4The Thing About Grief.
"That was my daughter! I will kill you, you..."
And that's where she always runs out of words, even in her imagination, and starts sobbing instead. Because her daughter is dead, and he - he is the boy general, the self-righteous saviour of Earth, killer of Yeerks. The boy in charge. The boy with a plan. The boy who sent her daughter to her death. She doesn't even need to ask. She knows it was him. Who else? Who else would dare?
And oh, God, she said her daughter was a monster. Her baby. Her little girl. A monster.
They always say a body without life looks like it's sleeping and they lied. No one alive could ever look like this. She is lying there, so still, so pale. So young. So young, and she should have grown old, like the others will grow old.
It feels like the roof of the world has been ripped away. Like just a week or two ago they were safe, cocooned, protected somehow, even in the middle of war, even with their lives torn apart. And now the roof of the world has been ripped away and the tethers have come loose and anything can happen now. The worst things, the very worst things can happen now. Have already happened.
Dan knew something was wrong. That's what kills her. He knew. He was a thousand miles away and he still knew. And Naomi was there, right there, in the same house, eating together, talking, hassling her about her chores and her homework and her grades, and she didn't know a thing. And she said her child was a monster, that she scared her, and now she is dead.
It's not until Cassie pushes a tissue into her hands that Naomi realises that she is crying; great, heaving sobs racking her body. She is gasping for air but it doesn't seem to be doing any good. She can hardly breathe. How could she? How could anyone go on after this?
They sit on a bench outside, and the numbness sets in. People walk by, the quiet bustle of everyday life. When they see her they speak in murmurs out of some sort of sick, twisted show of respect and she wants to wring their necks. No one could ever be quiet enough for this. It's futile, profane, almost obscene to even try.
Cassie sits beside her, staring at her hands, tears running down her cheeks. Naomi wants to ask her about the war, about her child, about what they did. She wants to know every inch of it as intimately as if she were there. She wants to see her daughter's face, alive, through their eyes. She wants to see her smile. She wants to know how she looked, everything she said. She wants to know the big things, the victories, the defeats, was she ever scared? Was she brave? What was it like, fighting alongside her? And she wants to know the small things, the unimportant things. The things that made her laugh. What they did together when there wasn't any fighting. The in-jokes. The plans. The arguments and the bickering and the laughter and terror and sorrow. What her last words were. What she was like. What she meant to them. Who she was.
How it can be that a mother cannot know, hasn't the slightest clue, who her daughter was.
Cassie says, "She wouldn't want to be buried." Her voice is quiet and soft, but it is firm, too, and Naomi knows that it is not a question, that her daughter's best friend is not asking for her permission.
A small part of her wants to argue, to fight back. To claim this thing, this tiny part of her daughter, the only thing left of her, as her own. She doesn't. She doesn't, and maybe she should, but her daughter is barely even hers anymore, hasn't belonged to her for a very long time. Her daughter belongs to them. They were there for her. They knew her. They stood by her. They never failed her.
And Naomi said she was a monster, so what right does she have to decide anything?
She doesn't want to think about burying her daughter. She doesn't want to think about practical things. She doesn't want to think about this, either, this gaping cavern that has opened up inside her.
On the day that her daughter would have turned seventeen, Naomi visits her monument, during the day, with her two surviving daughters and their father. Other people are there, strangers who never knew anything about her. Pretending to mourn. Pretending to care. Not even this thing, this tiny thing, her daughter's empty grave, not even this is hers.
They make her feel sick. She wants to scream; she wants to chase them away and set fire to their flowers; she wants to throw bricks. She wants to tear the skin from their faces just so that they will know one inch of what this feels like, watching them act like they care about her child.
Cassie is there. She sits with her. They don't talk about the war, or about her daughter. They just sit until Naomi is calm and the numbness claims her again.
On the anniversary of the day her daughter died, Naomi stays home. She can't bear to go through that again. The empty tributes, the strangers, the flowers. Like her daughter was some tourist attraction and not her child.
She visits a week later, just before sunset. Jake is sitting there, at the foot of her daughter's monument. She hates him. And part of her is surprised that he has the temerity to come here, but of course he does.
When he sees her he stands up to leave, and she says, "Sit," and it comes out harsh and bitter. "Don't you dare leave," she says. "You sent her to her death. The least you can do is sit here." And she knows it's cruel, she knows he is sick, but it feels good to say it.
To his credit he doesn't protest; he barely even reacts. They sit side by side, at the foot of her daughter's monument. She stares straight ahead, reading and re-reading the engravings, daring him to say something, just one word about sorry or it was war or I miss her, but he doesn't say anything.
She sees Loren in a coffee shop one day. Naomi wishes she hadn't gone in, or at least had averted her eyes, pretended not to see her, but it's too late. Their eyes meet and sad, weak smiles appear on their faces and Loren waves, just a raise of her hand, barely extending her fingers, and so Naomi sits across from her and there they are, drinking their coffees. They don't talk about the war. They don't talk about their children. They talk about the coffee and the weather and work, and the absurd things kids are wearing and listening to these days. It is normal. It is strained, and it hurts, but it is normal.
They see each other again a couple of weeks later, and eventually it becomes a thing. A thing they do, where they sit and drink coffee and talk about things that aren't the war and aren't their children. Bit by bit the numbness recedes, and what it leaves behind is... pain, and grief, and sorrow, and joy, and memories, and laughter, and the gaping cavern beneath her ribs. It is beyond agony; even the fleeting moments of happiness are excruciating. But it is normal.
On the day that her daughter would have turned eighteen, Naomi visits her monument, during the day, with her remaining daughters and their father and Loren. They don't stay for very long, but she is surprised to note that she doesn't hate the strangers or the flowers or the tributes nearly as much as she did a year ago. She still wants to scream and to set fire to the flowers, but it's easier to resist.
A week after the anniversary of the day that her daughter died, she visits again, with Loren, just before sunset. When Jake isn't there she feels relieved and angry in equal measure. She can't bear the thought that he has moved on, that he doesn't feel compelled to sit here alone in the dark and atone for what he has done every day for the rest of his godforsaken life. But perhaps it's better that he doesn't. Perhaps it's better if the pain of it fades. Perhaps her daughter wouldn't even want him to be here. She has no way of knowing either way.
She and Loren sit at the foot of her daughter's monument, looking up at the stars which brought so much horror. She tells Loren about her daughter, and Loren recounts what little she knows of her son, and they each piece together a little patchwork of war, square by square, made up of memories and news reports and interviews and half-truths. And this, this is normal, too, and it is hers. This one thing, this tiny thing, this one small piece of her daughter, it is hers.