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I went back to my room after dinner with a coffee and a bottle of water. The truth was, I did not want to let go of my grief. It was the only thing I had that was real, and tangible, from that child. I carried it with me because I had nothing else to remember him by other than my hospital bracelet.
Was I ready to let him go?
I put my hand over my womb, wanting to protect my child from my grief. I needed to allow myself to let it go so I could move on, although it struck me as patently unfair that I had that choice when he did not.
I remembered, again, that I was a child, too. I promised myself I would find another way, a healthy way, to honor that part of my heart that I’d lost.
The dream for which I had been collecting moments for all along was within reach, but there was still work to be done, amends had to be made, and she would be ignored no longer.
Grief reared up from my gut, gripped my throat with her spiny hands and wailed within me. I lay down on the bed and I cried.
I cried for the girl that I used to be.
I cried for her pain, I cried for her fear, her dread, her sadness, and I cried for her isolation, even as I had perpetuated it all these years.
I cried for the violence that had been done to her, and I mourned the baby I wished I known. I told her how sorry I was for what had happened to her.
I commiserated with her guilt and her shame and her loss, then I held out my hand and touched her softly rounded, sweetly freckled, face.
I forgave her for what she had done to us and offered absolution.
I promised her I would do better for us going forward and I offered her my love so she could set down her fear.
The girl inside me, finally, stepped out into the light.
Barrett
“Fuck,” his own voice broke the silence.
No music accompanied this journey. He needed to think things through to decide how best to support her, but this was not his typical drive out where a little time and open road sorted out the thoughts in his head. With every mile of road he covered, his thoughts became more twisted, his anxiety increasing in direct correlation to his proximity to her and the turmoil for which he was responsible.
He shouldn’t have given up the condoms. Not for his sake, but for hers. She didn’t need to have this happen to her a-fucking-gain. He gripped the steering wheel tighter.
How desperate was she that she felt the need to run?
His phone dinged with a message just as he was pulling into town. It was just past eleven o’clock. Ten minutes later he parked in the lot and opened the text, his heart in his throat.
Hi, my Viking.
Angel.
I’m sorry I flipped out a bit today. I just wanted to let you know I’m okay.
You ready to come home?
I’d leave right now if it weren’t so late.
Want company?
I’m 2 hours away.
Not from me you’re not.
What?
I’m outside. What number are you in?
Five.
