Good Man

"There are stars whose light only reaches the earth long after they have fallen apart. There are people whose remembrance gives light in this world, long after they have passed away. This light shines in our darkest nights on the road we must follow."
- The Talmud



The date on the calendar was August the 11th.

It was now officially one full year since Mike was taken from this life and moved on to the next. His mortal existence had been so bright and vivid. He had conquered his tumultuous childhood, from being sad and angry, to become that of a happy man love and appreciation in his mind, body and soul. There seemed to be not a man or woman on this planet who was not positively affected by his presence.

Mike was one in a million, a wonderful addition to the human race.

He had been a good man.

But now he was gone, just a memory in the minds of those who knew him, knew of him, loved him deeply. He lived on in his children and the lives they were growing into and would lead as they became adults one day. His legacy would continue with them and their future children, and so on, so forth. And the love he shared with his wife, his widowed Caroline, still pulsed in her veins, beating wildly in her heart.

She would never forget him, there would never be another like him in her life and she could never, ever replace him. Not in any way, shape or form.

And on this macabre day of remembrance, Caroline sat with her children in her bedroom, on her king-sized bed; Mikey on her right, Chloe on her left. Her arms were wrapped around the pair as they looked across the room to the flat screen plasma TV on the wall, watching home videos of their father.

The video playing at present was that of Chloe's first birthday party, with Mike holding his little girl by cupping his hands under her bottom, bending forward and swinging her back and forth between his legs. On screen, a one-year-old Chloe was giggling as her chubby, little legs dangled below her; her small feet kicking out.

"That's me and daddy," Chloe spoke ever so sweetly.

Caroline nodded. "Yes, it is, peanut." She kissed the top of her daughter's head and smiled.

"There's me," Mikey added, pointing to his younger self appearing on screen, holding a sippy cup and starting to whine, clearly wanting attention from his father as well.

Caroline smirked at that. "You were very grumpy that day."

"I was?"

"Mmhmm," she insisted aloofly. "It was Chloe's birthday, and you wanted your daddy all to yourself. You didn't want to share." Caroline began to remember the events of that day, not captured on film. "You got so moody, mommy had to spank your butt and make you take a nap."

"I don't remember that," Mikey muttered.

"Well, you were little. As you grow up, it sometimes gets harder to remember things that happened when you were younger."

Caroline looked down in time to notice her son's face fall slightly in thought, confusion and what could be deduced as worry.

"Will I forget daddy when I get older?"

The question touched a nerve with Caroline and her heart ached. She was worried about the same thing; about her children forgetting who their father was. That's why she decided she would always keep pictures of Mike everywhere, and have them watch videos of Mike on special occasions or if they randomly asked to. It's also why she played Green Day's music in the house from time to time; so they could be familiar what their father's passion was.

"Of course you won't forget him, Michael baby. He's your daddy, and even though he's not here in person, he's always with you in your heart, watching over you in heaven."

"Is he an angel?" Chloe wondered innocently.

Caroline couldn't help but laugh. She couldn't exactly picture Mike with a big, pair of fluffy wings and a golden halo circling above his head. She could, however, picture him rocking out on a harp while the horns on his head held up said halo.

"Yep," Caroline said anyway. "He's an angel, alright."



Later that evening, when Chloe and Mikey had fallen asleep in Caroline's bed, she slid off as quietly as she could as not to disturb them. The latest video they'd been watching together had long since come to an end and been turned off, and now Caroline had some things to do on her own. She grabbed her Reno wedding photo from the night stand as well as the scrapbook album she'd looked through on what would've been their fourth wedding anniversary back in May, and walked into her master bathroom.

Getting into the large, whirlpool tub, which was devoid of water, Caroline sat down, setting the Reno wedding photo between her ankles and flipped open the album, scanning through its pages and admiring the photographs.

"I can't believe it's been a whole year. It feels like only yesterday," she said quietly out loud, to herself. "I still feel that fear, the anger and the panic of losing you. I can still feel you in my arms when I held you as you died. I can still see your eyes when you looked back up at me and were crying. I remember the pain and fear, and even the love they had in them."

Caroline began to cry softly then. No matter how much time would pass, the pain would still hurt; maybe not always as strongly, but it would never go away. And Caroline, honestly, didn't want the pain to go away.

She was coming to realize that the more it hurt to have lost someone, the more she clearly cared and loved that person. They had been important to her, to her life. They'd left an imprint on her soul; like a fossil in stone, ever a part of her being, proof that they existed.

And it wasn't just Mike she was remembering, though she could stare at the goofy photograph of the two of them all night; the photograph of Mike making a crazy face and her wearing a pair of red horns on her head, looking off at something else, possibly someone taking another picture from another direction.

She also had Giselle to remember. All the memories they shared. And although her death was more recent, it didn't seem as rough. Perhaps it was because she was confidant her sister hadn't felt any pain at the end. Perhaps it was because she knew she'd been able to share three decades of memories with her and was lucky to have had them. Either way, Giselle had come and gone, and no matter what, it did hurt and Caroline did miss her terribly.



Caroline walked down the hallway, away from her last class of the day; a small pile of books and a purple Trapper Keeper in her arms. Her dark, brown hair was pulled up into a crappy ponytail and the only remnant of make-up on her face was the bit of blue eye shadow on her eyelids; her lipstick having wiped gradually away from biting her lips, eating lunch and such. She wore a pair of white skort -- the horrible skirt and shorts mix -- and a bright green tee with a thick, white stripe across the bosom. On her feet, a pair of clear thonged sandals.

It was late May of 1998, a few weeks from graduation, and Caroline was antsy to move on from high school.

Oh, how she loathed high school.

With a heavy sigh of relief from the end of the school day, mixed with the anticipation of the end of her high school career, the almost 18-year-old Caroline ducked into the bathroom for a moment.

She pushed open the heavy, wooden door and walked up to one of the three sinks, setting her books and Trapper Keeper balancing on the edge. Taking her hair out of its ponytail, she ran her fingers through the dark tresses and licked her chapping lips. She was content with her reflection; seemingly having a good day in regard to how she felt about her appearance. Most days she wanted to puke over the grossness that was her.

But her attention on herself was cut short when one of the stall doors creaked open and Caroline was greeted with the familiar face of her sister.

Giselle, who was a little over two months away from turning seventeen at the time, had her backpack slung over one shoulder and smiled as she joined Caroline at the sinks.

"Did you have the shits again?" Caroline asked bluntly, and with a laugh to follow.

Giselle made a face. "Ew, no," she insisted, washing her hands. "I have one school-made burrito, once, and it gives me diarrhea, and you won't let me live it down. It was, like, two months ago. Move on, Care."

"Bite me, Zellie."

Giselle rolled her eyes. "Sometimes I think I should be the older sister. I am way more mature than you."

"Fat chance," Caroline scoffed. "Just because you're science geek and have high grades in every class, don't make you more mature."

"Exactly. Brains has nothing to do with it. It's more than book smarts, it's how I act and present myself in public."

Caroline rolled her eyes this time. "You make it sound like I make an ass out of myself in front of others all the time. I'm just more of a nut than you, and don't have to analyze everything I see or experience."

Giselle simply shrugged and turned to reach for some paper towels to dry off her hands as Caroline put her hair back up into another ponytail; only this one was less chaotic. And as she pulled out a tube of cherry-flavored chapstick from her skort pocket, reapplying a much needed coat, she took in what her sister was wearing and snickered.

"What?" Giselle threw out her used, paper towels and leaned sideways on her sink to narrow her blue eyes at her sister.

"I just realized that's my shirt, and mom would kill you if she knew you wore it to school." Caroline reached out her free hand and snapped on of the straps. "It's got spaghetti straps and gives a view of your cleavage, Oooh, saucy tramp."

The black and blue striped tank was from a store at the mall called DEB. Caroline had bought it a few weeks earlier and their mother loathed it. She said it was inappropriate for school and didn't want to see Caroline wearing it except on weekends, and even then she wasn't too pleased.

But here Giselle was wearing it to school, not Caroline.

The younger Woods girl shrugged. "That's why I changed shirts when I got to school this morning," Giselle remarked, pulling a yellow T-shirt out of her backpack and pulling it on over Caroline's tank.

Caroline just shook her head and smirked. "You're such a sneaky, little tramp, aren'tcha?"

Smiling back, Giselle swatted her hand against her sister's arm. "Shut up."

The pair giggled a bit more as they gathered themselves and their belongings and headed out of the bathroom to go to their lockers. They could take their time anyway and not worry about catching a bus since Caroline was a senior, had her license and could drive them home. So, they had all the time in the world to lallygag together.



Or so Caroline had thought...when she was eighteen; that she would have all the time in the world to spend with her sister. But fifteen years later she would lose all chances when Giselle died.



The next morning, Caroline awoke in her bathtub, sore and not alone.

Yes, she still had the Reno wedding photo at her feet, and the scrapbook had slid down her legs somewhat, but sometime during the night, after she'd fallen asleep, her children must've woken up and went looking for their mommy in her bathroom.

When she opened her hazel eyes, Caroline found she was pinned down by the weight of both her children sleeping curled into her sides.

Caroline smiled.



About a week later, after ignoring several phone calls and Hallmark cards sent to her in the mail from friends and family, also remembering Mike and checking to see how she was doing, Caroline finally paid some attention to a package that had arrived in the mail.

It was a small package, wrapped in brown paper and was sent from Keeseville, New York which was near Peru, where her biological father lived. She didn't recognize the first name of the person who sent the package but she was very aware of the surname.

DiChristina.

It was her birth mother's surname.

And obviously it wasn't a package from her birth mother for two reasons: her name had been Constance DiChristina, not Angela, and her mother had died thirty-three years before.

Intrigued, Caroline sat down on the living room floor and began to open the package while Mikey played with his trucks in the family room and Chloe laid on the living room couch, watching cartoons.

Inside was a handwritten note and another box wrapped in gift paper.

Picking up the note, Caroline began to read it.

Dear Caroline,

You do not know me, we have never met, but it is time I reached out to you now that I know you are alive and have a way of contacting you. No doubt your father Alexander has slandered my husband's name as well as my own, but we loved your mother a great deal and losing her was very difficult. True, we never cared much for your father, but years after your mother was gone, we respected how much he loved her as well.

Caroline, my dear, I am your grandmother, and although I have no right to ask to meet you someday, I wish we might. And I would love to know who you are and to also know my great-grandchildren. To know a part of my Constance lives on. My husband died seven years ago, so I know the loss you feel over losing your own last year. I am sorry. The pain never goes away, but it's a bittersweet thing. It means you loved a lot, the more you ache for that special someone.

Enclosed inside this package, is a piece of your mother. I kept it all these years, tucked neatly away in her old bedroom which I never touched or changed.

It belongs to you more than it does to me. Enjoy it, cherish it.

You deserve to know who your mother was.

Love, your grandmother,
Angela DiChristina

Caroline stared at the letter for a few more moments, letting the contents sink in. Upon setting it down on the carpet beside her, she reached for the gift, wrapped up in shiny purple and green gift paper.

Gently tearing at it, she realized there were actually two gifts, wrapped, then tapped together. The top one was flat and rectangular and about eight inches long. Unwrapping it, Caroline came face to face with her very own framed photograph of her mother.

A small sob became lodged in her throat as she looked it over quite meticulously. She'd seen several photographs of her mother before that her father Alexander still had and had given her. But they were all candid and didn't do her the justice this photograph she now held in her hands did.

It was a studio portrait, possibly a senior photograph.

Dressed in white, leaning back slightly with her thick brown hair cascading down around her face and upon her shoulders, what looked to be an 18-year-old Constance DiChristina smiled almost faintly; as if considering a serious option or about to break out into a hearty laugh. It was a beautiful mix of the two.

Her mother was beautiful.

Smiling to herself, Caroline set the picture on her lap and began to unwrap the second gift.

It was a journal, or a diary; whichever you wanted to call it.

And the title page on the inside stated, in a sleek yet bubbly handwriting:

This diary belongs to Connie DiChristina. READ THIS AND DIE!!!

Caroline was holding her mother's thoughts and feelings, put down on paper. Her mother had held this, cherished this book. It was her very personal possession in life, and now Caroline would be able to find out just exactly how her mother was so that she could remember her, too, despite never meeting or knowing her.

Yet somehow, Caroline always knew her mother was with her, a part of her.

A rueful smile toying at the corners of Caroline's lips, she set the diary down beside the picture and touched her hand to her belly.

"Another part of you lives on again, mom..."