A Child’s Love
Thomas presses his forehead against the cold, black bar. He winces from the shock of the cold against his skin. Taking a bar in each hand, he grips the wrought iron gate in front of him. A slight breeze catches his coat and makes it flap in a lullaby rhythm. He looks down, past his black leather boots to the gravel beneath them and sees a red rock that is out of place amongst all the other grey ones and starts to slowly roll the rock back and forth, back and forth.
He knows this hesitation is not what he should be doing. This should be easy. He comes to visit them once a year, same day, same time for the past nine years. But this is not the same. This is the first time he is here alone. He isn’t sure if he can even face them.
He lets out an exasperated sigh and lifts his head from the bar. He feels the impression from the bar on his forehead. It tingles from the pressure and from the cold.
“It’s now or never,” he says aloud to the evening air.
He lets go of his grip on the gate and pushes it open. The gate lets out a loud creak that awakens the quiet evening. Overhead, two black crows fly out from a tree, disturbed by the sound. He puts one foot in front of the other and begins his trek up the path towards those who are waiting for him just over the hill.
The gravel crunches with each step he takes. All around him, stones marking those of the past rise up in the lush, green grass on both sides of the path. They still have their presence; they still create shadows in the setting sun.
He rounds the top of the hill. He can see them waiting for him near the oak tree, the two twin stones and their shadows. Something inside of him makes him stop. He stands staring at them as they stare back. It is like they can see everything and that scares him. He forms a fist with his hand and clenches it, willing himself to go. Instead, he reaches into his inside coat pocket and pulls out a flask. He takes a swig and places it back where he got it from and walks the rest of the path.
He stands above them for a moment, in the shade of the oak tree. He kneels down in front of the stone on the left first. He reaches out and runs his fingers over the engraved letters, one at a time, beginning at the M and ending at the E, Marshall T. Bainbridge. His fingers slide downwards to the dates, March 1, 1932-November 24, 1966. A tear makes its way down his cheek, leaving a warm trail on the side of his face.
“Hi, Dad,” he whispers to the stone.
With no answer, Thomas closes his eyes and remembers the last time he saw his father. It was December 6, 1965 when Thomas was six years old.
***
Thomas’s mother, Margaret, drove the thirty-eight miles from their home just outside of Hartford, Connecticut to Westover Air Force Base in Chicopee, Massachusetts. His father was in the passenger seat in his uniform and Thomas was in the back.
Snow blanketed the sides of the highway and the spaces between the giant pine trees that lined the road. It was a quiet morning and they were the only car on the road. And like the morning, the car ride was just as silent.
In the back seat, Thomas looked from his mother to his father and then back again. His mother focused on the road and his father just stared out the window at every passing tree.
His mother broke the silence about half way through the car ride.
“I wish you didn’t have to go,” she said, still not taking her eyes off of the road.
“I know, but it’s my duty. I’ll be back before you know it,” his father told her. He leaned across and gave her a kiss on the cheek for reassurance.
They drove along in silence. Thomas focused on the humming of the engine; it was making a soft whirring noise and it consumed his ears. He thought it was singing him a song and it lulled him to sleep.
Thomas had woken up to see that they arrived at the base after what seemed like forever to him. His mother and Thomas walked his father inside to where they could say goodbye. The three of them held hands as they walked from the car to the building, Thomas was holding his father’s hand and his father was holding his mother’s hand. In that moment, everything seemed perfect.
Thomas looked up and watched as his parents exchanged whispers. He looked at his mother’s face, he had never seen her so sad, her eyes filled with worry. Tears started to fall from her eyes and Thomas didn’t really understand why. His father hugged her tight. As his father pulled away, he gave her a soft kiss.
“I love you Meg,” his father said to her.
His father bent down to Thomas so that they were eye to eye.
“Daddy, why is Mommy crying?” Thomas asked.
“Because Tommy, I have to go away for a while.”
“But, why?”
“I have to go protect our country for you and for Mommy. Don’t worry, kiddo; I’ll be back before you know it.”
“But who’s gonna teach me to ride my new bike?”
“I’m sure Mommy can teach you just fine. But listen, I want you to do something for me while I’m gone, okay? Look after Mommy for me and make sure she’s happy. Promise?”
“I promise.”
“Good. Now come here.”
His father swooped Thomas up into his arms and squeezed him tight.
“I love you, son.”
“I love you too, Daddy.”
His father gave one last kiss to his mother and began to walk away.
Thomas held his mother’s hand as he watched his father disappear through the crowd. His father was constantly stopping and turning around to look back at them. He weaved his way through the mass of families saying goodbye. He stopped one last time and waved goodbye. Thomas noticed the tear that was streaking down his father’s cheek. His father had finally made his way to his fellow soldiers; they all looked so young in comparison.
It was a Tuesday afternoon about a year later. Thomas was riding the school bus home. He was filled with excitement to tell his mother about the A he got on his spelling test. He couldn’t sit still the whole way home; he was bouncing up and down in his seat and craning his neck to see how close they were getting.
As the yellow school bus pulled up to his stop across the street from his house, he noticed a strange car parked out front. He scurried off the bus as quickly as he could and crossed the street.
Thomas stopped when he noticed the two uniformed men making their way up the stairs on the front porch. He watched as they rang the doorbell and as his mother answered the door. As soon as the door opened, she was in a frenzy, screaming, “Why God, why?”
She collapsed on the floor and Thomas ran to her side.
“Mommy what’s wrong?” Thomas asked.
All she could manage to say between her sobs was “He’s gone, Tommy. Your father is gone.”
Thomas joined her and began crying. They held each other the rest of the night, not wanting to let go of the last thing they had.
The funeral was on a Saturday. It rained.
***
A blue bird lands on the stone to the right and causes Thomas to open his eyes. He turns and recognizes the stone. He reaches out and touches his mother’s name, Margaret N. Bainbridge. He feels each groove carefully, they feel like her.
“Hi, Mom. I’ve missed you,” Thomas whispers.
He feels a sharp pain in his chest when he recognizes the dates, July 7, 1933-December 16, 1968. Thomas pulls out his flask and takes another sip. The alcohol burning his throat on the way down, it feels like fire. His tears are pouring like rain and he chokes back a sob.
“Why did you have to leave me, Mom? Why did you have to go?”
***
Life was hard for Margaret and Thomas after Marshall’s death. Every day was a struggle, a struggle to make enough money to put food on the table and to cope with the haunting absence.
His mother was working two jobs and Thomas spent his time with a babysitter when he wasn’t at school. The two of them spent time together only on the weekends. This time was never fun or happy though. His mother no longer smiled. Every time he looked at her, all he saw was sadness, sadness worse than what he had seen the day his father had left.
She no longer cooked him breakfast, but fed him cereal instead. He would watch as she sulked from room to room with her liquor glass in hand. Thomas wanted to keep his promise to his father so he tried to make his mother happy.
“Mommy, watch this,” he said, begging for her attention. Wearing his cap and his top hat he had gotten for Halloween, he performed the magic trick he had learned especially for her.
He took off his top hat and waved his hand over the top and spoke the magic words. Reaching into the hat, he slowly pulled out a bouquet of flowers, “Tada!”
His mother just stared at him, un-amused. She had begun to cry after looking at him for too long. She looked away.
“Mommy, what’s wrong? Didn’t you like my trick?” he asked her.
“It was great, honey.”
“Then why are you not clapping? Why are you crying?”
“You look just like your father, Tommy. It’s hard.”
He was disappointed. Why couldn’t his mother just be happy?
It was Sunday morning, December 15, 1968. His mother was in an unusually good mood. Thomas woke up to the smell of bacon wafting into his bedroom. He threw back his covers and rushed out of bed and into the kitchen.
When Thomas reached the table, his eyes widened. Spread out on the table was a vast variety of every delicious breakfast item Thomas could imagine: pancakes stacked taller than a mountain with a flowing river of maple syrup surrounding them; golden brown cinnamon rolls lined up, ready for devouring; trays of crispy bacon; an array of donuts; fresh milk; and hot cocoa, his mother’s specialty.
“Do you like it, Tommy? I made all your favorites.” she said.
“Yes! This is so awesome,” he exclaimed.
The two feasted until they couldn’t eat anymore. They spent the rest of the day together. They played with Thomas’s Matchbox cars, watched The Banana Splits Show and Mister Roger’s Neighborhood, and since the snow hadn’t fallen yet that season, they went for a walk.
They walked down the street holding hands.
“Having a good day?” she asked.
“Yes! This is one of the best days in a long time,” he said, looking up at her. He noticed she was smiling.
It was the first day Thomas had seen her smile in over two years. He was keeping his promise to his father; he was finally making her happy.
“Tommy, I just wanted to let you know that I love you with all of my heart. Don’t you ever forget that or doubt that I ever did, alright?”
“Alright, Mommy.”
“I love you, Tommy.”
“I love you too, Mommy.”
They walked back home where she made them both hot fudge sundaes, the smiles never leaving their face.
Thomas sat in class Monday morning, staring out the window. A light snow was falling outside, the first snowfall of the season. He watched as the snow floated down and began to coat the ground with a light dust. Yesterday had been the best day he had in over two years, he was happy. He wasn’t going to let school get in the way of his happiness, so he didn’t pay any attention to his teacher. He was daydreaming about when he would get home. He would do all of his homework as quickly as he could so he could go outside and make snow angels with his mother.
“Thomas Bainbridge,” his teacher called, snapping him out of his daydream, “You’re needed in the main office.”
His teacher stood in the front of the classroom holding out a note for Thomas. She stared at him expectantly.
Jumping out of his chair, Thomas snatched the note out of his teacher’s hand, excited hoping that his mother had come to pick him up early so they could enjoy the snow together.
“Maybe she’ll make her hot cocoa again,” he thought as he made his way to the office. His pace quickened as he got closer and closer. Lockers on both sides of him were rushing by in a flash of blue metal. His hair was blown from his speed.
As he rounded the corner, he saw the principal and his Grandma Bainbridge waiting outside of the office for him. His excitement disappeared. He walked with his head down, staring at the grey spotted, linoleum floor slowly passing underneath his red sneakers.
“Tommy, I’m here to take you home,” Grandma Bainbridge announced.
“Why?” he asked.
“I’ll tell you when we get there.”
Reluctantly, he followed his grandma out to her car. He stared out the window angrily the whole way.
“Why didn’t Mommy come pick me up?” Thomas thought to himself.
When they arrived at his house, Grandma Bainbridge sat him down on the couch. Before she could begin talking, he spoke first.
“Why did you pick me up and not Mommy?”
“Well, Tommy…” she paused and looked down. “Tommy, I’m afraid your mother has gone away, to be with your father and the Lord. She wanted to make sure to tell you that she loved you with all of her heart.”
Tears filled Thomas’s eyes. “Liar! I don’t believe you! Liar! Liar! Liar!”
Thomas ran to his room and slammed the door. Flinging himself onto his bed, he buried his head into his pillow, sobbing and screaming.
He would later find out that his mother had overdosed that morning after he had gone to school. His mother never showed up for her shift at the restaurant where she was a waitress. Her boss tried calling the house, but with no response and no answer, she got worried. Her boss had called the authorities.
They found her in her bed with a note on her bed side table. She only wrote two sentences: “Life is too hard without Marshall. Make sure Tommy knows I loved him and always will.”
He never saw that note. He has always wanted to see that note just to see if that’s what she really said.
***
A gust of wind knocks Thomas off balance. The rustling leaves drown out his sobs. He puts his left hand behind him, feeling the sharp blades of grass cutting into his skin. He pushes himself off of the ground. He sways as he stands, not able to hold himself up right. He begins to slowly pace back and forth in front of his parents. He can feel their eyes watching him, bearing into his soul.
A shiver runs down his spine, touching each vertebra it passes. He stops this movement and sits back down. He faces both the stones at the same time, staring back at them.
“I miss you both so much. Why did you have to leave me here all alone?”
***
After his mother’s death, Grandma Bainbridge took Thomas in. The two of them lived in her apartment on the other side of Hartford. It never felt like home. He wasn’t welcome there and it always smelt like cat pee from her cat Fluffy. He was unhappy. He wanted his mother back.
About four months after Thomas began living with Grandma Bainbridge, he came home from school and went straight to bed. He had a severe headache that felt as if someone was punching him in the head over and over.
He was lying in bed when he heard a knock on the door, but before he could even respond, Grandma Bainbridge walked in.
“Is everything alright, Thomas?” she asked.
“My head hurts really bad, so I came in here and shut out all the lights and the noise. But the noises won’t stop.”
“What noises?” He could hear the worried tone in her voice.
“The noises from Mommy and Daddy talking to me. They talk to me everyday. Don’t they talk to you?”
The next day, Grandma Bainbridge took him to go see a doctor. He had scared her and he knew it. He wasn’t supposed to tell anyone that they were talking to him; they made him promise.
They ran tests on him and asked him questions. He hated the doctor. He was old and his hands were too rough.
A few weeks after the tests were done, the results were in. Thomas didn’t care what was wrong with him. He liked talking to his parents. So when they went in to get the results, he sat in the corner and played with his Matchbox cars.
“I’m afraid I have some bad news,” the doctor began, “Thomas is clinically depressed and to cope with the loss of his parents he has these hallucinations of his parents talking to him.”
“Well, is there anything we can do?” Grandma Bainbridge chimed in.
“We can prescribe him some medication that should help.”
The doctor wrote out his prescription and that was the start of his daily routine for the past nine years.
Every morning when he woke up, he would have to take his medication. He didn’t hear his parents anymore and his grandmother said that he was living a perfectly normal life. He had friends and he even joined the soccer team at school.
But he still missed his parents. He would talk to his grandmother about this, so she came up with a plan that every year on his birthday, they would go visit them.
Life was getting better. He had a life outside of his parents’ deaths and he was beginning to feel happy again.
That was until six months ago. He got another slip at school, but this time, no one was there to pick him up. He knew what this meant; he had gone through it before. But unlike his mother, Grandma Bainbridge didn’t commit suicide; she died of a heart attack. Now, he was truly alone in life.
His grandma was the only source of getting his medication. He didn’t have a job and couldn’t afford it. So when she died, his medication supply ran out.
Ever so slowly, Thomas began to unravel like an unfinished knitted sweater. First, his headaches returned. He could no longer play soccer because every time he tried to run, his head would pound even more. Next, his grandmother began to talk to him. She would tell him to make sure to pack his lunch and all of the other little reminders she always told him. She was beginning to be annoying. His mother’s voice came next. She was constantly telling him that she loved him and that she would be seeing him as soon as she got home from work. His father’s was last. They would talk about sports and girls.
It got to the point where they were all talking to him at once and trying to tell him what to do. It made him miss them all.
***
Thomas gathers his knees into his chest and hugs them tight. He rests his chin on his knees. The rough denim material of his jeans rubs his skin raw as he begins rocking back and forth.
“It’s so hard. It’s so hard.”
Still rocking, he puts his hands on his head, one on each side. Pressing to try and get rid of the excruciating pain.
“I just want it to stop! Make it stop! Make it go away!”
He releases his head and straightens his legs out in front of him. His right hand finds its way into his coat pocket and feels the cold metal. He pulls out his father’s old revolver and stares at it for a moment. He squeezes his eyes shut as tightly as he can.
He sees his father, dressed in his uniform, with outstretched arms reaching out to hug him. How he misses those hugs.
He sees his mother standing next to him in her favorite green dress, smiling bright. How he misses her smile.
He opens his eyes; the stones in front of him are all but a blur now, but he never takes his eyes off of them. He raises the revolver and presses it against his right temple, the coldness piercing through his body. His body stiffens. He takes a deep breath in and holds it until his lungs begin to burn. He exhales and closes his eyes. He opens them just as swiftly as he had closed them.
“I’ll be seeing you, Mommy and Daddy.”
Thomas squeezes his finger, pulling the trigger. He feels an excruciating pain as he falls onto his back. Blood pools around his head, his red blood out of place on the green grass.
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