Her room smells of cotton candy, and I find an empty tub labeled “Santa’s Snow” under her bed. It had been intended as a stocking stuffer, along with a guardian angel charm on a fourteen karat gold chain. I find this hidden beneath her socks in her top drawer. I press my finger to the foam behind the angel charm. She would have liked the pink foam. She always noticed little niceties that other people wouldn’t observe in a hundred years, a rare trait for a five-year-old. I think about how I would have reacted over this small theft. It’s all relative now.
I throw myself down on her bed and press my face into her quilt, small pink and purple squares hand stuffed by yours truly. It smells like baby powder lotion. I imagine her corn silk hair spread across the pillow, her soft baby breaths fanning my cheek, her sweet voice whispering my name.
I begin to shake, something involuntary that has never happened to me before.
“My baby. What have I done?” If I’d only remembered it was early out day at school, and left the door unlocked. If the snow hadn’t been blinding I would have seen her standing at the end of the drive, waiting. If only I hadn’t bought her that frivolous white fur coat. If. A waterfall of tears soaks her bedspread. I give in to audible sobs. I sink my fingers into my hair and twist until the pain in my head matches the pain in my chest. I would welcome an asylum. Some place to hide.
When I wake my husband is standing over me, pushing listlessly against my shoulder, as if he has no strength. “Caroline,” he says, “It’s time to go.” His face is drawn, he’s grown old overnight. I must look much the same.
I stand to go, and he guides me by the elbow, like an authority figure who is afraid his charge will run away. “Wait!” I turn back and pick up the angel charm, shove it into the pocket of my black blazer. I inhale once more. Perhaps I can carry the scent of baby powder with me, like protective barrier against the scent of newly turned soil.
I pause outside, next to my car. Someone has pulled the dent out, but I can still see where fender and skull collided. I collapse and vomit into the crust of muddy snow that hasn’t melted yet.
My husband picks me up and carries me to his car, shoves me inside like a large piece of luggage. On the way to the mortuary he keeps his eyes averted. His cheeks are damp with tears.
He doesn’t say a word