Building Memories

I woke up, or at least I think I did. I wasn’t in my pyjamas. I must have fallen asleep in my clothes on the couch in the spare room. The sun was already streaming through the windows. Her friends were chatting in the kitchen, preparing their brunch. I was confused. Why did I feel I wasn’t supposed to be here? I suppose I had always felt like a stranger in our house. I walked to my boy’s room, and he was sitting there playing with the Lego.

He was deeply engrossed as he built another complicated and surreal landscape and added his favourite characters. I sat down quietly next to him.

“Hello, Daddy,” he said, without turning to look at me. He continued to build, searching for the right piece in the box of Lego. Silence, then the cascade of bricks. Silence, then tumbling bricks. Silence. We sat without speaking as I watched him. Quietly, as if talking only to himself, he described what he was building and what was going to happen.

“…and then Batman will come here, and he will surprise the pumpkin head and have a battle. The crocodile man will come from the side, and he will distract the pumpkin man, and Batman will win.”

“That sounds cool, my boy. Maybe you can film it?”

“Hey, I have an idea! Maybe we can film it. Like before.”

I smiled. He said, as if to himself, “Hey Daddy, can you help me?”

“Sure, let me just go and check how Mommy is. I’ll see you now.”

I walked into the corridor. I could hear his mother’s voice from the kitchen. She was chatting to her friends. Was it somebody’s birthday? I couldn’t remember. They were laughing in light-hearted conversation. I heard her voice. I loved that voice.

“Yes, it was the fourth date, but that doesn’t mean anything.”

“Oh, but that smile says everything!” More laughter.

A cascade of memories tumbled into my thoughts. The six months of deep conversations before we were lovers; the affirming glances. Her beauty even as she lost her hair. The hospital smells of disinfectant and chemo, the relief of remission. And months later, arriving home and cutting that tiny band from that tiny arm.

The slow shift to sleeping on the couch. The reluctant short exchanges. One morning, as she pulled out of the driveway, taking the boy to school, I stepped through the gate to wave to the boy as a stranger waited to hand me divorce papers.

I must have been looking after him last night while she was out with some new person. Why else was I here?

I suppose that’s what happens when you get divorced.

“You got home very late last night. Or should I say this morning? Did you have fun?”

She laughed and said, “Well, it’s been a long time. Let’s put it that way.”

Another friend said, “Not that long, actually.”

She replied, “I meant since I’ve, you know, been close with someone.” Her voice was now softer, distant, and there wasn’t any laughter.

She looked in my direction. I looked at her, but didn’t say anything. Her friends kept on talking about an imagined future.

“Mommy!” the boy called from down the corridor. “Mommy!” The voice was louder. He was getting closer. “Mommy,” he called and burst into the kitchen.

“Yes, my boy,” she said.

“Mommy, look what I built with Daddy.” He held up the landscape to her.

“That’s beautiful,” she exclaimed. “Did you do that all by yourself?”

“No, I built it with Daddy.”

“Oh, my boy.” She got down on her knees to look at him straight in the eyes and said, “I know you want to build things with Daddy, but you can’t. Daddy died.”

“No, I built it with Daddy!” he insisted, stamping his foot on the ground, tears in his eyes. “We are going to make a Lego movie with it!” He turned and ran to his room. Her friends all looked uneasy.

“It will take time,” one of them commented.

“I know, I know,” she said. “He was a good father.”

After the divorce, the boy and I decorated his new room in a new house. The pain, and then. Nothing. Until this morning, when I thought I woke up. I felt myself fading.

I walked quickly into his room, and he was sitting there playing with the Lego. I sat down next to him and put my hand on his head.

“Goodbye, Daddy,” he said, not looking at me.