by C. B. Stagg
“Here, why don’t I just go—”
Her hand shot out to stop me. “No, don’t.” She shook her head, still blotting her face. “I need to explain.”
I remained where I was, sitting close enough to touch her, but sensing she’d reinforced that wall, making it impenetrable. Since the night of the carnival—the night we shared that mind-blowing kiss weeks before—she’d become resistant.
“Look, you know I lost Waverly’s father before she was born.” I nodded. “My memories of him, which weren’t clear to begin with, are all I have left.”
When she stopped to wipe away more tears, I took it as an opportunity. “Katy, your memories of Waverly’s father are here.” I cupped my hands around her head, kissing her forehead. “They will always live there, but here?” I placed my hand over her heart. “This is where I want to be.”
She nodded. “I know, but… ” Each sniff and hiccup chipped away at my soul. “But you don’t understand. He used to come see me in my dreams, where I’d tell him all about her, the funny things she said or did. But now… It’s not him who visits me. It’s not him who I share our child with.” Her eyes, enormous pools, looked up at me. “It’s you. I’m losing my memories of him and replacing them with you.”
I could easily empathize, thinking back to a ghost from my past I’d carefully placed in an ivory tower hidden in the deepest recesses of my heart, concealed from the real world. Leonard Cohen penned a fitting eulogy for my loss. The one, a blaze of light in my wicked life, whose beauty in the moonlight overthrew me. She was my broken hallelujah, my Cinderella. Once a constant presence in the periphery of my mind, it occurred to me I hadn’t thought of her for weeks, months even. Not since Christmas. Not since I’d laid eyes on Katy West.
Her admission drained everything she had left, and she fell against me, sobs wracking her small body. The feel of her warmth against my skin was too good, too right. It scared me.
I lifted her chin so our eyes were level and placed a kiss on her lips. She didn’t resist, and after a breath, she kissed me back.
“It’s pretty gutsy to kiss a girl who’s telling you to back off.” The severity of her words was in direct contrast to her shy, unsteady tone of voice. She didn’t mean what she said.
“You can’t blame a man for trying.” I shrugged. “My mantra has always been, If you never try, you’ll never know.”
She stiffened and looked up at me through her thick lashes. “So now that you’ve tried, what do you know?”
That was an easy one. “I know that I’ll never stop trying to win your heart.” She sighed as I pulled her back into my arms. And holding her close, I couldn’t help but smile, silently fist pumping in my mind, because I was winning. I’d waged war against a ghost from her past and I. Was. Winning.
Chapter 19
Kaitlin
ACCORDING TO GOOGLE, more than two thousand people were given the first name ‘Wade’ in the United States in 1985. I hadn’t been entirely honest about who I was the night we met, so who knows if Waverly’s father gave me his first, middle, or last name—or something he completely made up.
Two thousand doesn’t seem like a lot until you need one in particular because it was highly probable he held the genetic material to help my baby girl. I searched again and again, insane to believe I’d get different results. As the precious seconds of her life ticked on like a time bomb, I’d have given my life to find the answers or the family that could prevent my world from imploding.
“Mom?” It was less than a whisper, too weak to even muster the full, robust, raspy voice I loved more than life itself. “It’s time to go see the ‘ologist, isn’t it?” I tapped the lock button on my phone and nodded, pushing stray curls off of her sweaty forehead. ‘Ologist was a term she used to describe the team of doctors at Texas Children’s Hospital overseeing Waverly’s care since the day she was born, which included a Nephrologist, Pulmonologist, Endocrinologist, Urologist, Gastroenterologist, Rheumatologist, and Hepatologist.
“Look around, sweetie.”
Her little eyes opened to a squint, and she craned her head to silently observe her surroundings: stark white walls and small machines on rollers. I always told her the story of The Princess and the Pea when she was in the hospital, her form appearing as a tiny little lump in the giant adult-sized bed. The little thing barely filled the top third.
“What time is it?” Since when did she worry about time? I checked my watch.
“It’s almost eleven o’clock.”
Waverly gasped. “Eleven o’clock? What happened to ten o’clock and all the other o’clocks before that?” She reached around and finally grabbed for the bed controls to sit up, flexing her hand where the IV had already been inserted and secured. We’d been lucky to get a nurse with the foresight to bring in the special tape that doesn’t hurt when it’s removed. “Mom, did you know eleven o’clock is one o’clock past your bedtime?”
I leaned in and kissed her pile of blonde curls and inhaled her scent for the millionth time. This little girl owned my heart, and I was on the verge of bargaining with the devil to keep her healthy and free from pain.
“Who taught you how to tell time?”
“Oh,” she grabbed my arm and angled the watch so we could both see it. “Christian taught me. He taught me that I always look at the short hand first, then the long one. The short one is the hour, and that’s the number you say first. The longer one is the minutes number, but I have to count those like I count mickels.”
“Do you mean nickels?”
“Yes, Mom, that’s what I said.” She yawned.
“When did he teach you all this?” She’d really bonded with him.
“Sometimes he comes to see me when you’re at your college school, and we hang out. I like him. He might be my boyfriend. I think we’re going to get married when I get tall like you.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.” Her eyes started to droop. “Unless you marry him first. You can marry him if you want to.”
Thanks, kid.
“So, am I getting a osperation today?”
I laughed, glad a hint of the color in her cheeks had returned. “I think you mean operation. Tonight, you’ll just get fluids, and we’ll go home in a few hours. No operation tonight, but soon, baby girl. I promise. You’ll get that kidney soon.” It’s a question she asked every time we ended up in the hospital, and a lie I always followed it up with. The truth was that, no, she wouldn’t be having an operation—not until we found a compatible kidney—and that already daunting task was starting to seem impossible. But the last time we were here… the day Wave’s name was officially added to the transplant list… it was made clear to me the clock was ticking.
Since the day she was born, it was a matter of time. Time we were running out of. Dialysis, which had been acting as a bridge to transplant day, was never intended to be a permanent solution.
This visit was for a minor infection, and it appeared we would make it home, but next time I had no guarantees. Each trip to the hospital, the current doctor looked at her chart and told me she should have died at birth. They said when Waverly celebrated her fifth birthday a few months back, I’d been witness to a five-year miracle, but it would never be enough for me. I didn’t want five, ten, or even fifteen years.
I wanted a lifetime.
She was mine, she belonged to me. Waverly was all I had in the world, and no parent—no matter how sinful they’d been in their life—should ever have to bury one child, let alone two. And I refused. I would never give up hope, not with breath still left in my body. No, I would fight for my girl. I was not going to say goodbye to another of my babies.
I was well aware my little Cinderella’s clock was sitting at about five minutes to midnight, with no Prince Charming in sight. So, as I had many times before, I’d do the only thing I could do. I’d be greedy and pray to a God I no longer trusted for even more miracles.
Chapter 20
20-Kaitlin
August 2
012
“I’M DONE.”
I plopped down in the booth across from Claire the moment she was seated and settled. Our last meeting was cancelled after Waverly fell ill, so I asked her to come today. I had big news, and she was the only one I wanted to tell.
“Done with what?” Her face mirrored my jubilation, and I knew she could feel my excitement in the air.
“Done with this.” I handed her a minty green cardboard box designed to fit regular-sized printer paper. Looking from me to the box, she opened it slowly, the contents making her dark blue eyes light up like stars in the sky.
“What is this? A memoir?”
I nodded. “My professor assigned it at the beginning of the semester. I didn’t want to tell you about it, though. I wanted to surprise you when my manuscript was complete.”
She pulled out the heavy papers neatly bound and sheathed within the box. She thumbed through the pages. “This is long.”
“Yeah, the assignment was strange. We had to write the climax of our lives so far. The way he described it, the story should touch on our lives as a whole, but focus on either the greatest love or the greatest loss. For me, there isn’t one without the other, so I chose both. It’s definitely toward the maximum end of the page parameters.”
I looked at the project I’d spent months crafting. In writing about my past, I was forced to confront the merry band of demons I’d buried deep within the caves of my mind. But getting them all out on paper was freeing. Taking it a step further by letting someone I was close to read it—while scary—seemed a natural step in what I referred to as ‘writing therapy.’
“Do you want me to edit this?”
Did I want her to? I’d thought about that, always swinging from one decision to another, based on the weather or my mood at the time. It seemed like such a difficult task, attempting to edit real-life events, so I shook my head.
“No, not this time. This was written more for me than for others. But take it. Read it. And hold all criticism until after I turn it in next week, or I’ll probably spend the whole weekend rewriting it.” I grinned.
Claire slid the box into her bag. “Thank you for trusting me with this. I can’t wait to dive into it. And I know I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again: I am proud of you.”
“Thank you.”
For the first time in a long time, if ever, I was proud of myself, too.
Chapter 21
Christian
“I’M COMING! JEEZ!”
I struggled to pull on sweatpants. The summer storm that had kept me company most of the night continued to wage war outside my window, but at least it was finally starting to die down a little. It would be easy to blame the recent changes in the weather for my exhausted, and sometimes grumpy, demeanor… but the truth was, I hadn’t slept in months. Each and every thought was consumed by Katy and Waverly.
I jerked the cottage door open, surprised to find my mother, soaked to the bone, waiting patiently. Her face was different, harder than I was used to and I couldn’t read it.
“What took you so long?” She poked her head around me to look inside. “Do you have a girl in there?”
I opened the door the rest of the way, forcing my mother to duck under my arm to enter. I rolled my eyes, hoping to make it perfectly clear I refused to dignify her question with an answer.
“Why are you here?” It was pouring and had been for hours, not to mention she lived over fifteen miles away. Add to that the fact it was the middle of the night and things weren’t adding up for me. But there she was, rooted in my kitchen with a package in her arms.
A puddle was forming at her feet as she stood staring at me with wide eyes. Something was off. At that realization, my pulse quickened, my mouth morphing into the Sahara. When I moved to grab a towel from the laundry room, my mom grabbed my arms, stopping me in my tracks.
“I’m not staying.” Her voice didn’t sound like her own as she carefully placed a cardboard box on the sad little kitchen table.
“What is this? What’s in there?” I eyed the box that was apparently important enough for my mother to risk her life to deliver in a torrential downpour, but I made no attempt to open it. The wild look on her pale face was warning enough. Whatever secrets the box held had a direct impact on not only her life, but mine as well.
“Take a shower, make a cup of coffee. Make sure you’re fully awake and functional, and then take a look at the contents of this box.” She patted it before turning toward the door. “As soon as you’ve finished, call me.” She opened the door, but before she stepped over the threshold, she faced me again. I stood frozen in place, still eyeing the box like it held the date of my death or another awful revelation.
“Christian?” My eyes met my mother’s. “I love you.”
I nodded. “I love you too, Mom.”
I followed my mother’s instructions explicitly, not allowing myself anywhere near what I was referring to as Pandora’s box, until I’d showered and brewed a strong cup of Kona Blend. Dressed in jeans and a soft T-shirt leftover from my college days, I curled up on the couch and slowly lifted the lid.
It was paper. Lots of paper. The text was bound with a spiral of black plastic, something more like a print shop binding than a publishing house. But as I pulled the bound book from its case, a loose sheet of notebook paper fell onto my lap.
A handwritten letter.
Hey-
It’s a little bizarre to be writing to you in the middle of the year, but changes are happening in our lives—positive ones I think—and it seems only fair to let you know what’s going on.
First, Waverly is growing and maturing way too quickly, and I’d do just about anything if time would freeze and I could keep her little. She starts kindergarten in the fall. Can you even believe it? And not only that, but she’s already reading. She’d ask what a word said here and there, and before I knew it, she’d worked out the letter sounds and she was off like a rocket. The only drawback to that is Cara Jo, Roy, and I often spell words we don’t want her little ears to hear. Like, the other day, I asked Cara Jo if she wanted me to grab some i-c-e c-r-e-a-m at the store. Then Waverly chimed in with, “Please get something other than vanilla this time.”
She’s finally been put on the transplant list. Her physical growth has had a negative effect on her renal system. I was, of course, more than willing to give her one of my kidneys, but I’m not a match. I’m type A, and she’s type B, which means you must also be type B. That’s just one of the many reasons I wish you were here with us. Oh, how I wish I knew how to reach out to your family. The idea that people exist who could help save our girl’s life is torture. Our daughter needs you now more than anything.
So, on to the reason I’m writing today. I wanted to let you know this will be my final letter. This was an excruciating decision to make, but I think I’m ready to let you go.
I’ve always believed in soul mates; the idea God created one soul, split it in two, and gave them a lifetime to find each other. I loved the idea that, out there, being warmed by the same sun and wishing on the same stars, my perfect match searched for me as I did for him.
Then there was you.
From the moment we met, it was as if I’d known you my whole life. Your touch was as familiar as my own, and in the short time we were together, I felt more like ‘me’ than I ever had, before or since. Our eyes began such a personal conversation and our lips and bodies were able to finish. And in those stolen moments, in every way, I became yours and you became mine.
It may have seemed like a chance meeting, but I refuse to believe that.
I came back for you, you know. With incredible news to share, I came back to the place it all started, but I was too late. You were already gone. Until that moment, we’d danced the most magical dance in my mind, but the split-second I heard you were gone, lost to me forever, the music abruptly stopped. Now, I’ll never know you or the life we could have lived had we been given the chance to dance.
And you�
�ll never know the miracles you left behind.
But, I think I’ve held onto your ghost long enough. It’s time I let go. I’m not going to write you any more letters on Waverly’s birthday. I will no longer fill you in on everything you’ve missed in her life because I need to let you go.
You will always hold a piece of my soul. You’re a piece of my puzzle, one I’ll never have the chance to see to completion, and I’ll love you forever for the precious gift you’ve entrusted me with. But a wise man recently told me I should let your memory live in my mind, but open my heart up for new possibilities, and I’m taking his advice. You’ll always live in me, and in our daughter, but I need to be free.
Tell our boy I love him and continue to watch over our girl. She needs an angel now more than ever. Forever, Katy
Part 1
“A lot of parents will do anything for their kids except let them be themselves” -Banksy
From the outside looking in, it was a ‘Beaver Cleaver’ life in a ‘Father of the Bride’ neighborhood. And I was sure that’s how my father planned it. After twelve years of marriage—ten of those filled with miscarriages and one stillborn birth—I appeared and remained the only living child born to Janice and Jonathan Joseph Weston. I was, by all accounts, a miracle. However, I was not a son to replace the one my parents had lost the year before my appearance. My father wanted a boy; a big, strong son to carry on the family name. I was left bearing the burden of my inferior gender.
I was raised in a small suburb of Austin, Texas and my father was a preacher, which made me a preacher’s kid—stigma included free of charge. Our church family would be quick to tell anybody I was the apple of my father’s eye and the light of my mother’s life. But there was more to what they witnessed within the walls of our church. Outside, when eyes weren’t on the perfect family, life was another story entirely. If he was the king, my mother was the queen… which made me the princess. It was a role I was more than willing to play at home, but in the community, I wanted to be myself.
