Quiet Sunday Dinners

before

Silence filled the house. The TV sat dormant, pots and pans did not clang, and there was no bickering over the remote. Just Marla alone on the couch.

The peace and quiet she had always prayed for.

It was 6 o'clock on a Sunday. Normally, dinner would be takeout from the steakhouse downtown as Marla had always maintained that a day of rest meant no cooking. She would force the kids to eat dinner at the table, and Kendra would stress out about an assignment she had due the next day while Seth flung peas at her. Inevitably, someone would yell and the other would storm out of the room.

Marla would be pulling her hair out trying to get them to settle down and wishing that, for just once, their house could be peaceful and quiet and not full of bickering and loud noises.

She had gotten her wish.

Her house was silent.

It only took burying her baby girl under six feet of muddy dirt, and shipping her son off to her in-laws.

Great. Amazing. This was exactly what she had prayed for.

No tears fell. She just stared at the floor.

Scott was somewhere. She didn't know. Probably grief counseling or the grocery store. Either way, Marla couldn't seem to care enough to remember.

She was a passive participant in life at the moment. It was better that way. If she had to go back in the stream of things—back to "normal"—she'd have to have quiet Sunday dinners.

No, it was better when nothing happened at all.

The train horn interrupted her line of thoughts. It was a faithful thing that she disliked. It came every night at eleven pm. She could never get to sleep when she wanted because the blasted horn would wake her up.

While in some crevice of Marla's brain, she registered the oddness of Scott staying out past eleven, she couldn't stop the onslaught of grief that prevented her from thinking about anything but her baby girl. It wouldn't be right to go about her day without Kendra on her mind. To Marla, that was the final goodbye she dreaded. The point when she forgot about her baby girl.

Ironically, the funeral had offered the briefest reprieve in her thoughts as she had to sort money around and calculate coffin costs—monotonous, mindless things.

But, the funeral had already occurred a few days ago. Well, at least Marla thought it was a few days ago. Not much recently had been cataloged in her memory.

All she knew was that there was a new headstone in the cemetery and that her baby girl was under it.

Parents weren't supposed to grieve for their kids. That wasn't the deal Marla had made with God when she conceived.

Motherhood was supposed to be the most amazing thing in the world. God-given. And it was, at times. But, this was never supposed to be part of it.

Why did God take her baby girl?

The priest had tried to explain to her. Euphemisms ran into mantras ran into the most meaningless crap she'd ever heard.

Their family went to church every Sunday. They praised God. They said grace before every meal. Marla had sat on her knees every night like a good girl and prayed for her family.

Her baby girl taken from her. Who did it?

The private detective didn't know. She didn't know. Her son didn't know. The coroner had sent a report with confusing details, but then the next day, sent a clean bill of death.

A stroke.

Marla guessed that was it. A stroke of luck. Something no one could predict but God. Bad karma.