Layers of Her

by Prescott Lane

  A couple months ago, I could’ve walked away and not looked back. I spent a big chuck of my life not letting people get close to me, protecting them from me, and protecting me from them—from this moment right now, this pain. I don’t even make it to my car before I vomit all over the pavement, probably my body’s way of telling me I’m making a big mistake. My hands on my knees, I lean over and more comes up, splattering up on my shoes.

  His fingers gently graze my neck as he pulls my hair back. I don’t have to look to know it’s Stone. I’d know his touch anywhere. “I want to see Tate,” I say, starting to cry. “Will you let me see her?”

  “You want to say goodbye?” he asks.

  “No!” I cry out, standing up. “I . . .”

  “I’ll think about it,” he says, stepping back. “You gonna be alright?”

  My head nods up and down, but I say, “No.”

  He gets that cute little smirk on his face that I just love. “Yeah, you will be.”

  “Not without you,” I cry. He pulls me to him, his lips on my forehead. He stays there for I’m not sure how long, holding me tighter than he ever has. But then he just lets go.

  I straighten my spine and breathe deeply. He’s given me choices before, ultimatums, and I’ve always come back to him. But I can’t this time. Why can’t he understand? Why won’t he even try? My tears of sadness start to boil as my anger builds. “You gonna call Angel or some other chick now?”

  He just shakes his head at me. I’m not sure if he’s answering the question or just disgusted I’d ask it. He pulls on the cord holding the bloodstone. “You’re fighting the wrong enemy.” He lifts my hand, dropping the stone inside my palm, then turns and walks away, but he doesn’t leave. He simply gets in his car and waits.

  We’ve just ripped each other to shreds, and he won’t leave me alone in a dark parking lot. That man would protect me with his dying breath. Starting my car, I tell myself that he’ll forgive me. But will I ever be able to forgive myself for what I’m doing to him? I guess I can add hurting Stone to the list of things I need to forgive myself for.

  *

  STONE

  I can tell you exactly how many times the ceiling fan circles around in a minute, how many lines there are in my ceiling, how often the neighbor’s dog barks. I’ve been in this bed all damn night dreading what tomorrow would bring, but the sun is coming through my blinds just the same. No amount of worry or lack of sleep could stop it. This is the day of yet another surgery, this time Campbell’s.

  Damn her for doing this to us! And damn me for letting it eat me up so much. I walked away like a man—no groveling, no begging—but maybe I should’ve fought harder for her. Maybe that’s what she wanted.

  Maybe she won’t do this? I mean, we aren’t together anymore, so there’s no need for her to take such a drastic step. And because I can’t fucking sleep, I made the mistake of Googling hysterectomies. There’s all kinds of complications: bladder or bowel damage, infection, early menopause, and death. So now I’m worried not only about her emotional state, but her physical one, as well.

  Maybe I should go to the hospital, and be there when she wakes up? Maybe she doesn’t want to see me? Maybe I should send flowers instead? She can always toss those out. Fuck, I hate this. I’ve got to stop this shit in my head. It’s seriously messing me up. I haven’t even had the desire to beat off. I don’t know if anything will ever feel good again without Campbell.

  Tate starts screaming again, another reason why I haven’t slept. Tate’s been crying for almost two days straight. She misses Campbell, and I can’t explain to her why Campbell’s not here, and that she’s not coming back. Tate couldn’t even hear me if I tried.

  Pulling myself out of bed, I stumble into her bedroom, rubbing my face. “Come on, baby girl.” She just screams louder, slapping at my hands. It’s like she thinks it’s my fault Campbell’s not here. When I pick her up from her crib, she smacks my cheek. She’s got my jab down. Taking her hand, I kiss it gently, and that stops her arms from flailing around, but her scream is deafening. It’s so loud I almost miss the phone ringing.

  Rushing down the hallway, I answer and hear Campbell’s voice. “Stone.”

  “Are you alright?” I ask in between screams. “Did something go wrong?”

  “What’s wrong with Tate?” she asks.

  “She misses you.”

  “Can I see her?” she asks. “I’m right outside with Jenny.”

  “What?” I run to my front door, pulling it open. Jenny and Campbell both step out of Jenny’s car. My God, Campbell looks beautiful in a white tee shirt and black sweatpants, no makeup, her hair hanging over her shoulders. “What’re you doing here?” I ask. Maybe she changed her mind? “Shouldn’t you be at the hospital?”

  “Jenny’s driving me there now, but I needed to see Tate first,” Campbell says, slowly walking up the sidewalk towards me. “Looks like she needs to see me, too.”

  “You can’t do this, Campbell,” I say, angling Tate away. “It’s confusing for her.”

  “Please,” she begs softly. “Just today. For a few minutes.”

  Tate’s screaming and reaching for Campbell, and I’m not capable of denying either one of them. Passing Tate to Campbell, she immediately starts to quiet down. “That’s it, sweetheart,” Campbell says, kissing her cheek.

  Jenny waves me over to her. “I’ll give you a few minutes with her,” I say then walk towards Jenny, leaning up against her car.

  As soon as I’m within earshot, Jenny whispers, “You’ve got to stop her from doing this.”

  “I tried.”

  “Try harder,” she says. “You always tell us in class to work through the pain. Don’t let the pain distract you from the goal.”

  “I never thought you were listening,” I say.

  She smiles, pulling out her keys and locking her car doors. “Campbell’s purse is in there. Get Campbell inside, give me your keys, and I’ll take Tate for a little drive in your car. That way, she’s trapped here.”

  I chuckle. “Sweet little Jenny has a devious mind.”

  “It’s always the quiet ones,” she says, smiling.

  I look back at Tate and Campbell together. Campbell’s sitting on my front steps cuddling Tate in her lap, so peaceful. I feel my anger building. How can Campbell do this to us? To Tate? Say what you want about fuck buddies, but at least it doesn’t cause this kind of pain. But I can’t let my anger get the better of me. I have to remember what anger is about. Anger is the result of pain. As much as I hate to admit it, I’m pissed because I’m hurt. But Campbell’s hurting, too, more than I am. And knowing that puts everything in perspective. My instinct to love and take care of her can easily override any anger or pain I have. There’s no contest.

  As we walk towards Tate and Campbell, a new tactic comes to mind, and I ask, “You didn’t just come here to see Tate?”

  Campbell looks up at me from under her lashes. “No. I was hoping to talk to you before I go to the hospital.”

  “Come here, Tate,” Jenny says, reaching out to my daughter. “I’m going to introduce you to something called a cream-filled donut.” Tate has no idea what Jenny is saying, but Jenny looks so excited, it’s contagious. “Stone, I need your keys. No car seat in my car.” She gives me a little smirk, happy that Campbell is now trapped at my house.

  I reach through the front door and get them off the side table. “Don’t be too long,” Campbell says.

  “Sure,” Jenny says in the sweetest, most innocent voice you’ve ever heard.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  STONE

  I help Jenny load Tate into the car then head inside, finding Campbell on my sofa, her legs tucked under her. This is the view I should come home to every night. Her head turns, finding me staring. Every time she told me she loves me flashes in my head, and I can see it in her eyes now. Rather than continue this torture, I figure it’s best to just cut to the chase. “Have you changed your mind?” I ask. Her head shakes. “Then why are
you here?”

  Those full, pink lips of hers smile just a little. “I miss you.”

  “I miss you, too,” I say, taking a few steps towards her.

  “We both got angry and upset the other night,” she says. “We didn’t really listen to each other.”

  I know she’s thinking if I really listen to her, then I’ll change my mind. But the opposite is true, too. Maybe if she really listens to me? “Okay, so talk to me. Tell me what you’re afraid of.”

  It’s been my experience that there are levels of fear. There are things we fear on a surface level, like needles. Then there are fears that are deeper. These are the fears that are the heaviest, and the weight of fear is far more burdensome than anything else we carry. It’s the things we don’t let anyone see that weigh us down. Fears about who and what we are. That’s usually what we are most afraid of letting others see—who we really are beneath all the layers. That’s the part Campbell needs to share with me—the deepest layer of her. It’s the only way for me to save her, to save us.

  “Losing you and Tate are at the top of that list,” she says.

  “You can have us,” I say.

  “What if I become like my mother? I’ve been depressed before.”

  “Then we’ll get you treatment,” I say. “I’ll be right there with you.”

  “What if I’m like my father?” she asks.

  “You think you’re going to become a rapist?”

  “No,” she says. “He’s evil. What if I am, too?”

  “Campbell,” I say softly, “I know who you are, and it’s got nothing to do with your DNA.”

  “Yes, it does.”

  Science wasn’t my best subject in school, but I do recall there being some nature versus nurture debate in there somewhere. Regardless, I don’t need to know any of that to know what she is made of. “My dad was a deadbeat who hit my mom. I’ve never hit a woman in my life.”

  “It’s not the same,” she says.

  “What about Tate?” I ask.

  “What about her?”

  “Her mother was a drug addict, and addictions can be genetic. You think that’s Tate’s fate?”

  “Of course not!” she cries.

  “Then why are you sentencing yourself? Why are you condemning your DNA?”

  The tears start flowing again. She knows I’m making sense. “My mother killed herself over something I said.”

  “No,” I say, cupping her cheeks. “Every child has said those exact words to their parents. She killed herself because she was mentally ill and had been through something horrible.”

  “I’m the daughter of a suicidal mother and rapist father. I’ve got no right to pass on my genes to anyone.”

  “Evil is made, not born,” I say.

  Her breath catches for a minute, and I know she’s mulling it over in her head, thinking about my history, about Tate, and all the babies she’s cared for. I’m sure none of them struck her as evil, but I know it must feel totally different when it’s you. I don’t know what she’s feeling, and I won’t pretend that I do. All I can do is tell her how I feel. If I want her to share the deepest layers of herself, then I have to be willing to let her see mine.

  “I don’t want you to do this,” I say.

  “I know,” she whispers.

  “But you’re going to do it anyway?” I ask.

  And that’s the million-dollar question. But she’s got a question of her own.

  “Will I really lose you if I do?” she asks.

  That one question nearly brings me to my knees. If she does this, she’s sentencing me to a life without another biological child. Is that worse than a life without her? “No, you won’t lose me,” I say. A relieved smile covers her face, and she moves to wrap her arms around me, but I step back before she can. “But you’re not going to do this today. Not like this.”

  “I’ve thought about this a lot since we started seeing each other. It was never an issue before because I never dated anyone. But now, I want to be close to you, make love with you. But getting pregnant scares me so much.”

  “Then I’ll keep you a virgin,” I say, and it almost kills me. But I will not let her make such a permanent decision without more time to consider everything.

  Smiling, she takes my hand. “I don’t want that.”

  “Give me a year, Campbell. You can get an IUD or the pill, and I promise to always wear condoms.”

  “There’s still a chance and . . .”

  “A very small one,” I say. “One I promise you won’t think about after a few months. And in the meantime, you can talk to someone about all this—a professional.”

  “No,” she says.

  “Campbell, you said yourself what happens after the trauma is almost as important as the trauma itself.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “So, you suffered a couple big traumas and never got the love and support you needed. You have that now. Imagine how your life would have been different if your mother had told you the truth when you were old enough to understand, or if you’d been loved openly instead of hidden in lies, feeling like you’re a mistake.”

  “It’s hard to imagine that. My own mother couldn’t even look at me.”

  “Ask yourself why your mother had you. She could’ve had an abortion or put you up for adoption, but she kept you. Would she have kept you if she thought you were evil, dark, no good?” I ask.

  “I don’t know why she kept me. And I can’t ask her now.”

  “You mentioned an aunt. Maybe you can ask her?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Because I suspect your mother’s depression and that she couldn’t care for you had more to do with her than it did with you. I bet she loved you.”

  Her entire face crumbles. “I’m unlovable.”

  “No.”

  “I have to be,” she cries, her whole body shaking.

  Pulling her into my lap, I cradle her, holding her as tightly as I can without crushing her. This is it—the real heart of her problem—her deepest fear. The layer she doesn’t want anyone to see. She doesn’t believe anyone can love her for who she really is. “I love you. Tate loves you. Jenny does, too. Hell, I think Jade might even love you.” She sniffles and laughs a little. “And more important, you are worthy of love. Aside from my daughter, you are the easiest person in the world to love. I fell in love with you before I knew what hit me.”

  Her head turns up, her blue eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the hysterectomy sooner,” she whispers. “I knew it was wrong.”

  “I forgive you,” I say. “But don’t throw away our chance at having our own children when you haven’t healed yet. Just give me a year. If you still feel this way after some time, some therapy, then I’ll support you one hundred percent.”

  “You will?” she asks.

  “I promise.”

  “What if in that year, I get pregnant?” she asks.

  “You won’t.”

  “If I do?”

  “You’ll have the baby,” I say. “There’s no room for discussion on that.”

  “I appreciate you not feeding me a line of bullshit.”

  “I told you early on, I don’t do that shit,” I say. “So you should believe the rest of what I’m saying, too.”

  “You don’t understand,” she cries. “I’m the product of a horrible, violent crime. There’s no support group for that. No therapist can change that fact. It is who I am.”

  She’s right, as usual. There are all kinds of therapies for survivors of rape and the people that love them, but I’ve never heard of one for the offspring.

  We continue to go round and round, and I realize I’m not getting anywhere with her. But giving up means I’m also giving up on her, on having children with her. It’s funny how things change. When Tate’s mother showed up pregnant, I thought my life was over. Now here I am, fighting for the chance to do it all over again. “Let’s look at it another way. What if you’d never found out about your father?”<
br />
  “What do you mean?” she asks.

  “Who would Campbell May be?”

  She smiles. “Probably a professional shopper or stylist. I used to love clothes.”

  “So not a nurse?” I ask.

  “Doubt it.”

  “So had you not found your father, many babies might have died,” I say.

  “That’s not . . .”

  “Listen. You are you because of your mother and your father, and for that, I am grateful. There is no way in hell a fighter with a hearing-impaired daughter would’ve met a professional shopper. Who you are? What you’ve been through? All of that led you to me. Led you to help so many people. Would you give all that up to never know the truth?”

  “No,” she whimpers. “If I couldn’t have you and Tate, then no.”

  “You trust me?”

  “Completely,” she says.

  “Then lay some of this on my shoulders. You’ve been alone in this for too long. But you don’t have to be anymore.”

  “This hurts so much.”

  “Your pain is trying to tell you something,” I tell her. Like a pesky child, the more you ignore it, the more it demands. “I know it’s scary, but stop fighting the pain. That’s the only way to win. Pain gets a bad rap, but it has a purpose. It lets you know when something is wrong. Your mom wasn’t strong enough to feel it, but you are. Do it for her! Do it for you! Otherwise, that bastard has one more victim.”

  That familiar spark in her eye shoots out at me, her strength and fight returning. “Okay,” she whispers. “One year.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  TWO MONTHS LATER

  STONE

  The day Tate’s implant was turned on is still hard to talk about. Campbell and I had been prepared for everything from smiles to tears. Every child’s reaction is different, but I should’ve known my little girl would make an entrance. They turned it on, and Campbell nudged me in the side. She wanted my voice to be the first one Tate heard. “I love you.” I wanted those to be the first words she heard, and they were the only three words I could manage. Tate pointed to her ear, making some connection to my voice and her implants, then she pointed to me, giggled, and signed more.