!" His father and two uncles were there now, they grabbed him by his arms, leading him away. He struggled against them.
"She watched me, she must have snuck out from bed, she must have seen me put it there," he reasoned. He remembered walking into the kitchen for a cup of early-morning coffee and a cigarette before she would awake. He didn't want her to see him smoke. But she was sprawled across the floor, face-down in a puddle of vomit. The room reeked of Vodka. The top cabinet was open. A stool had been pulled close to the counter-tops. Her cheeks were still rosy, the bottle was on its side.
"She must have stepped on the microwave!" his screams were hollow. No one needed his reasons, the situation was bizarre. Child Services had been contacted for the Widower whose three-year-old had died of alcohol poisoning. But he had no one for them to take away, the only fate that could shift was his own. He had lost his will to live, but didn't have the courage to die.
They pulled him through the room of the wake and out into the car. He had long ago turned in the convertible for a more reasonable BMW. He swung his limbs in every direction until the ambulance arrived. The emergency technicians talked among themselves in harsh whispers, agreeing that it was a psychotic break.
"We'll make it a little better, Mr. Mebel," one said, pitying him in his moment of weakness. Another injected a light tranquilizer and once he calmed, maneuvered him onto the ambulance and headed for the hospital. His eyelids became heavy.
"I missed Mummy," a tiny voice echoed. "I didn't mean to leave you, Daddy. I thought the potion would make me good like you. I didn't know it was bad. I'm sorry.
I didn't want to make you sad."
"You made me so happy," he mouthed, soft exhales reaching for her.
"Hey, I think he's talkin' to someone."
"Mummy says that you're the strongest guy she's ever met in the world. She says-"
"Sir, try to relax."
"What? Bretta what is it?" He was desperate for her.
"Stop blaming yourself for a mistake. You are a wonderful father, you did so great." The voice was hers. He reached out for her with an unsteady hand, he was trembling.
"I wanted to protect her."
"Give him a small dose, just a little more. His nerves got to him. Let this poor fella' rest." A small pinch, everything began to cloud, Bretta's face blurred into his vision. He didn't have the energy to talk.
"Don't leave," his tired thoughts begged. The image of her smiled softly.
"I love you, Pretty boy."