Hidden underneath a pile of old college sweatshirts and worn clothes is a wooden box. It’s barely noticeable among the shoes and cases on the floor, the wood so dark that it nearly blends into the shadows in the back of the closet. A small thing, barely the size of a tissue box, but it can mean no small thing. It’s foreign. Yet, it must’ve been here all along. In the years spent at this house I’ve never caught sight of this before.
Gently, I pick it up, investigate it. It suddenly seems too important to be deemed a box, no. A better word for this is a chest. I poke a fingernail into a deep groove in the wood, trace it. An exquisite pattern is carved into this – thin, pale lines that swirl and loop, little leaf shapes carved into them to make them look like branches from a tree. It’s beautiful. Had it belonged to a woman I might’ve thought this was a jewelry box. But it did not. And unless he had a secret affinity for jewelry, I don’t think that’s what it contains. So, what’s inside? I lift it and shake it a little, as if I were a child trying to figure out what’s inside the gift box at Christmas. It isn’t very heavy, weighs less than the Bible. When I was young, the lighter the gift box, the less excited I became for the gift. But now its small weight piques my curiosity. What could be inside? A diary? Seashells? Jewelry? Sheet music? Maybe it is a Bible.
I set it down and try to open it, but it doesn’t budge. I frown, only then spotting the tiny keyhole in the front. I scan the floor. No keys. I grab the pile of clothes that was just covering it, combing through each sleeve, pocket, and collar. Nothing. I crawl into the closet and pat my hands around on the floor. I remove shoe boxes and shoes, piles of ties, crumpled sheet music, and a music stand covered with a thick layer of dust. The shoe boxes have nothing but shoes and the shoes themselves are empty. There isn’t a single key wedged between the ties or the paper. I rise and sift through the polos, flannel, t-shirts, jeans, khakis, and sweatpants on hangars that I have yet to get rid of. And thank goodness I haven’t donated them yet – the key could be stashed inside one of them. I stick my fingers into every pocket, feeling around, finding nothing but fabric. Where’s the key? Where did he hide it?
I sink back down to the floor. Who would keep a key close to a locked box anyway? But why did he even have a locked box? Locked boxes mean secrets and there were no secrets between us. He told me about every test he cheated on, every girlfriend he ever had, every time he ran through a red light, every time he told a family member that he was a banker so they thought he was making money. Each secret had been trivial, usually laughable. Each whispered confidence had only brought me closer to him, endeared me to him more. So, why hadn’t he told me about this? What made the contents of this chest different?
Maybe the key is in the bathroom. I rush over and open the medicine cabinet, fingers frisking past painkillers, allergy pills, tweezers, nail clippers, and Neosporin. I get on my knees and search through the cabinets beneath the sink, but it’s all my stuff – makeup and hair products and hairbrushes and nail polish. They come in white, pink, and purple, all bright pops of cotton candy color. Behind them all, nearly a phantom, sits a little black bottle. As soon as I retrieve it, I realize it’s men’s cologne. His cologne. I can’t resist the urge to uncap it and take a whiff. The fragrance is captivating, familiar. Sweet apples embrace me, accompanied by hints of cinnamon and vanilla. Immediately, I’m back in the church, standing in front of a sleek black piano, in front of a lanky, beautiful pianist. As soon as I neared him my senses were overwhelmed by that aroma, enticing and reminiscent of apple orchards in autumn and unlike any other men’s cologne I’d ever smelled before. Maybe that’s why he stuck in my memory so much afterward.
It was my fifth time attending the Bayward Sunday service. I’d heard him play five times, and I thought he’d been touched by God himself; he was so talented. The church was something new for me. I didn’t expect much from it. But I kept coming back because that piano caught something in me. It was soothing, lilting, like a light breeze that would lift me up until I found myself smiling and singing along with everyone else. So, on the fifth visit I finally worked up the courage to go compliment him after the service.
“I, um, I just wanted to tell you that I really liked your playing.”
“Thank you.” His voice sounded like his music.
“It’s actually inspired me to keep coming back.”
“Really?”
I nodded. What else could I say? A long silence extended between us.
“Well, I hope to see you again next Sunday, Miss…?”
“Cecelia.”
“Nice to meet you, Cecelia.”
“You too, Mr…?”
“Nick.”
We shook. And then I left, a grin tugging at my lips the whole car ride home.
I cap the bottle and tuck it back inside the cabinet. No keys in this bathroom. I huff aloud. It must be somewhere in this house, and I’m going to find it.
A buzz comes from the bedroom. I return to the mess I made and find my phone. It’s time to leave.
Standing outside without trees to provide any shade and surrounded by a sea of black, all I can feel is the sun’s heat. And despite how I know that I should be thinking of other things, all I can think of is the chest. It gnaws at the edges of my brain like the hot light gnaws at my flesh now. But I know if I commit more thought to that chest, I’ll be spread too thin. Compartmentalize, compartmentalize. I’ve never been very good at that.
I purse my lips and wait for my turn. All the while, light sears from above and all around in a show of the sun’s raw, ruthless power. It beats down on me, as if punishing me for some terrible crime. Such heat reminds me of the pool, the beach, ice cream. His favorite flavor had been vanilla – so boring. I always teased him about it, being a lover of richer flavors like chocolate. I would try to convince him to try something different every time. He always stuck to a staunch defense of vanilla.
“Cecelia, you’ll never understand the pleasures of vanilla,” he chided.
“Tell me then.”
“It’s a perfectly simple, pure flavor. It’s sweet and light. You can never go wrong with vanilla.”
I never successfully persuaded him to try a different flavor. He’d been stubborn like that.
Suddenly, I feel very sticky and stiff, my clothes cementing to my skin in strange places. Maybe it wouldn’t be this bad if I wasn’t wearing black, but I’ve made myself a beacon for the sun’s unforgiving beams. I expected it to be a cloudy day. I hoped the sun would respectfully make itself scarce for the occasion. In fact, I expected cold rain and a gray sky that would cast a sobering filter on everything. But we do not always get what we expect.
Despite the incompatible weather, the mood is dismal. No one speaks. We all take turns, going around the big circle to take handfuls of soil and toss them down. Some are slow about it, others fast. The latter make up the minority. They grab the soil hastily, fling it down and rush back, eager to get it all over with. How they can act so insensitive and impatient, I’ll never understand.
I frown as Caroline joins that group of grimly swift grievers. Curls bouncing, she rushes to the soil and carelessly snatches up a formless clump then throws it down with surprising force, as if she’s disgusted with the way it feels in her hands. She does it all in practically one movement, in the blink of an eye. Maybe I should’ve coached her on how to do this before we got here. If only she would let me speak to her.
I try not to let it bother me. It’s my turn now. I was hoping to get a nice big lump of soil to represent how I feel, but so many people went that there’s barely any dirt left. I scrounge up the remaining pathetic particles of dirt and pack them into my palm. Its small size is such a crime that I find tears blurring the edges of my vision. Desperately, I shape the soil and roll it between my palms to make a nice, round ball out of it. But still, it doesn’t look quite right. Now it looks more like a child’s toy than a piece of the earth meant to blanket him, so I crush it back into a formless lump. Slowly, I walk over to the long box. I cup my hands and hold the soil over it. The tears that are waiting just behind my eyes surge forward, trembling on the rims. I can sense the burning gaze of many eyes on my back, so I quickly suck in a breath and say,
“I love you, Nick.”
I whisper it under my breath because even though everyone here heard me say it earlier, I want it to be an intimate moment, just between us, that no one else gets to hear. A final goodbye straight from me to him, not proclaimed in front of everyone he knew in a speech drawn up over a few days, but spoken to him naturally and quietly, as I did before. He would’ve liked that. I dare a glance at my wedding band, and the sunshine bouncing off of it blinds me for a moment.
The way he proposed was very cheesy. It was at the end of the church service on Valentine’s Day. I stood up, ready to go home, when suddenly the band started playing again. Nick got off the bench and strode offstage. I waited for a moment, nerves prickling.
He reappeared onstage, practically jumping with every movement. I was sure he was happy, but I couldn’t tell for certain because his face was blocked by this massive cardboard cutout of a red heart in his hands. He had to crane his neck out like a bird in order to see me, and I might’ve laughed at him except that the words on the sign caught my breath:
“Will You Marry Me?”
I stared at him, shocked. I glanced over at Caroline – she was completely frozen, too. I squeezed her hand.
“Cecelia, I love you. I love Caroline. I love our lives together. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Will you make me the happiest man alive and marry me?”
The giant spotlight hit me, blinding me for a second. He was waiting, a hint of a smile on his lips, hope in his eyes, and that huge, red cutout in his hands, as if he was giving his own heart to me. But I’d already given my heart to him the moment I first saw him at the piano, so I didn’t hesitate for a second when I said,
“Yes!”
I let the soil drop from my hand and return to my place. I reach out to for Caroline’s hand but she inches away. I try not to think about it too much, instead focusing on the casket as he’s lowered into the ground. It sinks inch by inch into the earth until it finally comes to a sudden stop. It’s over.
The silence booms with finality. In response, my legs start shaking again. I don’t want to fall in front of all these people. If he were here he would’ve caught me.
The sunlight instantly closes in on me and the heat became suffocating, invading every inch of my skin. I want nothing more than to go home, strip this sticky fabric off, take a freezing cold shower, and resume my search for the key. Yes, finding the key would be good. Give me something to do besides sway and cry.
People begin dispersing and I sense some of them looking at me. They probably want to talk to me, offer condolences, strike up a conversation about Nick.
“My condolences.”
“He was a great man.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“He will be missed by many.”
“We will keep you and Caroline in our thoughts and prayers.”
I’ve heard enough of the same words in the past two weeks. I glance at them, immediately realizing my error as they seem to take it as an invitation to move in, predators closing in on their prey. I turn away from them. I need to get away from these vultures and be alone. Find the key, open the chest, get Nick’s treasure.
I grab Caroline’s hand and start off toward the car. The little hand writhes around, yanking out of my grip. I stop short, whirling around to face her. I really don’t need her to do this now. Of course, the death of a father figure might make someone closed off. But she’s been locking herself in her room all day ever since it happened. She won’t even let me touch her! Shouldn’t a child want some kind of comfort after their loved one dies?
Caroline crosses her arms behind her back and looks at the ground. I try to figure out if she’s sad or angry or a mix of both. She’s shown little emotion since Nick’s death; she hasn’t even cried once. At least, not that I’ve seen or heard. That seems inherently wrong. I want to ask why she’s behaving this way. But we can’t get into all of that here.
“We’re going home,” I announce, and start moving.
I hurry toward the car, hoping Caroline is following. I can hear feet dragging against the dirt, so she must be right behind. After a few moments, I hear a little sniff and wonder if she might finally be crying. I turn to catch a glimpse of some tears, but there are none. I turn back just as I crash into a man.
“I’m so sorry!” I say, stepping aside.
The man looks at me and smiles.
“It’s alright.”
He instantly reminds me of a vampire from one of those teen romance movies. Handsome, pale skin complimented by dark hair, and a pair of piercing dark eyes placed perfectly to stare straight into your own. He’s wearing all black like everyone else – the difference is he looks comfortable in it. I can’t see a drop of sweat on him. Had he not been outside with the others? I didn’t see him standing in the circle. Where did he come from?
I purposefully look past him at the car. Yet his eyes remain trained on me. His feet seem rooted in the ground, his body stiff and towering over me, as if he were a tree.
“I wanted to offer my condolences. Your eulogy was really beautiful – brought tears to my eyes.”
I force myself to look at him again. So, he was at the first part of the funeral. But I still don’t recognize him.
“Nick was a great guy…” he trails off, breath hiccuping.
“Damned heart attacks, huh?” he gives a halfhearted laugh, then looks at the ground.
I didn’t mention that in the eulogy. Maybe this man did know Nick. Or maybe he just read the obituary online. I scrutinize him for a moment.
“I’m sorry, I don’t recognize you. Who are you?”
“Old friend of Nick’s – name’s Harry.”
He sticks out a hand. I shake it quickly.
“Nice to meet you, Harry.”
“You too.”
“How did you know Nick?”
“We met in college. We both loved to play piano. We had a dream to start a business giving piano lessons together.”
“Oh.”
Nick never told me about that dream, or this friend of his. But he was undoubtedly good at teaching piano. I know he taught a few students before Caroline.
“Speaking of that, is this Nick’s little prodigy you mentioned earlier?”
His gaze shifts to Caroline. Her little face is tucked shyly behind my leg.
“Yes. This is my daughter, Caroline. Nick taught her. She’s really talented.”
Harry nods and offers her a hand.
“Nice to meet you, Caroline.”
She doesn’t move. I suppress a sigh and nudge her forward. I plead internally for her to be polite. Very hesitantly, Caroline gives him her hand to shake. His hand swallows hers.
“That’s a lovely dress you’ve got on.”
She pulls her hand back. He smiles. He has a fox’s smile.
“How old are you?”
The question sounds perfectly normal, but the look on his doesn’t quite sell it. I step forward.
“She’s eight. And I apologize, but we really must get going.”
He nods. I hurry around him, Caroline keeping pace.
“It was nice meeting you two. I hope we meet again sometime,” he says.
I can’t say the same.
We rush to the car and the ride home is silent. The entire time I can’t shake this eerie feeling he gave me. He seemed perfectly nice, but what was that look? And why hadn’t I heard of him before? Nick had lots of friends, and I thought I knew them all. Was Harry another secret he kept from me?
I shake my head. I don’t want to think about it. I’ve got other things to worry about.
As soon as we’re back home, Caroline skitters off, presumably toward her room. I would run after her, except I have a mission of my own. I race back to the bedroom to look for the key, tripping over a box as I go. I move it out of the way, pitying all the poor fuzzy creatures inside. Just a few days after Nick’s death, I found three cardboard boxes waiting outside Caroline’s room, filled to the brims with every stuffed animal he’d ever gifted her. I never realized he’d given her so many until I saw them all, piled so high they nearly toppled out of the boxes. He loved to spoil her. Why she wanted to get rid of them, I could only guess. Maybe they reminded her too much of him. Maybe she cried quietly every time she looked at them. I know the feeling.
Back to the key. It could be in his desk. I return to our bedroom where it stands in the far corner. Inside, I find a giant folder filled with sheet music and a few pencils. I take the folder out and look through it. The first few pages are all church hymns. But then a few pages in there’s something that’s not a hymn: “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.” I smile. This was the first song he taught Caroline.
After I talked to Nick for the first time, I started to bring Caroline with me to church and to meet Nick afterwards. The way he was with her was amazing. He always had a big smile for her and talked to her like she was a little grown-up. I could tell he was good with kids.
“Nice to meet you, Caroline. You know, you’re the prettiest little girl I’ve ever met!”
“Thank you,” she smiled.
They shook hands and he asked, “Have you ever played piano before?”
She shook her head no, so he brought her onto the bench and by the time we left he’d taught her how to play “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.”
Something about the way he smiled then now feels strangely familiar. Different, somehow. I glance at the photo of us on the nightstand. His smile looks perfectly fine there. Maybe I’m wrong. My memory’s probably warped it a bit. That’s how brains work, right? Sometimes they change things here and there when you try to remember. I wish my brain wouldn’t play such cruel jokes on me.
For the next few Sundays after each service Nick would teach Caroline a song and she’d be very proud of herself after. I flip through the next pages and find each one: “Hot Cross Buns,” “Three Blind Mice,” “Ode to Joy,” and “Fur Elise.” One day, Nick pulled me aside and said, “You know, she has real talent. I’d love to teach her, if you’re interested.”
I asked her if she’d like to take piano lessons, and she said yes. So, I started dropping her off for sessions once a week at the church. I’d never seen her so excited to do something before. Nick made Caroline feel special when I couldn’t. I was working at the ICU more often than I was at home, often leaving Caroline alone or with a babysitter. I can’t help but feel a little guilty when I think about it. I should have been there for her. But at least she had Nick.
I flip through the pages faster and faster. The sheet music gets longer as I go, the songs more complex. There have to be hundreds of them in here. I can’t believe Nick taught her so many. The hours he put into this… The hours Caroline put into this! I never realized.
I stop at another song. This one is special. It’s the longest one Nick ever taught her, the one he was most proud of, his favorite: “Sweet Caroline.” He chose it because of her name, and because it was already their song. Not long after they began piano lessons, he volunteered to babysit when I was out of the house working. He did it for free. He refused payment, even when I shoved it in his face. Stubborn as always.
I would come home from work to Nick singing “Sweet Caroline,” the speakers blaring it so loud I could hear it before I even got into the house. At the chorus he would always go, “Sweet Caroline! BUM BUM BUM!!!” and start attacking Caroline with tickles, and she would laugh so hard until her face turned redder than a tomato and she couldn’t breathe, and she begged me to save her! I would swoop in to rescue and then Nick would get me, too. We’d roll around on the floor, breathless and choking with laughter. She’d hang onto me for dear life, her small hands gripping me so tight I’d have to pry her off me. It was like we were already a family.
I asked her to play “Sweet Caroline” at the funeral, thinking it might brighten everyone’s spirits, but she refused to play it. She hasn’t touched the piano since he died.
“Please, Mommy, don’t make me play that song!” she cried.
“Why don’t you want to?” I asked, taken aback. She’d been holed up in her room ever since Nick’s death, and this was one of our first conversations following it.
“I don’t like that song.”
“I thought it was your favorite.”
“It’s not, it’s not! Please!” she wailed.
I reached out to pat her shoulder or hug her, do something to comfort her, but when I did, she flinched. Then she ran back into her room and locked the door. I want to know what I did wrong, what happened that she won’t talk to me or let me hug her or pat her or hold her hand. Now, more than ever, I thought she would want that, need that. I need it. I need her to hold my hand, too. She’s all I have now.
I close the folder. No keys in here. I glance at the chest, still on the floor in front of the closet. Why did Nick have to leave that here? Why did he have to leave me with a locked box? It’s like he’s teasing me, taunting me. Inside is a secret I may never know. Whether it’s a big or a small one, it’s hidden from me, and I hate that. What was he hiding from me?
I’ll search every room in this house and drive myself mad! But I need to know what’s inside, need to know what part of Nick is waiting for me in that chest. He might’ve left it behind for a reason, right? This might be our final goodbye. I throw the sheets off the bed and lift the mattress off the bed frame but there’s no key squirreled away there. Frustration claws at my chest, but I can’t give up. There are many rooms beyond this one.
>So, I go to the kitchen and open every cupboard and cabinet. The wood is all pale oak, bleached and bright, offering no hidden corners or dark places in which something might be hidden. I move quickly, impatiently, removing every glass, every plate, every bowl and mug. All of them are crystalline, translucent, white. They are everything I wasn’t searching for. They reflect nothing but my face, my sunken skin and two frenzied eyes that make me wince when I see them. I’ve pulled everything out of the cupboards so the ceramics and glasses surround me, snickering at me with pale faces that remind me of the cruel, pearl teeth that fill a fox’s smile.
And then I’m thinking of Harry, of his face just like these, laughing silently at me. He was glaring in every way with that grin and white skin. But his eyes were black, so dark that I couldn’t see the pupils where he was keeping something from me. It must be a secret he shared with Nick. They were friends, he said that. Had I missed him when he’d been there all along, like the chest? Did he melt into the shadows and escape my sight, too?
But he could’ve been lying about knowing Nick. It all could’ve been an act. But for what? Then again, the way he towered over me was just like Nick. Except the way Nick was taller than me had been romantic so I had to get on my tiptoes to kiss him. The way Harry leaned over me was intimidating so I had to shrink away. Yet they shared the same hands – pianist’s hands with long, nimble fingers. On Nick they’d been graceful, elegant. On Harry they were like spider legs, unsettling.
Their smiles were… different. They were different. Nick’s was always kind, inviting. Harry’s was off-putting. But then my mind escapes my reins and goes back to that memory, to the church and the way he smiled at her. I know why it’s familiar now.
He grinned like a fox.
That’s enough. Memory can’t be trusted. But it’s all I’ve got, and I can’t stop thinking about it. This key is the reason. I need to stop searching before I go mad. I need to stop doing this before I believe something that isn’t true.
I can’t stay in the kitchen or go back to the bedroom. So, I wander into the sitting room. There’s the piano, the center of attention, emanating some silent magnetic pulse. I’m drawn to it, finding myself sitting at the bench, tracing my finger across its sleek wood. My fingertip comes back coated with a thin layer of dust. How can this instrument suddenly seem so ancient, so untouched? In spite of my resistance to memory, I let it take me back. I can’t help it – memory is a river and I’m merely a piece of driftwood, tugged along the with current, and it’s pulling me toward him. It always takes me back to him.
Nick surprised us with this piano a few months into dating. Caroline and I came home after I picked her up from school to find an upright piano and Nick sitting at its bench in the middle of the room. I gaped. He beamed at us with a smile too wide for his face.
“I bought it for Caroline to practice at home. I think it’s time she has one of her own.”
I couldn’t believe it. I hadn’t managed to get a single word out before Caroline started crying. Seeing her cry made me cry, and – poor Nick – the two of us were a blubbering, sobbing mess. Caroline was so choked up she couldn’t say anything, just stared at the piano, so I tried to convey enough gratefulness for the both of us.
“Th—thank you. Thank you so much. I can’t thank you enough. Thank you.”
All I could do was repeat the same two words over and over again. I was in shock. Nobody had ever done anything this kind for Caroline before. I think she was just as overwhelmed as I was, if not more so. Now my thoughts question why he bought such a grand gift so soon into our relationship. Nick wasn’t rich, at least not that I knew. Maybe he was rich and he never told me! Another secret. I don’t know. But Nick held us while we cried, arms strong and steady. When the tears finally stopped, he said, “I’ll teach you too, if you want,” and winked. Instantly my sobs were turned to laughs. Nick could always do that to me. He could turn anything into a joke or a gift. He could make something wonderful out of nothing.
Now there’s nothing. Tears pool in my eyes, clouding my vision. I sniff and let them fall. They come now, without any barrier, slow and steady, rolling down my face. I glance at the piano. Sitting at this bench, staring at the keys, I feel the urge to play. I’ve never played piano before, but maybe I could learn how as a way to honor Nick, as a way to busy myself.
I scan the simple pattern of black and white. Carefully, I press my fingertip down on the very first key. It doesn’t budge. Strange. I press my finger on it again, a little harder this time, but it doesn’t yield. No sound. I stand up and pry open the top of the piano to see inside. Looking down into the piano’s interior, I can see rows of silver pins with strings attached to each one. The strings descend into the depths of the piano that I can’t see. Right under the pins spans the metal hammer rail. Underneath that are small dampeners connected to most of the strings. Longer, felt-tipped hammers are laid out in front. This is “where all the action happens,” as Nick once told me. The hammers are where the problem is. Or really, the solution. Wedged between the first and second hammers is a small brass object. I pluck it out. To make sure the piano still works, I hit the same key as I did before and watch the little hammer hit the strings. A soft, high-pitched note emanates from within the piano like the last echo of a cry.
Now, to the object in my hand: a key. A small, simple brass key. My heart rockets into my throat. You’ve got to be kidding me. After all my searching, after tearing up the house, it was here? This couldn’t be it. This key, hidden in a piano of all places, hidden in Nick’s gift to Caroline. Why here? Why the key at all? Why the chest? A thousand questions rampage through my head, but I’m already sprinting back to the bedroom and sitting in front of the chest.
I stare at it for a while. After all that, I’m not so sure I want to open it anymore. It could be something bad. But, I remind myself, it could be something good. Whatever it is, I hope it’s a piece of him to hold onto. I hope it’s something that brings me closer to him.
But maybe I know enough about Nick. Maybe I don’t need to know whatever’s in here.
No. I have to know. I need to know what he was keeping from me and why, bad or good.
Carefully, I stick the key into the keyhole and turn it. The room is silent, though my heartbeat’s so loud that I barely hear the tiny click.
My stomach flips. It worked. I open the chest.
I’m not entirely sure what I was expecting, but I didn’t imagine this. It’s empty except for a small photo album. I stare at it for a while before reaching down to pick it up. It’s a small thing, yet surprisingly thick for its size. The cover is rosy pink with purple butterflies scattered across it. A ripple of anxiety raises the hair on my skin. The soft pastel colors are out of place against the dark wood. Why was this hidden in a locked chest in the back of the closet? Are these memories Nick wanted to forget? Old family photo album? A lost child he never told me about? I open it to the first page.
I slam the album shut. I rise so fast everything almost surges out of me too soon. I flee to the toilet and collapse onto my knees, keeling over, vomit spewing out of me, hot and sour. My throat is a small, airless room, walls closing in. I clutch my chest as I heave too much too fast, as if I could expel it from my mind all at once. My body convulses and shudders. Every inch of my skin is frigid, suddenly overrun with millions of goosebumps while all my insides are boiling, and my mind is caught in a chokehold between the two.
Sparks speckle the edge of my vision and I close my eyes, but as soon as I do, all I can see are them and Caroline’s chubby, tear-streaked little face among them and I start to retch and sob even harder.
His sweet Caroline.