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E. P. S. and R. H. S.
Eliana Presley St. James and Ryder Hunter St. James.
My fingers run over the name Presley, our daughter’s middle name. Although I forgot about my babies, I couldn’t ignore them completely. The name I give the young girl I become sometimes reflects that.
Hunter’s socks are forgotten on top of his dresser as I pull the box out of the closet. I start for the bed, but change directions at the last minute. Taking the box out of our bedroom, I go to the room across the hall. One of the rooms I forced myself to ignore for years.
As soon as I open the door I smell the familiar innocent scent of a little boy. Even after all these years, this room still has the faint aroma of Ryder.
I take a deep breath, and then another and another, desperate to breathe in that scent as much as possible. While it hurts, it also soothes my frayed nerves.
I smile when I see Ryder’s Captain America comforter. Ryder loved all superheroes, but Captain America was his favorite.
Sitting on the side of the bed, I set the box beside me. My eyes catch on the mirror that Hunter punched the other day. Even though the shattered glass has been cleaned, the mirror’s frame remains. Based on Hunter’s violent reaction, I deduced that someone had written something on the mirror. I haven’t asked Hunter what it was. I don’t want to know.
Looking down at my hands, I run my fingers over one of the scars on my wrists. Hunter said the first time I was Athena, I tried to kill myself. I don’t really have Athena’s memories, but if I think hard enough, I can barely catch a glimpse of red covering my wrists and the slight niggle of pain that accompanied the attempt. Shame heats my face when I think about what I tried to do, even if I wasn’t myself at the time. I hate what I put Hunter through, and I hate that I almost left him all alone.
With a deep breath, I push those thoughts aside and lift the lid of the box. The first thing I see is a light blue checkered baby book with Ryder’s name written in calligraphy.
Setting it on my lap, I flip it open to the first page.
Ryder Hunter St. James
Birthdate: March 3, 2016
Weight: 7 lbs., 9 oz.
Birthplace: River Heights, TN.
My throat closes, and I force myself to swallow the lump.
Ryder would be seven years old. It’s been five years since I’ve seen his beautiful innocent face, held him in my arms.
On to the next page, I read, lovingly, but painstakingly, all the things that made Ryder so special.
The color of his hair when he was born, with a small lock of strands taped to the page.
A description of his first outfit. Light blue with white elephants.
The first thought that came to mind when I first saw him. How utterly perfect he was.
I devour every word. Not because I’ve forgotten, but because it makes me feel closer to him.
Midway through Ryder’s baby book, I notice movement in the open doorway. As tears stream down my cheeks, my eyes meet Hunter’s. His brows are dipped in concern, but his expression is soft.
“Baby,” he says gently, taking a seat beside me on the bed. He sits so close that his thigh touches mine.
I’m amazed at how gentle and soft Hunter can be with me, when to most people he seems hardened and unfeeling.
So we can both see, I slide the book over so half of it is on Hunter’s thigh. “Look with me.”
That’s what we do. We look at each page, stopping every so often to reminisce over a memory. We laugh, I cry, and Hunter’s there to wipe away my tears. My heart breaks at the thought of pushing away the memories of our children as if they never existed.
When we’re done with Ryder’s baby book, I set Eli’s on our lap.
I gently trace her name. “When I forgot about them, do you think I, without realizing it, gave Presley her name so I wouldn’t truly forget?”
Hunter takes my hand and laces our fingers together. “Yes, baby. It was your mind’s way of keeping them with us.”
