The Love That Remains

Chapter 9

"I don't really remember asking about his death until we moved back to Chicago, around the age of five." I say, my voice still trembling a bit. I breath in and clench my hands in fists. I can do this. I can do this. "They always told us his heart just stopped. That they didn't know why but I never believed them. Even when I was that young I worked it out logically in my head that there has to have been signs or something leading up to it. They weren't telling me something and I knew if they weren't telling me it must be truly horrible. They were protecting me from the truth. So at the young age of five I came to the "logical" conclusion that his death must've somehow been my fault."
"That isn't possible," he says, " you were an infant." He looks at me, his eyes full of pity.
"I figured that out as I got older but logic was too late. Depression twists everything to a point where logic no longer matters. Logic becomes a small piece of your reality. It's like having several people in your head, two of which are logic and depression. While you can hear logic it's more like a whisper behind depression's roar. It became something I just believed. His death had to somehow be my fault and that belief led me to always think that when something went wrong it was always my fault. About a week or so after my nineteenth birthday my parents decided it was time to tell us the truth."

I drift in the hotel pool, staring up at the ceiling, slowly allowing myself to sink until I was completely submerged underwater. "There's something we have to tell you, about your dad's death."  Silence envelops me as my thoughts consume me, cradling me as I sink deeper and deeper. "I don't want to know." I had told them, not wanting to have my darkest belief come to life. "Bella, you need to know. There was one time, I was falling asleep, and you whispered to me. I guess you thought I wouldn't remember." My feet brush the bottom of the pool. "I don't need to hear it. Please." I had begged, tears threatening me. "What I tell you will make it better. You're wrong, Bella. It was in no way your fault." Chlorine stings my eyes as I stare at the vast nothingness before me. "Okay." I had said after several moments of silence. I watch as bubbles of air twirl in a tantalizing dance until they disappeared into the light above the surface. "Your father had been working for a toothbrush factory. There's a trial period until an employee is officially hired. He had just made it and went out to celebrate with friends." I shut my eyes, unable to keep them open any longer. Tears seep out, unnoticeable underwater. I clench the lids of my eyes tighter and tighter, attempting to hold unwanted memories at bay. "He died later of a heroin opiate overdoes." The words play over and over in my head. 'Eight feet under and I still can't escape you. How could you?' I think to myself, finally breaking the surface and coming up for air.

"After that there was no believing I caused his death. I was consumed by anger for a long time. I still am angry. I have no earthly idea how to forgive him."
"You can't stay angry forever."
"I know. And I'm not as angry as I was. I understand needing an escape and I can understand turning to substances for it. Hell, I'm practically an alcoholic and I smoke a pack of squares every two days. But I can't forgive him because I would never do what he did if I had kids. I can't understand how he could do that, knowing how unpredictable the outcome can be with drugs," I say, tears begin to slip silently and I can't hide them as we sit in front of each other. I cross my legs and clutch my sofa pillow to my chest for comfort, "knowing there were five kids waiting for him at home, who he supposedly loved more than life itself. I can't forgive that." I say, tears streaming down my face.
"I'm so sorry." he says.
"It's okay. I'm used to it."
"What do you mean, used to it?"
"I mean I'm used to being disappointed by the people I love. I've come to expect it. I've been disappointed by almost everyone I've ever loved, it only makes sense that even he could disappoint me from the grave."
"Bella." He says, his voice and face contorted with pain for me. Before I know it, I'm sobbing, choking on years of pain I can no longer hold in. "Bella." He says again, cradling me to his chest.
"No." I say, pushing at his chest and propelling myself away from him. But I can't completely push him away so I leave my hands on his chest. "Don't, I don't want to be pitied."
"Bella," he says, removing my hands and cradling them in his lap, "you always think that being strong means you have to go everything alone. You push away anyone who gets close because you think they'll pity you and see you as weak but you're wrong. It's not pity. I care for you and I just want to comfort you, be there for you." He says. I want to say it's bullshit, I want to say that it's a lie and he'd just leave anyways but this fight is one we've had before and one we don't need to argue again, at least not right now. Right now I need his comfort, his care, so I shut my mouth, let myself surrender, nod my head, let him pull me back into his lap, and nuzzle into his neck.