by Mj Fields
I sit back against the brick wall as I take in the comfort of the pain’s release. I cry until I can’t anymore, and then I take a deep breath and stand up. I close my eyes once again, one last time for now, and picture him and all the beauty that is him.
Inside, I walk into the kitchen where I have moved everything back to where T had it before I moved in. I stand there and try to make sense of the way he had things put away. It’s stupid. I know it is. Somewhere deep down, though, I keep hoping he will come back, and I will want to fix it up for him.
However, he’s not coming back.
Not ever.
I take my multivitamins then force down the damn shake that Dr. Kennedy brought here after passing her in the hospital when Chance and Hope had their four-month checkup. She came to the apartment and told me I better take care of myself so I can take care of my children.
She oversteps in ways that are infuriating, and I get angry every time I see her, though I know I shouldn’t. I know I am directing my anger at her, but she asks for it, and it’s certainly easier than being angry at T for leaving me.
That’s another lie that happens when you love someone. Somehow, during the grieving process, you get to a point when you feel betrayed by the one who left you. Like it was a choice they made. No one wants to die and leave behind a mess.
During one bout of anger, I opened his closet and tore his clothes from the hangers, throwing them all over the floor. Then I turned to walk out and get a garbage bag to shove them in, but when I returned, I saw the mess I made, and I crumbled into a pile of his things. I sobbed into his shirts that still smelled like him, like home and happiness and love.
I could never be mad at him for leaving me when it wasn’t his choice. He was taken away by some fucking drunk who stole a car and will never be punished for his crime.
Thomas Hardy loved me until his dying breath, just like he said he would, and I will love him until mine.
That day, in the closet, I cleaned everything up, put it all back where he had put it—or, at least I let myself believe I did—and I continued to cry.
Now I walk toward the laundry room, intent on doing something that involves taking care of our—yes, our—children.
I flip on the light switch, but there isn’t a damn thing to do. All our clothes are clean, folded, and put away. I am thankful for the help Mom offered through the nanny, but it gives me too much free time.
Chance and Hope almost sleep through the entire night, only waking for one feeding each. They take two naps a day, each two hours long. There is hardly an occasion when one of them are asleep while the other is awake except the night time feeding.
When they are awake, I feed them, hold them, and simply love them. God, how I love them. They are my life, my loves, the reason I breathe, even though it hurts, and we watch TV.
Movies on TV.
Home movies.
Ones of Thomas Hardy in concert and interviews.
I walk into our room, mine and T’s, not mine and the babies, and sit on the bed that Thomas and I spent endless hours in. If I close my eyes, I can picture him here. If I concentrate, I can hear him laugh. If I let the pain go, I can smile, remembering how he took his time showing me just how much he loved me. Until reality sets in, and the pain starts all over again.
I consider taking a shower, but then decide against it. I can sleep for nearly two hours straight if I go into the babies’ room now.
I look down as I enter, knowing if I look at the mural he painted first, I will cry. I will cry because it’s unfair that he is gone. It’s so unfair that I almost hate God. That’s why I look instead at what he left me.
Our two beautiful children. I will always be grateful for them. Always. But would He take them, too?
A chill runs down my spine at that thought.
As I am about to climb into the bed between the babies’ cribs, my phone vibrates in my pocket.
I quickly walk out of the room as I look at the screen. Harper.
“Hi, Harper,” I whisper.
“Ava, how are you?” she grunts out.
“Good. Why are you talking like that?”
“I’m in labor,” she says with a groan.
“Oh, my God,” I gasp.
“Don’t tell anyone. I just want to know when Mom and your dad left to come home.”
“About three—”
“You’ll come home, too?” she interrupts.
Panic—no, fear—no, terror shoots through my body. I don’t want to go back there. I can’t go back there. I won’t go back there.
“Ava?”
I feel sick to my stomach. I can’t breathe. I’m going to be sick.
The thought of leaving our home, the thought of taking Chance and Hope on a plane full of people and exposing them to germs, and...people, the thought of everyone meeting my—no, our children, Thomas Hardy and my babies, terrifies me.
“Ava, please,” Harper whispers.
“I can’t.”
“I need you,” she says breathlessly.
“They need to be here. Their doctors are here. The apnea machines, the—”
“They are healthy and four-months-old,” she says.
I am about to respond when I hear Maddox in the background.
“Sweetness, tell Ava I’ll have a private plane sent for her.”
“I can’t,” I say again, on the verge of vomiting and tears, and then I hang up before running to the bathroom and letting everything go.
Four months. It has been four months since I lost the only man I will ever love, the only man who ever loved me, the only person in the world who loved me enough to...lie.
How do you keep the people you love safe from everything and everyone outside of your control?
You don’t.
At one point in my life, I believed that love was enough, that making people happy was enough.
That was a lie.
When all else failed, I believed that God would handle it all. “Give it to God.” That’s what Maggie Ross and Tessa told Harper on more than one occasion. And even though the advice wasn’t directed at me, I stole that hope and stored it in my heart for when I felt my life was out of control. It was a rare occasion when I pulled it out and used it. And when I did, when I needed it the most, it failed. It failed epically.
Thomas is gone and never coming back. Thomas’s lie, for the sake of love, is my burden to bear, to love, to protect from...him. But he isn’t a burden. He is a blessing, topped with beautiful dark hair, blue eyes, and wrapped in a soft, breathable, blue blanket.
How do I keep him safe? How do I keep him my blessing? How do I do that when they fight me at every turn?
God, I need him, I plead in my head. But, for some reason, God isn’t listening to me. He hasn’t been, and maybe he never really did.
I slap the tears from my face as I look around, hoping this is all just a bad dream. It’s not. It’s a living, breathing nightmare with a dusting of happiness whenever I hold our babies in my arms.
What I wouldn’t give to be wrapped so tightly in Thomas’s arms, back to being loved and safe because of him.
His arms. They would have kept us safe, all of us. And his love would have given us all we ever needed. It is still keeping me alive.
When I call Harper back, Maddox answers.
“What time will the plane be here?” I ask.
“Two hours.”
“Okay.”
“She loves you, Ava.”
“I love her, too.”
I look down at them, my children, wrapped up and in their car seats. I have to do what the old Ava would do and make sure I am there for my friend who, even though she has never needed me, is requesting—more like demanding—I be there. I just can’t help worrying that it’s for reasons other than me meeting her child.
Piper, Harper’s daughter. I love her so much, but whenever I talk to her on Facetime, she studies me, like she knows something. Another reason I am worried about going home.
The crown I gave her...she wants Hope to have it, but I told her I gave it to her, so it is hers, that Hope’s head is too small for it now. I know telling her that sometimes comes out in a panic, yet Piper just smiles.
That crown has always been a reminder of the knight who protected it. I never want Hope to believe in knights, and fairy tales, and other things little girls believe in that are not true. I want her to shine the way her father did, to believe that love is love, and Fate is not to be twisted. I want my children to do whatever makes them happy. To live and breathe and love themselves first. I will make sure they do.
“You ready, Ava?” Casey, the driver T hired for us, asks from the doorway, and I jump at the sound of her voice.
She calmly walks over and takes my hand. Only then do I realize I have them twisted in my shirt, unable to keep them still most of the time.
I shake my head as I answer, “Yes.”
“Okay.”
She reaches down to take Chance’s car seat, and I yell, “No!”
She nods. “I’ll grab your purse and the diaper bags.”
Guilt washes over me. “I’m sorry, Casey.”
“Don’t be sorry,” she replies as she gives me a sad smile over her shoulder.
I look down at my sleeping children and sigh. They are wrapped up like little cocoons, safe, warm, and sleeping. I dread what comes next.
“First flight, little butterflies.”
As usual, Casey is parked out back. She started doing that when I lost my composure the third time I walked out and stood frozen in front of where T last told me he loved me. The affect it has on me is like no other. It’s horrifying.
I know why I can easily look down on the spot from the balcony. I feel closer to him up there. Like I am closer to where he now lives, high above us, watching us, loving us, and not where he...died.
I take a deep breath once I am settled in the vehicle and the babies are safe.
On the private plane, I buckle the car seats as securely as I can next to each other in the oversized leather seats. Then I sit in the one facing them.
Chance stirs a bit, and I stand up, take the two steps to him, and place the pacifier that fell out of his mouth back in.
After I sit back down, the plane begins to taxi down the runway, and as we ascend, Chance grows more agitated.
I remember what the pediatrician said about flying and how their ears may bother them, so I unbuckle and steady myself as I walk back to him.
Unbuckling him from his seat, I look at Hope and see her contently sucking on her pacifier. She has a dimple on her cheek that deepens with each suck.
“Beautiful, just like your daddy, Hope,” I tell her, trying to hide the sadness and yearning in my voice.
When I sit down again, I position Chance to nurse him, though he isn’t due for another feeding. I just hope it will help. I had it all timed out so that, when we get into town, I can nurse them, and they will be content so I can leave them with Casey when I head to the hospital.
“Plans change, Chance,” I tell him after he latches on. “But we’ll be okay, I promise. We will always be okay.”
I look out the window as the plane leaves LaGuardia. The lights are still beautiful in the evening, even in the summer. They are not waving good-bye today; they are sending me Morse code for “Come back soon.”
Chance whimpers and let’s go, his sweet, little lips puckering and quivering. I kiss his sweet cheek and hold him closer, whispering, “Shh...” into his ear as I pat his back.
I look at the bag Casey grabbed and sat next to me, seeing the corner of Bingo peeking out. I feel my cheeks moisten as I close my eyes, secretly wishing I could find comfort in a blanket like I used to. But I can’t, and I never will be able to again.
I’m going to the place where I am from, a place where I used to feel adored and loved. A place where I have always been my dad’s princess but gave away the title willingly. I’m going to a place where I can no longer walk outside and breathe, because I know what is next door. I’m going to a place I can no longer laugh at things, because nothing is funny anymore. I’m going to a place where I used to not worry what others thought, but now I feel their judgment, even from hours away.
They no longer know my heart, because it is shattered, and mended, and scarred beyond recognition. I’m going to a place that I don’t want to go, and I am terrified.
I’m going to my hell on earth.
Chapter Five
It doesn’t hurt anymore. — T. Greseth
Luke
I wake up in pain, which is normal now. I accept it. Fuck, I embrace it. I am pins and metal, fucking crutches, therapy, and more fucking pain. When I look in the mirror, I see a man who has heard a million times in the past few months that he is lucky to be alive.
In the blink of an eye, I lost Killshot, a man who was like a brother, the ability to walk, and a career that gave me an identity of my own.
All fucking gone now.
The casts came off my legs a few weeks ago, but my legs have lost all their muscle, and I can’t fucking work them back up without feeling pain worse than I ever have. My physical therapist is a fucking masochist. The psychologist I have to see is a pussy. My mom cries and thanks God every time she sees me. And I feel fucking nothing, nothing but pain.
Within seconds of sitting up, Mom appears in the doorway of the downstairs room that has been converted into my bedroom since the stairs and I had a fucking issue a few weeks ago.
“You look great, Luke. How are you feeling?” Mom smiles, tears in her eyes, as she hurries to my side and hands me the walker.
“I am not using that thing. Give me the crutches.”
She gives me an expectant look, the one moms give their kids when they seem to have forgotten their manners.
“Please,” I tack on.
“Okay, but be careful,” she says, walking out of the room. “Oh, Harper is in labor.”
I push myself off the bed to a standing position, legs shaking from the weight they bear and pain shooting through me.
She walks back into the room with the crutches and closes her eyes as she hands them to me. “You think we can swing by and see her after therapy? Maybe she’ll have had the baby by then.”
“Before,” I grumble as I rest my armpits on the cushions of the crutches, taking the weight off my legs.
She looks at me like she’s shocked, which I’m sure she is since I don’t leave this damn bed unless it’s for an appointment. Then she grins and says, “Okay, then. I’ll be in the kitchen.”
I nod, and she leaves me alone.
Harper is having a baby.
Baby. Babies.
Fucking Ava.
Christ, I haven’t spoken to her once. Not once.
I can’t. I can’t, and it’s killing me. I need to see if she’s okay, but I’m not okay, and I would be of no use to her.
The pain, the physical pain, is not all consuming, but the loss I caused is.
Walking into Community General Hospital on crutches, Mom stops to ask the woman at the desk for a wheelchair, when I interrupt.
“Not necessary.” Then I continue to make my way to the elevator.
Mom hesitates, but then I hear her heels clicking behind me.
Inside the elevator, she looks at me after the door shuts. “Are you okay?”
I nod. “I’m fine.”
She rubs my shoulder and sighs. “Good.”
When the elevator stops on the fourth floor, we head into the waiting room where I see my cousins, Matthew and CJ, as well as Maddox’s siblings, Lexington and London. Brody and Lucas are pacing, nearly tripping over each other. Then I see Liam, and next to him, chewing on her nails, legs curled up under her, hair tossed up in a messy bun on top of her head, in clothes hanging off of her, is Ava.
Everyone looks at the door. I feel their eyes, but not hers. No, she is still chewing on her nails, until she hears Lucas say, “She’s still in labor.”
When she looks up, her eyes meet mine fo
r just a second, and then she seemingly curls into herself.
My heart literally skips a beat, and I become agitated.
She looks like hell. Her eyes are sunken in, and even in those clothes, I know her curves are gone.
“Poor thing,” Mom says in response to Harper still being in labor.
“Come on, Luke; have a seat,” Lucas says, pointing at the corner, the only seat available on the other side of Liam, and I sure as fuck don’t want to go over there, but I have to.
As soon as my ass hits the seat, they all bombard me with:
“How are you feeling?”
“You look great.”
“You’re walking!”
“How’s the pain?”
It’s overwhelming.
“I’m fine,” I grumble. They all look shocked, so I add, “Thanks for asking.”
Piper walks in then, holding Maggie’s hand. “Luke!”
She lets go of Maggie’s hand and runs across the room, ready to dive on me. I brace for impact, but Brody reaches out and snags her around the waist.
“Easy, little one,” he says with a laugh.
“She’s fine,” I tell him, though I’m grateful she didn’t dive on me.
Piper squirms away from him, giggling. “I know, I know.” She climbs up on Liam’s lap as if he isn’t even there, sits on her knees, and then kisses my cheek. “You’re okay?”
“I’m okay.”
She beams. “Mommy’s having a brother.”
“You sure about that?” I ask, knowing they never found out the sex of the child.
“Sure am. And he’s gonna love me and be best friends with Chance and love Hope like...” She pauses, as if to think about what she is saying. Then she shakes her head and giggles. “Like crazy!”
“Chance and Hope, huh?” I comment, looking past her and at Ava who looks terrified and immediately looks away from us.
Piper follows my line of sight and spots Ava. “I knew you’d come!” Then, still using Liam like a piece of furniture, she climbs across him and dives onto Ava.
“Of course I did,” Ava says, sounding just as fragile and broken as she looks.
