Pure joy.
Just before she fell asleep, she realized that those were the words she had been searching for. She was filled with joy . . . pure, undiluted, uninhibited, unspoiled joy. There was simply no better word to describe the culmination of the past few days. Now, lying here in the dark, in the loving arms of her husband, she felt her unborn child kick inside her as the man she loved breathed softly on her neck while he slept quietly, the three of them entwined. And she knew that she would always remember this as the sweetest, most joyful day of her life.
The past five days were just a bad nightmare now.
When she responded to the doorbell and saw the two men standing on the front step, she instantly knew that they did not belong there. It was a mistake. A terrible mistake. If Jeff had been killed, she would have known. Because of the strong connection they shared, she would have sensed the moment that his spirit left his body. She tried to explain that to the officer and chaplain who came to her house that Sunday morning to deliver the news. When she refused to believe them, they asked who they could call to come and be with her. So she gave them her parents’ telephone number, and they arrived at the house just a few minutes later.
For the next five days, she went through the motions, doing what was expected of her. She finally gave up trying to tell her parents, Jeff’s parents, who had arrived from their home in New Hampshire, her friends . . . no one would listen to her. They just put their arms around her, tried to convince her that she was in shock, and suggested that she rest. “Honey, you have to focus on the baby now,” her mother told her gently.
Read the rest . . .
She gazed down at her nephew sleeping soundly in his crib as her sister quietly moved about his bedroom gathering clothes, diapers, and other necessities.
“Enjoy your innocence while it lasts, little one,” she whispered, stroking his cheek. Just then he sighed deeply, rubbed his head on the blanket, and made a sucking motion with his mouth. She held her breath, waiting to see if he was going to awaken. But after a couple more sighs, she heard his breathing return to normal and he was again still. She pulled the blanket up over his chest and followed her sister down the hallway into the master bedroom.
“I still can’t believe we’re going to drag a sleeping baby out on such a cold night . . .” She wanted to add, “just because your husband is a self-centered, abusive ass,” but she stopped herself. This was neither the time nor place. She had to focus on getting the two people she loved most in the world to safety. There would be plenty of time later to sort out how her sister would reclaim her home — and sanity.
Read the rest . . .
She stared at the ceiling. She had been tossing and turning, trying to find a comfortable position, determined to will sleep to overtake her . . . to no avail. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed since she heard the clock in her living room chime four times. She had thought to herself, “Four in the morning. Unbelievable” and tried once more to pound her pillow with her fist, pull the covers up over her ears, squeeze her eyes shut, and hope against hope that she would drift off to sleep. Finally, she opted to surrender. She rolled onto her back, kicked the sheet and blanket off her legs, and opted to stare wide-eyed at the ceiling.
She would have risen from her bed, prepared herself a snack, and gotten comfortable in front of the television. Wee-hours infomercials usually lulled her into unconsciousness. But tonight, of course, she was confined to her bedroom, afraid that even if she tiptoed into the kitchen, moving very quietly, her four-month-old nephew would awaken. Given that her sister had only succeeded in getting him to settle down and go to sleep less than three hours earlier, she dared not risk disturbing either one of them. She knew her sister was sleeping because she heard her snoring softly.
“Exhausted, no doubt,” she sighed as she considered the darkness of her room.
The evening’s events continuing playing out in her head like an unattended movie reel looping over and over in an abandoned theater. She had not been surprised when she answered the telephone and heard her sister’s frightened sobs.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing really,” she had lied. “What’s the matter? You sound horrible.” She picked up the timer and silenced it before it could interrupt their conversation in 45 more seconds. As she did so, she walked over to the oven and peeked in, calculating that the chocolate chip cookies would need to bake for another two minutes or so, and resetting the timer. Her Christmas cards, festive sheets of stationary, address book, and stamps were neatly organized on the kitchen table and the fire had was beginning to crackle and pop as the flames attacked the dried-out log she had just placed atop the ashes of its predecessor.
“I need you to come help me. We have to get out of the house.”
“Who has to get out of the house?”
“I need to take the baby and go. Paul’s not here. He went downtown. But before he left, it got pretty bad . . . ”
Read the rest . . .
