A Sight for Sore Eyes

Liam places our coffee order, making obligatory small talk with the woman on the other side of the counter.

When I hear her say, “You guys are so lucky you’ve been able to go home and sleep every night,” I stand in place, staring at the well-meaning stranger who is oblivious to the turmoil and difficulties of having babies in the NICU.

Anyone who thinks I’m sleeping all night is mistaken. I barely sleep because I spend my nights anxious over whether they are okay in my absence. Are they crying? Are they in some sort of medical distress and I have no idea? Again. Are they bonding with the nurses who have been tasked with caring for them and been more present in their lives than I have?

Not to mention waking every three hours to attach myself to my trusty Medela breast pump.

Sleep is definitely not on the agenda. It’s on a wish list.

“Soooo lucky that our kids couldn’t breathe on their own and required medical intervention.” Liam’s response is marked with an uncharacteristic ridicule. My eyes shift to the right to look at him, but his face is intent on the meddling barista who last saw me thirty-one weeks pregnant.

Without another word, he walks down to the end of the counter, waiting to pick up our overpriced caffeinated beverages. Before following suit, I send the woman an apologetic look, knowing she doesn’t understand our situation, nor do I ever want her to. She stares back at me with a blank look, unsure of what to say, so I walk away with no more words exchanged.

“I can’t believe some people can be so ignorant!”

I study my husband, who is not one to get his feathers ruffled easily, but her comment has got him in a huff.

“Some people just don’t know. Do you think you would have understood how hard it is until we experienced it?”

He stares down at the floor with a sheepish expression. “No, I guess not.” Another server places our drinks on the counter and Liam passes mine to me. “Give me a second.” He walks back to the cash register where we placed our order and the barista looks as if she wants to duck behind the counter. I feel the need to step in between them, not knowing what Liam’s intentions are, but I know him and assume they aren’t nefarious. “I’m sorry for snapping at you. I… We’ve just been stressed and tired.”

“No, I’m sorry. I didn’t consider how hard it would be.” She fiddles with her nametag, which states her name is Rachel. “I have two kids of my own, and I was exhausted when they were newborns, but I can’t imagine not having them home. I really am sorry.”

Liam nods and drops a ten-dollar bill into the tip jar before turning back to me and grabbing my hand to walk out the door.

I’ve learned over the years that many people are unintentionally ignorant of things they haven’t experienced themselves. It’s usually things no one would wish on another human, so helping them to understand with civil conversation is the best way. I’m proud of Liam for humbling himself to apologize. This man is everything I never imagined possible in a husband and father of my children. I look up at him with a smile on my face and he leads me to our new Toyota Sienna minivan to shuttle us home.

After or coffee date, Liam had to go to work for a few hours. It turns out they’re not very amenable to him taking several weeks off with a takeover looming, but that hasn’t been Liam’s chief concern. He’s tried to pacify them as long as he could, working from home, or even from the hospital, but he’s needed in the office.

I’m still recovering, so I don’t want to drive to Toronto myself. I’ll wait for him to return from work, and we can drive down together to spend a few hours with the boys. Dola and Ian offered to go spend time with them this morning, so I’m pleased they’ll have family around.

A knock at the door startles me while I’m in the kitchen making lunch. I never know who to expect when people show up without notice, so I creep to the door, trying to determine who’s on the other side. It’s a good thing Liam and I went out for coffee this morning, or I still would have been in my pyjamas.

The solitary figure is low on the list of who I would have guessed. “Fred?”

“Hiya, Chels. Do you have a minute?”

My brain churns out a hundred possibilities why Zara’s father is at my door. He’s been here a handful of times, but never without Alanna at his side. “Sure. Come on in. I’m sorry for the mess.”

“Looks good to me.” He slides off his shoes before walking into my kitchen.

“Can I get you something? I was just making lunch. Or would you like coffee?”

“Um. No thanks. I’m sorry for dropping in on you like this, but I have some news.”

Ambiguous statements like that are a guaranteed method for amplifying anxiety, a never-ending side effect of PTSD.

“What kind of news?”

Fred blows out a breath, running his hand across his balding head. He’s kept himself in excellent shape since retiring as a firefighter, but his hair, or lack thereof, shows his age. “Your father… your father died.”

For a moment, I have to fight to stay upright, assuming he is talking about Zach. He’s the only father figure I’ve ever really had, but then relief hits as I understand who he’s referring to. “Kevin? He’s dead?”

“I’m afraid so. Turns out he had prostate cancer, and he died yesterday.”

I’m afraid so? Like this is a substantial loss to humanity? Nah. Good riddance. I hope his death was long and painful, like my childhood.

What is wrong with me? My father, despite his failings as a parent, still gave me life. Am I a monster for being relieved he’s gone? Is his heartlessness genetic? Will I fail my own children the way he failed me?

A flood of emotions I wasn’t expecting tears through me and before I know it, I lean over the counter, sobbing into my hands. I hear a stool sliding across the floor before I’m pulled into a comforting hug.

“Let it out,” he says while stroking the back of my head and pulling me into his chest. “I’m sorry, Chels. I know you don’t need this right now. My buddy at the police station called to let me know and asked if I wanted to be the one to tell you. I hated the thought of a stranger coming here and opening old wounds.”

I shake my head, not wanting Fred to feel an ounce of guilt over the situation. “It’s not the fact he’s dead that bothers me. What scares me is how happy I feel about it. I’m a monster.”

“You are not a monster.” He tilts my face, so he’s looking into my eyes. “Look at me. That man deserved what life handed him. Three meals a day and a bed to sleep in were too good for him, and I, for one, hope he suffered. Does that make me a monster?”

I contemplate his words, wondering when Fred developed such a hatred for Kevin, because he’s never once expressed it before. I assumed he was Switzerland on the matter. “No, I don’t think you’re a monster.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I spent many nights fantasizing about ending his life myself after what he’d done to you. I’m only sorry I didn’t get the chance.”

His words have taken me by complete surprise. I’ve always viewed Fred as the sweet, kindly grandfather who dedicated his career to saving lives. Hearing him confess his desire to take one has me dumbfounded. Yet, I don’t view him as evil for having those thoughts.

He pulls me into another hug, and after a moment, places a hand on either of my shoulders, squaring me to face him again. “You’re free, Chels. He can never hurt you again.”

I give Fred a one-sided smile, unsure how to proceed. How do you grieve someone who sought to destroy your value as a human? Do I grieve, or is it okay to celebrate being free?

When Liam returns home from work, he finds me drinking wine; something I haven’t done since before we started dating. To me, alcohol was the gateway to a slippery slope into cocaine addiction. Today, I need it.

I can see Liam staring at me from my peripheral vision, but I’m refusing to look at him.

“Babe? Are you okay? I thought we were going to see the boys.”

“My father died yesterday.” I say the word with as much disdain as I can, so Liam doesn’t have the same panic I did, thinking it was Zach.

Liam sits on the sofa beside me, pulling me toward him. “Are you okay?”

I nod, staring into my near empty wineglass. “That’s the problem. Fred came over to tell me today, and I was happy.” I down the last of my pino noir. “Happy Liam. The man is dead, and I wanted to smile. What’s wrong with me?”

He doesn’t reply right away, allowing a few seconds to pass. “Chels, what he did to you… all of it… was awful. Awful isn’t even the right word, but I don’t know how else to describe it. Nobody should ever go through those things, especially not at the hands of their parent. So, he may have contributed to your DNA, and for that I thank him, but beyond that, the world is better off without him. I’m only sorry I didn’t get to take care of him myself.”

I chuckle. “That’s what Fred said.” I turn to face Liam, who is staring at my empty wineglass. “I guess I was right.”

“About what?”

“Being a terrible parent is genetic. The first hard thing to come my way and I contaminate our children’s food supply.”

He stands up from the couch, grabbing my wine glass and carrying it toward the kitchen. To my surprise, he fills it up again. “Babe, this is not the first hard thing to come your way. You’re forgetting the long line of hard things we’ve been living through for months. This is just what tipped the scales. So, you’ve earned this.” Returning to my perch on the sofa, he passes me the glass. “Drink up while I go change, then you can pump and dump on the drive.”

I look at him with a cocked brow. “Pump and dump?”

He shrugs. “I was reading BabyCenter forums while I was at work.” He laughs, and I fall in love with the sound that’s become few and far between over the past few weeks. “Let’s go see our babies.”