Chapter One — Rinse and Repeat
The skull-splitting throb behind my eyes felt like a jackhammer playing a particularly aggressive drum solo. I squeezed them shut, willing the pain to recede. A sliver of sunlight, as relentless as the pounding in my head, snuck through a gap in the blinds and stabbed directly at my retinas.
I groaned, rolling over and fumbling for the phone. The harsh blare of the alarm confirmed my worst suspicions – it was already 7:45. Work started at eight. Panic surged through, momentarily overriding the nausea threatening to erupt.
I dragged myself out of bed, each movement a testament to another poor decision-making the night before. The remnants of last night’s takeout littered the bedside table, a testimony to my lack of judgment and a promise of a less-than-appetizing breakfast.
Stumbling to the bathroom, I splashed cold water on my face, the shock jolting me a little more awake. Looking in the mirror, I winced at the pale, drawn face staring back. Maybe a name like “Wrecked” would have been more fitting than whatever joyous moniker they’d settled on back then.
A pang of something akin to regret, or maybe just a dull ache, settled in my stomach. Cathy, with her playful twinkle in her eyes, felt like a distant memory from another life.
Eight years ago…
The sun spilled into the hospital room, casting a warm glow on the celebration of new life. Bouquets of flowers adorned every surface, their vibrant colors adding to the joyous atmosphere. Cathy cradled our little miracle in her arms, a tiny bundle of joy wrapped in a soft blanket, while friends and family surrounded us, eager to share in the special day.
As we marveled at the little one, a playful twinkle danced in Cathy’s eyes. “He’s perfect, Kyle. Have you thought of a name yet?” I chuckled nervously, glancing down at our son. “I’ve been giving it some thought, but nothing has quite clicked yet.” Cathy grinned, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “Well, we cannot keep calling him ‘baby’ forever. Any ideas?”
I scratched my head, scanning the room for inspiration. “How about Max? Strong and classic.”
Cathy raised an eyebrow, her lips forming a playful smirk. “Max? Sounds like he should be leading a wolf pack, not snuggled in a crib.”
Delight bubbled between us, momentarily easing the weight of responsibility. “Okay, okay,” I said, playfully conceding defeat. “What about Owen? It’s friendly and approachable.”
Cathy tilted her head, considering. “Owen’s not bad, but I think we can do better.”
Our banter continued, names flowing like a river — each one dismissed or considered with a shared amusement that echoed in the room. As we playfully debated, a name surfaced that seemed to capture the essence of this moment and the happiness that filled the room.
“What about Ryan?” Cathy asked, her tone was softer and more contemplative.
I looked at her, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still. “Ryan,” I repeated, testing the name on my lips. It felt right, like a melody that resonated with our collective experiences.
Cathy’s eyes sparkled, mirroring the sentiment. “Ryan, it is then.”
And just like that, our son had a name. It felt like the final brushstroke on a masterpiece, completing the canvas of our new family.
As we embraced the quiet moment, the gravity of parenthood settled in on both of us. In the hushed whispers of the heart-to-heart conversations that followed, Cathy and I bared our souls to each other. I admitted my fears, the history of my past, and she listened with an understanding that went beyond words.
Cathy’s hand found mine, a soothing anchor.
“Kyle, we’re in this together. We will figure it out, one day at a time.”
With a hesitant smile, Cathy gently placed our son, into my arms. The fragility of his tiny form struck me like a gentle whisper, and as I looked down at him, the gravity of fatherhood settled on my shoulders. The room seemed to fade away, leaving just the three of us in a cocoon of joint accountability.
Ryan stirred, his eyes fluttering open to reveal a pair of innocent, searching eyeballs. His tiny fingers curled around one of mine, and in that simple touch, I felt an overwhelming surge of emotion. Happiness mixed with fear, created a complex composition of feelings.
As I held him close, the reality of being a father hit me with a force I had not anticipated. The warmth of his little body against mine was a concrete reminder that I was now the protector of this precious life. It was not just a concept or a distant thought; it was real, definite, and in my arms.
A mix of joy and nervousness filled my heart. I marveled at the perfect features of his face, the way his small chest rose and fell with each breath and the way his fingers wrapped around mine as if seeking reassurance. It was a moment frozen in time, and I was captivated by the miracle of birth.
Yet, beneath the surface of happiness lurked the gnawing fear. Doubts crept in — would I be enough for him? Would I have the strength, the patience, and the wisdom to guide him through life? The reality of my past struggles with alcoholism haunted the edges of my awareness, threatening to undermine the joy of this newfound responsibility.
Cathy, ever perceptive, placed a hand on my shoulder, her eyes expressing a silent understanding. “You’re going to be an amazing father, Kyle. I believe in you.”
Her words were a lifeline, grounding me in the present moment. I took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of baby powder and the warmth that enveloped us. Ryan shifted as I held him as if sensing my internal struggle, and a small, contented sigh escaped his lips.
In that moment, surrounded by Cathy’s unconditional support and the delicateness of new life, I realized that being a great father was not about having all the answers or being without flaws. It was about showing up, learning, and growing alongside our son. The happiness of holding Ryan eclipsed the fear, and I resolved to face the responsibilities of fatherhood with an open heart.
As the room filled with the soft sounds of a lullaby playing in the background, I cradled my son, embracing the roller-coaster of emotions that fatherhood brought. In that quiet moment, I made a silent promise to be the best father I could be, to learn from the challenges ahead, and to savor the joy that came with the profound obligation of being a father.
“Dad! Get up! Get up, get up! We are going to be late again!”
Navigating the hazy realm between dreams and reality, teetering on the border of consciousness, I was suddenly awakened by the shrill cries of a ten-year-old. A feeble groan escaped my lips. My head pounded relentlessly as if it had been hammered repeatedly while my throat was as dry as cotton.
“Yeah… I am getting up,” I muttered, hoping to calm the relentless screams.
Struggling against the intrusion of bright sunlight pouring through my bedroom windows, I made a mental note to change the drapes to a darker shade — a task I had been meaning to tackle for a while. After a few attempts, I managed to pry open my bleary eyes, only to find my son, standing by my bed. His slightly disheveled attire bore the unmistakable mark of a young boy insistent on dressing himself. I vividly remember the day he declared, “Dad, I’m old enough to dress myself,” at the tender age of eight. Since then, I have allowed him to navigate buttons and laces, stepping in occasionally to help. Shuffling out of bed, I narrowly avoided knocking over forgotten bottles as I made my way to the bathroom, my head still spinning.
In the kitchen, the familiar clatter of utensils against the counter filled the silence as I attacked a carton of eggs. The greasy scent of sizzling bacon mingled with the burnt toast smell clinging to the air — remnants of a breakfast long forgotten. Ryan perched on a barstool, a flicker of hope in his eyes as he stared at the counter.
“Ryan, those jeans,” I started, my voice hoarse from disuse, “they’ve seen better days. Grab the blue ones on your chair, the clean ones.” My words felt heavy, a stark contrast to the usual morning banter.
A resigned sigh escaped his lips as he shuffled off. The sizzle of the eggs intensified as I poured them into the pan, a welcome distraction from the dull ache in my head.
As the aroma of cooked eggs wafted through the air, Ryan reappeared, the blue fabric of his new jeans a stark contrast to the previous stain-ridden pair. He sat back down, silence settling over the table once more, broken only by the rhythmic click-clack of his fork against his plate.
A blob of red suddenly materialized on his plate, the unmistakable crimson clashing with the scrambled eggs. A distant memory flickered to life.
Six years ago…
The warm aroma of pancakes filled the air, a sweet counterpoint to the excited chatter of friends and family gathered around our breakfast table. Ryan, barely four at the time, sat perched in his highchair, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
“Ryan! Why are you putting ketchup on your eggs?” Cathy’s surprised and amused query echoed in the room.
“Because I want ketchup!” Ryan’s enthusiastic response followed, sending a wave of laughter rippling through the room.
A soft chuckle escaped her lips. “He’s a handful, isn’t he?” she whispered, her eyes twinkling with amusement as she glanced at Ryan. “Your son is quite something,” she whispered to me with a giggle.
I couldn’t help but grin, a warmth spreading through me despite the knot tightening in my stomach. “Funny how that works,” I replied with a playful nudge. “Seems like he only becomes ‘my son’ when there’s ketchup involved.”
Blinking away the sudden sting in my eyes, I forced myself to focus on the present. Ryan sat across from me, a stark contrast to his usual whirlwind mornings. He meticulously dissected his eggs with his plastic fork; the only sound was the rhythmic clink against his plate.
A sliver of sunlight speared through the blinds, illuminating the clock on the wall. 7:30 am. Reality slammed back, sharp and unforgiving.
“Alright, champ,” I said, my voice gruff. “Time to face the school dragon.”
Back at home, I began my shower — a much-needed break after yet another night of drinking without consciousness, a habit that had become all too familiar. Once dressed properly, I gathered my necessities and headed to the office. The drive to work turned into a reflective voyage as my focus dwelled on Ryan’s early maturity. Unlike my carefree youth, Ryan, burdened by stress and trauma, had matured well beyond his years. Despite his observant, sensitive, and intelligent nature, he had changed from a lively child into a more reserved individual. Without his mother’s influence, he struggled with inner turmoil, frequently expressing his emotions. Despite my attempts to fulfill both parental roles, I recognized my limitations, unable to replicate the companionship Cathy had offered.
Arriving at my familiar workplace in Virginia Beach, I reminisced about my thirteen-year tenure with Baker Communications. Once a fresh recruit at thirty, I now oversaw the telephone and fraud department, with daily duties passing by almost unnoticed. Depression had settled in, guiding my life on autopilot.
Acknowledging my loneliness and the difficulty in seeking assistance, I clung to a repetitive schedule — waking up, caring for Ryan, working, and succumbing to intoxication. The struggle against admitting my despair persisted.
Following work, a quiet drive home ended with a detour to Anthony’s Italian restaurant in the hopes that pizza would brighten Ryan’s mood. Anthony’s, famous for its pizza, brought flashbacks of the culinary adventures in New York. Upon arriving home, I settled the sitter's payment before bidding her good-bye. Inside, I discovered Ryan engrossed in his phone games, a scene I knew all too well. I then settled into the worn-out couch, a cushion that molded to the contours of my weary body over countless nights of quiet contemplation. As I made myself comfortable, Ryan curled up beside me, his small frame leaning into my side. The soft glow of the living room lamp was casting a warm ambiance, creating an intimate space for our conversation.
I found myself lost in a sea of thoughts, staring at the family photos decorating the walls. The images captured moments of joy, happiness, and togetherness that now seemed like relics of another lifetime. Cathy’s radiant smile in those pictures echoed through the silent halls, a haunting recap of the happiness we once enjoyed together.
The sound of Ryan’s footsteps pulled me back to the present. He padded into the living room, clutching a well-worn teddy bear that had been a constant companion since Cathy’s passing. As he settled beside me, the delicateness in his eyes mirrored the weakness of our fractured world.
“Dad, can we talk about Mom? I really miss her,” Ryan’s voice quivered with a sense of helplessness, his longing evident in his eyes. I took a deep breath, acknowledging the inevitability of this conversation. “Of course, buddy. What do you want to talk about?”
His eyes searched mine, seeking answers that even I struggled to fully comprehend. “Is she happy, Dad? Where is she?”
A delicate sigh escaped my lips as I gathered my feelings, preparing to navigate the delicate labyrinth of emotions. “Ryan, your mom… she’s at peace. She is in a place where there is no pain, no sadness. She’s happy, watching over us.”
I watched as relief flickered in Ryan’s eyes, a momentary break from the burden he carried. “Really, Dad? Is she happy?”
A soft smile graced my lips as I ran my fingers through his unruly curls. “Absolutely, buddy. She is happy, and she will always be a part of us.”
As I started painting a picture of a tranquil afterlife where Cathy had found peace, a jarring ring shattered the room’s serenity, interrupting our delicate conversation. The sudden disruption left us in silent shock, and I hesitated, casting a puzzled and annoyed glance at the phone.
“I’ll get it,” Ryan offered, recognizing the shift in my expression.
As he answered the phone, a lingering discomfort filled the air, as though an invisible barrier had disrupted a connection with the unknown, reminding us that peace might always elude us. Ryan listened attentively for a moment, his brow wrinkling in confusion, before hanging up with a perplexed expression.
“Wrong number,” he shrugged, but the heaviness in the room lingered, an unspoken acknowledgment of our difficulties.
In the ensuing silence, I kept Ryan close, feeling the strands of our conversation unraveling as we confronted an uncertain reality. The interruption left me wrestling with my own doubts, questioning the narratives I had crafted to shield us both from the harshness of truth.
Watching him lounging in pajamas on the living room couch, it was difficult not to admire his nightly practice. It provided a brief escape from our difficult circumstances, a small semblance of normality amidst the challenges we faced.
“Already in your PJs, huh?” I teased, a playful smirk on my face.
“I wanted to be comfy,” he replied, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
I nodded, then I remembered about the pizza and stood up to get it. “I brought pizza for us, by the way! How cool is that?”
His eyes lit up at the prospect of pizza, and a wide smile formed on his face as we immediately dug into dinner.
“Mom would kill us if she saw us eating like this,” he mumbled between bites, his tone a mix of guilt and amusement.
I paused.
He was not wrong. Cathy was a stickler for etiquette; we could not eat on the couch, eat while standing up, and especially not without any plates.
I scrunched my nose up at him, “I know.”
In the midst of our silent dinner, I found myself studying him more. His soft brown curls, full pale caramel cheeks, small button nose, and innocent light brown eyes… all I saw was his mother in those features. She, too, had the most beautiful light brown eyes I had ever seen. When I looked into her eyes, it was as if her gaze could instantly reignite the flames of joy within me, unlocking any shackled pain.
“So, how was school?” I asked as we enjoyed the slices.
He began recounting tales of classes, homework, classmates, and more, and I felt a sense of relief knowing that my son still experienced a semblance of normalcy in his life. He even mentioned having a friend at school that he liked. When I inquired about her name, he remained silent and swiftly changed the subject. Perhaps he was simply feeling shy, I reasoned, hoping that he would open up more as he became more at ease. Ryan had never previously displayed an interest in anyone, and I anticipated that navigating friendships and budding emotions might pose a challenge for him. Managing these situations would have come naturally to Cathy. She had a knack for conversation, knew how to coax information out of Ryan, and had a way of simplifying everything.
“I am going to go wash up. You should take your shower and get into bed. It is getting late,” I told him.
He nodded and went up the stairs. I switched off the lights, checked the doors and windows, and went into my bedroom to unwind. Before I decided to shed any article of clothing, I poured myself a drink. Sipping it slowly, I felt some of the day’s stress lift off my shoulders. Drinking had always been my vice; I had struggled with it for most of my life, and my wife had stood by me through thick and thin.
