Martin was a colleague of mine. In the late winter, one year, I'd heard that he'd passed away after a few days of absence. As it was told to me: he and his wife, Janet, had been travelling up the interstate when an 18-wheeler crossed the median and, reportedly, 'vaporized' their vehicle. My co-workers and I all agreed, 'what a terrible way to go,' but part of me privately wondered if it would be so bad.
To be removed from consciousness in a single instant, for all worries and cares to just vanish at once. That seemed to be preferable to a long, drawn-out quench to existence's flame.
Our company sent out an email offering its deepest, yet still aloof and alien condolences, informing us on the date of the young married couple's wake.
Not want to mischaracterize my relationship with Martin: he was my cubicle-mate for a few years. I knew all of his family's ups and downs, the comings and goings—the opportunity to meet his lovely wife and the infant, Emmaline, arose after they'd left the hospital for maternity. It seemed a little silly to me that he'd drag them both all the way to the office, but all of the ladies couldn't help but coo over the new baby.
There was one time; however, I'd volunteered to help him move. It was an an outing which we both regretted in a good-natured kind of way. We both underestimated the amount of work that would be needed (doesn't everybody?) and found ourselves working until the early hours of the morning, cranky and far too sober.
Still; despite this, at the time of his passing: I wouldn't have called him a "friend," exactly. We were associates, yes, co-workers, sure, we bickered and bantered about our jobs and the small place our lives had in the grand march of the world's days—but I didn't think of him much as a friend. Still, I felt obligated to attend his wake, and so I did.
The funeral home's décor was good: handsome furnishings, landscape paintings, (one painting of two ships striking out adventurously on a bay made me regret that they didn't have any name-plates) good lighting. Something about funeral homes always struck me as terribly 'dead,' much like their clientele. Maybe it was the stark lighting, or something else, but I always found the experience of being in one was so stark no matter how many measures of comfort it had. The smell of coffee drew me in further.
Finding the showing room, demarked by a nice placard, I discovered that it was a large double-room with a collapsible wall on rollers in the center, which lay open. On a table, there was a large floral arrangement (I would discover later that it was provided by our company, again with their deepest condolences, as per corporate protocol of course) surrounding a good number of photos of the recently departed. Before the floral arrangement were a dozen or so chairs, another table had the coffee maker, a floral reef stood on a stand nearby a podium with two large headshots, one of Martin and one of Janet, but I was seeing none of this.
Seeing the little blonde toddler was a disquieting surprise. She was currently preoccupied on someone's cellphone which played some Disney inanity, sitting at the foot of one of the chairs, plopped down in quiet enrapturement for the cartoons. Having seen her, I suddenly realized that there wasn't any mention of Emma in the accident. It struck me as somehow all the more tragic that now she was left alone in this world. In the seat there was an elderly woman who looked aged nearly beyond belief, a grim expression setting her face and making her look even more haggard. Grandmother, I figured.
There was, unfortunately, no-one else in the room and, I wondered if I was early. I approached. "Hello," I greeted the old woman. She turned to me, her expression unchanged. She didn't return my greeting.
"Are you... Martin's mother?"
She watched me, and corrected me, "Mother-in-law. I was."
I gave a nod as their imaginary family tree rearranged itself in my mind. "I'm sorry for your loss," I offered, feeling awkward and unprofessional.
Her expression didn't change. "Thank you."
It was then that I heard footfalls behind me and, turning, I found the pastor. He was a man in his mid-forties with greying hair and a compassionate expression.
He came to Ms. Harland's side, offering his sincere condolences. I listened, feeling like a voyeur, to them discussing platitudes and matters of faith until I distanced myself by approaching the coffee. Throughout the service, I did all I could to make myself as innocuous as possible, pretending not to be there. After a certain point; however, I was surprised to be asked to say a few words. I was still reeling from the fact that, apparently, only Martin's mother and I had even arrived. The whole thing was an upsetting insult—didn't Martin have friends? I felt like Ebenezer Scrooge at his own funeral.
I came up to the podium, dry mouthed, not knowing what to say. Martin had never struck me as an awkward man. He always seemed sociable, well-liked, certainly kind, but the sheer dearth of those standing in remembrance of him shook me. Then realization hit me like a hammer on the head—Martin and I were very much the same in our insular lives. Who would attend my own funeral? I had no idea. And what's more, who was there in this whole world that I was closer to than Martin himself?
I'd been wrong. Martin was my friend. He was my best friend.
An outpouring of words came out of my mouth. I didn't recognize a single one as my own. I said everything I could think of to say:
"Martin was a good man. He was kind, he was fair, he was smart, and he was brave. He had a lot of faults, but I think his biggest fault was that he didn't know how to say 'no.' He was always there to help, always there to lend a hand, always there to listen. I can't think of a time when Martin ever failed to help me out in some way, even if it was just by listening.
"And Janet, well, she was Martin's perfect match. They were a great couple, a real team. They worked together, they played together, and they raised a beautiful little girl. Martin always told me how Emma was growing, about her drawings and her loves and interests. Their hopes for Emma were so high, I don't think a day went by that he didn't say, first thing in the morning, 'you'll never guess what Emma did yesterday.'
"Martin loved his family more than anything. I don't think I've ever seen him happier than when he was with his wife and daughter. It's hard to imagine that they're gone, that I'll never see them again. I guess you could say that I'm not as happy anymore either."
Tears stung at my eyes, and I shook my head. "I'm sorry that they're gone. I'm so, so sorry." I was breathless in my emotion, which surprised me.
The pastor approached me after I'd finished speaking, and offered his condolences. "Thank you," I said, still shaken. The pastor returned to his place at the podium.
It was short, and, truth be told? I wanted to be away from there. I needed a drink, and I needed to meet a bar-dive girl. I was out of there as soon as the doors were opened, barely stopping to give Ms. Harland my card, if she wanted to get in touch.
I needed to get something between me and these memories. I wanted to forget, to forget Martin and the tragedy of his ruined life.
And, two years later? I had.
Then the social workers came to the door.
***
It was six A.M. on a cold mid-January morning when I was drug out of bed by a loud knocking at the door. I'd had no idea how long they'd been waiting, but it must not have been long.
In my living-room, I'd thought it had been the cops. My mind went back to Kafka's 'The Trial,' as I was opening the door. There, at the door, was a pretty young lady with a soft face but a hard expression. Black glasses rimmed her face and her dark hair was pulled back in a bun. She was in a suit and, looking left, so was the man she was with. The third person they were with; however, looked completely different. A little blonde girl who was maybe six that I'd barely recognized was with them, with a suitcase full of things.
"Hello, are you Mr. Kite?" the woman's voice pulled my gaze back up.
"Uh... yeah—"
"Are you going to invite us in?" her voice was short.
My throat clenched and I stepped back, "Yeah, please. Forgive the mess." I waved a hand at the disarray of the room.
She took a deep breath, ignoring my comment, "I assume you're aware of why we're here?"
"I... uh," it was almost as though I was back at Martin's podium. "I don't."
"Have you not been notified?" she asked.
"... Of?"
The adults exchanged a strained glance, and the man sighed.
"It's not normally our place," he said, "to inform next-of-kin, but since you haven't been—Maryann Harland has passed away. In St. Joseph's Hospital, in South Bend, Indiana."
I blinked hard, still not following, which seemed to present the man with a problem.
"... As the listed next-of-kin, and as Emmaline Harland's legal godfather, the state has authorized us to put her in your custody."
"Godfather?" it was a real punch in the gut, "I'm not..."
"You were listed as Emmaline's godfather and Maryann Harland's next-of-kin. Social Services should be reaching out, if they haven't already, so that you can claim her effects."
I must've looked desperate, my glance passing back between the two, "How did this happen? I was never... Nobody ever told me," I floundered.
The whole thing came down to a simple question. Would I adopt Emmaline, or would I not?
***
Had I known, for even one second, when I was making that decision what exactly it would cost me—how it would change my life, or of the tears I'd shed, or the hardships we'd face together, I know for a fact I wouldn't have hesitated for one second. I would've signed the papers to adopt her then and there.
Emmaline had had a very difficult time in those early formative years, this period leaving her lonesome and anxious. It wasn't until she was three that she started to speak, and she spoke only in short sentences. She didn't make friends easily, and she was shy, always keeping her distance from other children. But she was a good student, so they told me. Her teachers always praised her for her good manners and her ability to get along with others, but it was all she could do to stay in the classroom, never mind make friends.
In the early days, we invested in homeschooling. Her anxiety was too great, she was considered emotionally fragile, that she'd need a slew of emotional supports. In lieu of that, since she was just fine at home, I found a caring daycare and started teaching her in my off hours. She was wicked smart and very self-motivated, which was good. It helped put my fears to bed more than the sleepless nights spent researching all of the things that could go wrong.
In the years since, Emmaline has blossomed from the shy, despondent girl I met those years ago into a fiercely independent, confident creature with a smile like a lighthouse beacon.
I never thought I could be a father—hell, I'd abandoned my own family in a big way—but Emmaline has made me proud beyond my wildest dreams. She motivated me, in fact, to reach out to my estranged mother and father, thinking that I would be out-of-place or humiliated after all these years. The warm reception I received was unlike anything I could imagine. And I owe it all to Emma.
My life had improved in other ways for her presence as well, I'd grown more confident in the workplace, I'd made a few handfuls of very good friends, I've had something to work towards with all of my extra time.
Most importantly, she's my best friend now. The opportunity—no—the privilege of caring for her is something I had no idea I would cherish so much.
The idea of coming home to an empty apartment is totally alien to me now. The days of throwing my clothes anywhere and playing videogames until I was numb are so far behind me now that I could no longer conceive it. Emmaline's established a routine for me at home, and I've started to come to expect it.
When I got home from work, she'd be there, waiting for me. She'd run up to me, excited, and ask about my day.
That day had been different though. That day, when I came home, sure, I found her there waiting for me, in front of a black television screen with nothing on it. She was wearing typical house-wear, a t-shirt and baggy shorts, her feet drawn up onto the seat with her.
She wanted to talk about something, of that much, I was sure.
"Hey," I said, sitting beside her on the couch, "you want to tell me what happened?"
She looked up at me, but it wasn't like before. She didn't seem to be happy to see me. Her mouth drew a straight line as she watched me for a time, then sighed hard.
"You're going to hate me."
I reached an arm around behind her back, "No, no. I could never hate you. What's happened?" All manner of speculation crossed my mind, but I willed it quiet to listen to my daughter.
"No, no. You're definitely going to be upset, but it's important, okay?"
All I could do was nod and listen.
She heaved a sigh, "Okay. I'm really sorry about this."
Knitting my brows together, I asked, "What do you mean, you're sorry? What are you sorry ab—"
Before I could react: she was kissing me.
Jerking away, I was shocked, holding her by the shoulders. "I—Emmy? What the hell... what was that?!"
Her eyes were wide and sad, "Dad, I'm sorry." She took my hands in hers and held them tightly against her chest, "I can't stop loving you. I love you so much, Dad."
Her kiss was stunning, leaving me unable to process what was happening, my mind racing to understand her words, and my body reacting to her touch, my heart pounding wildly in my chest, my skin hot and slick with sweat, and my blood rushing through my veins like liquid fire.