Redemption

23 - To Forget

Chapter 23 - To Forget

Madeline Hart.

Daughter of multi-millionaire Jamison Hart, better known as James, the founder and creator of revolutionary software, the HartAttack, a worldwide platform that helps prevent cybersecurity breaches in large quantities of data. A charming guy, the internet says. A genius, the media reports. A legendary innovator, his colleagues remark.

He looks like her, his green, maybe hazel, hooded eyes bore into you, even through the barrier of frozen time and a digital screen. He's handsome, a squarer face with a strong jawline, dark curls, the stubble on his cheeks and chin reminds me of salt and pepper, black spots dotting in the sea of white.

There's a statement.

I'm deeply saddened to announce the passing of my youngest daughter, Madeline Emory Hart, from an incurable genetic condition. My family asks for the respect of privacy during this time as we process our grief and try to navigate this new, tragic reality.

I find it on his company's Instagram account, posted a little over two years ago. There's a picture of the two of them on the next slide, their cheeks pressed against each other, eyes squinting, Maddie's head tilted up slightly as they show off their perfect smiles, white teeth against unblemished skin, the corners of their eyes wrinkling from grinning so hard. Her arm is around his neck, pulling her closer to him, and I feel a different jealousy stab in the middle of my heart, one for a girl who never got to take pictures with her dad like this. They look genuinely happy, happy to be with the other, happy to be loved.

Her hair is short, locks that are streaked with various shades of blonde end just below her slender shoulders, the waves look like silk, well-taken care of, like she used an endless number of products to get this result. I pick up a strand of my long, dark hair, the only light in my room emitting from my laptop screen, rubbing it between my fingers, feeling the deadness of it. I drop it, still staring at Jamison and Maddie, forcing myself to not turn down the road of comparison. I could get lost on it if I don't hold myself back, control the brakes.

She's undeniably beautiful, naturally, like it's effortless.

There's a third slide, a home video of Maddie as a young child, maybe a toddler, blowing out the candles on her birthday cake. She watches everyone around her as they sing her happy birthday, eyes full of joy and enchantment, the love her relatives have for her filling up every inch of her small body. Her hair is short, basically a bob, bangs falling in front of her bright orbs as she looks around, swaying in her view and making her little fingers push them to the side.

She squeals after blowing out the candles, clapping her tiny hands in excitement as everyone cheers. I find myself wishing for a longer video once it ends, completely captivated by her energy, the way it shone.

The comments cry for her, exclaiming how beautiful she was, how unfair it is for the world to take such a pure soul, how much she could've done with her life, how much she had going for her. It seems as if the whole world felt her death, like they knew her personally, some of the comments being paragraphs, expressing their sadness.

Scrolling, clicking, backtracking, copying, pasting, scrolling, clicking, backtracking...

Her Instagram is private. No Facebook, no Twitter, no social media accounts under her name, a complete ghost, no trace of her lingering on the internet except her father's tribute to her and her private Instagram account.

But I still press on, not accepting that there's no more.

Jamison Hart, forty-seven years old and happily married for eighteen of those to his wife, Vivian Hart, a woman from his graduating high school class.