Capsule

Steven C. Brymer / FICTION

We were both crying when I first held you.

I liked the name Riley. She preferred Grace. She would argue that because she was carrying you so intimately, holding you the closest way a person could be held, her vote weighed more than mine. I suppose that was fair, but I was selfish and she was selfless so we continued discussing up to your delivery.

To help you understand, I first met your mother in college. It was early August, right at the start of our senior year. We went to the club separately, with our respective friend groups, and bonded over being wallflowers. Her hair, which she had cut herself, was tied in a taut ponytail with a sort of fringe in the front. I found it remarkably endearing. She had minimal makeup, but the eyeshadow was a vibrant indigo. She used her first words to complain about the music playing. Her voice was a bit hoarse, which would, with time, become my favorite sound. What followed diluted into a blur after long, a montage in my head full of snippets I cut out and wove together into a tapestry that, to this day, wraps around me while I sleep. In particular, her smile is burned into the black when I close my eyes.

In this moving collage of mine I remember dancing eventually, ripping ourselves from the wall of the club even though it felt like our backs were stitched to the peeling paint. Nights at the club turned into mornings in her flat and then days walking around the park with her dog, Cillian. We swore we were just friends.

From this “friendship,” an inflorescence of silent glances blossomed when we were opposite each other. These peerings and smirks took root deeper than words. We used this subtle language to speak to each other when others were around.

* * *

Some weeks into our time together, an unspoken feud arose concerning where we were headed. She knew I wanted something real and public with her, but she was scared. At the height of this impasse, your mother took me out to the middle of a lake on a small pontoon boat named Guy she borrowed from her friend. There was a slight current with dainty waves washing up against the side of the simple hull. When our evening began, the sun had not completely disappeared. We could smell the rainstorm that soaked the nearby town, and watched the shroud of grey vapor from a distance.

We played Cheat with an old deck of cards. She dealt them out on the vinyl seat and swore to go easy on me. My eyes studied her carefully while my index finger traced the rounded corner of the three of diamonds. I couldn’t help but feel as if we were playing to win the direction of our unique relationship.

I was a betting man and decided to test my luck. So, I took a ten-dollar bill from my pocket and placed it between the cushions so that it would stay upright against the breeze. She watched me slowly raise my eyebrow, then scoffed and doubled my amount. I would later learn that she allowed the faraway thunderclaps to dictate when she lied during the game, and she still won somehow.

That night turned dark quicker than we had anticipated, and that distant storm began moving in our direction. When we could no longer see the difference between an ace and a club, she stored the cards back in their box and hid them away below the seat. Still bitter from my defeat, I was sitting at the front of the boat letting my legs hang over the hull, feet dipping in the water. It was frigid, and I could only keep my toes submerged for a few seconds at a time. She joined me shortly after and put her arm around my shoulders. I stared at her for several seconds before she kissed me. We had kissed before that moment, but it felt different that night; it was a subdued passion, slower, deliberate. Her upper lip brushed the tip of my nose when she pulled away before she leaned forward to embrace me.

When we finally put a label on our relationship, we shared champagne in a satirical celebration with our friends, who had been placing bets on whether we’d go official. The cork popped off and the sparkling nectar sprouted geyser-like. I held her that night, after our friends had left, and thanked her for letting me win her trust, even if she hadn’t let me win the game.

* * *

Your mother was always going on about lasting longer than life. On weekends, she would paint abstract shapes until the sun went down and write poetry until it rose again; having something tangible to outlive her subdued her fear of being forgotten. Perhaps I suffered the same worries, because I used my free time for music. If, after I died, someone sang a song I wrote, I wouldn’t really be gone. I would mess about on the guitar while she painted, situated on our futon with Cillian curled up next to me. The buzz of the strings when I struggled would make her laugh. Those weekends were what I imagined a fine vacation with intelligent tours and expensive hotels would feel like. I loved being sucked into her creative world; it enveloped me.

One of those Sundays, when the flat smelled of burnt herbs and the sunlight was a hollow beam pushing past our curtains, she asked to paint me. I said no, of course, so she pouted. Then I agreed with a reluctant sigh. She dragged a chair from our kitchen table across the space with a childlike excitement until it sat on the illuminated tiles where Cillian usually napped on days like that. The light from the sun was prominent and stung my eyes a bit, but I didn’t say anything; she was so happy to create me.

The painting began with a general sketch of my features: short and curly brown hair, relatively small eyes, and thin lips. These morphed when she applied paint. An abstract representation of my brown irises and bushy brows. A simple triangle was stamped where my nose should have been, ovals for the ears.

While she worked, I asked why she wanted to paint me. She said it was a way of freezing the moment in a sort of capsule. With a painting, she explained, the version of me from that day would last until the day after, and the next day, and the next, and the next. It was proof that art transcended time. Her mind astounded me. You have her mind.

* * *

Your mother and I were in the grocery store when she first told me about you. I was weighing vegetables on an inconsistent scale, trying to figure out how a carrot could weigh more than a cantaloupe. She was nervous to break the news, so she rattled it off in the middle of our grocery list. As I tied the bag of carrots, she mentioned how we still needed eggs, milk, bread, ramen, a crib, yogurt, salsa, a new salt shaker, and tomato sauce.

It saddened me how scared she was to tell me, but the relief that sprouted on her face when I smiled ear to ear is a moment that I promptly added to the montage in my mind. She jumped into my arms right there in the aisle, baskets of vegetables surrounding us, other customers sneering at the public display.

That night, it rained the way it had when she defeated me in Cheat on the pontoon boat. The far-away thunder was almost silent but we could feel it through murmurs in the floor. My bare feet creaked along the wood as I returned from the shower with a towel around my waist. Your mother was already in bed, scribbling across a notebook. I asked if she wanted to share her poem while I changed into my pajamas, but she told me she was actually writing down names for you. She settled on Noah for a boy and Grace for a girl. I told her I liked the neutrality of Riley or Carter. We agreed to disagree for the time being.

* * *

Many months later, I led her and her swollen belly around the local park. It was late summer then and the changing leaves fell almost like snow as the trees began their yearly death. Your mother commented on the crisp beauty left behind from the passing of these leaves; a transformation of hue, then they were off to their afterlife.

The trees that hugged the trail had windchimes hanging from their branches. The resonant frequencies pinged with the breeze. Families in groups of threes and fours and fives moseyed past. The children were often linked to their parents by the hands, shuffling in between the grown ups with large smiles and puffy cheeks. It was the most peace I had ever felt before you were born. I believe your mother felt the same. As I heard the children laugh, I grew so excited to meet you.

The discussion of your name came up during this walk. Your great grandmother’s name was Grace, which is why your mother had such an affinity for it. I didn’t have much more of an argument for Riley other than the simple fact that I liked the sound. In hindsight, I probably should have been more empathetic to her feelings surrounding the name, but, once again, we agreed to disagree. I wish we had settled the discussion there, though, because it was the last time I was able to walk with her.

* * *

The complications began during labor. Complications. Doctors used that word like it was a fact of life, unavoidable, as if that made the weight of the word any easier to carry. In a matter of hours she got sicker and sicker and thinner and weaker until all I could do was watch that terrifying and unstoppable cessation roll toward me like a tidal wave approaching the beach while my feet were trapped in the sand. Your mother died moments after you were born.

The last sentence she ever muttered was a whisper: “You should name her Riley.” The way she surrendered the choice to me, and surrendered her vote after realizing she would not be the one who would use the name, stirred a numbness in my body during her passing. I wasn’t able to speak when she left us, which continued to haunt me for years after. The last sound she heard as the color drained from her face was the rhythmic and lifeless ambience of the hospital; you were the last sight she saw.

When I first held you, we were both crying. I couldn’t help but think you could sense the loss. However, that numbness, that indescribable creeping of dread which clawed its way through my body like a fever, fell away the moment our bodies touched. Your fragile head, which thrashed in your tears, was at the mercy of my encompassing arms. It was a terrifying power and an immeasurable joy to hold you.

When I took you home, the first thing I saw was her painting of me. She always spoke of how it would be a capsule of my younger self, but never truly realized it would encapsulate her, as well. I remember looking from the painting down to you and feeling unmistakable catharsis. What an interesting work of art you were. Unique in the purest way possible, you were me, and you were her, and you were you. And through you, she would live until tomorrow, and the next day, and the next, and the next...