They made it twenty-six days.
Really, it was twenty-four days, but that was a Friday. They didn't want to tell him on a Friday or Saturday, because it'd be too long before he could get back to school. To Virginia. To normalcy.
So they did it on Sunday.
Charlie started asking about his birthday party the thirteenth day after Ruth killed herself, which, it turns out, had been on Tuesday, the day before the police found her. He wanted his mommy to come to the party. Michael and Fiona managed to distract him, redirect him, put him off—all the nice ways of saying avoid telling him—for eleven more days.
And every time Charlie would ask, and they would lie, Fiona grew angrier at Ruth. Angry she chickened out. Angry she left Michael and Fiona and Maddie to clean up her mess. Angry she chose to leave Charlie forever.
No. Unrelentingly furious she chose to leave Charlie forever.
Every so often, when she could see a little straighter, Fiona would remind herself that Ruth was sick. Really sick. So sick that she probably thought she was doing what was best for Charlie. But that was just stuff Fiona forced herself to think. What Fiona felt was pure rage.
So Fiona vented a lot, and Michael listened a lot. And they took care of each other as best they could.
The morning of the twenty-fourth day, they knew they couldn't keep up the charade.
Fiona took Charlie to school, pulled Virginia aside, and told her they were going to talk to Charlie on Sunday. Virginia cried and hugged her. Then Fiona went to Madeline's house, told her, cried with her, raged with her, and sat with her.
Michael stayed home and researched how to tell an almost-three-year-old boy his mom is dead.
They decided to take him to a park with a playground. The biggest thing Michael learned from his research was to expect the unexpected when telling a kid that young about death. So they went to the park. Maybe he'd want to run around or play afterwards. Maybe he'd want to see other kids. Maybe he'd want to sit in the grass alone. They just didn't know.
Maddie vacillated for two days about whether to join Michael and Fiona. She wanted to be there for Charlie. For Michael. Sunday morning at 7:30, she announced her decision via text.
Can't do it. I will break down. Don't want to do that to C.
Neither Michael nor Fiona blamed her. They needed two people for this job. They didn't need three. No point in making Madeline hurt even more.
After brunch at IHOP, where Charlie devoured rainbows of syrup along with his pancakes and scrambled eggs, they headed to the park. Charlie bolted off as soon as they reached the entrance to the playground. Within five seconds, he was climbing up to slide down the huge, curvy, tunnel slide. For the next ten minutes, he slid and climbed and ran and jumped and laughed and yelled and beamed. He called out to Michael and Fiona the whole time, ordering them to watch it all.
For their part, Michael and Fiona worked to dissociate themselves from what was about to happen. It was the only way they'd be able to get through it. They'd have to pretend they were some other couple telling some other kid about some other mom.
Charlie finally rejoined them on the patch of grass they'd claimed under a huge tree. "I'm duuhsty," he announced. Fiona handed him his Cars sippy cup of water. He flipped the straw top open and glugged it down.
Michael looked up, shook his head, and blew out a deep breath. "Charlie, Auntie Fi and I want to talk to you about something.
Charlie looked at Michael as he continued to drink. Fiona looked down to her lap, trying to stop the tears before they got out of control.
"We want to talk about your mom."
"Is she coming to my buhthday pahty?" Charlie asked in delight.
So much for dissociation. Tears were now flowing freely down Fiona's cheeks, and Michael's eyes were glassy with water. Fiona pulled Charlie into her lap and wrapped her arms around him.
"No, buddy, she's not coming to your birthday party. We found out some sad news about your mom, and the sad news is that she died." Michael barely got the last word out before he needed to take some deep breaths.
"She is died?" Charlie asked.
"Yes, Charlie, she died," Michael answered.
"Why is she died?"
Michael reached out and took Charlie's hands, holding them in his own. "She died because she was very sick in her brain," he said. That was the one line he'd been rehearsing.
"Is she died like my daddy?"
Michael exhaled slowly and deeply. "Yes, she and your daddy both died. They are both dead. Do you remember what it means to be dead?"
Charlie shook his head.
FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK, screamed Michael in his head. FUCK.
"Being dead means her body doesn't work anymore. She can't move or see or hear or feel."
"Can she come to my buhthday pahty?" he asked.
"No, Charlie, she can't. She can't move or walk or anything."
Charlie began to wail. Fiona squeezed him harder and buried her face in his neck.
"But I want huh to come to my buhthday pahty!" he bawled.
Now Michael was too choked up to speak, so Fiona took over. "I know you do, Charlie," she said, kissing him several times on his cheek. "I know you want your mommy to come to your birthday party."
"Can my daddy come?" he choked out.
Fiona squeezed her wet eyes shut and nuzzled down into Charlie's neck again. "No, cutie, your daddy can't come, either, because he is dead as well."
Charlie kept sobbing.
Michael pulled himself together and spoke. "Charlie, I want you to look at me. Can you look at me?" Charlie looked up. "Good. I want to tell you something else really important, and that's that Auntie Fi and I are right here and we love you and we're going to take care of you. And Grandma Maddie. She loves you and is going to take care of you, too. You're going to have your same house and toys and bed and friends and everything. You're going to go to the same school and have all your same teachers. Everyone is going to take care of you. And we all love you."
Fiona jumped in quickly. "That's exactly right, Charlie. We all love you, and we're going to take care of you."
Charlie continued to cry, but he was getting quieter.
"And you know what else, Charlie?" Fiona continued. "You can feel any way at all that you want about this. You might be sad, or mad, or sad and mad. It's okay to be sad and it's okay to be mad. You can be mad at Uncle Michael and me, and you can even be mad at your mommy and your daddy. It's okay. You won't get in trouble. Whatever you're feeling is okay. And you can tell us."
"Right," Michael picked up, "you can tell us or your teachers or Grandma or Sam or Elsa or Jesse. Any of your grown-ups. You can talk to any of us."
Charlie was silent. They all were.
A couple of minutes later, a chocolate lab dragging a woman trotted up to the tree near them and lifted its leg. "Doggy!" Charlie exclaimed.
"His name is Peanut Butter," the woman said. "'Cause he loves to eat peanut butter. Would you like to pet him?"
"Yah!" Charlie jumped up and ran the few steps to the dog. Fiona followed him.
Michael took the opportunity to go behind a far off tree, right at the edge of the park, and vomit.
Author's Note: A very short chapter, but I felt like their telling Charlie needed to stand alone in the story. Thank you for all your kind words. I look forward to your thoughts on the story!