Angel

Psychologists say that preschool children view death as a temporary and reversible thing. Based on what they see through movies and cartoons, they believe people can die and come back to life again.

When the sudden death of a family member occurs, children react differently depending on their age. Researchers claim that children between five and nine tend to think more like adults about death. They may feel angry, act irritated, or complain of nightmares. Every child is different, but sadness and anger are the most natural reactions, just like adults.

Rinoa exhibited none of these reactions to her mother's death.

It was like nothing had even happened. It had only been two weeks since the car accident, and Rinoa had gone back to normal already. She was four years old, two days away from five, and was very close to Julia before she died. But she'd almost immediately gone back to playing normally with toys, laughing and playing with friends, and being the chatterbox girl she'd been since she was two.

Instead, she showed her grief in slightly more disturbing ways. I didn't notice at first, since usually I let her play alone in her room with toys, but the lack of emotion she showed made me wonder about her. I began to watch from the door to her room, making sure she was unaware of my presence. Most of the time, I found her playing with Moogle dolls and stuffed Chocobos, but one particular afternoon, she did something I will never forget, as long as I live.

Julia bought Rinoa a Kupo car when she was four. I explained to my daughter after the news of the accident how it happened; that the car Mommy was driving had run into another car, and she died. Perhaps it wasn't the best explanation, but I assumed she was old enough to understand. Maybe I was wrong…

On this day, I saw Rinoa playing with her car. At first, she was just zooming it around the floor with a Moogle doll in the driver's seat. But after a few minutes of this, she rammed it into the side wall, causing the Moogle to fly out of its seat, across the room, to land with a thud at the foot of her bed. I jumped, gave a gasp, and clapped a hand over my mouth to silence myself, but she'd already heard.

"Hi Daddy," she greeted, beaming. "Wanna play?"

I forced a smile and walked in the room, kneeling down in front of her. "Well, that depends," I started, trying hard to keep my voice even. "What are you playing?"

"Kupo Bumping Cars!" she replied enthusiastically, grabbing for the car she'd just crashed. "Wanna see?"

She started to demonstrate again, but I placed a hand on her arm somewhat roughly to stop her. "No, Rinoa. Where did you learn this game?"

She shrugged. "Made it up."

I didn't believe that. "Are you sure?"

Rinoa looked at me as if I was a little crazy. She nodded her head, her eyes wide and bright. I still couldn't decide if she was telling me the truth, but I obviously wouldn't be able to drag it out of her. With a sigh, I sat down on the plush carpet and beckoned her over. She obeyed, and I settled her in my lap facing me. Smoothing a piece of her hair behind her ears, I frowned. She looked so much like Julia.

"Rinoa, do you miss Mommy?"

She looked down, playing with the frills on her shirt. "Uh huh."

"You know it's okay to show that you miss her, don't you? You know it's okay to be sad?"

I expected a nod, but instead, Rinoa shook her head back and forth multiple times, still with her eyes cast downward.

"It's okay to be sad," I repeated quietly, this time as a statement.

She leaned forward, putting a forceful hand on my chest. "No!" she cried in a high-pitched whine.

My voice remained calm and soft. "Why not?"

"Mommy said not to be sad when people leave," she explained, "and don't come back."

Suddenly it all made sense. Julia had told me about Laguna Loire, the soldier she'd met while she was still a piano player in Galbadia, before we even started dating. He was the reason I comforted her that night outside of Galbadia Hotel. He was the reason we came together…and also the reason why she never fully loved me the way I loved her. Julia had been referring to Laguna, and Rinoa related her advice to death as well. Was this unhealthy?

I looked into her eyes for moments on end, trying to decide what to say. Finally, I smiled a little. "She told you that, huh?"

Rinoa nodded, resolved. "She made me pinky-swear!"

I feigned shock and surprise, like it was a blood oath. "She did?" I said, seemingly amazed. "Well, we can't break a pinky-swear."

The grin reappearing on her face, she squiggled out of my lap and went to fetch the car. She brought it back, holding it up too close to my face. "Wanna play now?"

I felt a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach. I pushed the car away, again a little more roughly than I should have. "No." I guessed that I wouldn't be able to stop this disturbing behavior even if I told her it was okay to be sad for Julia, and it was okay to show that she missed her. But I couldn't stand to watch her play that "game" again. Something had to be done.

"No," I said again, this time to myself. "Rinoa, honey, Daddy's got some work to do. I'm going to have Jenny come over and watch you, okay? I'll be back in a couple of hours."

Jenny was the neighbor I asked to come over periodically when I had office work to do. I paid her exceptionally well, even for just a couple hours; so she could be counted on most of the time.

"Okay! Bye Daddy!"

Indeed, I had work to do. But it wouldn't be office work this time. Rinoa needed something to distract her, and I knew just the thing.

A resounding chorus of, "Happy Birthday!" rang through the house once more as Rinoa's friends left. I couldn't have been happier to see them go. A pounding headache was working on drilling through my head. Screaming five-year-olds were not my idea of fun. And I was anxious to give her the last gift of her fifth birthday she would receive.

"Did you like your party?" I asked, grabbing a trash bag and shoving some trash inside. The house was a complete mess.

"Yeah!" she exclaimed, clutching the bear one of her friends had given her tightly. "I had lots of fun!"

"Would you like to make it even better?"

I looked over at her and smiled. If it was possible, her face lit up even more, and she was nodding vigorously. I set down the trash bag. "All right then," I said slyly, "but you have to close your eyes."

Rinoa squealed happily and closed her chocolate eyes, ready to burst with excitement. I left her standing there and opened the door to the basement, heading down the stairs. I'd set up a circle of chicken wire in the middle of the floor, and found what I was looking for: a six-week-old male Australian Shepherd puppy.

He greeted me with yips and whimpers, wagging his tail at an incredible speed and jumping up on the wire. I shushed him and bent down to pick him up. It was like trying to catch a Balamb fish with greasy fingers. When I finally had the wriggling creature in my arms, I started back up the stairs, where I figured Rinoa was waiting impatiently. "Do you still have your eyes closed?" I called as I neared the door.

"Yes!" she answered happily, with a little giggle. "Hurry, Daddy!"

Shutting the basement door behind me, I told her, "Hold out your arms."

Immediately, she dropped the teddy bear like dead weight, and extended her short arms. I brought the puppy over toward her face, and his tongue, which was exceptionally long for his age, sprang from his mouth and started to bathe her face.

Rinoa opened her eyes, giggling madly, and let out a shriek of surprise and joy that intensified my headache. "Puppy!" she cried, taking him from me and squeezing him like she had the teddy bear. "Puppy, puppy, puppy!"

"He's from the pet shop in town," I explained, though she probably didn't hear a word of it. "He's yours, Rinoa."

This I know she heard, because she let out another screech of approval and happiness. "Yay! Thank you, Daddy!"

When the initial ecstatic feeling had worn off, Rinoa plopped down on the kitchen floor with the dog. I watched them with amusement, then knelt down in front of them. "He needs a name," I prompted her. "What will you call him?"

He was busy licking Rinoa's face, and climbing all over her, knocking her back while she laughed. She picked him up and looked into his face while his tongue continued to lick the air. "He's a little angel," she observed. "I'll call him Angel!"

My brow crinkled. "Rinoa, Angel is a girl's name. This is a boy puppy. How about Angelo?"

"Angelo…" She tested the name on her lips, saying it aloud to the dog. In response, his tail wagged even more, and he squeaked out a small bark. Rinoa jumped, giggling, "Okay, you're Angelo!"

From that day forward, Angelo and Rinoa were inseparable. Her Moogle dolls, stuffed Chocobos, and her Kupo car all collected dust while she played every day with her puppy. Rinoa kept her promise to her mother; she was hardly ever sad, all I ever heard was her laughter and joy while she had Angelo. She spent day in and day out training him, and he soon became the best behaved puppy I'd ever seen.

But somehow, I still felt ill at ease.

A child's grief is cyclical, psychologists say. As they begin each new stage of their lives, they have to work through their losses again. This creates a sort of rhythm to their grief, which allows it to be deal with over time. Children also may feel the loss in the lack of emotional availability among the adults around them. They may need extra attention during this time.

I gave Rinoa that extra attention. Or maybe I replaced it with something else, so I wouldn't have to. Certainly, she spent more time with Angelo in those years than she'd spent with me in the five years before I got her that dog. We co-existed, but we didn't have a relationship. In my endeavor to replace her inner grief, I pushed her away.

And now, I may never get her back.