Free to live again(P.S. Winn) Free to live again

By P.S. Winn
Copyright 2013


I find myself sitting outside on a hard metal chair in the back row. I am extremely glad I decided to wear my black, wide brimmed hat. Its covering was made to keep out the glaring rays of the sun. Today should have been a day for the beach, where the covering could have been used for that purpose. Not today, instead today a dark veil has been added to the hat. That should keep away any glances that may come my way.
Of course, that’s my own imagination. No one is really looking my way. I just feel they are.
No, everyone is busy instead concentrating on the small, white casket sitting up front. The bright pink and white flowers that cover it seem oddly out of place. I've never even set eyes on the little girl lying in that casket. Oh, I've seen her picture, who hasn't? It was in the paper a few days ago, with her obituary.
Carrie Draper, only six years old. Six for eternity. The paper said her birthday had just been a month ago.
Although I have only seen a picture of the young child, I feel as if I can see her right through that coffin. Her tiny, frail body is lying in there. I can close my eyes and see it in my mind now. What a terrible tragedy, what an awful waste.

As I look toward the casket, I can see the young girl’s parents on the front row. I watch the rise and fall of their shoulders. The motion made by the deep sobs.
As I watch them I wonder why I am here. I surely don’t want them to see me. Maybe I am here for James. My husband should have been here himself. I hate him for not being here.
Even if James would have been in any kind of shape to be here, he wouldn't have come. James’ time of caring about others left him long ago. So long ago I can barely remember the wonderful, caring man I fell head over heels in love with.
Maybe I am here for the children. To let them know we all have to try and somehow makeup for the wrongs of this world. By coming here maybe I can make at least one thing right.
That’s not true either. If I was actually trying to make things right I would be going to the parents. I would be letting the grieving family know that I am here and I care. Instead I hide behind this dark veil.
Mostly I think I am here to help ease my own guilt. I feel so guilty. You see, the night of the accident I fought with James. He had been drunk, not unusual for him. He has been drunk for at least five years now. Alcohol has taken over his life, leaving me with a cruel, hating man. Really only a shell of the man I once knew.
That night James began by yelling at the kids. They knew enough to just go to their rooms and get out of the way. Then James began hitting me. That also was nothing unusual. The unusual part of that night was me.
I somehow found the courage to fight back. I fought with him, and then I screamed at James to get out of the house. I kept screaming until he ran out, slamming the front door behind him.
I was relieved when he left, but I must admit I was also frightened. I always worried something would happen to James. I hated his drinking and what it did to him, but I still loved the man underneath.

It was hours later that a police officer came to my door with the tragic news. James had been in a car accident. He had been so drunk; he had been driving down the wrong side of the road. James had smashed head-on into another car.
A young child had been found dead at the scene.
Remarkably, the driver, the child’s mother, had escaped with only minor injuries. James had been taken to the hospital. He lay there now, in a coma. A coma he would probably never recover from. It is much worse this way. James gets to lie in the hospital, oblivious to everything; meanwhile I am taking on all the sorrow and guilt. Carrying it around on the shoulders that really can’t bear that load. They just aren't sturdy enough to carry this heavy burden.

Up front now, they are lowering the tiny coffin into the ground. Silently I stand and make my exit. Thankfully no one notices me.
Once in the car, I drive straight to the hospital. It takes me a while to get there. Since the accident, when I drive, I do so slowly and carefully. I wish I didn't have to drive at all. I wasn't even at the accident, but it has done this to me all the same. Since I know I must drive, I do it. We all have to do things we don’t like or are afraid of at one time or another. It is a part of life.
Outside the hospital, I sit in the car, taking deep, cleansing breaths. The visits aren't easy for me. I feel it is my duty though. A duty to the husband I long ago lost.
I’ll have to hurry today though. The children, Doug and Sue, will be waiting for me. At sixteen and thirteen, they can take care of themselves, but I still don’t like to leave them alone for too long. They are hurt and confused by everything themselves.

Finally I feel under control enough to walk into James’ room. His room is a private one. I guess no one would care to share a room with someone who just lies there waiting to die. But, that also makes his room too quiet. The only sound is the beeping of James’ heart monitor. It is hooked to a screen. With each beep the normally straight line rises in a peak.
James lays still and quiet in his narrow hospital bed. His deep sleep continues. I almost envy him. No problems, no worries, just sleep and sleep. The problems are all left for me it seems.
I sit on the chair next to James’ bed and take his hand. It is so very thin. James was once a big man, but he has slowly wasted away the last few years. It seems to me now that he hardly ever ate, preferring to have a liquid meal instead. I study James’ face. Although in his early forties, only the dark hair at his temples has begun to turn gray. The deep lines that had been etched into his face seemed to have relaxed in this deep sleep of his. He looks like his old self, like the James I had once loved so deeply. I wish he could wake up and be that old James. The James I knew before the alcohol took over his life.
I tighten my grip on James’ hand. The doctor told me if I talk, James might still be able to hear me. Somewhere in his subconscious mind my words might filter in. I feel funny talking to him like this, afraid others could walk by and hear me. They might think me crazy, talking to myself. So, when I am here, my words always come out in whispered tones.
“James. I went to the funeral today. I feel terrible for that family. That poor girl, so young. I felt someone should be there to represent us at the funeral.”
I could feel my anger rising. It should have been James going to that funeral. James worried about the accusing stares. Now I felt terrible about my anger at a helpless man. I just couldn't stop. My feelings needed to find a way out.
“You should have been the one James, not me. You were the one who ruined those people’s lives, just like you ruined ours. You and your drinking. I hate you for that James. Through my love the hatred comes out. Forgive me for saying it, but James I’m not strong enough to take on all the grief, all the hate. Oh James, why? Why did this have to happen? We had so many good years. I was happy and satisfied with our life. Then your drinking took over, and now this. You killed those people’s baby girl. Just because you drank too much. And now, you are laying here like this.”

Suddenly I realized the room had grown even quieter than before. I stopped my talking. The monitor, that’s it. The heartbeat sound has stopped. Should I scream or maybe cry? No, I must be composed. I hurry out of the room and find a nurse. She in turn finds a Doctor.
Together they run into the room. Suddenly James’ room is no longer quiet. It is filled with noises now. The Doctor is asking the nurse for paddles. If I hadn't seen the procedure on hundreds of television shows I probably would have screamed or fainted. They were shocking James. His body jerked with each shock, lifting off the bed. The heart monitor however still stayed flat and without sound. It is now over for James. I envy him.
James has finally escaped the world that had seemed so hard on him. No more problems to face up to. No having to pay for the problems he caused. No punishment for the crime he committed, not really. Now he had died, now he was at peace. Now it was I who had to take care of his problems for him. It wasn't fair.

I turn and leave the room. I don’t want to face the Doctor or nurses, not now. I can’t stay. I’ll take care of it later, yes later.
I head for the car thinking I need to go and tell the kids. I’m not sure how to tell them, or how they will take the news. I’m not even sure how I feel about it. I want to feel relieved, but that in turn makes me feel guilty. When you love someone you aren't supposed to feel relief over their death.
I find myself pulling up outside a small brick home. I feel disoriented, I don’t recognize this house. Then, as I read the address displayed on the home, I do recognize that. I've seen that address in the papers. Yes, this is the home where Carrie Draper had lived. Where she must have just celebrated her sixth and last birthday.
How did I end up here? As I step out of the car, I look up and realize it won’t be long until it is dark. I should get home to the kids. Instead I walk to the door. Am I crazy? I feel like it is someone else who is knocking on the black screen door.
A young woman with blonde hair comes to the door. I can see the grief on her face, sorrow in the red eyes. Beneath it all though, she is very pretty. What the magazines call wholesome.

“Can I help you?”
My mouth feels dry, my tongue frozen. Oh why am I here? Before I know it, the words come out.
“My husband, James Benson, he is dead. He is the one…your daughter, he is the one that…”
I find myself breaking into tears, I cannot finish.
The woman smiles an understanding smile. She grabs my hand and I feel a slight pull.
“Come on in, I have coffee on. I think you could use a cup.”
I let myself be led into her home. Mrs. Draper takes me to a small, glass top table. She places a cup of coffee in front of me. I take a small sip, as she sits down opposite from me. I can see the kindness shine from her eyes.
“I’m sorry to hear about your husband, Mrs. Benson. I really mean that. I suppose you think I only feel hatred toward him, but it isn't like that. I have brought myself to forgive him. It is the only way for me to release my own grief. I don’t blame your husband, and I never felt any hatred toward the rest of your family. I know about your husband’s drinking problem. I also know that must have been terribly hard on you, even before this accident. You have to remember that alcoholism is a disease, and should be treated as one. I am so thankful that you came here. It gives me a chance to explain just how I feel. My daughter was so special and I know that she is in a special place. I know my baby girl has gone on to a better place to live. I loved Carrie with all my heart and I will miss her terribly, but I know someday I will see her again. I want to let you know that the accident was in no way your fault. Don’t blame yourself or your husband. The most sorrowful thing is that your husband died also. I mean before the two of you could help him to overcome his sickness.”
I found myself smiling at this kind, caring woman. She could never realize how much her words meant to me. I had never really thought of James as being sick, although others had told me the drinking was a disease.
I began telling this woman, this stranger, about the real James. The man he was before the drinking had gotten the better of him. The kind man who had sat up long nights with sick children, the man who used to bring me breakfast in bed on Sunday mornings. That was the James I needed to remember. The James, that now I would have to help the children to remember.

The thought of the children brought me up short. They must be going crazy with worry.
I thanked Mrs. Draper for her help, although she insisted she hadn't really been any help. She didn't realize that talking to her had been like breaking down a brick wall that had surrounded me. She had allowed the guilt and sorrow that had plagued me to be released. I will never forget her for that.
A short time later I find myself sitting outside my own home. This time I don’t sit in the car in confusion. I hurriedly get out.
The children run across the yard and meet me when I am only halfway to the front door. I pull both children into tight hugs. Although they usually say they are too big for that kind of affection, both readily accept the hugs.
We walk into the house, arms around each other’s shoulders. Once inside I head straight for the room I had shared with James. I return to the living room with a large photo album under my arm. I ask both of my children to join me on our couch.
Slowly I begin; I share the death of their father with them. At first, neither said or did anything. Both just sat in stunned silence. I wondered if they were feeling relieved as I had first done.
I opened the big book. It started out with pictures from James’ and mine wedding pictures. I talked as I slowly turned the pages, talked about the good in James. A lot of it the kids didn't remember. Either that or the memories were overshadowed by their hatred of James’ drinking. When I got to the pictures where the drinking had taken over our lives, I marked the page in the book and closed it.
“Before I open this book again, I want you both to remember that your father was a very sick man. The only difference was his disease was one we were all ashamed to admit. I want you to think of his drinking as a type of cancer eating away at him. I want you to try and think well of him.”

As I opened the book, I noticed tears in both my children’s eyes. I felt those same tears echoed in my own. Yes, it was time to weep for the man we had loved and sometimes hated. Time to try and understand that man and what he must have been going through. I knew now that I would be able to do that. I felt like I was becoming a whole person again. Not just that scared shadow of a person anymore. I knew our family could heal and live full lives again. We could now deal with the past and live in the future; we are free to live again.

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