Three

The morning started early, with a tow-headed seven-year-old boy climbing over Emily and into her bed. Aidan was followed shortly thereafter by his sister, thick straight hair looking as if it had just been brushed, although her face was thick with sleep and she still clutched the ratty t-shirt. My beautiful kids, Emily thought. Thank goodness they were spared their mother’s all-but-unmanageable auburn mop. Ava did have her mother’s fair complexion, though, and a face full of freckles that Emily knew she would hate in a few years. Aidan, though, looked so much like Thomas, even now, that every once in a while, an unconscious gesture or turn of his head would bring a lump to Emily’s throat. Even three years after Thomas’s death, the tears still flowed more days than not.

Emily tried hard to put up a brave face for the kids. The fact was, at this point, Emily found herself angry at Thomas’s absence more than sad, and there was a fair amount of guilt attached to her anger. It was the day-to-day things that made her yearn for him; Ava’s lost tooth, the first day of Kindergarten, the marathon puking sessions, for which Ellen was now solely responsible in Thomas's absence, that heralded a new flu season. She was careful, however, not to let the kids see her cry. The passing years had taught her how to grieve silently, inwardly.

For Emily, work was what kept her sane. Healing people, fixing things for them was what gave her a sense of control, of meaning. She rationalized her long hours and rare appearances at home by the thought that providing for her children financially, and being a good role model was her contribution to the family. She considered it her primary responsibility to make a stable home for her children, whose lives had been turned upside down by their father’s sudden death, and their current, somewhat unorthodox lifestyle. Aidan and Ava had a workaholic mother, for whom an eighty-hour week was her therapy, and the sole stabilizing influence of their ever-present, infinitely patient grandmother, a woman, who, truth be told, was grieving the loss of her son in her own way every day.

Ellen, on the other hand, found her comfort in raising her son’s children. Retired, and widowed, but young and fit, she had both the energy and the wisdom to pick up the slack when Emily went to work. Ellen recognized and respected Emily’s need to work, to doctor, to heal, and she herself found peace in her role as Grandmother-in-Residence. Twins, though, were a handful and these two were no exception. Although Ellen logged more parenting hours than Emily most weeks, Emily always came through when Ellen was absolutely at her wits’ end. Most of the time it was unspoken, and probably unconscious, but Emily always managed to be home for a few days when the kids needed her most. Ellen, from her perspective of the elder of the two, knew how important it was for everyone, that Emily be present at these times. Periodically, Ellen graciously backed away and let the three be a family, but stayed near enough to take over again when called upon. She loved her role and was grateful for the opportunity to be part of Aidan’s and Ava’s lives. And she had to admit that while the loss of her only son was undoubtedly the hardest thing she had ever been through, her own healing was intricately tied up in this calling.

For the most part, Emily and Ellen were perfect roommates. Independent yet connected by the twins, they had become fast friends and completely dependent on one another. Each harboured a secret and unspoken fear that the other would suddenly cease to need her, although in reality, this was far from likely. Neither woman had had even a passing thought about dating in years, and although Ellen had a busy social life, Emily worked so much that all she wanted when she wasn’t working was to spend time with her kids. The arrangement was mutually beneficial, and provided both women with companionship and friendship. For Ellen, it was a chance to be part of her grandchildren’s lives, to survive the unendurable grief of the death of her child; for Emily, it meant there was a caregiver for her children that she loved and trusted, a foundation on which she could regroup and rebuild, without the only man she had ever truly loved. Emily often thought of it as the two of them leaning on each other for the mutual support that was absolutely essential to overcome what was the darkest time in each woman’s life.

That darkness seemed to recede a little as Emily looked over at her children, giggling and squirming quietly, pretending to try not to wake her. She squinted at the clock through sleep-fogged eyes and groaned. 6:54.

“When will you monkeys learn to sleep in?” she grumbled good-naturedly. She grabbed them both in a bear hug and started tickling. Squeals and shrieks bounced off the bare walls of the bedroom that Emily, after all these years, still couldn’t bring herself to decorate. Then the floodgates opened and both kids started talking at once.

“Mom, you should see the haircut Jenny got! It’s so gross! She wore a hat all day yesterday!”

“Mommy, can we invite friends over on Saturday? James wants to play Lego.”

“I hate sandwiches. Can I take soup for lunch?”

“Hey, Ava quit pushing! Mom, Ava pushed me off the bed!”

“I did not, you loser. Mom, he started it!”

And on it went, and would continue, until they fell into bed at night, exhausted from talking, so very constantly. For the most part, they demanded no actual response from Emily; questions were rhetorical, information provided was assumed to be absorbed and appreciated. Emily nodded and made appropriate noises at the right times. She herded them out of bed and toward the kitchen amid the incessant chatter and started a pot of coffee. Only when it was full enough to sneak a cup did she begin to tune in.

“Ok, kids,” she clapped her hands briskly for attention. “What day is it?”

They knew she was really asking; Emily made no secret of the fact the her long shifts messed up her internal clock. Days, nights, all seemed the same after awhile under the artificial lights of an emergency department.

“It’s Thursday, mom!” Ava said. “It’s spelling test day!”

“Cool,” Emily said. “Did you study with Grandma?”

“I did, Aidan didn’t,” Ava replied. Aidan, busy pouring himself a bowl of cereal, looked up sheepishly at his mother.

“Aidan, are you giving your grandmother a hard time about homework?” Emily asked, trying to sound stern. Another thing to feel guilty about, she thought. My son dissing his grandmother. I’m sure somehow it’s my fault.

“No, mom,” he said, more than a little defensively. “She said I didn’t have to.”

“Well, I doubt that, but I’m not going to argue with you about it now,” Emily said, hands on hips. “We’ll see what Grandma has to say about it.”

As soon as the breakfast dishes were in the dishwasher, Emily hurried them along to get dressed and poured herself another cup of coffee. She rubbed her face and reflected on the sense that she was barely in control. Her life felt, especially at the end of a long shift, as though it consisted entirely of work and kids. Work, while never controllable, felt as if she were contributing something; that she could make a difference if there was a difference to be made. Home, however, had long since slipped from her grasp. Ellen kept the house in shape, because when Emily was in it, which was seldom, it was usually to sleep. The twins, while growing and learning and so far going in the right general direction, seemed more the product of a wonderful grandmother and less the product of their absent parents. Well, thought Emily, at least the parents weren’t doing any obvious harm, so far, by their absence.

Amid the usual flurry of activity, lost backpacks and missing shoes, punctuated by periodic shouting matches, the kids made it out the door and to the bus stop on time. As Emily shut the front door behind them, an unnatural calm descended over the house. She took the newspaper to the sofa with another cup of coffee and settled down. The silence was loud and Emily could hear the clock ticking and the refrigerator kick on. Suddenly, the silence was oppressive. She wanted so badly to hear Thomas in the shower, puttering around the kitchen, getting ready for work, that she could almost feel him for a moment. Just as suddenly, the moment was gone, and again, she felt hollow and emotionless. Cried dry. At loose ends. She reached over and flicked on the radio. It was a familiar, catchy song, and it filled the room to its corners, pushing back the emptiness of the house and the void left by Thomas.

She flicked through the paper, trying to focus on the news of the world. The song ended, and the deejay’s chatter caught her attention. “That was the Uptown, with ‘Some Day’,” he announced. “They really rocked at the arena last night!” Emily sat up, surprised to learn the pop song was in any way connected to the intense and self-absorbed man she’d met at the hospital.

“Unfortunately,” the deejay continued in that voice that radio personalities adopt, which makes them sound as if they are always talking through a shit-eating grin. “The band had a run in, literally, with a fan who was waiting outside the arena after the show. She was hit by the tour bus and taken to hospital in serious condition.” Well not that serious, Emily thought. So it was out, then. She wondered when the press would figure out it was her ER and come knocking. She wondered, briefly, if the patient had been transferred to Grace yet.

Emily shook her head and made a conscious effort to clear the memories of last night’s trauma, and, worse, the confrontation with Trent Buchanan and his ego from her mind. What kind of guy has the balls to show up at the hospital like that, anyway? He didn’t even know the girl! It occurred to Emily that he may have been trying to spin the whole thing in a way that would make him look a little better in the press. He probably only showed up for the publicity, she decided bitterly.

As she wandered around the house that day, tidying up and going through mail, she found herself humming the song. After stopping herself a few times, she turned up the radio to block the echoes of Trent Buchanan’s voice bouncing around in her head. When the song came on again a few hours later, she noted with irritation that it might actually be beginning to grow on her. It was catchy, poppy, a vacuously bright and cheerful boy-meets-girl song. She realized she already knew the words and flicked through the CD collection.

God knew where it had come from, maybe forgotten by someone the last time she had had friends over (months ago? She couldn’t remember) but there it was. In any case, she put the CD into the player and turned it up. She decided to make a pot of soup for supper, and danced around the kitchen as she chopped vegetables, feeling just a little better for a moment. It’s too bad, she thought, that the guy who sings such great songs is such a jerk.