David knew he needed to get out of bed. Five days had passed since he escaped the house to the sanctuary of his studio. Five days spent beneath the covers of the twin mattress he kept on the floor next to his easel. His eyes were gritty. His body ached from lack of movement and the cold. The space heater only ran sporadically, shutting down as soon as the elements burned too hot. Maybe there would be a fire. Maybe he could let the flames lick his skin and welcome black smoke into his lungs. Maybe that would put an end to his misery.
He would crawl out of bed only to use the tiny bathroom in the garage and to drink from one of the many gallon bottles of vodka he kept in the cupboard. The alcohol burned his throat and obliterated his consciousness. Though he hadn’t eaten, he wasn’t hungry. He felt empty, as though his organs were slowly deflating. If he stayed hidden long enough, perhaps he would simply disappear.
“Dad?” Eden’s voice accompanied her knock on the door. He had locked it behind him five days ago when he fled the dinner his daughter had made him. “You need to eat something, Daddy,” she said. “I brought you some chicken soup. I made it just the way you like it, with fennel instead of celery. I added a little lemon juice at the end, just like you showed me. With crackers, too.” She paused. “I love you. Please. Open the door.”
David’s heart seized inside his chest. Eden had been out there every day, asking him to come back. Lydia had knocked once, but only to tell him she had picked up his lithium prescription and that it would be waiting for him inside the house when he was ready to rejoin his family. Tough love, like he knew his doctors had told her to use. He parroted their voices in his head: Don’t enable his depression. Set expectations and be a resource for his proactive behavior. Don’t rescue him. He needs to learn how to save himself.
Ha. Easy for them to say.
He wished he could fling open the door. He wished he was the kind of father Eden deserved. But he wasn’t. His body felt weighted, pinned against the bed. He couldn’t move. His brain screamed, Get up! but his limbs didn’t listen.
Eden knocked again. “Daddy . . . ?” Her voice was fragile, fractured by tears. David could imagine them welling in his daughter’s perfect blue eyes, tipping up over the rims of her eyelids to roll down her freckled cheeks. He’d painted that picture time and again, attempting to trap the sorrow he caused her on the canvas so she would never have to feel it again. Obviously, he had failed.
David pulled the covers over his head, burrowing deep into the musty pillow. He stank, but he didn’t care. His skin felt oily and thick, coated by his own neglect. It was gratifying, somehow, to smell as bad as he felt.
Eden was quiet, but he could feel her still standing outside, waiting for him. She would leave soon, when he didn’t answer her call. But even when she returned to the house he knew he would feel her. Her longing was strong enough to push through any barrier. It wrapped its tentacles around his neck, desperate to extract what he feared he would never be able to give.
