The door clicks softly behind me with a bizarre finality, enclosing me into the reality sealed in the lounge. My gaze goes around the space, my eyes connecting with each person who shares my fate. Sylvia is hunched over. Francois, her boyfriend, strains under the effort of holding her up. Magda stands next to them, her Gucci handbag swinging uselessly back and forth in her hand. Facing them is a chaplain. He stops talking at my entrance. Magda’s eyes find mine. This is what my eyes must look like––barren and empty. She gives me a small shake of her head, preparing me.
“Mr. Louw.” The chaplain bows his head and grasps my shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
They still have to say it. Someone has to tell me.
Sylvia lifts her head. Anger and blame twist her features, but not acceptance. I feel so much sympathy for her, right now. That’s the worst suffering––the road to acceptance.
“Tell me.” Don’t tell me. Until it’s spoken, it isn’t real.
The chaplain squeezes my shoulder. “Your daughter … eh…” he glances at a piece of paper on top of the Bible he clutches in his hand, “…Carly, is gone.”
“Gone?” I say.
The clergyman falters under my hard look.
“Gone where?”
“Mr. Louw.”
He says my name like it’s an appeal. An appeal for what? An appeal not to make him say it?
“What?” I challenge.
It’s Sylvia who steps forward. “She’s dead. She’s dead, Gabriel. She’s dead!” Flinging herself at me, she hits my arms and slaps my face. “It’s you! It’s you! It’s all your fault!”
I take her blame and punches, wishing to God she’d hit me harder so I won’t feel the torch burning a hole through my heart.
The chaplain and Francois reach for her simultaneously, trying to pull her off, but she renews her attack, shouting and sobbing with snot flying from her nose. I hold out an arm, holding both men off.
“Why?” she cries, looking at me for an answer. “Why, Gabriel? Why?”
Why? Yes, please, someone, tell me why. I don’t know. I can only look at her.
At my silence, she collapses against my chest, grabbing fistfuls of my jacket. “I’ll never forgive you. It’s you. It’s you and your games. You and your wife and new baby.”
At the mention of my wife and child, I loosen myself from her grip, holding onto her elbows to keep her stable.
Francois takes her shoulders, and Sylvia allows herself to be led to the corner where he rocks her in his arms.
Magda regards me with a stoic, pale face. “She overdosed on sleeping pills.”
I can only manage a nod in both acknowledgment and thanks. I needed to know.
“They pumped her stomach,” she continues, but doesn’t say more. She doesn’t have to.
“Would you like me to pray for her?” the chaplain asks.
Praying won’t change that she’s gone. Dead. Praying won’t bring her back.
“We should discuss the funeral arrangements.” I need to do this. I need to keep busy.
Francois shoots me a ‘you can’t be serious’ look.
“About counseling––” the chaplain starts.
I don’t hear more. I’m already out of the door. Counseling will help as little as praying. No one in that room can console me. I can’t console them. I just want out.
So young.
Her face looks angelic. Peaceful.
The doctor draws back the sheet to cover her. “We made arrangements for her to be transported to the morgue.” He hands me a hospital bag with her belongings. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
I nod without cutting my eyes away from the shape under the sheet.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he says.
The door shuts with an agreeable click. At last, I’m alone with my girl. I move the sheet aside to take her hand. Her skin is cold when I press my lips to it.
“I’m sorry I failed you, Carly.”
My voice breaks. Scorching tears burn my face and trickle down my neck into the collar of my shirt. Inside, I’m pulp. A mushed bruise. It’s only my conditioning that allows me to construct a stoic wall on the outside. I’ve taken plenty of lives, but I’ve never lost one. My dad, yes, but that was different. We weren’t close. I’ve never been cut open, exposed, and left vulnerable. I’m a hollow shell of weakness, easy prey for any enemy, and I dare them all to take me on, take me out, and end this misery for which I’m solely to blame.
I failed.
Where did I go wrong? Was I too hard on her? Too soft? Why did I not see it coming? Did I spend too little time with her? Was I too self-absorbed? Was it my lifestyle? Did she find out what I do for a living? I should’ve refused when she said she was moving back to her mom. I should never have driven her home the day she confronted Valentina before we even started the barbecue. I should’ve insisted she stay. I should’ve forced her to talk. I should’ve been more patient. I should’ve taken her home with me after the drug scare. I shouldn’t have ignored my gut. I shouldn’t have lived in my ignorant bubble of selfish happiness.