In My Room
* * *
Sleep.
I cannot.
Move.
No.
Nothing. Nothing at all. Just him, there, lying there, alive. Just him, alone.
Alone save for the ache that wouldn't, that couldn't, go away.
Somewhere in this, in all this that was nothing but the hollow ache, there was also the shame. Burning now, deep in him, burning and consuming him as he lay helpless, as one by one the memories came and went, as they intruded like daggers into his soul, as they cut at him with their joy, with the joy they had been.
#
So small, just a little thing, wrapped, still wet in a blanket, given to him to hold by Maureen, who lay exhausted in the hospital bed, smiling the incomprehensible love that she was, that she felt despite the long labor.
He looked down.
So small. A little lock of dark hair, little hands moving in the blanket, clutching at the air of this strange new world, eyes closed.
So small, so perfect, so beautiful.
His daughter.
#
So young. Playing in the backyard, running barefoot over the grass, a happy vision that came to him with her smile, with her love. She was Penelope, but they had never called her that, none save for her grandparents. Penelope ... Penny. My beautiful, wonderful, lucky Penny.
#
So smart. Visits to the classroom of her school, her teacher's words, her teacher's praise.
Smart girl. So smart. You must be so proud of her.
We are.
And home that night, and she, in her pajamas, looking up at them with a smile as they returned, and the impossibility of denying his pride in her. For she knew, she knew, that she was smart, that she was special, that she was ....
#
So perfect. So perfect in who she was, in the girl and the daughter and the young woman she became. So perfect, so understanding, so very much a part of the universe, a reality that was right, that made it right, that made it all worth living.
#
So alive.
So alive.
#
No.
Someone came into the cabin. Judy. He could tell by her step, by the quiet sound her feet made as they moved across the floor to him. He could feel as her hand came out, as it caressed his shoulder gently.
"Dad?"
Nothing. Say nothing. Maybe if you say nothing the universe will just go away.
"Dad? I've brought you some soup. Please eat something, Dad."
His eyes opened and he looked at her. Oh, my beautiful Judy, my beautiful daughter, what have I done? What life have I taken from you, the way I took the life of your sister?
The way I failed?
For he had. He, John Robinson, he who had never met an obstacle he couldn't overcome, who had always met adversity with resolve, with strength, he had failed. He had failed. He had failed.
And she was gone.
He smelled the soup beside the bed, the aromatic steam wafting up to his nostrils. But there was no aroma to it, only the smell of dust, of the collapsing walls that haunted his nightmares, of those first few moments, those crucial moments when he had just sat there, staring dumbfounded at the large slab of rock, suddenly and for the first time in his life, not knowing what to do.
And Don, running down to it, surveying it. Efficient, careful.
We have to get her out. No time. No time. How long could she last, without air? Five minutes, ten? How deep was it? Get the Robot, get him scanning. We can cut through with lasers; we have lasers. We can cut through. Scan for her.
Himself, standing suddenly, yelling orders, rushing down to Don, rushing past him to the stone, throwing a rock aside, then another.
Hurry! Hurry! We haven't much time!
Panic.
And then nothing, and then here.
John opened his eyes again. The room was empty; Judy had gone. Somewhere not so far away, he heard the sound of weeping, weeping he knew. Maureen. He looked down at the bowl of soup, cold now, no steam rising from it, and he found himself unable to move, unable to rise.
Maureen.
Weeping.
He had failed her too.
* * *
Sleep.
I cannot.
Move.
No.
Nothing. Nothing at all. Just him, there, lying there, alive. Just him, alone.
Alone save for the ache that wouldn't, that couldn't, go away.
Somewhere in this, in all this that was nothing but the hollow ache, there was also the shame. Burning now, deep in him, burning and consuming him as he lay helpless, as one by one the memories came and went, as they intruded like daggers into his soul, as they cut at him with their joy, with the joy they had been.
#
So small, just a little thing, wrapped, still wet in a blanket, given to him to hold by Maureen, who lay exhausted in the hospital bed, smiling the incomprehensible love that she was, that she felt despite the long labor.
He looked down.
So small. A little lock of dark hair, little hands moving in the blanket, clutching at the air of this strange new world, eyes closed.
So small, so perfect, so beautiful.
His daughter.
#
So young. Playing in the backyard, running barefoot over the grass, a happy vision that came to him with her smile, with her love. She was Penelope, but they had never called her that, none save for her grandparents. Penelope ... Penny. My beautiful, wonderful, lucky Penny.
#
So smart. Visits to the classroom of her school, her teacher's words, her teacher's praise.
Smart girl. So smart. You must be so proud of her.
We are.
And home that night, and she, in her pajamas, looking up at them with a smile as they returned, and the impossibility of denying his pride in her. For she knew, she knew, that she was smart, that she was special, that she was ....
#
So perfect. So perfect in who she was, in the girl and the daughter and the young woman she became. So perfect, so understanding, so very much a part of the universe, a reality that was right, that made it right, that made it all worth living.
#
So alive.
So alive.
#
No.
Someone came into the cabin. Judy. He could tell by her step, by the quiet sound her feet made as they moved across the floor to him. He could feel as her hand came out, as it caressed his shoulder gently.
"Dad?"
Nothing. Say nothing. Maybe if you say nothing the universe will just go away.
"Dad? I've brought you some soup. Please eat something, Dad."
His eyes opened and he looked at her. Oh, my beautiful Judy, my beautiful daughter, what have I done? What life have I taken from you, the way I took the life of your sister?
The way I failed?
For he had. He, John Robinson, he who had never met an obstacle he couldn't overcome, who had always met adversity with resolve, with strength, he had failed. He had failed. He had failed.
And she was gone.
He smelled the soup beside the bed, the aromatic steam wafting up to his nostrils. But there was no aroma to it, only the smell of dust, of the collapsing walls that haunted his nightmares, of those first few moments, those crucial moments when he had just sat there, staring dumbfounded at the large slab of rock, suddenly and for the first time in his life, not knowing what to do.
And Don, running down to it, surveying it. Efficient, careful.
We have to get her out. No time. No time. How long could she last, without air? Five minutes, ten? How deep was it? Get the Robot, get him scanning. We can cut through with lasers; we have lasers. We can cut through. Scan for her.
Himself, standing suddenly, yelling orders, rushing down to Don, rushing past him to the stone, throwing a rock aside, then another.
Hurry! Hurry! We haven't much time!
Panic.
And then nothing, and then here.
John opened his eyes again. The room was empty; Judy had gone. Somewhere not so far away, he heard the sound of weeping, weeping he knew. Maureen. He looked down at the bowl of soup, cold now, no steam rising from it, and he found himself unable to move, unable to rise.
Maureen.
Weeping.
He had failed her too.