37. Jessica
August, Present Day
Maple Ridge
I type awayon my laptop, the words pouring from me like rain during a hurricane. A nature soundtrack, with birds chirping merrily in the background, plays through Troy’s noise-canceling headphones.
One moment Bailey is snoozing beside my feet on the cobblestone patio, the next, she scrambles to a sit, her attention on the garden gate. I turn my head to see what has her excited.
Simone waves and opens the wooden gate. Jasper is with her, pulling on his leash to get to Bailey that much sooner. Bailey isn’t wearing her Service Dog in Training vest and doesn’t wait for my command. She rushes to her friend, her tail wagging like crazy.
I stop the soundtrack and put the headphones next to the laptop on the small round table. “Hi. I see you made it past my prison guards.” I flash a smile so Simone knows I’m kidding…kind of.
Who knows what the protesters will do if I leave my house without Troy by my side? They have the same effect on me that many of the prison guards at Beckley had. I fear them. I loathe them. They’re the ones calling the shots.
Treating me like a caged animal.
Deeming me only worthy of manipulation and neglect.
“I thought you might want a lunch break.” Simone lifts up the Picnic Treats bag she’s carrying. “And I figured someone wouldn’t mind going for a you-know-what.” She points at Bailey.
“Thank you! For both of those things.” Bailey has hinted more than a few times this morning that she wants to go for a walk, but I don’t feel safe doing that with the protesters in front of my house.
Fewer protesters are out there now compared to during the first couple of days. It’s mostly the diehards who haven’t given up yet. But it’s also Saturday, so there are more of them than yesterday. The number of reporters has also declined. The rest, no doubt, left to report on something far more earth-shattering than me sitting in my house all day.
“I’ll take the dogs for their walk first, and then we can have lunch,” Simone tells me. “How much longer do you need?”
“Thirty minutes? Does that sound okay?” That should be enough time to finish the chapter.
“Sounds good.”
I fetch Bailey’s leash from the hook inside by the back door and fasten it onto her collar. “You be a good girl for your Auntie Simone?” I give Bailey a hug. Her tail wags in response or in excitement for the walk. “Thank you. You’re the best.” I plant a kiss on the top of her head.
Simone and the dogs go out the gate, and I sit back down on the chair.
The protesters’ voices grow louder. “She and Lucas don’t have kids,” one woman yells, and my heart ceases to beat. “Of course she doesn’t have an issue hanging out with a dangerous offender. She’d feel differently if she had children like the rest of us.”
White-hot anger propels me to my feet. I fling open the gate and storm to the front of the house, not giving much thought to the risk I’m taking. Right now, I don’t care if they hurl rotten tomatoes or whatever at me, I refuse to let them treat Simone that way. She’s been nothing but sweet and kind toward me. She’s made things more bearable when the protesters have been stripping away my freedom.
“You’re angry at me,” I yell. “Don’t take your ignorance out on people who have done nothing to hurt you.”
“It’s okay, Jess,” Simone urges, worry and sadness choking her voice. She lost her daughter years ago when she was pregnant and a drunk driver stole the precious life from her.
There’s no way I’m letting that mean woman’s comment slide.
“It’s not okay. Simone did nothing to deserve this,” I shout. “I did nothing to deserve this. You’re no better than my husband who used to physically and verbally abuse me. Who used his strength and mind games to intimidate and manipulate. You’re nothing but selfish bullies who believe in twisted lies and not the truth. I. Did. Nothing. To deserve this.”
I throw Simone one more apologetic glance for what they put her through and stomp back into the safety of my backyard.
I grab the noise-canceling headphones, hit Play on the nature soundtrack, and resume writing. I pour my anger and frustration into the words and wrap them with sadness. The sadness that’s been growing in my chest for the past few days and will only get worse tomorrow.
On Amelia’s birthday.
By the time Simone returns from walking the dogs, I have not only finished the chapter, I’ve started writing a healthy chunk of the next one.
I remove the headphones. The chanting hasn’t stopped, but the intensity is far less than it was earlier. Maybe some of the protesters have gone home for lunch or my words got through to them. I hope my words got through to them.
Bailey bounds over to me, and I stroke her, happy to see her again. Her tail wags, and she plonks her ass on the cobblestones by my feet.
I look up at Simone. “I’m sorry for what they said to you when you left.”
She offers me a wide smile that’s like a big warm hug, and it eases something in me. “What you said out there…you shocked a lot of them. They weren’t expecting you to say any of that. They weren’t expecting you to stand up for yourself.”
A short, self-deprecating laugh huffs over my lips. “Maybe if I had stood up for myself a little more while in prison, I wouldn’t have almost died.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“No,” I say on a sigh. “From day one, it was like some of the prisoners and guards were out to get me. I was afraid. So afraid. Not just of them hurting me, but of what would happen if I tried to protect myself.”
Simone’s eyes seem to delve inside me and search for what makes me tick. And for once, I don’t try to refortify the wall around me. The wall Troy has been slowly destroying brick by brick. I let her see the raw, uncensored pain that’s been hidden inside me for too long.
“How are you doing?” she asks. “I don’t mean about what happened out there.” She points to the gate. “It’s like you’re sad. Sadder than normal.”
I’m not sure how to answer. Later in my marriage and during my incarceration, I made myself numb so I didn’t have to feel much of anything. And now that the safe containing my emotions has been flung open—thanks to therapy—I’m dealing with a flood of emotions like never before. Therapy is helping, but there are days when the coping strategies I’ve learned are not enough, and I’m left trying to keep my head above the water.
“Let’s go inside for lunch.” I don’t need anyone else hearing any part of this conversation.
The four of us go into the house, and I grab a couple of plates from the cabinet and pour lemonade into two glasses. The dogs settle down on Bailey’s bed. It’s barely large enough for them both, but they don’t seem to mind.
I pile the samosas from the Picnic Treats bag onto a serving plate and take a seat at the kitchen table.
“Sooo,” Simone begins, removing a samosa from the plate, “why do I have the feeling it’s not just the protesters that are responsible for making you sad? Does it have something to do with your daughter?”
I startle at how easily she’s pinpointed part of the problem. But after what she went through with losing her own baby, her mother’s instincts shouldn’t surprise me.
I nod and tell her about the phone call from my brother-in-law. “Amelia’s eighth birthday is tomorrow. I was hoping to get to spend it with her. Or at least see her sometime soon.” I fiddle with my samosa, pulling tiny bits of deep-fried dough from it. “It was delusional thinking, but five years of living in prison can have that effect on you.”
“There’s nothing wrong with hoping to spend your daughter’s birthday with her. After I lost my baby, I’d go to Lily’s grave on her birthday. And every year around that date, I would struggle with depression.”
“I struggled the most in prison when it was Amelia’s birthday. It was one more painful reminder of everything I had lost. Did visiting your daughter’s grave help?”
Simone dips her samosa into her chutney container. “Yes. No. Until Lucas recently learned the truth that I had once been pregnant, Avery was the one who’d been there for me on Lily’s birthday. But that didn’t help me move on. Not in the way I needed. What do you usually do for your daughter’s birthday? How do you celebrate it?”
“I threw parties for her first two birthdays. After I was arrested, I had to treat Amelia’s birthday like it was any other day.” I would dream about her birthday parties—the ones I wasn’t part of—and of her blowing out her candles, but that was all I could do.
“You know, there’s no law that states you can’t commemorate your daughter’s birthday if you can’t be with her. Her birthday is still a reason to celebrate. You gave birth to a beautiful baby girl, and she’s able to have a wonderful life because of the sacrifices you made for her.”
I take a bite of my samosa and chew it, mulling over Simone’s words. She might have a point. I swallow the spicy food. “You’re right. I’d never thought of it that way before.”
“You can get a small birthday cake to mark the day. Maybe include Troy in the celebration. I’m sure he would love to do that for you. Or you could celebrate it on your own. Do whatever will make the day special for you.”
Evie mentioned the other day that Taylor used to be a tattoo artist. The memory of the gorgeous hibiscus design on Evie’s shoulder sparks an idea. “I think I know what I want to do,” I tell Simone.
I call Taylor. She answers on the third ring. “Hey, Jess.”
“Hi. What is the name of the tattoo studio you used to work at? I’m thinking of getting a tattoo.”
“What kind of design are you looking at?”
I explain my idea to her. “It’s to symbolize someone who is special to me, but who can’t be with me. I want a way to keep her close.”
“The studio is usually closed on Sundays, but let me call Jeannie. I’d be happy to do your tattoo for you, Jess, if you want. I love what you’re thinking of doing.”
Gratitude swells in my chest. Gratitude and excitement. “Thank you. I would love that. Evie showed me the flower tattoo you inked on her shoulder. It’s gorgeous.”
A few minutes later, everything is set. Taylor will drive me to Eugene tomorrow morning and tattoo my forearm.
“I’ll sketch a few designs based on what you’ve told me, and we can go from there,” she tells me.
I can’t stop grinning, excited at the idea.
“I didn’t realize you’ve been thinking of getting a tattoo,” Simone says after I end the call.
“I hadn’t. Or maybe I had. I fell in love with Troy’s tattoo the moment I saw it. Even more so when he told me it symbolizes his friendship with Colton.” The sentiment behind it is beautiful. The maple leaf tattoo with the mountain scenery is beautiful. “Maybe deep down I wanted to get one but didn’t realize it until now.” I take another bite of my samosa.
“I think it’s a great idea. I have a tattoo on my hip, symbolizing my daughter. That way she’s always with me.” She touches her left hip, and her fingers linger for a beat. Her hand drops away, and she picks up her glass. “You might also consider grief therapy. Lucas and I have been talking to a therapist to help us deal with the grief of losing our daughter.”
“But Amelia is still alive.”
“She’s alive, but given your situation, it makes sense that you’re grieving her. She’s no longer part of your life, but she’s very much with you.” Simone places her hand over her heart. “Grief counseling might help you adjust to losing her.”
“Even though I’m not ready yet to fully give her up?” I know I shouldn’t hold out hope…but today—twenty-four hours from when she turns eight—it seems hard to fathom that Craig will truly keep her from me for the rest of her life.
“I hope your brother-in-law and his wife change their minds. But if they don’t, grief counseling might help you come to terms with that.”
My chest tightens at the thought of Grace and Craig not changing their minds—and a chunk of the hope crumples like a dry leaf. There’s a strong possibility they won’t change their minds, a reality I can’t do anything about even if I wish it weren’t true. I can’t blame Craig for feeling the way he does. I’m not my late husband or his brother, Lincoln, but that doesn’t mean Craig’s feelings are any less real. “I’ll bring it up with my therapist when I see her next,” I tell Simone. I have an appointment to see Robyn in eleven days—on September second.
“It’s helping me and Lucas. I lost my uterus due to the car accident. It means I can’t get pregnant and carry Lucas’s baby. That option was taken from me. Therapy is also helping me come to terms with that.”
“I’m not looking to have any more kids.” Our situations are so different. I hate how that option was stolen from Simone.
“And there’s nothing wrong with that. Focus on grieving the loss of your daughter. Not every woman wants to have kids. And not every woman who wants kids can conceive them.”
I used to dream of having more than one child, but that dream was from before I was married. Back when I dreamed of having a great career and three kids and a wonderful husband who adored us.
Now, I’m left with shattered fragments of that dream, unsure what to do with them.
Troy wants kids. Troy would be a great father.
The memory of Nova playing with him at the beach plows into my thoughts. It’s the same thought I’ve had previously—only now it’s more painful.
More painful because this time I’m in love with Troy.
In love with him, but unable to give him what he really wants…what he deserves.