The Truth Behind a Smile

Tammy and Jane walked toward the cars, attempting to calm down Emily, while Hugo and Stephen followed them slowly.

“I know it’s hard to say goodbye, but it’ll getter easier with time.” Hugo was attempting to comfort his friend but had misinterpreted Stephen’s look of distress.

“Don’t worry, I know. I’ll be fine. Trust me.” Stephen shot a halfhearted smile at his friend and tried to break out of his grasp.

“You sure you don’t want to stay over a few more days? You know the misses and I don’t mind the company. I mean, to be honest it’s been pretty lonely out here since my parents moved to Montana and hers went back to California. Having you guys around has definitely helped out with that.”

“I know, but it’s time for us to go back home. We all got to face our demons sooner or later, and I’m getting a little tired of hiding.” Stephen laughed, hoping that it would alleviate the tension that his words seemed to create in Hugo’s brow line.

“Why not just one more night? No one should ever be alone after a funeral, especially if it’s for a loved one.”

Stephen stopped walking and looked at Hugo, who turned around to face his friend. Stephen stared into Hugo’s eyes without malice and shined a warm smile that melted the tension evident in Hugo’s face.

Stephen put his hand behind Hugo’s neck. “I’ll be okay. Plus, I have her.” He pointed at Emily who, thanks to the help of the two women, was smiling and giggling again. “I’ll always be fine with that smile around.”

The two men grinned, wrapped their arms around one another, and headed over to the girls. Stephen reached out to Emily, and this time she happily dove into her father’s arms; smiles had evaporated the tears that had stained her cheeks. This little act repaired some of the damage to Stephen’s heart, and the two of them said their goodbyes to the group and walked to the parking lot. Stephen buckled Emily into her car seat and gave her a quick kiss on the head before getting into the driver’s seat and putting the cemetery behind them.

It took Stephen only half an hour to drive them back home. They hadn’t been there since that day, and although his last memory of their house was intensely traumatic, the house somehow shone as he pulled into the driveway. It could have been caused by the sun, a few rays of which had somehow managed to break through the dense clouds and happened to fall on their icy pink home. This illumination eased Stephen’s anxiety about returning home and gave him the courage to face one of his first biggest challenges and enter through the garage, where he’d found Ana’s corpse. With his newfound courage, Stephen put the car in park, grabbed the garage-door remote, and pressed the button.

The door, however, didn’t open. Stephen pressed the remote repeatedly, thinking the signal was weak. After numerous failed attempts, he threw the remote onto the passenger seat, unbuckled his seatbelt, and flung the car door open. He peeked through the back window to check on Emily, who was busy playing with her toes, and strode to the garage door. Crouching down, he grabbed the metal handle, its paint faded, and yanked.

The door wouldn’t budge. Stephen adjusted his footing and squatted down, one hand on the handle and the other on his knee for support. He pulled again, but the door didn’t move. After another failed tug, Stephen took a deep breath and pushed against the ground, but he couldn’t lift the door so much as a centimeter off the ground. Surprised by his failure, he took a step back from the door.

Stephen took three deep breaths and squatted down once more in front of the handle. He jammed eight of his fingers between the handle and the door, using his two thumbs to lock them in place. Squatting down low and squeezing, Stephen took a deep breath. Counting down in his head, he launched all his muscles into action. Initially, the door didn’t move, but as he activated more muscle fibers throughout his legs and lower back, the garage door slowly began to rise. It had only gone up maybe an inch, but it was just enough to give Stephen the motivation to continue heaving as he dug his feet into the ground, squeezing the handle, and causing the veins in his forearms to bulge. He held the air in his lungs, only letting out tiny bursts to prevent himself from passing out. His face was flushed and must have turned a bright coral red. The handle began to bend and conform to the ridges and grooves of his hands. Stephen could feel veins began to protrude his skin throughout his body, climbing along the side of his head and even between his brows and across his forehead.

His muscles were reaching the point of failure as the blood coursing through them inflamed his veins. His muscles screaming in pain, blood collecting in his head, and a lack of fresh oxygen to his lungs, Stephen slipped slowly out of consciousness until a loud snap revived him, and the garage door shot upward, slamming his hands against the door frame. Stephen let go instantly and flapped his hands vigorously, trying to shake off the pain of his scraped knuckles. He flexed his fingers repeatedly since the hold with which he’d punished them caused the joints in his hands to ache. He blew lightly on the small cuts his knuckles had sustained.

As feeling slowly came back to his fingers, Stephen collected himself and began to breathe normally again. Lifting his head slowly, he saw the track Ana had used to hang herself. For an instant, the image of her lifeless body flickered into Stephen’s vision, shooting a sickening fear into his stomach but eased as he blinked and wiping the haunting image away.

He walked around the garage that caused him so much fear and felt nothing. A small chuckle, partnered with a smirk, showed Stephen he’d been overthinking the situation. Once he’d calmed down, he unbuckled Emily, who’d almost fallen asleep in her seat.

Stephen brought Emily into the garage and slid the garage door down. The heavy wooden garage door slammed against the ground, startling Emily, who stood in the center of the room and looked up at her father. Stephen flashed her a smile and picked her up, taking Emily into the house and passing the haunting spot, never looking back, but leaving him to wonder what could have possibly made opening the door so difficult?

Stephen put Emily in the living room and went to the kitchen to cook. Emily had eaten earlier in the morning, but Stephen, who’d had no appetite, had skipped breakfast. Now he was famished.

Given the fact that he hadn’t been home for several days, many of the items in the fridge had gone bad or expired, including the milk and bread. Stephen resorted to the freezer, pulling out a microwavable Hungry-Man meal and a packet of frozen milk for Emily, which he warmed up with boiled water. The quick-preparation meals would give Stephen some more time to spend with his daughter.

Once the food was ready, the two of them enjoyed their meals, and after they were done, Stephen turned on the TV but more for background noise than entertainment. He spent most of his time that afternoon staring at Emily as she switched between playing with her toys and watching the TV. He couldn’t understand it. He’d obsessed over his daughter since the day she was born, but for some reason that afternoon he couldn’t get enough of watching her occupy herself. He marveled at every little decision she made, whether to play with one toy or another and even how she’d lie down to optimize her comfort while watching the TV.

Eventually, the little angel began to grow tired. Rubbing her eyes, she started to doze off. Stephen saw this and glanced at the clock for the first time since getting home. It was late, about a quarter past 9, over an hour after Emily’s usual bedtime. He picked up his daughter and carried her to her room, which had been left a bit of a mess after the events of that morning. After Stephen got her down into her crib, he cleaned up, beginning in her room, and moving out into the living room. He finished up in the kitchen, and then for the first time in a long time, Stephen didn’t know what to do next.

The dishes had been cleaned, the living room was spotless, Emily was asleep, there was nothing on TV at the time that interested him, and even though it was already late, he wasn’t tired. Unable to think of anything to do, he just sat on the couch and stared at the blank abyss of the dark TV screen.

He was finally all alone, and yet for some reason he still could not bring himself to express his emotions of the day. He explained it as a physical form of nothingness. He did not feel sad. He felt no joy, fear, excitement, contempt, or even boredom for that matter. He could only describe the feeling as pure nothingness. He just sat there unable even to produce meaningful thoughts.

After some time in this static state of nonexistence, Stephen began to feel his eye sting as the wretched wench of sleep called him and his body began shutting down while he sat on the couch. His neck began to give out, and as his head fell onto the couch cushions. A scent floated up from the worn brown corduroy, and Stephen’s eyes sprang open. Recognizing the scent of Ana’s perfume, he launched himself off the sofa.

Unable to control himself, Stephen began sniffing the couch, hunting down any last traces of her that he could find secreted in its fabric. He looked like a bloodhound who’d just been given a fresh scent to track but had had no luck turning up anything in the living room. Then he remembered he’d failed to make his bed that morning.

He jumped to his feet and rushed to their bedroom, halting at the closed door to debate with himself over going in. He was scared, scared to enter the place he’d spent the most time with her and find her absent. Scared to see her clothes, her jewelry, and the products she’d left in the bathroom. He was especially afraid to see the photos of them she’d hung across the room after she’d begun to lose her memory. Hope dwindling, Stephen gathered himself and grabbed hold of the door handle. Turning it ever so slowly, he pushed the door open.

The door came to a creaking stop. Stephen stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He managed to make his way through the room without turning on the light and in the moonlight pouring from the window, he saw the imprint that Ana had left on her side of the bed.

Stephen approached the mold her body had left in the sheet and collapsed to his knees. He stared at the outline of curves he missed dearly. Shakily, he put out his arms above the impression and slowly lowered them. As his hands got closer to the bed, Stephen prayed to himself and whispered the word “please” over and over, hoping that touching something that had held her body would in some way allow him to feel her once more. His hands hovered over the indentation left in the fabric so closely that a muscle spasm in a finger would cause him to touch the bed and potentially spoil the moment. Stephen’s heart began to race and his temperature to rise. He started to sweat. It formed first on his forehead but spread to the palms of his outstretched hands. His breathing became erratic, and his hands trembled even though he attempted to contract every muscle in his forearms to keep them steady. The muscle fibers began to beat like a drum as his heart pumped blood vigorously through his body. The muscle beat too loudly in his hands, causing the very tip of Stephen’s ring finger to graze the cotton fabric just enough for him to sense it.

Suddenly the beating stopped, and everything went quiet in Stephen’s head. Desperately, Stephen dropped his hands onto the bedsheet, rubbing across every crease, every fold, lump, and indentation that Ana had left that morning.

“No … no … NO!” he cried; his jaw clenched. Frantically, he rubbed his hands up and down the bed, desperately trying to retrieve some trace of her touch again. Failing to find even the tiniest of hairs that could remind him of her, Stephen grabbed hold of the fabric with both fists and pulled it to his face. He huffed in and out repeatedly, hoping that the fabric still held her scent. With each scentless breath he took, Stephen began to respire more heavily, balling up more of the fabric into his fists and squeezing it more and more tightly. Each breath built up a rage inside him that he’d never felt before. It grew gradually but steadily, overwhelming every cell in his body. He stretched the fabric thin and pushed his face against it while his fists nearly covered his ears until the fabric itself began to rip, and with it came the most pain-racked scream Stephen had ever let out.