by H. M. Ward
He cuts me off, while reaching out for a strand of my hair, and tucks it behind my ear. “Your skin is glowing—”
“—From the nonstop morning sickness, all day every day. You’re lucky I didn’t get sick earlier—”
“—and your lips are full and deliciously red—”
“—Again, from the non-stop barfing.” I snort, surprised he still finds me so appealing. “I’m not a pregnancy unicorn, Sean.”
His fingers lift from the sheets and touch my long curls. “Your hair shines like starlight. Or a Pantene commercial.”
The corner of my mouth lifts a bit as I bark out a surprised laugh. “Really? Pantene?”
Those impossibly blue eyes hold my gaze as he changes the topic of conversation. “So, are we going to find out?”
I roll onto my back and throw an arm over my face. “I don’t know. Part of me loves the idea of knowing, but the other part likes the idea of a surprise.”
He strokes a strand of hair away from my face. “We can do it either way.”
I release a rush of hair, huffing as I roll my face back toward his. “Seriously? You have no opinion on this topic?”
“I do,” his voice is patient, kind. “It’s just that you’re the one doing all the work and suffering from it. I think you should decide.” He adds, straight-faced, totally serious, “I can choose the name.”
Pushing up on an elbow, I feel my brows pull together and disappear under my hair. “Really? You want to name the baby? All by yourself?”
He nods, face serene. “It’s only fair.”
I blink at him. “Fair?”
“Yes. It’s my child, too.”
“Hmmm.” The smirk fades from my face. Is he serious?
Sean nudges me with his shoulder. “Ask me the name.”
I don’t want to. My bottom lip juts out as I consider giving him total control over the name reins. He repeats the question, needling me, so I finally blurt out, “What do you want to name it?”
“Baby Babypants Junior. That’s my legal name. My mother was quite high on pain killers at the time and—”
Laughter breaks free from my chest. Every inch of me shakes with mirth as Sean pulls me against his chest. Those strong hands cup my face as he tells me, “I would love to know the sex of the baby. I would love to have the time to talk about it—his or her future. It gives us more time to dream. Maybe that’s ridiculous, but—”
Shaking my head, I respond, “No, it’s not. I was thinking the same thing, actually.”
“So, we find out?” Hope fills his features, softening the lines of his face.
I reach out and place my palm against his cheek and press my lips softly to his. Pulling away, I can’t help but giggle, muttering baby-baby pants. Picturing Constance high is another image that’s beyond hilarious. For a split second I can see her wearing a bright red leotard and dancing with her white bear. The smile starts to ache, so I lower my head against Sean’s chest, tracing the lines of his body with the tip of my finger. His chest rises and falls slowly, as if he’s still sleepy.
“I guess so.” My chest fills with something full and light, something I haven’t felt in a long time—hope.
CHAPTER 6
Today we find out if the baby is a boy or a girl. Hours have passed since our midnight conversation and Sean drifted off again. Sleep eludes me. No matter what I do or how I move, I can’t get comfortable. The mattress is perfect, my pillows—all five of them—are supportive and soft the way I like them. It doesn’t matter. I throw one on the floor and shove another between my knees, before rolling over. My back is turned to a slumbering Sean. It’s almost sunrise.
Returning to the city is difficult. People are everywhere. Cameras are always snapping pictures of me—cell phones and big cameras that journalists carry. From the time we stepped off the jet, people snap photos of me. I refuse to look at the papers or read any headlines. Sean helps maintain my bubble of bliss and doesn’t talk about the issues of the day unless I ask.
Coming back is strange. Adjusting to island life was hard. Slowing down, not staring at my watch, and learning to be on ‘island time’ took forever. New Yorkers are used to fast everything, always available, 24/7. Nothing is fast on the island. As a result, I’m moving slower, feeling less frantic. For six weeks straight I wore a bathing suit. No jeans. No blouses with pointy shoes. No getting up early to be somewhere with a full face of make-up. It’s kind of nice to have soft hair again. The salty air and sunshine made it feel like hay. Now it lays in soft curls again, tied with a ribbon at the base of my neck.
I stretch and decide to start the day. Sleep won’t return no matter how long I lay in bed. Since we’ve returned, the ever-present New York nightmares fade to whispers. The noose-like waters that had drowned me every night since my parents died have faded into oblivion.
I think about those dreams sometimes, mourn my father’s loss—not because of the terror they brought—but because I’m happy again. Sometimes I feel guilty. This new life had me torn in two for a while, but after watching my mother for a few weeks, seeing her face again and hearing her voice—well, I don’t want to screw up this second chance.
Sean reminds me what is real, what is not. My mind frayed, certainly, but I did not crack. I’m still here under all this pain. I’m still Avery. Maybe a little more jaded and cynical, but that will fade over time. Especially as more important joys fill my life.
Sean.
Baby Ferro-pants. I grin. We haven’t been able to decide on a name yet.
Dr. Chang told me, the first time I walked into her Manhattan office, “To realize and accept the past, one must look toward the future.” Her one-liners stick in my head like fly paper, catching nasty little thoughts that shouldn’t be swarming there.
So I try. I took my parents for granted before the accident—I took their lives at face value. There was never any creeping suspicion that mom was involved with Vic Campogne or had any ties to organized crime of any sort.
“This is life,” Chang reminded me from the cream-colored leather chair in her office. Sitting there with her olive skin, red suit, and shiny sheet of shoulder length inky hair makes her appear even more striking. The office is decorated in fifty shades of white, giving the space an ethereal feel. It’s calming.
Frowning on her soft paper white couch, she’d tell me, “The sooner you learn how to accept the events of your past, the better off you will be.”
I’m not a magician. I have trouble accepting what I’ve done, especially with a baby on board. I think my brain vacated my body. Maybe it’s sitting under a coconut tree in the Caribbean, getting a tan. Either way, most days I’m wandering around without it. On the island it didn’t matter. I’d go to the kitchen to get a glass of water, forget what I was doing en route, and end up following the path out to the pool to watch the clouds float by.
Yesterday, I spaced out and wandered down to the subway. I was on a train before I realized what I was doing, or where I was going. I don’t live in Babylon anymore, but my ticket was for Babylon station. I forgot I moved. How messed up is that? The truth is the repressive haze, that long shadow from my past stretches over me. That train ride conjured memories of Marty meeting me the last time I wandered to my parent’s house. I can understand why Sean left Manhattan after Amanda died. Everywhere I look, something reminds me of the past. It’s draining me slowly.
The truth is, most days I feel faded, like a pillow that’s sat in the sun too long, blanched of its color. Of life.
CHAPTER 7
Glancing over at Sean in the large bed, his face is peaceful with dark eyelashes against sun-kissed skin. His muscular body is sprawled on top of the white sheets, completely naked, every inch of him revealed. His dark hair is tousled with a dark lock hanging over his left eye. His slow, rhythmic, breathing lets me know he’s still asleep. It’s a cliché, but Sean has the same outlook on perseverance that I do—strength must come from within.
I don’t know how he’s lived through ever
ything life has thrown his way. Grief reaches up and chokes me sometimes and it’s all I can do to breathe and stretch my face into a smile. To chase it away.
I had a brother. That haunts me. I always wanted siblings, family to gather around big holiday tables overflowing with food, with too many voices talking at once, and meals filled with laughter.
The tipping point comes like a dark wave, rushing over me. The fly paper fails and I’m engulfed, laying in bed, staring at the paint of the walls. I swallow hard as the thoughts pelt me. Pitting my soul, further decaying who I am.
My brother is dead.
I killed him.
There are too many things, too many horrors, lining my memory.
Marty. Is. Dead.
I killed him. Even if it wasn’t my hand that dealt the killing blow, he was there because of me. It doesn’t matter that Vic Jr. slit his throat. I stood there and did nothing.
The pilot. That was my fault. It was him or me, but still. He’s dead and I’m not.
Something dark snakes out from deep in my chest and wraps its fingers around my heart, squeezing and tapping as if to say, I’m here and there’s no way to change it. The monster within is real. She’s something I never wanted to become.
Put it away until tomorrow.
The thoughts rush on. They do not stop. They will not heed my command to retreat. Clutching the sheet hard, my knuckles turn as white as the bedding.
To be like Sean. That was what I originally wanted from him. To learn how to seal out the world, the pain—the suffering. Nothing got to him. Ever. I see him in my mind, sitting at the piano, isolated. Alone. Unfeeling. Yet…a ray of light breaks through.
Tomorrow will be better.
The strangle hold won’t release me. A voice in my mind counters the spot of hope, hissing, “That’s not true.”
It’s not, is it? The voice is more timid this time. The realization makes me shiver and I try to shove it away but it lingers, leaching the life out of me.
I pulled Sean back from the abyss. He was hurtling, head-first, straight for Hell. Nothing mattered to him anymore. Not even his brothers. He said so. The emptiness consumed him, every last ounce. The scrap that I swear I saw, was no more than an ember—the final remains of the man he once was.
Is that where I’m standing now? On a precipice with flames below? It feels like the cliff is gone and I’m caught mid-fall, flailing. Sean inhales deeply and shifts in the sheets. I realize that I’ve pulled the top sheet up to my neck and strangle it like it can save me. I drop the fabric and sit up.
Don’t crack, Avery.
I tell myself that forty times a day, but my God. Will tomorrow be better?
I’m not so certain anymore.
It’s a mantra I’ve told myself for the longest time. Surviving justifies anything. And I survived, but at some point there will be a reckoning. I know it.
The shrink practically waved the huge-ass gonna-be-a-nut-job flag via our satellite sessions every single time. Even from that distance, with a computer screen between us, I felt Chang’s ominous words.
You’ve shoved every thought, every emotion behind a mental dam. Those feelings cannot reside there, unresolved forever. One day, probably when you least expect it, the damn will burst. If you do not reconcile and make peace with all you endured, I’m afraid you’ll drown in the flood.
That warning still sobers me, but I’ve spent too much time with tears on my face and too many hours filled with fear. Too much time wondering if I was right or wrong. I’ve wasted so much time that I don’t want to continue squandering it.
Still. The memory. The touch of Marty’s slick skin, the look in his eyes at the end. Almost apologetic, like he was sorry he couldn’t save me. The thought sickens me.
I don’t know who I was that night, but I regret what I did to him. There was no way to know which side he was playing and although I’ve relived that situation again and again looking for a way to tell, to find an ending without bloodshed—I come up empty. His death haunts me. It seems unnecessary. Evil.
Draping my legs over the side of the bed, I move. Get up. Stop the cascade of darkness. I have to hold it back, if not for myself, for the baby. Inhaling deeply, I focus tightly on the slit of light at the bottom of the drapes, the thin bright line developing on the carpet beneath the window. It’s sunrise.
While the sins I committed are behind me, they’re not gone. There’s blood on my hands and it doesn’t appease me to know it was the blood of a deranged murderer, or of a friend who desperately wanted to save me. Even the pilot who tried to kill me in Sean’s cabin.
They all feel the same. The guilt is equal.
CHAPTER 8
There is an easy way to escape the destructive barrage of guilt and worry during the waking hours, before my mind splinters with grief—walk outside to the balcony. So that’s what I do.
Silently, I sneak away from Sean, letting him sleep, pull on a robe, and grab my coffee before padding down the long hall that leads to the central living area. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows frame an orange and pink sunrise smudged at the edges with a burnt blue.
I head for the windows and pass through the large glass doors that let out onto the wrap-around balcony. We’re up so high that no one can see me out here. It’s not like walking down the city streets below.
As soon as my feet touch the slate tiles outside, the whisper of Mel’s voice slips through my mind. That panic as we raced through the mansion, thinking Sean and Henry were dead. The fear I felt back then licks at my spine, clawing at me to relive it.
No. I refuse to relive these memories again. I won’t be haunted by my past.
I reach out, touching the metal railing, forcing a new sensation—a new memory to replace the old one.
Maybe I need a better shrink. Even so, with everything I learned in school, it’s clear that no one can take this toxicity from me. I have to extract it and move on. It’s up to me, to allow myself to feel happiness once more.
Part of me wants that more than anything. The other part… I don’t want to think about the other part. I fear that one day the monster within will become so engorged that I can’t contain it.
To think, that’s what drew me to Sean in the first place, his ability to control his feelings—to claim that numbness and master it. I had no idea what I was asking for back then. My psych courses should have clued me in, but I was so deep into survival mode, that it didn’t matter. I simply didn’t see it.
The human spirit can recover from horrors too hideous to imagine. That’s what I remember most from class, so that’s what I fixate on. Make new memories. Push past the ghosts that try and drag me into the past. It’s a new dawn, new light, and I won’t shrink away and hide. It’s another day, another sunrise. Another chance at happiness. I need to live in the moment, to be here now, and stop looking backward.
There will be a reckoning. I shove the thought away. It makes me feel helpless. If I surrender to it now, I’ll bring the flood on myself now. It’s my choice. I’d rather delve though everything in tiny fragments so I don’t have to face the bigger picture, so I don’t have to admit what I am.
Murderer. The word finally takes shape in the back of my mind. My thoughts nearly trip on it, but I focus outward and annihilate the inner dialog running through my mind.
I will not crack. Not today. Not here. Not now. Just, no.
There’s a chill in the air this morning, making me shiver. I rub my hands over my arms as I pad outside on the balcony. Sitting in a deep blue chair with a thick cushion, I put my feet up on an ottoman, and inhale deeply. Golden rays of light touch my cheeks, warming my face. There’s a great deal of courage involved in starting a new day. Inhaling slowly, I close my eyes. I picture myself, determined, smiling, moving forward. If I don’t, the thing that scares me most will inch in and overtake me.
I don’t want to become the woman I was that night. The murderer. The one who felt nothing, would do anything. Chase her away. Don’t let her back in.
But there’s a problem. I can’t even admit it to myself, but I know—deep down, I know—she’s already there.
Waiting.
CHAPTER 9
I hate doctor’s offices. When we finally get back into the room, it’s cramped, with one exam table, a tiny stool with spinner wheels, and a narrow chair wedged into the corner. Constance had a stroke when I said I wanted to use my doctor and not the Ferro family doc. Part of it is level of comfort. I’ve known this doctor for a few years. The rest is privacy. I seriously doubt Dr. Liz will violate HIPPA laws.
Sean looks like a giant shoved in the tiny corner of the room. He wrings his hands as he tries to fold his leg over one knee, and then tries again with the other leg. He shifts in the tiny chair, mutters an obscenity and rises. Thrusting a hand through his dark hair, he stands by my head and looks down at me. “We could have invited the doctor to the mansion.”
I snort. “She wouldn’t have come. She’s busy.”
Sean blinks at me. “We don’t know that and this room is incredibly tiny. The thought of standing in here for months is somewhat claustrophobic.”
“Weenie.”
Sean snorts, then leans down, kisses my forehead. “You like my weenie.”
Smiling up at him, I tease, “Sometimes.”
A voice comes from the door, “Well, she liked it enough to end up here.”
Mortified, I feel my face heat as Dr. Liz walks into the room. She’s grinning as she extends a hand toward Sean. “Pleased to meet you. And you are?”
Sean takes her hand in his and shakes it. He’s eyeing her like he doesn’t know what to think. “I am her husband, Sean Ferro. This is our baby.”
They step apart and Dr. Liz looks down at me. If she’s impressed at a Ferro standing in her office, she doesn’t show it. She skips straight to business, “How are we feeling?”
