When they both nod, I grab their hands and we walk down the aisle together. The closer we get to the casket, the shallower my breathing becomes. The last time I saw Molly was the day she coded. We decided to not do a wake, because I didn’t like the idea of people gathering around for the sole purpose of staring at my wife’s corpse. They can say their final goodbyes today before the funeral.
By the time we’re standing in front of the casket, I feel like I can barely draw in a breath because my chest is hurting so much. The pain is constant, but now it’s worse. I want to lean down and scoop Molly into my arms and bring her home with me. It still doesn’t seem real, but the evidence is right in front of my watery eyes.
She has on a blue dress with capped sleeves. I chose this one because it was one of her favorites and it always brought out the fireflies in her eyes. Her hands are folded together on her stomach and her beautiful red hair has soft curls that rest over her shoulders. Her face looks peaceful and serene. My brows knit because the freckles that I love so much are barely visible through the makeup that’s on her face. I miss seeing her freckles.
Gemma sniffles, and I tighten my grip around her hand. She’s barely tall enough to look over the edge of the casket, so I pick her up. She presses her cheek against mine, and we both peer down. Poor Gray is stoic beside me; the muscle ticking in his jaw the only sign of emotion.
Gemma fingers the seashell hanging around her neck that Molly gave her not long ago. “I miss you so much, Momma,” she whispers, her voice quivering.
I squeeze her against me and kiss her tear-stained cheek.
She holds up her favorite stuffed bear that she brought with her. “Can I put Mr. Cuddles in there with Momma?”
“Are you sure?”
Nodding, she says, “Yes. I don’t want Momma to be in there alone. Mr. Cuddles can keep her company.”
“She would really love that.”
I bend over so Gemma can set Mr. Cuddles inside the casket. She does so carefully, situating him so he’s resting right by Molly’s head.
She sniffs again, wiping the back of her hand under her nose. “Now it looks like she’s sleeping with Mr. Cuddles.”
She’s right. It does look like Molly’s simply sleeping with the stuffed bear. What I wouldn’t give for that to be the case.
“Do you think Momma went to Heaven?”
“Yeah, baby,” I say hoarsely. “I think she’s up there right now looking down at us.”
Gray steps forward, pulling a piece of paper from his pocket. He unfolds it, and I get a glimpse of a picture. I immediately know it’s of him and his mom. It’s a replica he drew of one of Molly’s favorite pictures of when Gray was a baby. She’s sitting in a rocking chair with baby Gray cradled in her arms. She’s not looking at the camera. Instead her head is facing down as she gazes lovingly at our son. Gray was about a month old when I snapped that picture.
He sets the picture on Molly’s chest, right above her hands, and then looks at her face. “I love you, Momma,” he says quietly. “I wish you were still here. I’ll never forget you.”
More tears prick the backs of my eyes. Before I can reach out and grip his shoulder in comfort, he steps closer. Instead, I wrap my arm around his shoulder and pull him the rest of the way to me.
We stand there for several more moments, just looking at my wife, their mother, knowing this will be the very last time we see her in the flesh.
More people enter the church behind us, and I know the service is about to start. Gathering every bit of courage I can muster, I take one final look at Molly. “I love you, baby. Forevermore.”
Later that night, after everyone is gone and the kids are asleep, I lie in bed feeling like my chest is caving in on itself. Most days, it’s hard to breathe, and some days I don’t even want to breathe.
I’m on my side of the bed, facing Molly’s. Her pillow is still there, and I’ve yet to wash the pillowcase. I’m sure her scent is already gone, but I swear I still detect it lingering.
I snatch the pillow to me and hug it tight to my face, burying my nose in the softness and breathing in deep. Yep, I can still smell her.
My eyes move to the nightstand and the two journals sitting on top. Lifting up to my elbow, I grab them both. One is Molly’s, and the other is the last one Clara wrote. Despite Molly giving me permission to read her journals, I haven’t found the courage. I’m not worried I’ll find anything bad in there. It’s just the opposite, in fact. Molly documented our life together. I’m not ready to read Molly’s inner thoughts yet. One day I will be, but right now would be too painful.
Even so, I finger the cover, my fingertips slowly tracing Molly’s name that I branded into the leather. When I made the cover for the first journal I gave her, I had no idea at the time that she would actually use it, let alone fill it up and ask for another. It also didn’t cross my eight-year-old mind that Molly and I would one day be married. I knew there was some intangible connection between us, but I didn’t realize how deep it was. How much I would one day love and cherish her. And I certainly never thought that we could possibly be reincarnations from previous lives.
My eyes move to Clara’s journal. These I have read. I finished the last one the day before Molly died. She kept me up to date with everything going on in Clara and Charles’ lives, but if we are actually them, I wanted to read it firsthand. I knew it was a long shot, and maybe even crazy to think it might work, but I wanted to see if it triggered a memory or recognition or something that would give me even the slightest clue that we really are. Nothing happened. No big aha moment or feelings of déjà vu.
The disappointment was harsh when I realized it didn’t work, but it didn’t change my belief that we are Clara and Charles. There were too many clues written in the pages, too many strange coincidences. And that was just in Clara’s journals. Molly listed off a bunch more from the other women’s journals. I plan to read those next.
In all honesty, there are only two things that’ve kept me planted on this earth and have kept me sane. Gray and Gemma, and the thought that Molly and I will be together again. The deep pain in my chest eases a tiny bit thinking that I’ll have yet another life to live with her. To be able to make new memories. To love her and hold her again. Betsy and William and Anna and Jack didn’t have many years together, but Clara and Charles did. They had a lifetime. I’d give anything to have even one more day with Molly. Of course, if the pattern continues, we won’t know who we are to each other. But I’m okay with that, so long as we’re together. The only heartbreaking downside is we won’t have Gray and Gemma. As much as I wish we could carry them over into our next lifetime, we won’t miss them, because we won’t know they ever existed.
Lying there with one arm wrapped around Molly’s pillow and my other hand resting on top of her journal, the stress of today finally takes hold. I don’t want to fall asleep, because I know the first few seconds after waking up, I’ll forget Molly is gone and will relive the pain when I realize she is.
But I have to keep strong for Gray and Gemma. Before Molly died, my sole purpose for living was for her and our children.
She may be gone, but I’ve still got a reason to live.