June, 1990

It had been five years since Edie lost her battle with cancer. Jakob struggled in the aftermath, unsure on how to handle two grieving children and a full time job when all he wanted to do was curl up at the bottom of a bottle and drown. He tried to steer away from his children on the worst of his days, feeling his mixture of despondency and grief would overwhelm them as he felt it did him. He hadn't realized that the "worst of his days" were nearly all days, and that the lack of attention to his children was nearly as harmful as the opposite. When the thought finally did occur to him, he simply just tilted his head back and guzzled down another bottle.

But he didn't want to think. He didn't want to picture any loving pecks placed to temples or calloused hands clutched in his own. He didn't want to think of his son, of Erik, and how the boy excelled in any physical activity or how his face lit up when Magda was around or how he couldn't contain the jounce in his step when he brought home yet another trophy and proudly presented it to his lethargic father.

Or of Ruthie. His darling Ruthie, with her mother's hair and her feisty attitude and her knack for baking. And of how intelligent she was! Paper after paper brought home and pinned up by her big brother, each with a stylized "1" or a glittery sticker of praise, showcasing her brilliance.

No, Jakob didn't want to think of his wife's last night spent in an empty bed, gasping for breath as her children slept in the adjacent room and her husband was working, always working, and not there when she closed her eyes for the last time – spindly fingers stretched out on the opposite side of the bed, reaching for a husband that was never there. So, he drank and he drank and he drank until those pervasive memories were nothing more than mere hazy tellings of another man's life.

Hours later he is prodded awake by his youngest. She offers him a smile and tugs on his hand.

That's right, he thinks, Erik's practice.

Erik is breathless with laughter. His stomach aches, his legs throb, and his lungs burn with exertion, but he finds the energy to laugh with joy as he chases Magda through waist high grass. Dusk is settling in, but the somber orange glow of the sun still casts it's light in the valley of two hills. The darkening sky is alight with fireflies, the air smells of freshly turned soil, and Erik's ears ring with Magda's playful shrieks.

"Slow down," he calls out, but he can't stop giggling and he can't quite catch his breath. "I had practice today, remember?"

"Poor baby!" Magda coos over her shoulder as she twists away from his grasp.

"Come on!" He pauses and rests his hands atop his knees. "My papa didn't pick me up, so I had to walk here."

"You ran, you walked, and now we're running. So what?" Magda teased, but she did at least stop a few yards away. Erik pants, and Magda giggles. "Poor Erik! Now he can't catch me."

The challenge is obvious, and Erik never backs down from one, so he darts forward and his sneaker-clad foot instantly catches on a rock. He tumbles forward with a yelp, and disappears into the tall grass. Laughter floats over him, and then a grinning face does.

She plops herself next to him, stretching out on her back and kicking her bare feet at the faint outline of the moon. Erik wheezes, but says nothing. A soft breeze tickles the hairs on Erik's cheek, and then a feather light kiss follows suit. He pulls his head back in shock, blushing as Magda beams. She pushes herself to her feet, demanding he catch her.

He does.

She bids him goodnight with another peck, and he walks home feeling like he's walking on clouds. But the sight of the police in his yard stops him cold, and brings him to earth in a crash. A bedraggled officer steps forward, a silver bracelet clutched in his hand. There's a smear of red on it.

Erik falls to his knees, and he thinks that he doesn't know how to laugh anymore.

TBC...

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