Mouse House

Anna awoke in a nest of pink and white cotton and lace. Again. As usual, the lights were still on, but they added nothing to the room, which was already flooded with morning sunlight.  She knew she had to get up, but not moving was always the more attractive option. She could lie there for days, letting the world go about its business; that was tempting. But no. You must get up, even when there is nothing to get up for. She enjoyed a long stretch, instantly realizing that days had passed without bathing or changing, so a shower was her first order of business. She sat up slowly, and there, welcoming her into another day, was the image of a sleeping princess with a handsome prince attached to her lips. Lucky bitch. 

Falling asleep each night on her daughter’s bed was an accidental routine that began more than two weeks before, when she was overcome by fatigue, and the child’s bed happened to be the nearest place to rest. Soon, it was a deliberate practice. The bed was too small, but she paid no mind to discomfort or the surrounding menagerie of plush animals who glared at her as though she was intruding on their territory. But drifting off among the colors her daughter loved, the things she touched, the blankets that warmed her, and the pillow on which her head once lay was like a warm embrace. She ended every night there, and when her eyes opened again, it ensured her daughter was the first thing to enter her mind. If nothing else, every horrible day was bookended by reminders of her greatest love and joy, offering enough solace to hold it all together. To hold her together.

Robert was fumbling around in the kitchen, trying his best to stay quiet, an effort which invariably resulted in more noise than was necessary.  Anna would descend the stairs once silence returned, indicating he had slunk back to his subterranean man cave. Since burying their daughter, the two spent most of their time apart, as far away from one another as possible, but still under the same roof.  She took the top level of the house, and he had the basement den, leaving the ground floor as neutral territory.  The arrangement required constant aural surveys of the shared spaces to avoid any interaction. There was nothing to say—no good morning, sleep well, how was your day, or anything that used to be discussed. It was a life they never imagined, with problems that were supposed to be on the pages of some other couple’s book. 

“Let’s keep it,” she said. “We’d be good at it.  I know it.  Bob, I feel this is our only chance.”

Shocked, Robert looked up at his wife, who wore a beaming smile and a tentative expression, like a child seeking permission to remain at play an hour longer. He didn’t know what to say. Neither of them ever wanted children, at least not until that moment. They always said there were too many other experiences to enjoy as a couple, and being accountable to no one but each other was too much fun. They lived the life they always talked about and never planned on wanting more.

From their first date, Robert and Anna knew they had found something special. Their connection was deep and unshakable; each was the other’s protector, confidante, and lover. Their envious friends believed they were made for one another. By all accounts, they were supposed to share lifelong happiness. 

“Well,” he finally said, “we’ve always believed we were meant to be together. So, I guess this is meant to be, too.”

“There are, of course, plenty of risks associated with geriatric pregnancies,” the doctor told her 44-year-old patient. “But you’re healthy, no concerning family history to worry about. As long as you care for yourself, I see no call for concern.” 

“We should have started earlier,” Anna said, a surprising sentiment her husband chose not to acknowledge.

Geriatric. High risk. Those were the words Anna heard above all others, and they frightened her so much that she developed a frantic, almost debilitating fear that she would not carry to term. Nothing could calm her mind, and she did herself no favors by exhausting her laptop with research on the potential problems she faced.  A miscarriage, painful and bloody, a grotesque physical deformity, or any of the countless maladies that erode the brain in utero. She had no interest in positive stories of pregnancy in older women, only in what could go wrong.

“Please. Stop with the Googling,” the doctor advised on a follow-up visit. “I understand the fear, but your biggest problem right now is you. This self-induced stress is not good for the baby. If you want information, come to me. It’s my job to know when something is wrong, and I’m telling you nothing is wrong. Just do everything we’ve discussed—vitamins, a good diet, light exercise, and rest—and you’ll be fine. That’s your job.”  

Anna bought a thick spiral notebook and began to log, in precise detail, her food and water intake, sleep, time spent on her feet, and nearly every physical action taken throughout the day. She created a strict schedule for consistent behavior. She constantly reminded herself of the doctor’s words, but in her own interpretation. You’ll be fine. Do everything discussed, and you’ll be fine. That will make it fine. I have to do everything to make it fine. Nothing will go wrong if I do everything right. I have to do everything right. 

Soon, every move she made was carefully considered as though she were carrying delicate porcelain that so much as a sneeze could send to a shattering fate. If the weather or air quality was less than perfect, she refused to leave the house and forbade Robert from opening the windows, and whenever a cough or sniffle was heard, he was banished to his cave. 

Anna adopted a practice of in-utero communication, which she read about in one of her many books on first-time pregnancy. She read stories aloud, played music through headphones attached to her abdomen, and meditated, believing she could send love and positive energy through her body to her child. In Anna’s mind, there was no doubt that her efforts were both received and reciprocated.

Robert watched as his wife’s habits became, with increasing intensity, obsessions. He wanted to be supportive, but this was a woman he didn’t know. Maybe it’s a common response to the pregnancy, he thought, and so he indulged her in each over-cautious measure, hoping normalcy would return once the baby was born. 

Lily finally arrived, a little early and underweight, bringing with her a louder and messier life. The new parents were overcome with joy as they watched their daughter discover the world. The proud father and over-protective mother were ready for all the milestones that dotted the path ahead, the many firsts, the rites of passage. And they should have been allowed to enjoy each of them. Instead, after Lily had collected just five years, a lengthy and curious illness forced a change of course. 

Doctors evaded conclusions, leaving ample room for fear. Anna and Robert’s hearts collapsed whenever the little girl’s blood was drawn, more than they imagined was proper to remove from a child so small. Once her body replaced it, more was taken. Finally, doctors were boring into the little girl’s hip to reach the sickly marrow that would confirm the cancer.

“No. We need another opinion.” There was no emotion in her voice. 

“Anna, please. Let’s be real. Three doctors consulted on her tests,” Robert reminded her. We’ve had plenty of opinions. We need to start treatment right away.”

“She didn’t get it from my side.” The comment sounded accusatory but also self-convincing. 

“I don’t think that’s how it works.”

“We’ll have another opinion.”

His heart hurt. She was risking her daughter’s treatment to search for a diagnosis that would never be found. And where had his wife gone? Their partnership was forgotten. There was no discussion she was willing to have, and no assertion she would hear. 

They spent a week searching for a new doctor, and more time was needed for him to perform his own tests. The results mirrored everything they had already received. Anna was overwhelmed with confusion. Where was the misstep? She had done everything correctly, meeting every requirement to ensure a healthy child. Lily was supposed to be fine. 

The funeral had passed in a blur, fast and private. At home, no day was complete without an argument. Robert avoided Anna; she disregarded him. The disunity they once vowed never to invite in became the guest that wouldn’t leave and the primer for all that followed.  

In the weeks following her daughter’s death, Anna saw no reason to interact with the world. Time was as torturous as the loss itself, passing at such a punishingly slow pace that she no longer remembered what it was to have a day unencumbered by grief. At first, sleep was negligible until exhaustion denied her any waking hours as though they hadn’t been earned. Days of the week meant nothing; morning and night were one and the same. And though daily routines would eventually return, the life once lived never would.

In his sorrow, Robert had nothing left to give the world. He felt heavy. His stride became a shuffle, and lifting a coffee cup felt like a Herculean feat. Why not just go? My daughter and my wife have been taken from me. What’s left? But he hadn’t the physical or mental energy to end his life, not by any method. 

Anna plodded down the stairs and finally began the arduous task of removing illness from around the home. Plastic basins, strategically placed in each room to catch the unpredictable vomit, were bagged and binned to await recycling. All the horrible medications were fed to the garbage can, along with a heap of pamphlets and fact sheets—dos and don’ts, pain management practices, family coping strategies—the endless instructions for keeping her child alive. Every reminder of the thief who took their daughter had to go. Once her chores were complete and she was certain her husband would remain in hiding, Anna went to the kitchen for a bowl of soup but only stared at an unopened can. She had no interest in eating, remembering how illness had taken her daughter’s appetite. Lily’s death had taken hers.

Through the window, patches of green were beginning to emerge through the last of the early spring snow, and a few buds in the trees hinted their interest in blooming. Slowly, the dismal winter tones, so well suited for bereavement, would give way to seasonal vibrancy, just as they were meant to. The world was still spinning. Life would go on. She hated every leaf and blade of grass.

That evening, without forethought, Anna began what would become a new ritual: selecting one of many often-played discs, settling onto the sofa with a fleece Tinkerbell blanket and a child-sized space at her side, and losing herself in an animated story. The singing crab she once loathed for no reason other than tiring of his voice from incessant viewings was now a welcome guest. She could still hear Lily’s giggling fit that erupted without fail when the clumsy seagull arrived. As with each film in the collection, the young girl always sang along, echoed the dialogue, or sometimes just sat entranced, her mouth silently moving in synch with every word. Anna was unknowingly doing the same. The small library of Disney films was a godsend at the peak of her illness, distracting Lily from her circumstances and bolstering her spirit. The characters, songs, and silliness proved to be crucial partners in caregiving, no more so than in the final weeks when the movies were all that could counter the misery the little girl didn’t have words to express.

A dead child was worth just one week of bereavement leave, and while Robert was disgusted by the value his employer placed on his daughter, he offered no protest. But after four days at home, and tired of sorrow, he forced himself back to work to keep his mind occupied.  For a while, it worked; there were few opportunities to dwell on the vacancy in his heart. But the office had changed. Colleagues looked at him with different eyes and seemed to speak down to him, continually asking him to evaluate his condition. 

“If you’re feeling up to it, could you review this budget?”

“I’d appreciate your thoughts on these projections. That is, if it’s a good time for you.”

Paperwork used to fall to his desk like aerial bombs, and no matter how many promotions he was given, someone in a higher position always felt the need to unload their responsibilities on him, sans gratitude. For years, those things were at most an annoyance, but now, paired with contrived sympathy, it was maddening. Every word spoken to him was awkward, every email tentative. No one knew how to approach the man whose child had died, though most seemed to think sad eyes and a tilted head were a safe start. They were tiptoeing on bubble wrap, unable to navigate around his loss without offense. Before long, he snapped, producing a series of admonishing outbursts. Human Resources ultimately intervened and insisted he work from home until he felt he could return without incident.

Robert served his house arrest in the basement. It was solitary but comfortable, so fully outfitted it could have been an apartment all its own. Day after day and late into each night, he sat in the glow of his computer screen. Productivity improved more than it ever could in the office, which seemed to satisfy his employer. When not working, he lost himself online with news, videos, blogs, games, and porn, a routine that became far more comfortable than it should have been. Privacy was easy to take for granted, a lesson learned when his web camera slid from its perch during a video conference, broadcasting his lower nudity to all in attendance. He was terminated.

Anna had no words for her husband. Lily’s death received all her attention; there was no room for anything else. By then, avoidance had become their mutual approach to cohabitation, but she would break this practice several weeks later when their paths crossed. 

“I want to go on the trip,” she informed him.

It took a moment for Robert to remember that in a little more than a week, they—father, mother, and child—were expected at a hotel in Orlando. It was intended to celebrate reaching what doctors called the ‘maintenance phase,’ when their daughter’s treatment might be considered a success. But the prospect of a daughter free of disease misled them into a premature booking; they couldn’t resist. 

“Would you like to go to Disney World?”

“Disney… World?” The words made no sense to the little girl. Robert and Anna didn’t want her to watch much television until she was older, save the Disney movies, which she devoured. She may have known every song and character, but she had no idea the amusement park existed.

“It’s got everything from the movies you love,” Anna told her. “We’ll see Sleeping Beauty’s big castle. And there are lots of fun rides, and you can have your picture taken with Mickey and Minnie and Pooh Bear.” 

Lily’s excitement was tempered by a hint of disbelief. She still wasn’t sure what they were talking about. As if on cue, a witch’s cackle could be heard from the television, giving the girl pause. 

“Do they have scary things?”

“Oh, maybe some fun-scary things,” Robert explained, “but nothing that can hurt you. It’s the happiest place on earth.”

“It’s the happiest place?”  

“That’s what they call it.”

“We can go?” Finally, with something to feel good about, Lily beamed. Her father had seen that face once before, not just on his daughter’s face. It was Anna all over again, waiting for him to agree to a child.

“Sure, let’s go!” Robert threw in an additional piece of excitement. “And we’ll fly in an airplane to get there.”

“We can fly?”

“We can fly!”

Lily’s laughter and bright smile never failed to melt her father’s heart.

“The trip.” Anna’s words jolted Robert back from his memories.

“Alright,” he said, ending his long silence. “We’ll go.”

Anna nodded slowly, not looking at him. 

It never occurred to either of them that two profoundly grief-stricken adults might not do very well in a place that existed to manufacture happiness, and they never stopped to think that it would be overrun with children full of life. Instead, Anna saw the trip as a promised gift given, while Robert just hoped it would help lighten the weight of his grief so he could climb out from under it.

It was all prepaid—airline tickets, hotel, and park admissions for three. Through a silent flight, the despondent couple sat on either side of an empty seat belonging to their dead daughter. There would always be unused admission tickets, meal vouchers, attraction passes, and table reservations with one chair too many.

Through four days, the thick air and sticky heat from the Florida sun were nothing compared to the heaviness between Anna and Robert. If they spoke, it was of trivial things—the time, the weather—as though they were strangers. Their eyes made no contact, and they took separate beds. Each morning, they would enter the park with crowds of families, surrounded by the sounds and sights of joy, before agreeing to separate until the end of the day. Robert wandered, occasionally staking a long claim on a park bench, where he watched children of all ages and wondered what might have become of his daughter had she been given a chance to grow. She would have been a great student. Beautiful. Happy. An athlete. No, a dancer. Would she have looked like that? Or that? Not that. 

There was a time when he wanted nothing less than a child, and he couldn’t forget that. He felt he didn’t deserve any amount of self-forgiveness, as though the man he was before she arrived was somehow a death hex. Now, there was nothing to do but stare into the crowds and envision his daughter wearing mouse ears and eating ice cream. And each day, from one bench to another in the happiest place on earth, with sunglasses concealing the tears in his eyes, he prayed for his own death.

Anna fell down a different hole. As she strolled among the balloons and barbershop quartets, she could feel Lily’s tiny hand in hers and imagined the two smiling at the sights, laughing, and singing the songs they knew so well. It was too wonderful a fantasy to contain, and it took the reaction of a stranger who noticed her laughing and speaking to no one to bring her back to reality. By ducking into the nearest gift shop, Anna found that the frenzy of hyperactive tourists was distracting enough to avoid further embarrassment.

After three days, a hefty credit card tab, and the sounds of healthy children firmly embedded into their brains, the couple returned home, each darting off to their respective levels of the house the moment they crossed the welcome mat. 

Anna felt satisfied that she had taken her daughter on the trip as promised. Lily was there with her. Even at home, she could hear her daughter laugh as she unpacked her small but seemingly bottomless suitcase. In addition to her clothing, it contained an impressive collection of souvenirs: a gang of plush characters (two mice, a duck, and a dog), a coffee mug, seven figurines of dwarves, a glitter globe that housed a grinning snowman, a set of one hundred and one refrigerator magnets, and a collectible plate decorated with the park’s iconic castle. 

Robert returned to unemployment and solitude. He feared Anna would use his failure against him at any moment. She was due for an eruption, even entitled to one. Maybe it would help. Still, she said nothing, and they resumed their roles as two strangers.

The house was changing. The silence of sorrow was only amplified by the infrequency of sounds never noticed—humming appliances, creaky floorboards, mystery taps and claps, and street noise. Robert had had enough. He didn’t know what lay beyond mourning, but they would have to find out and move on, not to forsake their loss, but to respect it. He interrupted her kitchen time. 

“Would you like to go out this evening?” he asked, pouring coffee into a grinning Arabian genie mug, one of several Anna had recently purchased.  

“No.”

“It’s been a while since you and I—” 

“Not without our daughter.”  

Robert couldn’t move, frozen in confusion. Had she meant they couldn’t go out because they no longer had a daughter, or their daughter had to come along? Either was possible; he sometimes wondered if Anna believed Lily was still there, invisible, a ghost. Regardless, she wasn’t ready to step back into the world; he wasn’t sure he even wanted to. He returned to the basement and his computer.

Joan stood at her sister’s front door, sensing a distress, a fog of despair enveloping the house. She hadn’t seen her sister since Lily’s death, though she wished she had the moment she saw her face. She was welcoming and happy, but none of it felt genuine. They were close once, but as adults, Joan frowned upon her sister’s carefree married life. Later, Anna hoped her pregnancy would win Joan’s approval, but to no avail. Now, despite the opportunity, reconnecting wouldn’t be easy.  

Over coffee, an uncomfortable conversation played out through trivial topics. Joan wanted to help Anna open up about her pain, but every mention of Lily was interrupted by an unrelated topic. Something was preventing Anna from facing her loss, and it wasn’t long before Joan saw the answer all around.  

“When did your life become a cartoon?” Joan’s tone and expression signaled she would not allow Anna to dismiss the question.

“What are you talking about?”

“All of this stuff. Makes the place look like a nursery school, not a house where adults live.”

“Well, we did have a child, you know.” Anna was uninterested in the conversation and decided to make a fresh pot of coffee. 

“And now you don’t. But even when you did, I know you didn’t have all this.” Joan studied her sister and took a deep breath before softening her tone. “I’m sorry. Anna, you’ve been through something no one should ever face, and I know moving on is difficult. I think you could use some help. We can find you someone to talk to, a therapist. Perfectly normal. And maybe you can start to let some of these things go. I’m happy to—”

“No, that’s alright. We’re all doing just fine here.” She stood perfectly still, watching as the brew began.

A long, tense silence was finally broken when a Goofy wall clock counted the hour with an absurd chuckle. Joan shook her head in disbelief.

“You’re all doing fine? All of you? How many is that, Anna?” Joan began to dissect the issue. “This house is not fine. Your husband seems to live underground. Honey, that’s not fine. Fine is not Mickey Mouse on every light switch in every room. Every room. The towels in the guest bathroom are covered with Dumbo, and there is a shower curtain to match. Anna, your ice cubes have ears. Pinocchio is right there in the living room, sitting in his own little chair. You do know he’ll never be a real boy, right?” 

Anna said nothing. Joan only half-regretted her words and knew her visit would be short.

“Listen, why don’t you come spend some time with me in Philadelphia before the summer? You’d like it. A long weekend, maybe? The kids would love to see their aunt. You know, there’s a flower show on the —.”

“I don’t think so,” Ann quickly replied. “You wouldn’t have the time or space for me with your… four children running around, all that energy. Anyway, we’ll probably take… We’ll probably go down to Florida before it gets too hot.”  

“It’s going to get better. It is. I promise.” He watched as she barely held onto the crayon that marked the coloring book. He tried to give her a smile, hoping she would return the gesture even slightly, but she wouldn’t even lift her head. 

Robert found himself returning to that moment whenever his heart could stand it. And he couldn’t forget that he never wanted children, and not just because he wanted to maintain the life they created. He didn’t like children. More specifically, he didn’t like what they would become. The adults he interacted with were generally dismissive or too quickly contemptuous of each other’s beliefs and behaviors; they always seemed to enjoy tearing each other down. Children were universally embraced; they were precious and protected. Was it their innocence, he wondered, their potential, or just an innate soft spot for the diminutive form, as one is drawn to puppies or kittens? To him, they were adults in waiting, all but guaranteed to turn out as hateful and self-absorbed as their parents. He wanted nothing to do with them. 

And then he held his daughter. In the hospital, through joyous tears, he saw her as part of himself. She belonged. He would protect her, give her every advantage and opportunity, and raise her to be kind and giving to others. Above all, he vowed never to lie to her. Lily deserved that, and he made good on his vow. He couldn’t stop the cancer, but he never lied. He told her he knew it would get better, that one day she wouldn’t be sick anymore. And it was the truth; no matter the outcome, the sickness would eventually end and, with it, her suffering. 

Now, he was suffocating in a house whose purpose he could no longer see. To return to some manageable unity, changes would be necessary, but he didn’t see that happening. He and his wife had sunk too deep, and all he could see ahead was a life of wallowing in grief and guilt. Anna had become someone he did not understand. Occasionally, she could be heard speaking out loud to Lily as though she were still alive. All the while, the house had been transformed into a gallery of puerile fantasies. 

At first, he paid no attention to the artwork, knick-knacks, and table settings. But then the duck-adorned linens arrived, and the towels depicting the antics of a googly-eyed clownfish. It seemed every time he turned his back, the collection had grown. Plush toys were displayed throughout the house. There were dishes, lamps, books, and bedding, all celebrating Walt’s empire. Even Robert’s breakfast jumped from the toaster, seared with Mickey’s image. It was a surreal environment created by a woman he once loved above all others; now, she was a stranger lost in a house filled with characters from children’s stories, none of which offered a lesson for their troubles. It was over.

Anna slept. Often, she dreamed of life—not the life she knew, but one set in a fantastical world teeming with optimism and free of despair. She saw herself stepping through a mist into a clean, bright land of intensely sharp colors. As joy filled her heart, she skipped along a pristine forest brook with ease, moving with the grace of a dancer, her limbs flowing as if unhindered by gravity. A burst of glitter appeared in the air each time she opened her arms to embrace her surroundings, and as she hummed a carefree tune, hovering fairies and well-dressed field mice harmonized with lyrics of wishes and dreams. At that moment, amid her immeasurable pleasure, a cluster of ominous clouds appeared overhead and unleashed a brutal torrent that saturated the dreamscape. Before her eyes, the vibrant colors began to run, and the animals and fairies dissolved. Powerless, she watched in horror as it all dripped into a murky stream that flowed by until it drained into the white void left behind. Finally, defeated, she noticed her own colors beginning to streak and drop.  

Anna always awoke at the same moment, opening her eyes to the Sleeping Beauty poster. She both loved and hated the recurring dream. It brought on a feeling of failure, yet she anxiously hoped to return to its happiness, however fleeting, or for the chance of a fairy tale ending yet to be discovered. As in the movies, poisoned apples and lost shoes never mattered; the darkness always resolved to light. She wanted to live in such a perfectly packaged tale, in which she could break free from her grief. Until then, she had to keep treading through that all-encompassing heartbreak until she reached some kind of ever after.