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“Ad—” He chokes, his head dropping down, chin to chest, deep sobs wracking his chest, shaking his shoulders. I take his head in my hands and press kisses into his hair over and over, showering him in affection until he lifts his head, beneath his nose is shiny; his cheeks stained.
“Addie,” he says, his mouth stuck slightly parted after the name is free, like just saying it has pierced him all over again. His dark eyes come to mine. “I haven’t said her name in years. But her name was Addie. Addie May Steele.”
“A beautiful name.”
His nostrils flare as fresh tears paint his face. “She called and said Addie is okay, but I’m shaken up. And I calmed her down and got her to tell me. The kids were swimming and it got wild, Addie slipped out of her life vest. Valerie was there, and pulled her up. It hadn’t been more than thirty seconds, or a minute, I don’t know, not long, she said.”
I don’t know what any of these people look like, yet I can see the scene as clear as day. A sandy embankment scattered with neon buckets and plastic shovels, towels and floaties strewn about, the smell of sunscreen and blooming trees filling the air. An orange sun pinned far off in the distance, laughter and splashing the perfect soundtrack to a perfect summer day.
“She swallowed a bunch of water, even though it had only been a minute or so, she panicked. She was only four, so she tried to scream but… she just kept swallowing water.”
A chill licks my skin as I imagine the piercing screams, Valerie’s panic, the way a beach full of life would suddenly go silent and concerned, everyone edging in around them, looking.
“She vomited a ton. Valerie said she vomited water for five minutes, and then she was crying, and clinging to her.” He swallows. “They were shaken up, but she was okay. She was alert, speaking, saying that she was hungry…we dodged a bullet,Valerie said on the phone that night. I remember that. I remember her using those exact words. I don’t know why I remember that part but I do.
But Valerie was so shaken up. Just... beside herself, really. Couldn’t believe it happened, and Valerie was an attentive mother. Some would even have accused her of being a helicopter parent. It was just…an accident. But she was shaken and she said instead of driving back, she and Addie were going to stay at her sister’s for the night. And in the morning, when she had recovered, she’d drive home with a level head. No emotion, no more tears.”
“She woke up in the middle of the night, sweaty, she said, burning up. She got up and got a glass of water, but her nerves from the day were still running rampant, so she decided to check on Addie.” His lip trembles, and mine does too.
“Oh, Cohen.”
He closes his eyes, and I wait for him to come back to me. When his eyes reopen, bloodshot and wet, he picks up at a different place, skipping the things he’s unable to say. “Secondary drowning,” he rasps, “the paramedics said it was a secondary drowning. The… the…” his voice shatters into a trillion pieces, coming out broken, low, wrecked. “Autopsy said she had water in her lungs, and her body made fluid to protect her lungs from the water.” He sucks in a breath. “Pulmonary edema,” he says. “That’s what it’s called.”
Finally, I wrap my arms around him, and he loops his around me, and our bodies come together in a crushing hug. I hold him, I stroke my fingers up the back of his hair as his silent tears melt over my skin, his pain burning me, changing me.
“I’m so sorry, Cohen. I’m so, so sorry you lost your daughter. I’m so sorry,” I repeat, my words watery and broken. His heart races beneath his heated skin, and I want nothing more than to steady him, be his place of calm, the one who takes his weary and broken and makes him whole again.
“I should've done more. I should have looked up things to look for after swallowing water, I should have insisted she take her to the Emergency Room just to be sure. I could have done so much more, but I didn’t. I was too fucking busy working.”
“Cohen,” I say weakly, both of us fatigued from the tears. I take his face in my hands, our noses and foreheads almost touching. “You had no control over the situation. It wasn’t your fault. Sometimes, bad things happen. Bad things that forever change us. Bad things that are so terrible, we become new people, because the us before the trauma can no longer survive. So we morph into something more stoic, someone stronger, a person shut off to the idea of love, because we know the pain of loss.” I bring my lips to his and he kisses me, pressing into my mouth with fervor.
Our kiss breaks. “Can you be with a man who lets his child die? Who lets his marriage fall apart because of the loss?” His nostrils flare as he chastises himself with sharp, cruel words. “Can you fall in love with such a failure?”
On our knees before one another, the room so dense with emotional charge that a single spark could ignite us, I take the risk. I pinch his face in my hand. “You are not a failure. You did not let her die. Bad things happen to good people. You are not to blame.”
He shakes his head.
“You are not to blame.”
After a moment, he nods. “My therapist has been saying that for years. And I don’t know if I’ll ever believe it. I don’t know that I’ll ever believe that I did all I could. But he’s right about one thing,” Cohen breathes. “I stopped living for the last four years and look,” he raises his bare, empty palms between us, arms and hands trembling. “I didn’t bring her back.”
I shake my head. “You’ve been fighting so hard,” I breathe, now seeing the lines near his eyes as scars from his pain, not marks of age. The weathered look in his eyes isn’t aloofness, it’s the look of a man who has survived. Survived something no one should live through.
I link my hands with his, and start getting to our feet. I guide him down the hall into my bedroom, and ask him to get in bed. He stands at the foot, both of us still completely naked, moonlight casting slivers of gold through the blinds, all over the room. The nudity is symbolic now, our hearts stripped completely bare with nothing to hide.
“Thank you for telling me,” I whisper, pulling the covers down to expose the bottom sheet. I crawl in and pat the space next to me, and still, he doesn’t move.
“Do you see me differently now?” he asks, voice hoarse from the exertion of his story.
“Come,” I say, my tone wrapped in velvet as I order him to bed.
He does, and I pull his head to my chest, feeding my fingers through his hair, softly stroking him. Slowly, his breathing shifts from short, shallow inhales to something slower, calmer, softer.
“I see you more clearly now. And… I want you more than ever,” I whisper, thinking aloud so no part of my thought process is left unknown to him. If I learned anything at all from my time with Dr. Evans, it’s that communication is the core of relationships. I trace the lobe of his ear with a fingertip and he wraps his arms around me, even fishing one under me, holding me close to him. The weight of his head against my chest feels so good. Holding him, helping him calm, bringing him the safety he brings me, it’s fulfilling. “But I want us.”
“Me too,” he says, voice rough, his hot breath licking at my nipple. We’re naked and he’s so close to my breast, and even though my core thrums with need, that’s not what tonight is. “And I understand we have intimacy… issues. That it may be hard for you to be physical. And it’s been four years for me… I don’t—”
I interrupt him. “Was Valerie the last…”
