I shouldn’t be out here. I should be back at the house, packing my things, like I said. He’d hate this. Told me once that reading each other’s e-mail would be a bigger violation of trust than sleeping around. Also said he despised ultimatums, but I gave him one anyway. Either come home, fit yourself back into our real life or it’s time for me to leave.

He gave me two hours to pack my things.

Told me he doesn’t want to be near the place while I’m moving out of it. I don’t know where he is now. Probably walking around the lake or in the woods or wherever. His truck’s still here. Can’t have gone far, but he’ll keep his word. Two hours.

Where to start? I hardly recognize the place. This old barn used to be our spot, our sanctuary, he called it—now this loft’s a hermit’s hideout. Empty whiskey bottles litter the shabby green rag rug where Freya used to crawl, mud-soaked clothes hang from the roof beams, crumpled papers surround his guitar. Resist the urge to tidy up. Don’t want to leave any trace of being here. At least he put a coaster under the dirty coffee cup on the piano top. Shows what he cares about.

Photos of Freya here too. Here’s us all naked under the big old quilt right after she was born. Her, potbellied, goose-bumped, shivering in her swimsuit on a too-cold day by the lake. My favorite one—her whirling wildly through the field out back, face embracing the sun, arms flung wide, white skirt encircling her like a halo as she spins. All these memories of joy, surrounded by dulled pencils and more of those crumpled papers.

How can I resist unfolding one? I need clues, need to know what he’s been doing out here these past months, what exactly he’s been doing while I’ve been paying the bills, cooking the dinners, answering the phone calls, trying to clear my mind enough to do more than just survive. Meanwhile him out here— a recluse, refusing to see our family, to go to counseling, to do or say anything beyond what’s absolutely required. It’s like I have two ghosts in that drafty old farmhouse instead of just one.

Just jots and words on wrinkled paper, not even anything resembling a complete thought. That’s like him. Unable to answer me when I’ve confronted him directly, just opening his mouth till he thinks better of it, walking away. People tell me that men grieve differently, but I don’t buy it. Seems to me that my grief is worth more than his, since I’ve been dealing with it—and with the world—while he’s been hiding away out here, refusing to face up to any of it. I’m the one who’s heard them whispering at the market, seen old friends take their own toddlers by the hand, turning away when they don’t know how to talk to me, while he’s been out here—what? Scribbling nonsense.

The piano bench feels the same—still worn, well-loved. How many times did we sit together here for whole days, improvising harmonies, figuring out how to make our verses rhyme?

This is new. I don’t know this one . . .

This is good. Really good. Nice to see I can still pick out a tune when I haven’t touched a piano in nine months. He can still write a hell of a melody, can’t he, the kind that gets stuck in people’s heads but they don’t really mind, the kind that makes people want to write their own songs or give up in despair that theirs will never be as good. This song’s about ghosts—ghosts with tangled blond curls and saggy diapers, ghosts who hide in laundry baskets and inside kitchen cupboards, who pop out giggling and, even though they startle you, make you laugh, too.

This song’s about Freya.

Are there more? Here, inside the piano bench. Two piles, neatly stacked. My God–are they all about her? Must be a hundred or more here. Don’t think he’s written this many songs in all the years I’ve known him.

It’s all here. Some just cryptic phrases, the hints of lyrics, but some nearly complete, with harmonies, parts for strings, backup singers, the whole gang. And Freya’s here, too, in nearly every word. All those small moments that destroy me now. First exuberant “love yous,” first steps that quickly became runs and dances, first bath.

                                                 She slipped away into the night

                                                That’s what the papers say

                                               I couldn’t clasp her tight enough

                                              I worked to hold her head above water

                                             She was always slipping away

I didn’t know he had even read that obituary. Thought he had walled himself out here away from all the papers, the indie rock bloggers, the endless tributes on the band’s MySpace page. Answering or ignoring those was my job, too, even the ones who called us bad parents for taking her with us on tour, for sleeping with her in our bed, for raising her up here in the middle of nowhere, Wisconsin. The ones who refused to believe the official reports that we were blameless. The ones who made up their own answers when there are none.

So many songs, some so raw, like he was bleeding words onto the paper. Some bitter—provoking other parents at an imaginary graduation, reminding them that their little boys and girls are long-gone now, have died in a way, too. Some anguished—waking to find that our own little girl is lifeless in bed between us, the horror of having our warm haven in this frozen country turn cold and barren.

I imagine him bent over, scribbling, picture him plunking out melodies on his guitar or that tinny old piano, inventing harmonies, generating modulations and countermelodies and descants, building each song layer by layer, the way we built our lives together. Imagine his jaw clenched the way he does when he’s angry or scared or just thinking hard, when he’s about to say or do something that might show him vulnerable. He set his chin like that before he held our bundled baby for the first time, scared to drop her or to love her too much.

What the hell. I’m here, too. Maybe he was paying attention after all. Here I am, “hero girl,” tackling all the world’s problems while he’s frozen like a prince under an evil spell. Here he is, trying to speak, to tell what’s in his heart, but feeling like his mouth is stuffed with cotton balls. Explaining to himself—and to me?—that these words, this music, are the only way to get the sorrow out of his soul and into the world. Hope here too—he writes of becoming an alchemist, of picking up the rocks life’s thrown at us, turning them into gold.

Maybe his grief isn’t cheaper than mine—maybe it’s just different. At least he’s doing something, creating something. All I’ve made in the last nine months is the bed, on a good day. Meantime, while I’ve been just trying to keep my edges from unraveling, he’s been turning her life—our lives—into something golden, something to show the world how much Freya was loved. Have I done that? Or have I just been showing off how well I can get by?

Shit. He’s coming. Boots knock off snow outside. Time slips away in this chilly old barn. Steps heavy on those squeaky stairs, more a ladder really; we always meant to fix those so Freya wouldn’t fall through the rungs and hurt herself. Not so important anymore.

What will he see? Me, cross-legged on this worn old rug, guitar cradled, dozens of papers spun out in a circle around me, like a white skirt twirling against a bright green meadow. Too late to clean up now. He’ll know what I’ve done.

Here now. Feel like I’m seeing him for the first time in nine months. He stands there, stooping a little under the roof beams, snow still sticking like sugar to the bottoms of his jeans. Nose pink with the cold. Jaw clenched, taking me in. Never knew what that look meant, still don’t. Could mean a thousand things, from fury to forgiveness. I do the only thing I can now. Time for me to fit myself back into our real life. Stand up, pick up a stack of songs, and make my way to my side of the piano bench, waiting for him to follow.

Norah Piehl is  a professional writer, editor, and book reviewer. Her work has
been featured in several print anthologies and in print and online
magazines, as well as on National Public Radio.