Denial (a short story)

Certain things are always hard to accept. Sheila wondered if being an adult made it any easier for her than the four year old sitting next to her. She stared at him in silence, his ever inquisitive eyes questioning her. The boy asked again ‘mommy, where is daddy’. Sheila lightly stroked his hair taking him in her lap. She searched her minds for words she had been rearranging for over ten minutes now. ‘He is here’ she said unable to think of anything else. Ali gazed around the room and looked at her confused. Sheila knew this was going to be difficult. She had been pushing it further for a week now. She had sent Ali to her sister’s house the day his father was hospitalized again. The doctors had told her a year ago that her husband only had six months to live. He had outlived his time. The miracle had happened and faded away. This was it. Amir was dead and she had to accept it. She had to explain it to both herself and her son.

Every time Sheila thought of a story for Ali she could not get herself to believe it. Nothing could make it easier. Nothing could make it better. Her husband was dead, leaving herself a widow and her son an orphan. She could not get herself to think beyond this. Ali pulled at her sleeve, bringing her back to where she was, asking her the same question again and again. She could hear it echoing in her ears since the day Amir left. Mommy, where is daddy? Where is daddy? Where was Amir? Where was her son’s daddy?

Sheila shook her head as if trying to break out of a spell. This had to be a dream, an ugly dream. She must wake up now. She closed her eyes and opened them again. May be reality would change if she wished hard enough. Ali was getting impatient now. He was staring at her with his bright black eyes; wide open and waiting. Sheila looked at her son’s naïve face; innocence sprinkled with anxiety. He wanted to know where his daddy was. He wanted to know why he had been sent away from home for a week. She called him everyday to tell him she loved her. Every day he asked her if he could talk to daddy and every time she made up an excuse, Ali said the same thing. ‘Mommy, tell daddy I love him’. Sheila wished she could tell his daddy that he loved her; she wished mommy could tell daddy she loved him.

Sheila felt tears welling up in her eyes. She held her son’s arm firmly to draw strength enough to hold back emotion. She could not let him know. She could not break his heart. Ali looked up from her lap. He could sense mommy was upset. He knew something was wrong. ‘Are you mad at daddy, mommy?’ he asked innocently. Sheila shook her head. ‘No, no mommy is not mad at daddy’ the words deceived what she felt. How could she not be mad at the man she had fought with all her life and who had left her alone to fight her way through life? She had to tell Ali. She had to tell him a story. A story they both could believe and a story she could live for.

Sheila picked up one of Ali’s bed time tales. She read out to her son. She read out to herself. Daddy was Sindbad and Sindbad loved to sail. Sindbad loved to sail to far off lands. Sindbad loved his son and wife. He sent them gifts from wherever he went. He sailed for years in the oceans and traveled to new lands. And when his son grew old Sindbad came back. Sindbad came back to live with his family. And they lived happily ever after. Sheila, Amir and Ali lived happily ever after.