Alone
The chiming of the clock tells me it's three in the morning. I hate that stupid, gaudy thing but she saw it at a yard sale and fell in love with it right away so I bought it. That smile, the way her face had lit up, there was no way I could deny getting her that ugly clock. It's on the side table in the family room; undusted, tarnished. Pretty much an exact replica of what my life has become.
In a few more hours, I'll have to go through this newish routine of doing everything by myself. I know exactly what I'm going to do at six. I won't go upstairs at all to sleep before then (that means I would have to go to an empty, cold bed) and I probably won't sleep at all, but at six, I'll go upstairs to shower and lay out a new suit. I can't wear this one again. It reeks of bourbon because I'm on my fifth glass and it's not like one of those tiny excuses for a shot glass you get at the bar. They were five tall glasses. The kind that leaves you with an empty bottle and a burn so deep inside your body it actually feels like you're on fire.
After showering and shaving, I'll get my little girl out of bed and try to convince her that she needs to go to school today. Then we'll go through the same custom that's become all too familiar in the last week. She's going to cry, I'll smile as much as I can and reassure her that everything will be okay, and she'll stop until I make breakfast. I don't do it like Mommy used to and that's when the tears will really start to roll.
And the worst part is: that's when I get mad.
I get so angry that she doesn't have the rationale to realize that cereal doesn't taste any different just because someone else made it. A few days ago, I actually lost it and threw the bowl into the wall. Milk, Cheerios, pieces of ceramic; they all went flying in a million different directions. And after my perfectly terrified daughter ran sobbing from the kitchen and barricaded herself in her room like I was some sort of monster, I realized it wasn't her I was angry with. She's six. She doesn't know any better and it's hardly rational of me to entertain the idea that she would.
The person I'm angry with is Laura but I'm even angrier that that's not her name. Her real name is Irina; at least, that's what my superiors told me today. She got what she needed out of me, all the specs to Project Christmas, and then she fucking bailed. I at least deserved a Dear John letter, right? It would've been perfect. A powder blue sheet of paper from her favorite notebook taped to the front of the refrigerator that said, "I'm sorry I lied to you for more than ten years but I wanted you to know that my name is Irina and I'm a KGB agent. Take care of our daughter because I'm going to drive my car off a bridge tonight." It would've at least been poetic and appropriate for a literature professor.
The landing at the bottom of the stairs creaks and I see my daughter standing there with that raggedy stuffed rabbit under her arm. Laura had to sew the nose on at least five times and the left ear is half ripped off from overuse. "Sydney, what are you doing up?" I choose my words carefully and make sure to enunciate them. The last thing I want is for her to see that I'm three sheets to the wind and grieving.
"I miss Mommy."
I can hear the tremble in her voice and know she's trying to be strong. Sydney is smart, too smart, and intuitive and curious so she's probably worried about me. I take exaggerated care in getting up and walk meticulously over to her, making sure I don't stumble, and take her hand. It's so small inside my larger one and I feel overly protective of her like I've always been. "Come on. I'll tuck you back into bed."
We make it to the room Laura had carefully bordered with light pink and yellow around the top of the walls and Sydney flops exhausted onto the unmade bed. I can tell by the way the sheets are torn from the mattress and the pillows are all jumbled to one side that she'd probably been tossing and turning most of the night. I pull the comforter high up around her shoulders and smooth some of the light brown hair away from her face before kissing her forehead. "Try to get some sleep, sweetheart."
As I turn to walk out of the room, I realize it might not be such a bad idea to get some sleep. I'd have to answer more questions out Irina tomorrow even though I never had a clue who she truly was. There were times she'd evade my questions or spontaneously kiss me while we were talking, making me lose my train of thought, but I figured I was just being paranoid. After all, the enemy was somewhere else in the world. Not in my house. Not my wife. Closing the door, I almost miss the question. I'm drunk and her voice is meek, barely above the tiniest whisper.
"Are you mad at Mommy for dying?"
I'm frozen. Literally, I feel frozen to the spot I'm standing in. It's like all the blood has drained from my body and my heart's stopped beating because I just feel numb all over. Tears are starting to prick at the back of my eyelids like a thousand tiny little needles and that's the only thing that helps me find my voice. "No, I'm not mad at Mommy." And part of me really isn't. "I just miss her a lot." There. I finally said it aloud.
"Me, too."
I only give her a reassuring nod and close the door because there's no way I can speak right now. The tears I've held back for the last week are running like water down my cheeks and into the corners of my mouth. I lick my lips and they taste salty, bitter, and I'm not really surprised because the part of me that isn't mad is full of hate.
Throwing off that God awful suit and grabbing the pillow from my side of the bed, I quickly retrieve a blanket from the closet and lie down on the floor. I don't want to sleep in the damn bed because I know I'll wake up and automatically reach for her and she won't be there. Plus, everything in here still smells like her perfume. Especially her pillow.
The side of me that's consumed by a hate and rage I've never felt before is for two reasons. One, I can't shake the feeling that she never really loved me. The idea that I was some bullshit assignment and nothing more for ten years makes me want to vomit. Two, the worst reason of all, is that I'm not angry with her for being a spy or the enemy. I'm torn apart because of reason number one and that makes me a complete fool. She betrayed me, our daughter, this country, and I'm lying here on this shitty carpet barely able to think or function or breathe because I'm completely terrified that she never loved me. And for that, I'm not sure who I hate more. Myself or Laura.
Either way, in a few hours, I'm going to get up and face the day alone. I'll probably forget for a few seconds that she's gone, then I'll shower and shave, and put on a suit. Maybe that gray one with the small pin striping she always liked so much because that seemed real. The way she made me turn and playfully model it for her, how she laughed and clapped her hands in delight when I tried to be sexy and hung the coat over my shoulder from one finger like an old mobster or maybe I won't because memories like that hurt too much. Hell, sober me will probably have a better game plan anyhow.
But I'll start the day alone and try again to be a single father. I'm a lousy one at best but I'm trying my best. Then, I'll either drop Sydney off at school and suffer through all the pats on the back and sympathetic stares or call the neighbor to watch her again. I'll probably have to call the neighbor. After that, I'll go into work and try to answer a million questions I don't have the answers to about Laura. Maybe I'll even get some answers about Irina.
Honestly, I really don't care because I'm scared. Even if Laura wasn't 'real', she was to me, and I don't know how to live without her. I'm afraid of whom I'll become without her and that, more than anything, absolutely petrifies me.