Chapter 19 #2
“He told Woody to get rid of her. To put her in the trash.” I nodded to his words, the weight of sorrow pulling me down as I remembered the hateful voice that belonged to Ville.
“But I couldn't. I couldn't. How did he expect me to do that?
She wasn't trash to me. She was my baby girl, and she deserved so much more than that. So, I wrapped her in my t-shirt, one already worn, hoping that her tiny soul would find comfort in that.” His eyes were low.
His tears still falling. “I put her in a shoebox where I kept Woody's toys whenever he wasn't around, and I took her out into the yard and buried her.”
“Did he find her?”
“He didn't live long enough.”
With two fingers, I tapped at his jaw, asking him to lift his eyes from their downcast position. An encouragement for him to look at me. I didn't have to voice my request; we had learned to talk without words from the nights he'd suffer with a sore throat, the silence never keeping me away.
He looked up, his eyes tinged pink to match mine.
“You were switching a lot when I left. Did you ever find out what Hell did to your parents? They could still be alive.”
“They aren't. I know that for a fact. Hell didn't kill my parents. I did. I shot my father in the head. My mother was harder to kill.” His solemn tone didn’t lift at all, not until I responded.
“Evil never dies.”
He laughed through his sadness, not finding the statement funny, but knowing it was true.
“I guess that's why I'm still here.”
“To me, you're eternal.”
“Because you think I'm evil?”
“Because, deep down, I know you’re not.” I didn't sound like me anymore, pain had altered my voice. So much fucking pain, and yet, I felt lighter. . . I felt closure on my painful past. But I had one more question. “What happened to Nessie?”
“She didn't make it. She was shot, not by me. My father's gun was on her when I shot him. I just as well have pulled the trigger. Her death is on me.”
“No, it's not.” My head shook. “It's on them. On the shitty parents you both got stuck with.”
Woodrow nodded. “I could handle him hurting me. Handle my mother's cruel words and a few knocks off my father. It got too much with you. I hated them hurting you. I couldn’t let them kill you, and I knew they would.”
My head dropped, my shoulders sinking. “You miss them?”
“I miss Nessie. I know my parents deserved what they got.
There was no choice; I was never going to mourn you.
They'd already taken one of my girls from me; I wasn't letting them get you both. It hurt me to kill them; I felt guilt, but not regret. What came after hurt, too. Things happened in prison that I can’t talk about, and I know Hell has probably hurt you because of that, and that hurts me more than you can imagine.”
“I mourned for you. Every day. Even now.”
“Me, too. . . I still mourned for you. I’m sorry for how things played out.”
“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“I didn’t know you were hurting so much.”
“You make it better. You make it all better.”
“You make it better, too.”
“We’ll see if you still feel that way when the alcohol wears off. I have no idea what you’ve been drinking, but this is the worst you have ever smelled.” He laughed.
Offended, I cupped my mouth, blowing heavily at my hand. My nostrils sucked in the concealed air, trying to catch a whiff of the unappealing aroma, but I could smell nothing but the earthy, floral scent attached to Woodrow’s skin, each time a breeze moseyed by.
“You wanna go see her?”
“Who?”
“The baby. The grave is pretty now. She has a big white cross and everything. And I gave her name, I hope that's okay.”
She deserved a name, even if it wasn't the one I had picked out since childhood.
I nodded, feeling small in his arms as they wrapped around me and pulled me into his chest, where my fingertips met his steady heartbeat.
“What did you call her?”
“Daizee. With an interesting spelling, thanks to Woody. You always smelt like daisies.” A smile spread on Woodrows lips, put there by few happy memories I'd given him prior to the devastation of losing our child.
I found my eyes trailing to his lips, my mouth moving closer. My breath on his mouth as I whispered, “I love it. I love her name.”
I placed a single chaste kiss, innocent like the ones he'd put atop my head in our teens as I slipped from his room into mine.
“Tomorrow.” His mouth parted from mine, staying close enough for our lips to brush as he told me, “I'm taking you to see her tomorrow.”
Excitement shouldn't have been something I felt over going to baby's grave. . . and maybe that wasn't the right word. But my sadness was abated, and I was given solace after a decade of thinking she'd been taken to the trash and dumped there like she meant nothing.
Woodrow walked with me, both of us leaning on each other emotionally, just like old times, and when he wrapped his arm around my shoulder, I didn't shrug him off. I reached up and held his hand, my scars hidden as I curled into his chest.
After the heaviness of our discussion, we sat in silence for a little while, both of us waiting for an alter to take over.
I prayed it was Hell. . . something I never thought I'd ever do.
But only because I wouldn't have had the strength to deal with Woody—a child who suffered anxiety issues—not right now.
Not in the bustle of this strip while trying to hide my face.
Nothing happened, so I waited some more as Woodrow's eyes slowly blinked, that was always a tell for him.
But he was still him when he laughed at the rumbling noise of my stomach—something he somehow heard over the noise of a thousand vehicles whizzing by and even more people.
He'd asked me if I wanted dessert then dinner, because his throat was feeling a little sore, and he thought ice-cream might help the feeling pass.
I agreed, having been neglected of anything sweet, in any sense, for the longest time.
We arrived at the parlor, which wasn't overly busy. I guess most tourists would rather have a drink in hand than a sundae. . . something I'd have agreed on only an hour ago.
The lady at the counter, with her brown hair pulled back, smiled until her eyes squinted. Her bright yellow dress made it hard to look away from. I hated that the paisley print was grabbing my attention; I still wanted to hide as I stared at her, my cheek still pressed tightly against Woodrow.
“What can I get you?”
Her voice had an accent not belonging to America. The same as the man who stood behind her, cloth in hand, wiping down the equipment.
With his eyes on the giant menu above our server's head, Woodrow made his selection, choosing something called a chocolate float, before telling me to pick anything I wanted.
Coyly, I looked up at the menu board. Woodrow's arm banded around me tighter, his fingers caressing the flesh of my arm, now covered in goosebumps.
“Can I have the birthday bash smash,” I asked the lady in yellow.
The woman didn't look away upon seeing my scars, she only continued to smile, and said, “Of course, I'll bring them over. Take a seat.”
And she did, to the table we sat at in the corner.
Woodrow sucked his dessert through a straw, which doubled as a little spoon, that he occasionally changed it up with by using.
I wasn't nearly as sophisticated, pecking through the chunks of cake with both my fork and fingers.
I couldn't get it in my mouth quick enough.
The treat was incredible, and the chilled vibe that echoed in this space was just what I needed.
No one second glanced me. I overheard no comments, not even from the children who had just left with their parents, clearly having been brought up impeccably.
For a brief moment, I wondered if my baby would have turned out that way.
I wondered what tone of skin she'd have, as such a contrast separated Woodrow's and mine.
I wondered so much about her; how she'd sound, what she'd enjoy, what dessert she'd have picked.
. . and I was only pulled back to reality, when I accidentally bit my tongue.
“Are you okay?” Woodrow asked, disguising his laugh.
I simply nodded, spooning in another fork full.
A small crowd walked in. A group of all male friends holding up a drunken companion. They slumped him in a seat at a table opposite, leaving him to place their orders.
The man's head was on the table, his mouth drooling over the menu printed there.
The group made it back, a friend nudging him to sit up. His eyes landed on me. He was attractive, in his way, but not an ethereal pretty boy like Woodrow, whose pretty eyes blinked, black lashes fluttering as he watched me without saying a word.
I drifted my gaze back to my dessert. I didn't want to risk a switch for him believing there was more to my wandering eyes than just taking in the sights and faces around me.
I hadn't seen new faces in the longest time.
I hadn't been granted new experiences. .
. and despite my scars begging to hide, my curiosity did the opposite.
I heard the man at the table make a comment about how gross something was, and I assumed it was about the dessert that had just been set down in front of him. I glanced over, but his eyes weren't on his float, they were on my face. He was talking about me.
“Shut. Up,” one of his friends warned.
The drunk said something else. More hurtful words that were hard to understand as he flicked them from his tongue in my direction.
My breathing quickened. My mood lowered instantly. I looked down at my plate, and not even the sweet mess on top of it offered me comfort.
Woodrow's hand slid across the table, engulfing mine as I clutched my fork, tighter and tighter. His thumb brushed my skin, a gentle caress that did nothing for me.
He made another remark about how it was hard to look at me and enjoy his float at the same time.