Somehow, in that moment, I disappeared into a different reality: one where Elijah and I had no pain, and we could be happy together. One where the child I was pregnant with was his. One where none of this had ever happened. And I didn’t come back to my nightmare until my mom and Danika came to get me. On my way out, I numbly picked up the scarf the woman from earlier had mistakenly left behind.
Twenty-Seven
I SLEPT ALL DAY. Danika went home at some point; I remembered her coming into my room to tell me goodbye. And now the sun was setting outside my window, amber rays glowing through my eyelids as I felt someone sit on my bed. Fingers brushed through my hair and I sighed, wincing when I felt the cramps I had been trying to sleep through. “Hey, Dewdrop,” Dad said.
I looked up at him. His eyes were red and tired, much like they always were when he got off of work. But there was something else; something wrong. Mom came to kneel beside the bed and she wore the same look too. “I’m fine,” I insisted, hoping they wouldn’t dote on me. I didn’t want that. I just wanted to get over all of this and move on.
Mom’s lip quivered as she touched my arm. Her hand was ice-cold. “May,” she began, pausing to clear her throat. “Something happened. Something terrible.”
I sat up, propping myself on my elbows. I glanced back and forth between them, wondering who was going to fill me in. “What? What is it?”
Dad spoke first. “I was on the trauma floor this morning on my way upstairs. I passed by a room that was . . .” He looked at Mom and then back at me, the color dropping out of his face until he was white. “Addison had a car accident this morning, May.”
I stared at him. The room around him spun. Pulling air in through my nose, I tried to swallow around the glue in my throat. “Is she alright?” my voice cracked.
Dad’s eyes blinked rapidly. “She had a massive brain injury. The bleeding on her brain was—”
“Did she live?” I cut him off sharply, grasping onto his arms.
He swallowed. “I’m sorry, baby. She passed away before I could do anything to stop the hemorrhage.”
“No,” I whispered. Dad pulled me close and rocked me. I could hear Mom crying. But for some reason, my tears didn’t come. It didn’t seem real. It was as if it were just another part of this nightmare I was living. Surely if I tried hard enough, I could wake up.
Wake up . . . wake up!
When would it stop? The pain; the loss.
Would it ever?
All at once it was as if a jolt of electricity had hit my body and I began to weep inconsolably. “Why?” I groaned, dissolving helplessly in my dad’s arms like a child. I couldn’t breathe. I had no control over my body except to fall apart, my head falling back against his arm as I wailed. Mom kissed my forehead, clasping my hand between hers. And this went on until the sun had given up and my room was dark, and the only light illuminating it was that of my carousel on my dresser. Lights danced around the walls like fireflies, lulling me again to sleep once my body had no more strength to cry.
I slipped into a dream. Addison and I were fighting all over again.
* * *
“ALEX, I KNOW YOU really want to check on her, but it’s just not a good time.”
My eyes fluttered open and I looked for him, quickly realizing the window was open and the voices were coming from outside. Dad was sleeping beside me.
“I’m just really worried about her, Mrs. O’Hara.”
“I know you are. I’ll tell her you stopped by.”
No. I wanted to see him. I slipped out of bed and went to the window, catching myself against the sill. He closed the door of his car, leaving me no chance to call his name. I sank to the floor and brought my knees to my chest, sobbing quietly into my bent arms. Eventually I rested my head against the wall and took a few steeling breaths: in through my nose, out through my mouth, slowly gaining control of myself. I reached for my purse and dug my phone out of it so I could call him.
That’s when I saw Addison’s text messages and voicemail waiting to be opened.
I shook as I tapped the screen.
Addison: I’m so sorry, May. I don’t agree with what you’ve decided to do, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love you and want to support you regardless. I just can’t go to the clinic. I hope you can forgive me.
I groaned with an agonized cry. Of course I forgave her. I just wanted her back. I opened the next text.
Addison: I’m heading to your house. I’ll see you there when you get home from your appointment. I want to be here for you, May. I love you.
I dropped my phone. She was on the way to my house when she had her accident.
I got off the floor and ran out of my room, hearing my dad call my name. I ran past my mom in the kitchen. I ran to the sidewalk where I sprinted on bare feet until my lungs gave out and I collapsed onto a stranger’s lawn. I tried to suck in a breath. Blood stained the inside of my pajama pants as my abdomen twisted painfully.
A moment later, Dad lifted me into his arms and carried me home.
Twenty-Eight
WHEN I WAS A KID, I asked my dad what it meant to die. Being the scientifically-minded individual he was, he told me exactly what it meant: that your heart stops beating and your body no longer functions. He said your soul, the part that made you who you were, went on to somewhere better. That wasn’t the doctor speaking, of course. I don’t think my dad even believed in heaven or hell. I just think he wanted that pill to be easier for a six-year-old to swallow.
I didn’t even know what I believed. Most people have at least an idea of what they consider to be true by the time they’re in their teens, but I had never considered it. Maybe it was because I heard about death in such a black and white manner my entire life. There were no stories of white lights or angels singing.
But I really, really wanted to believe the angels were singing today.
“You look beautiful,” Mom said behind me as I finished tying my hair back in front of my floor-length mirror. I wore a knee-length, black dress with a pair of faux pearl earrings Addison had given me for my thirteenth birthday. Who cared if I looked beautiful? I didn’t. But I thanked her anyway, because I knew she was just trying to communicate with me. The last three days had been the worst of my life, and I hadn’t spoken to anyone. Not my parents, not Danika . . . not even Elijah.
I picked up the scarf the woman had worn to the clinic and draped it around my neck. It smelled like her: flowery and clean. It didn’t go with my ensemble, but that didn’t matter. All these years later, I still don’t know why I carried that scarf around with me for so long. Sometimes it felt as if I were punishing myself, and other times it felt as if I were paying respect to the woman who might have lived by sacrificing her desperately wanted child’s life. Maybe I was really just paying respect to that child.
I think it was a little bit of all these things. That scarf reminded me of Addison. It reminded me of death and it reminded me of life. It reminded me I had survived, and on that particular day, it actually felt like a punishment.
I stared quietly out the window while Dad drove all of us to the chapel where the service would be held. I expected it to be a big gathering because Addison was loved by so many people; the dance community, especially. And I was right. Upon pulling into the parking lot, it was quickly apparent the chapel would be full to the brim.
I was glad. She deserved it.
I took my seat in the second row to the front. The old pew creaked a little when my family sat next to me; voices were hushed and Mr. and Mrs. Flood were sitting on the front row, crying in each other’s arms. I could have reached out and touched them. Mrs. Flood repositioned her head on her husband’s shoulder and her mascara-stained eyes opened, meeting mine. She extended her arm and took hold of my hand, and that was when I broke.
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered tearfully. “I’m so sorry.”
“I know, honey,” she answered, squeezing my hand one last time before facing the front of the church. The pastor had taken his
place behind the pulpit.
I didn’t hear a word he said. All I could do was stare at the glossy black casket in front of him, trying to understand how I had just seen Addison the other day and now she was lying lifeless within it. I tried to cry quietly; I really did. I didn’t want to be a distraction. I wanted Addison to have the attention she deserved.
Someone slipped into the pew beside me and tugged up on the thighs of his slacks before sitting down. I realized it was Elijah when his hand slipped into mine. I grasped onto him as though he were the only thing keeping me from disappearing. We looked at each other and the light coming through the stained glass windows splashed his eyes with vibrant colors. He smiled sadly at me and let go of my hand to drape his arm around my shoulders. I rested my face on his chest and tried not to stain his suit coat with my tears.
Bible verses were read. I stared at the window that was shining over her casket; it depicted a dove in flight, carrying a branch of some kind in its mouth. I had heard somewhere that the dove was the symbol of peace. For a moment I hoped that Addison was at peace, and then I realized she hadn’t been miserable to begin with. She hadn’t been riddled with cancer. She hadn’t suffered at the hands of a murderer. Addison was as bright as the light shining through that window, full of life and passion. And now she was gone. She was gone because of me.
I leapt out of the pew and brushed by Elijah to escape, running down the aisle toward the exit. I heard Danika call my name, but I kept running. My heels thudded with every step until I burst through the double doors and disappeared into the wooded area behind the chapel.
Grabbing onto a tree, I sank to my knees and leaned against it to catch my breath. The bark dug into my arm and the cold air bit my skin, but I barely felt it. I hadn’t felt anything in over two weeks except for the churning sea in my heart. The muscle itself hurt so badly in my chest that I wished I could rip it out, but it continued to thud with repeated reminders of what I had lost and the damage I had done.
“What have I done?” I whispered brokenly into the quiet, damp forest. For the first time, I felt the burden of two lives lost: Addison’s and my child that would never be.
Twenty-Nine
THE TEN MONTHS following Addison’s death were overwhelming. It was as if the world were spinning around me and I was powerless to stop it or even slow it down.
I was back to my old self in ways, but I wasn’t alright. There was this constant weight on my shoulders I couldn’t seem to shrug off. My nightmares were far more intermittent than they had been, but I wished they would go away altogether. I wished I could understand why this had taken over my life. Was it normal to still be hurting like this ten months later?
From the rape, I mean. And what I did afterward. I knew I would never stop hurting over Addison.
I wished I could tell her I was thankful for everything she did, and for the ways she tried to help me. I knew I would always regret the way I reacted when she said she couldn’t support my decision. I just hoped that somehow she knew how much I really loved her. I told her that at least once a month when I visited her in the cemetery, but I wished she could hear it. Who knows? Maybe she did.
I might have been crazy, but sometimes I wished I had kept the baby, or at least given it up for adoption. Somehow I thought it might have given me some kind of hope that something good could come out of what happened. But it was done. I would never know what might have been.
Even though I was still in this fog of depression, I still managed to graduate with honors. And I was proud when I took the stage to accept my diploma. Just a few students down the line, he stood looking everywhere but at me. I was thankful for that. I was thankful he never talked to me again after the day he asked if I would be pressing charges. Honestly? I think I might have strangled him.
I was angrier than I used to be. Not just at Tyler, but in general. Elijah had to talk me down a few times, saying I was losing sight of the good things in life. He was so good to me. I know he was what was good in life. I don’t know what he saw in me, or why he chose to stick around when I could do nothing to contribute to our relationship . . . but for some reason, he did. He always said I would be alright. I tried so hard to believe him.
He told me he loved me for the first time about six months after Addison died. I had never seen his eyes sparkle that much. It was as if they had captured every star twinkling in the sky. His confession flooded me with a sense of peace, but at the same time, I was frightened. I didn’t say it back. I think most guys would have given up on me then and there, but he just held me and said it was okay.
It took a while, but I knew I was ready to say it back. And I went to his apartment for that very purpose.
* * *
ELIJAH OPENED THE DOOR to his upstairs apartment before I knocked, surprised to see me standing there. He had given me a key to the shop a few months before after hiring me to work on weekdays after school, so my arrival wasn’t completely out of my norm, but I usually called him first. “Sorry, I probably should have let you know I was coming over . . .”
“Are you kidding?” he grinned, stepping over the threshold to wrap me up against him.
I inhaled his scent deeply, fisting the back of his black t-shirt. He never denied me from stopping by on the weekend to see him. I felt his fingers stroke my hair all the way down to my waist. He loved to twist it around his fingers.
After a moment, he pulled back and looked at me, a content smile on his lips. “I missed you,” he said.
“You saw me last night,” I argued with a smirk, still holding onto his waist.
“Mmmm. Too long.” He brushed his lips over mine and my body tingled all the way to the tips of my toes. Lately, I had butterflies. They had taken a while to find their way into my stomach, but they were there now, fluttering every time he looked at me; every time he kissed me, touched me, or told me he loved me.
I grinned, deepening the kiss, breathing him in. I wrapped my arms around his neck and stood on my tiptoes, trying to get closer. I heard him moan softly. The pull between us was more powerful than I ever imagined it could be. But he always gently and respectfully broke the kiss so we wouldn’t go any further. He knew about my desire to wait for marriage; sometimes I thought he respected it more than I did. I still had trouble believing there was any point in saving my virginity for marriage after it had already been taken. And there were many times when I would have happily given him what was left of me. And even though I could have felt rejected when he didn’t take it, I only felt more loved.
Elijah loved all of me, even the broken parts I was ashamed of.
“Where were you going?” I asked breathlessly.
He looked at me, confused.
“When I came to your door, you seemed to be going somewhere,” I explained.
“Oh. Just downstairs to do some organizing.” His thumbs gently rubbed my waist where his hands were resting. I wondered if he knew what that did to me. “Are you alright?”
I knew he was asking because I showed up unannounced. “I’m fine. Come on, I’ll help you.”
He grinned and took my hand, leading the way downstairs. We went to a shelf he had recently built to house books about Oregon, something locals frequently asked about. I sat on the floor and began going through the boxes, daydreaming as I looked at their beautiful covers. All of them portrayed a different place: Salt Creek Falls, Newport Beach, the Tamolitch Pool; the list went on and on. Sometimes I forgot I lived in such a beautiful state.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked, standing over me as he took books one by one to be alphabetized.
I frowned thoughtfully. “Just that sometimes I forget what’s around me. Even our town is beautiful. I guess I have stopped taking it in lately.”
“It is,” he agreed. “It took me a while to adapt to it after living in Portland, but now I don’t think I would ever want to live in a big city again.”
I stared at his tattered, black Converse shoes for a moment, noticing that his shoelaces wer
e frayed. I had forgotten that his shoes looked brand new when I first met him. I don’t know why, but I reached out and touched the double knot, knowing it hadn’t been untied in months.
He knelt next to me and lifted my chin with his fingers. “What is it?” he asked softly, looking into my eyes.
“I love you,” I blurted. My eyes instantly swam with tears. I shook my head quickly, blinking. “I mean . . . I didn’t mean to tell you that. Now, I mean. I was going to tell you later, at dinner or something. Somewhere romantic, I guess? That was really strange timing . . .”
His eyes watered as a grin slipped across his face. He yanked me into his arms and we tumbled to the floor with me lying on his chest. He pushed his hands up into my hair and brought my face to his for a gentle kiss. “Our timing has always been perfect,” he whispered.
Thirty
FOUR YEARS HAVE PASSED. After my abortion, I developed an obsession with hearing the abortion stories told by other women. I found that pregnancy caused by rape is significantly rare compared to pregnancy caused by casual, unprotected sex. I learned that it isn’t all that unusual to regret one’s decision to abort. And I have found that most women who claim not to regret their abortion still have mixed emotions beneath the surface.
For me? I still dream about him. And no, I was never far along enough to learn his gender. But I know what I dream.
Tyler raped me. He took what wasn’t his, and his actions caused a domino effect of painful obstacles in my life. I once explained my dreams to a psychologist and she informed me that regardless of the way in which the child was conceived, it’s almost impossible for most of us not to recognize that we once bore a human life. To this day, I can’t wrap my mind around why I regret ending that life. But I do. And I know it’s not the same for every woman, and my feelings are mine alone, but I think it’s pretty safe to say I’m not the only one who secretly misses what might have been.
In the year following my rape, I finally gained the courage to tell my parents and Grace the truth. And though my mother threatened to do everything in her power to ensure Tyler was convicted, in the end, she knew nothing could be done. Since I neglected to report it, and due to the lack of evidence, there was no way to prove it. So all they could do was grieve. And all I could do was try to show them I would be alright.
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