“Second Sinking”

By Sarah Disney

Second Sinking

When you want to send someone a message, a sign of how deep and permanent the rift between you has become, consider smashing a six-foot-long paper model of the historic ocean liner Titanic across his bed. Better still, destroy the paper model of the Titanic you spent years building together with Exacto knives, cutting board, and tacky glue. Perhaps you even used needle and thread to hang tiny lifeboats along the promenade of the unsinkable vessel. For greatest impact, dismantle upon his bed a man-length paper boat you spent years building together, which you have heard him describe as a favorite possession.

Revenge is an art form.

In the smashing, when your heart thunders and your words revert to primal screams, you will not consider the times he read just one more chapter of a book aloud to you and your sisters at bedtime, because you begged him to. You will not reflect on the hours adding up to months, or even years, where he waited at the dance studio, through a piano recital, or in the parking lot of basketball camp. All the Saturday morning donuts and Sunday afternoon hikes won’t register. You will not weigh the times he hoisted you onto tired shoulders so your little legs could rest. You will not revisit the worn-out tale of how he introduced you—his firstborn—to extended family, through a transparent hospital bassinet, and you broke his heart open by squeezing his pointer finger in your tiny newborn fist.

Now you are after his heart again.

Be warned, when you stand and survey your damage—the shipwreck sprawling corner-to-corner over the bed—you may feel a moment’s panic. You may wonder what you have done and whether you can ever return to distant shores of good daughterhood.

But take heart; reflect on what brought you to this.

You will recall how he failed to notice his wife of thirty years could no longer write her name. He did not seem alarmed when she was unable to rise without toppling, walk without assistance, or speak without slurring. At the intervention, for what you thought was her drug addiction, his exact words were, “too much of a burden for me.” You will reflect on how he resisted bringing her personal items to the nightmare called inpatient rehab. When her symptoms worsened and turned out to be metastatic cancer—a swift, terminal form—you will remember how he sat beside her hospice bed giggling like an adolescent at text messages from his crush. How he told your sister, the morning of the funeral, about his anticipated first date. How he spent the limousine ride to the cemetery asking when he should stop wearing his wedding band, and then declaring it his choice anyway.

You will remember when he came to visit you and your newborn in the hospital, weeks after your mother passed, how he bragged about his new relationship instead of the miracle of your healthy, heavenly baby. How your sister called a month later, panicked, because she saw him wearing a leather medical bracelet inscribed with the girlfriend’s name and number. All your efforts to be kind and generous had failed. No amount of conversation could help him understand why his daughters were not ready to meet Michelle. When you asked him for space to process what was happening, how you believed he would give you time.

You will relive your surprise at the group text where he floated the idea of listing the house, your childhood home. When his weekend plans prevented him from taking your calls, you left your five-month-old baby with her daddy to drive to the house—your mother’s perfectly curated domain and the last place on Earth with her powdery-sweet scent. You will remember the shock of the For Sale sign in the yard. How your quick online search returned a real-estate listing full of staged, professional photos. The future you dreaded was a present reality.

You will realize he was getting creative in his revenge on those who had not embraced his new life. You had been wrong about who he was capable of being. He would not stop acting out until he’d smashed some hearts; not only yours, but your sisters’ as well. You will not be able to protect them from hurt, from him. And you cannot bear it.

Grief is an art form. Especially when your loss is titanic.

Sarah Disney is a writer/wife/mother living in Louisville, KY. She used to go for answers—now she craves mystery. She’s into dogs but currently houses a cat. Sarah is back to creative writing after a decade hiatus. This is her creative non-fiction debut. More from Sarah at www.thatsarahdisney.com.