Emma and the Whole Heart: Part VIII

I gave up. Once.

I was sitting in the bathroom, waiting to die. For real. I had spontanesly gobbled a handful of sleep-aids and chased them with a bottle of gin. As I pulled further away from reality, I started singing. Mostly songs from my childhood at first. And then songs about what a coward I was. Songs about losers, bad boyfriends, wayward fathers, lost love, etc. It was pathetically maudlin – a very daytime television sort of way to spend my last few moments, to be sure. But I didn't feel pathetic. Or dramatic. I felt grateful. And peaceful. And holy. I was getting what I deserved. I was paying the piper and it was ok. I kept singing and it was ok.

When Emma found me, I was still singing. That's the last I remember.

In the hospital, she asked me why – why I tried to do myself in, not why I was singing.

I smiled at her. “Fresh out of courage”, I said. I had smiled but, amazingly enough, I actually felt like laughing. Mostly because I hadn't even gotten suicide right.

She stared at me like I was a stranger. It was the same look she gave me every time I told her something she deemed ify or questionable. “Really?”, the look said.

“Really, really”, I said. I cried then. I couldn't help it.

She held my hand.

I wasn't surprised to see her mother, Grace, lingering just outside my door. Before she had a chance to speak, I sent Emma to find me a candy bar. Her eyes lit up, as if my wanting sweets was a sign that I was getting better. She dashed into the hallway in search of a vending machine before I could tell her to take her time.

Grace was going to ask for full custody. And I was going to say yes. That much was clear. But a part of me had already come to terms with losing Emma.

I lost Emma the moment I'd decided to start drinking again. Not all of her, of course. Not all at once. But the easy carefree love between us changed over time into something hard and almost utilitarian – a love borne of duty.

I blamed myself.

She never trusted me again. Her looks of love and adoration were more and more frequently replaced with looks of pity and anger. It occurred to me that I'd likely spend the rest of her childhood trying to mend that bridge, never knowing (or caring) if I was wasting my time.

The last time she visited me in the hospital, she brought a large white box along with her. “Courage” was written in large bold letters on the top. Inside was a stuffed lion. I saw that one coming but it choked me up all the same. “That's his name?”, I asked.

“That's HER name”, she said.

I nodded.

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This is the entirety of "Emma and the Whole Heart". The original eight parts are available here on www.bostonchronicles.blogspot.com

Comments/Questions/Critiques are welcome and encouraged. Thanks for reading.

-- Drew K. Brathwaite

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