A Long and Lonely Mile

Chapter 25

The unsurpassable strength of Mabel Tavington came, not from her gallant father or her virtuous mother, but from the six-month period at the beginning of her life that she spent all alone. William, of course, provided for his daughter. He kept her fed, clean and safe from harm; all the things that a father should do. But there was a darkness within him that caused him to resent the baby girl in his arms. He was present, but not present. He loved her, but he didn't and intuitive little Mabel was aware of his animosity. She could feel his neglect, despite his attempts to hide it from the rest of the world and himself.
During the day, he would tend to Mabel's needs as best he could. At night, he would search his dreams for Marigold, but to no avail. William hadn't dreamt of her since several days after her death, when she showed him the moment in his past that she had given her life to alter.

The burning of her favorite brand of incense was customary, until it gave Mabel a terrible cough and had to be discarded. The smell of floral soaps and oils, the bright shades of yellow that she favored in her décor, the scratch of the needle against her favorite records, the touch of dryer-fresh towels against his skin and the taste of wildflower honey and hazelnut- these were the things that William depended on. Sensory memory brought her back to him, but never in full form.

He surrendered countless tears to the night and would often escape into the quiet wardrobe where the sweet lavender-rose fragrance that lived on his wife's hair and skin still lingered.
"Why did you leave me here alone?" He would ask the scalloped hems and laces of her dresses as they caught his tears. "We were supposed to be a family," he'd whisper each time her wedding dress appeared in his periphery. In the early morning, when the sun was still as soft as the furthest ring of light from the flame on a burning candle's wick, he would beg her to haunt him. If only for a moment, in the hour that they had once reserved for making sweet love.
He could still recall the perfect crescendos and decrescendos of her rhythm, the love that she put into every kiss and touch that she gifted his lips and his naked, vulnerable form. Even now, he could see the glistening droplets of sweat that hung from her flesh like a million priceless jewels. Men have needs, but William never once considered laying with another woman. He sacrificed bodily pleasure and allowed remembrance to be enough. The only lustful task that he undertook was several innocent attempts to sketch Marigold's anatomy from memory. Most of his drawings were from moments that he recalled when she was spread across the bed in sleep with her small, pale breasts aglow in the moonlight. But the drawings, the moon and even the rising sun were cold. It was her warmth that he missed the most.

He kept other drawings, too, that were less intimate. Although William knew that he would never forget her, the sketches ensured him that Marigold's face wouldn't fade over time. Sketches of her in motion, in laughter and in song were drawn in an attempt to purge his mind of the last time that he'd seen her, whiter than the whitest dove; the face of an angel, destined to come to dust in the darkness of a lonely grave.

All other reminders, he found in Mabel as her shapeless newborn features grew more decisive and refined. She was a beautiful little baby and her beauty would only grow along with her fearlessness and compassion. There were few factors that differentiated Mabel's face from her mother's; even Jake, when he was finally strong enough to see his niece, made it known that she looked exactly as his little sister did when she was that age. Except for those eyes. They were what made her a Tavington.

Had they been green as a meadow like the eyes of his late wife, it is possible that Mabel wouldn't have been able to speak to her father the way that she did that day. She was only six months old at the time and typically communicated through rises and falls in the volume of her incoherent sounds. But as William stood in the cold of a February evening to mourn the loss of young Marigold, and to scorn the early spring grasses that were beginning to appear on the soil that he had buried her in, something magical happened.
In one glance, he saw the settling dirt and the tiny child whose birth had sent his beloved to her grave. Mabel's eyes were bluer than blue against the somber backdrop, like a photograph of Neptune glowing in the darkness of space. They watched one another as he wept. When she was sure that he could see her, Mabel lifted her hand towards his face. She continued to stretch, to invite her father's touch until he obliged. William had never glimpsed anything quite so stunning as the concern- nay, empathy in the infant's expression.