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I wake up to a tapping on my head and a sweet little voice.
“Mommy, I’m home.” Ireland whispers as she continues to tap me on the forehead.
“Hey, baby girl,” I say with closed eyes. Why is she home so dang early?
I open my eyes and lift my head to the doorway of my room where my mom is leaning against the door frame.
“Rough night?”
“Miserable night, but not what you think. What time is it?”
“It’s eleven o’clock.”
“Crap, I am so sorry. I was up all night. Mom . . . I am so stupid . . . I messed up.”
“Ireland, sweetie why don’t you go in your room for a minute while I talk to your mom.”
“Okay, Grandma.”
Ireland leaves the room, and my mom comes and sits next to me on my bed. My phone is plugged in and lying on the bed next to me. I tried to call Jonathan all night long. I texted him letting him know how sorry I was, and that I didn’t mean what I said to Mick. That I knew what a bitch I was. I sent another text letting him know that I had told Mick everything, starting with meeting in San Clemente, and up to the moment that I ruined everything.
“Talk to me, Emily. What’s happened?”
I fill my mom in on everything since we last talked at Mick’s BBQ. She doesn’t speak, just listens. When I finish my story, she pushes some of my wild hair behind my ear and gives me a little smile.
“You did mess up, Emily. I can’t imagine how bad hearing those words must have hurt him. He needs some time to cool off, but I am sure he’ll talk to you, sweetie. You two have too much history to throw it all away. You need to show some humility and explain it all to him once he’s ready to listen.”
My mom ends up sticking around and makes lunch for Ireland, Mick and myself. She and I watch a movie with Ireland, but I really just sit and think about Jonathan. After spending every day of the last week with him, I miss him terribly. Not only do I have the guilt of hurting him, but I miss him.
It’s Sunday. I know that he’s going back to work tonight, and there’s still no word from him. I am checking my phone incessantly, but he still hasn’t returned my calls or texts from the night before. I’ve tried to leave him alone today, but knowing he’ll be leaving for work in a couple of hours I have to try one more time.
Gracie: Please talk to me. I am so sorry. Mick knows everything.
Gracie: I miss you.
After dinner my mom heads home. Mick has gone out, and I still haven’t heard anything from Jonathan. I go through the motions of Ireland’s bath and bed routine for the night. I get her tucked in and her story read but I’m not really there. I’m just trying to get through what’s left of the day without breaking down. The last thing I want to do is to try and explain to Ireland why I’m upset. How do you tell your little girl that because you were too immature to deal with your own feelings, you might have lost the best man you or she have ever known? You don’t, because she will want to reason with it, and there is no reason for my behavior, except cowardice. Plain and simple. I was a coward. I hurt him. Now we are both paying the price.
After I leave Ireland’s room for the night I go to check my phone, grabbing it off my bedside table and preparing myself for more disappointment. My heart nearly stops when I turn the phone over in my hand and I see that I have a text from him.
Georgia: Elka’s at 1pm tomorrow?
Georgia: I miss you too.
Oh thank God! My hands are shaking as I text him. I know he’s already at work, but I need to respond. I don’t want to let another minute go by.
Gracie: Thank you and I’ll see you there at 1pm.
Gracie: Have a good night and be safe.
An hour or so after replying to his text—and feeling like I can breathe just a little bit again—I’m in the bathroom drying my just-washed face off and getting ready for bed, when I hear Mick say my name and knock on the door. He has his own bathroom so why the hell is he bugging me? Maybe Ireland woke up? Crap, not tonight. I’m emotionally exhausted and really don’t want to deal with a nightmare or wet bed. I take a deep breath, and let him know I’ll be right out.
Only a few seconds pass when Mick speaks again in a low, calm voice that worries me. “Emmers, you almost done in there? I need to talk to you.”
I open the door as I continue to apply my nighttime moisturizer and with a bit of sass and irritation, snap. “Geez, Mick! What do you want?”
I can tell the moment I see his face that something is very wrong. I know in an instant that I don’t want to hear the words that are about to come out of his mouth.
“Emmers, there was a shooting at work. Bob Truman was shot and killed and, Em, Jonathan was hit, too. It’s not looking great, so we need to get you to the hospital right away okay? I called mom and she’s on her way over. She’s gonna come stay with Ireland while you and I head to the hospital.”
