Every morning, for almost an entire year now, she backs out of her driveway and onto memory lane. It takes her past a high school, a church, a law firm, a daycare center and a cemetery to visit her husband who lives at the end of this long, corrugated road. In a way, it makes her feel as though she's leaving all those memories behind. Yet the path does stop, and at the end of the day, she turns around to use the same route, revisiting her former life.
But today, she plans to make a slight detour.
She pads over to her answering machine. Five new messages, all from the day before. The clock tells her it's 7:39 am, and she has time to spare, so she sinks towards the hardwood floor, her back against the wall, and brings her bony knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them, letting her dark wavy hair drape over her shoulders like a blanket.
She presses 'Play All.'
"Mija, happy birthday! How are you? I—" Delete. "This is a message for Gabriella B—" Delete. "Happy—" Delete. "Hey. It's—" Delete. "Please don't—" Delete.
The voices swirl in her mind, but never settle. She lets her thoughts drift, recalling how four years ago, right before she could blow out her candles, her water broke. She'd screamed while her husband grinned. Regardless of that interruption, and after many hours of labour, she received her wish the following day: a healthy baby boy.
At eight o'clock, she parks on the side of the street across from the flower shop that's tucked in one of the neighbourhood's many crevices. Her eyes follow the lone florist as he exchanges the 'Sorry, We're Closed' sign for one that reads 'Come In, We're Open!' and her hands slide from the three and nine o'clock position on the steering wheel to open the car door. Walking swiftly into the building, she inhales the scented air.
"Good morning, Miss," greets the florist, nodding at his first customer of the day. His mouth relaxes into a warm smile.
"Good morning, Sir."
When she asks where the roses are, he replies "Come with me," and leads her to the back of the store where she picks out four white ones.
At the checkout counter, when the man is accepting her cash, he lightly inquires about the reason for her purchase. She tells him her son turns four today. The florists' eyes crinkle as he remembers his own child's fourth birthday and the way he had listened to incessant begging for toy trucks and a basketball hoop to put in their backyard. As if she can read his thoughts, she promptly gathers her change and leaves without uttering another word.
The gravestone is cold, grey and nothing like he used to be.
She lays the roses down soundlessly. There's a lump in her throat, and no words can escape, but they wouldn't be of any use drenched in tears to the point of no recognition, anyway.
A stray petal is stuck to the sleeve of her shirt when she meets her husband who lives at the end of the road. He swats it off and gives her a toothy, child-like grin. Then he frowns when he can't catch it in time. It's a descending white butterfly that flutters on to the carpeted floor of his room. "Leaf," he says. "Fall."
She asks him if he can pick up the missing piece of the flower, but he doesn't reply.
She stares into his bright blue orbs with her shinning brown ones. He breaks eye contact when he dips his head to look at the dropped petal, and she can see the prominent scar on his forehead clearly now.
He's an uninhabited house with the lights still on, functioning without a purpose.
She's a hollowed seashell, filled to the brim with nothingness, chipped in places where hopes and dreams used to be. But instead of the ocean, you'd hear the distressed weeping of a young woman, who'd just been informed her husband and three-year-old son were involved in a serious car collision while on their way to pay her a surprise visit at work for her birthday. You'd hear the repercussions of her world imploding.
For the first time, she pulls back the thick, dusty curtains, uncovering the whole window and allowing sunlight to settle itself in every corner of the room. It's an unfamiliar view. Beyond the glass, there are bulldozers, backhoes, construction workers and orders being shouted—they're extending the road.
Her husband squints, places an arm above his eyes to shield them from the brightness and gestures outside. "Sun."
She pauses for a moment. "Good idea, Troy." Taking his rough hand in hers, she slowly leads him into the corridor of the institute. "Let's get out of here."
He crouches on the grass so he can feel the smooth texture of the rose petals. He peers at her, and she sees her reflection in the lenses of his black shades.
She sits down next to him, hair loosely tied back, letting the slight breeze ghost over her neck.
"Rock." He takes in the feel of the gravestone.
"Would you like to say anything to him, Troy?"
He points towards the sky, the clouds and the birds that fly above. "Sun is up there."
"That's right. He's up there, looking out for us. Did you know he turned four today?"
"Sun," Troy repeats, still pointing.
"Yes, I miss him, too."