Chapter 4 #2
“If you don’t like the food here anymore, I can stop and get you something before I visit.” I know she sometimes has difficulties swallowing, but there must be something I can get her to eat. In the two weeks since Irish’s funeral, she looks even thinner than she did then and that’s alarming.
Irene doesn’t say anything, and I don’t know if that’s because she physically can’t or if she’s too depressed to speak, so I just sit with her until it’s time to pick up the boys.
The next time I come, I’ll bring her some soup from the diner.
When I pull up to the house, Fuckface’s bike is parked on the street in front, and he’s pulling out the garbage pails from the side of the house. I park in the driveway and silently breathe a sigh of relief. One less thing for me to do.
“Why is he always here?” Legend asks, staring out the back passenger window.
“He’s just being helpful.”
“But all he does is stand outside our house.”
“That’s not true, he’s taking out the garbage right now, and yesterday he mowed the lawn.”
I’m sure he was trying to be helpful, but I don’t think the landscaper is going to be pleased when he comes for the weekly cut and sees the checkered pattern on the front lawn.
From what I hear, Fuckface is a master at repairing vintage bikes, but that must be where his expertise with machinery ends.
“Do you think Uncle Shotty will come by soon?”
I stare at my boy from the rearview mirror. It’s the first time he’s asked to see anyone from the club specifically. Normally, I wouldn’t blink an eye, but he’s grieving his father, and I don’t want him to think everyone he cares about has just upped and vanished from his life.
Shotgun hasn’t texted or called since my doctor’s appointment, and I kind of like it that way.
I may be on the struggle bus, but at least I’m moving at my own pace.
If he called or came by, he’d see through the facade and do everything in his power to help wherever he could.
It’s just in his nature. I need to learn how to do all the hard stuff on my own.
If someone swoops in and picks up the broken pieces, I’ll never be the mom my kids need me to be.
I also think his energy is better served transitioning into his new role as vice president.
As selfish as this may sound, I want revenge on my husband’s death, and deep down, I know Shotgun wants that just as badly as I do.
He won’t quit until he gets it too. And that puts his life at risk. It makes him a target.
“I’m sure he’ll stop by to see you boys soon,” I finally say. “Let’s get you boys in the house. I’m too tired to cook tonight. How do we feel about pizza?”
Legend’s eyes find mine in the mirror. “Can we get sausage and pepperoni?”
“Whatever you want, baby.” My gaze flits to Raiden, and before he can object, I assure him we’ll get a plain cheese too.”
I barely have Raiden out of his booster seat when Fuckface rounds the truck, holding a kraft bag out to me.
“Shotgun dropped this off. He said it’s for Legend.”
I close my eyes as soon as the words leave his lips, already anticipating the tantrum.
“What about me?” Raiden cries. I don’t even have to look at him to know his lower lip is trembling.
My eyes spring open, and I snatch the bag from Fuckface.
I’m starting to understand the meaning behind his road name.
If my kid wasn’t on the verge of a total meltdown, I might laugh at the expression that clouts his face.
Clearly, the guy doesn’t have too much experience with kids.
Hell, I bet he doesn’t have any siblings.
“Uncle didn’t get me a gift?”
“Uh… it’s for both of you,” Fuckface says. “I mean… I think.” His neck turns beat red as he combs his fingers through his hair. “Shit, I’m sorry Jade. I don’t even know what the fuck is in the bag.”
“It’s fine.” Taking Raiden’s hand in mine, I glance down at him as I give it a squeeze.
“Fuck—” I stop myself before I can regard the man in front of me by his road name in front of my son.
The last thing I need is for him to go to preschool talking about the mysterious uncle Fuckface that broke his heart.
Turning my attention back to the prospect, I shake my head. “What’s your name?”
“Fuckface.”
I grit my teeth. Why Shotgun didn’t think Skid was a better option is beyond me. “Your real name. I can’t have my kids calling you Fuckface.”
“Oh, yeah. I guess that would be bad. They can call me Phil.”
Hmm. He looks like a Phil.
I look back at Raiden. “Phil is going to go to Target and buy you a surprise.”
Raiden’s watery eyes go wide as he stares up at Fuckface. “You is?”
“Uh…” He looks at me, his eyes pleading with mine.
“You are.”
“But—”
“No buts. Anything cars will do.”
Without giving him room to argue, I march toward my front door. Once we’re inside, I send the boys upstairs to wash up and I open the bag to find a brand-new cellphone, and a handwritten note.
Have the boys call me if they want. My number is the only one programed.
I stare at the poor penmanship, guilt tugging at me. I’d like to think it’s because I sent Fuckface on a mission to buy Hot Wheels when the gift was actually for both boys, but realistically, I know that isn’t it.
That’s why I pull out my phone and shoot him a text.
Me: Thank you for the phone but you didn’t have to do that.
Shotgun: Its better this way. They don’t have to bother you if they want to call, and I don’t have to haunt you when I want to hear their voices.
I purse my lips as I reread his message.
What he’s really saying is—I see through your bullshit, Jade.
Well played, Shotgun. Well played.
The grief comes in waves. Most of the time I’m too busy to remember I’m a thirty-two-year-old widow.
Then it hits me out of nowhere. Tonight it came when Raiden asked for a glass of milk before he went to bed.
I was having Braxton Hicks contractions all day, which wasn’t even the worst part—I had them with both my prior pregnancies.
It was going downstairs only to find I forgot to buy a gallon of milk when I was out, that set me off.
It's only been three weeks, and I can honestly say I’m exhausted. I don’t want to do any of this anymore. This isn’t how it was supposed to be. Irish should be here. He should be holding me, trying to hide that sinful smirk of his, as he assures me it’s just the hormones making me crazy.
Raiden went to bed without his milk, but I put in an Instacart order before I came up to take a shower, that way the boys can have cereal tomorrow.
Problem fixed, right? I shouldn’t be crying in the shower, trying like hell to remember what it feels to have my husband’s arms around me.
How am I supposed to go through the rest of my life without ever feeling his touch again?
The water streams over me and my stomach goes rock hard, another Braxton Hick contraction working its way through me.
I press my hands to my belly, breathing through it just as I’ve been doing all day.
Until this moment, I haven’t allowed myself to think about what it will be like to give birth without Irish at my side.
Who is going to feed me ice chips, and rub my back as I labor?
Who will assure me that I’m doing a great job, and hold my legs while I push?
Who will cut the cord?
Who will dress Raiden and Legend in their Big Brother shirts and bring them to the hospital to meet their younger brother?
Suddenly it becomes too hard to breathe.
I brace my hands against the tile wall, my vision blurring slightly as the pain becomes excruciating.
I try to count back from ten, convincing myself it will pass, but when my vision clears, I see the blood dripping down the insides of my thighs.
At first it doesn’t register, and I blink three times, foolishly expecting it to be a figment of my imagination.
But it’s there, bright red blood all over my legs, swirling down the drain.
“Oh God, no,” I cry. “Please don’t do this.”
I turn off the water, struggling to keep myself upright as I push open the shower door.
In a poor attempt to contain the blood, I press my thighs together, but it doesn’t do anything.
By some miracle of God, I make my way out of the shower and grab the silk robe from the hook behind the door.
I don’t bother drying myself as I slip my arms through the sleeves, reciting all the things I need to do.
Call for Legend.
Get to the phone.
Call 9-1-1.
Save my baby.
My fingers fumble as I try to tie the robe. Another contraction slams into me, and this time my legs buckle from the pain. I try to catch myself, but my reflexes are compromised by the pain, and all I can do is brace my palms against the tile as I fall to my knees.
A feral groan rips from the back of my throat.
Call for Legend.
Get to the phone.
Call 9-1-1.
Save my baby.
The blood seeps through my robe as I crawl out of the bathroom, and I scratch the first thing from my list. I can’t let my boy see me like this.
He’ll be terrified. I barely make it five feet, before I collapse, and roll onto my back, clutching my stomach.
Sanctioning whatever strength I can muster, I crawl into my bedroom.
I spot the phone charging on the nightstand.
Just a little more.
Five, maybe ten feet.
Please, God. Please.
I need to save my baby.
I don’t know why I brought God into it. He’s failed me every time, and he fails me now.