Chapter 38
Abby
Two Months
"Baby's first outing," I sing, buckling Erin into her carseat and pretending like I'm not completely freaking out.
So far, we've only left the house for doctor appointments, and even then I'm in a state of panic.
At home, I know she's safe—she's either in her bassinet, my arms, or Jack's.
There's so much I can't control once we're out in the wild.
What if someone runs a red light and hits us?
What if a freak storm comes out of nowhere and we get sucked up into a tornado?
What if there's some new plague and we end up being patient zero?
Ellie has always been the anxious one between the two of us, but now that my world revolves around protecting my sweet Little One, the world has never seemed so scary.
This is the first time we're doing a social outing, and the first time I've been alone with her in the car.
Jack has driven us to every appointment so far so I can sit in the back with her, never taking my eyes off her sweet face for even a moment.
The two feet between the driver's seat and where she's strapped in might as well be a hundred yard chasm.
I pull away from the curb slowly, checking the rearview mirror almost as much as I look out of the front windshield.
"C'mon, Abs, calm down," I mutter to myself. "Eyes on the road. She's fine. You're fine. Everything is fine."
I take the familiar route to the Thompson home, going five under the speed limit the whole way.
I don't give a fuck whether other drivers are annoyed with me or not—speed feels like the only thing I can control right now, and no amount of social pressure in the world is going to make me go one fraction of a mile faster than I want to.
I don't breathe easy again until we've pulled into the driveway and the car is in park.
I slump forward, leaning my forehead against the steering wheel and inhaling slow, deep breaths.
Anything to try and get my heart rate down.
Once I feel like my legs won't turn to jelly the second I step out of the car, I get out and practically sprint around to Erin's door, desperate to get her out of the two ton metal death trap.
Who the fuck thought cars were a good idea, and how do I go back in time to punch them?
My hand is still shaking slightly when I ring the doorbell.
"My two favorite girls!" Alan exclaims joyfully, ushering us in and taking the carseat from me. I set the sage and cream striped diaper bag down with a thump, then give Alan a quick hug before he disappears into the living room with his granddaughter.
"Hello, my dear," Andrea says, kissing my cheek. When she pulls away, whatever she sees on my face causes her to frown. "Are you okay? You look pale, come sit down."
I sit on the couch, releasing a shaky breath and pushing my curls back and off of my clammy forehead.
"Does that ever get easier?" I ask tensely while Andrea rubs comforting circles on my back. "I feel like I'm going to die every time I have to take her out of the house."
"Oh sweetie," she cries. "We could have come to you, you didn't need to work yourself up coming over here."
"No, I wanted to," I insist. "It was going to happen eventually, a quick trip to the grandparents felt like a good step. I'm glad we're here, I'm just a little shaky, that's all."
"It does get easier, I promise," Alan says, lifting Erin from her carseat and cradling her in his arms. "Everything feels like the scariest thing in the world at first. I remember the first time I gave Aaron a bath, I was scared to death I was going to somehow drown him even though there was literally no standing water. "
"That honestly makes me feel better," I laugh. "So I'm not just being a paranoid freak."
"You are," Andrea interjects. "But so has every other parent since the dawn of time."
"Great," I say sarcastically. "So it won't ever stop, actually."
"The car will get easier," Alan says. "But then it'll be the park. And then school. And then dating. And then college. There's always going to be something new and terrifying—but then you look at your child, and you know that they're worth every sleepless night."
"I get that now," I agree, gaze focused on my sleeping angel. "I don't think I would have gotten it before. Like, why would you sign up for something so hard and scary? But now I can't imagine a life without her. It's amazing how everything changes, just like that."
We settle into comfortable conversation, something we haven't really done since Aaron died.
It feels like something started, or rather re-started, in all of us the moment the tiniest Thompson joined us.
I often think back to what Jack said months ago, that it's a beautiful and cruel thing to experience grief and joy at the same time.
It's so beautiful to watch Alan and Andrea dote on Erin, to see how much they love her, and how much she loves them back. It's a beautiful thing to be part of this family. There's an immeasurable amount of love between the four of us.
It's devastatingly cruel that there should be five of us.
"The wildflowers have been so lovely this year, don't you think?" Andrea asks cheerfully. "I think it's so nice that they've planted them all over instead of having acres of just grass."
"Sorry, who?" I ask. Somewhere in my thoughts of Aaron I lost track of the conversation.
"The cemetery," she says, looking surprised. "Have you been in the last few weeks? The firewheels are so vibrant, it brings a little brightness to such a sad place."
"No," I say quietly, watching the spot where I'm wringing my hands in my lap. "I actually haven't."
"Oh you'll have to stop by, they're absolutely beautiful."
"No, I mean," I continue, clearing my throat. "I haven't been at all. Not just recently."
I look up at Andrea, her silhouette blurry through the tears in my eyes. "I'm sorry, I know that's awful. I just, I haven't been able to do it. I can't go back there."
"Not that I don't want to," I add quickly when they don't respond. "Of course I want to. It's just…it makes it so much more real, you know?"
"It's not awful, Abby," Alan says kindly. "Of course it's difficult. You've been through so much in the last year."
"We would never be upset with you for the way you need to get through this," Andrea says reassuringly. "You can go in your own time, or not at all, if you don't want to."
"I've actually been thinking a lot about it recently," I admit.
"I know it's just some grass and a bit of stone.
I know he's not there, not really. But I think I want to bring Erin there to introduce her to dad in some way.
I don't want her to miss out on any piece of him just because I'm trying to avoid my own feelings. "
"I think that's lovely," Andrea says, smiling somewhat sadly. "And so special."
"Would you," I start hesitantly. "Would you come with us? I think it might be easier, not do to it alone."
"Of course we will," Alan says. "Of course."
"Would you be up for going today?" I ask, chewing on bottom lip. "I think if I give myself too much time to think about it I'll talk myself out of it. And we're already out anyway, it's not like I can avoid getting in the car either way."
"We can absolutely go today," he responds. "We can go right now, if you want."
"I think that would nice," I say, nodding quickly. "While I'm still feeling a little brave."
"You're incredibly brave, Abby," Andrea says, rising to her feet and offering her hand to help me up. "There's never been any question about that."
Alan graciously offers to drive there, and even though my heart rate still skyrockets, it's child's play compared to being behind the wheel. With Erin's tiny hand wrapped around my finger, I wonder how it is that someone so small can give me so much strength.
Before long, we turn onto the dirt road that leads to the cemetery, following the makeshift lanes throughout the plots of gravestones until we reach the section where Aaron is buried.
It's been almost a year since I was here last, and I remember thinking that day that I would never come back here.
I also remember thinking I would be completely alone for the rest of my life, and the thought strikes me again.
It's amazing how everything changes.
Andrea was right, there are wildflowers blooming everywhere, the abundant life a strange feature in a place that holds so much death. We walk slowly through the aisles of gravestones until we reach the place I've been avoiding, both consciously and subconsciously.
A rectangular slab of black granite is placed at the top of the grave, looking almost fake—this is a movie set, or something out of a book. This isn't my real life.
Except that it is, the words etched in stone painful evidence of that fact.
Aaron Thompson
Loving Husband – Son – Friend
"Do you think they could update that?" I whisper, swiping a tear off my cheek. "Can they add 'Father'?"
"We can take care of that," Alan says, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder. "Why don't you and Erin go say hi?"
I push back the hood of the carseat, expecting to see her still sleeping, but she looks at me with wide eyes, blinking slowly as she squirms in her seat.
"Hi Little One," I say quietly, unbuckling her and taking her in my arms. "Let's go see your daddy."
I approach hesitantly, like I'm scared it might hurt me if I get too close. Steeling myself with every bit of resolve I have, I take the last steps forward and kneel down, reaching out and running my fingers gingerly down the smooth surface of the headstone.
"Hi honey," I say, softly enough that only Erin and I can hear. "I miss you so much."
I sniffle, trying desperately to keep from breaking down completely.
"I brought someone you should meet," I say, peering down at our daughter. "We have a daughter. I named her Erin. You really think I was going to live in a world without some kind of Aaron Thompson in my life?"
She lets out a small squeak, stretching her arms out and opening her hands. If I hadn't diligently researched baby milestones, I would almost think she was consciously reaching out for him. Maybe I'll choose to believe that anyway.
"She says hi," I say. "Well, she actually, she says—" and I imitate her sounds, nearly choking on a gasp when I look down to see her looking up at me, her very first smile lighting up her entire face.
"Would you look at that," I say, awestruck. "She saved her smile for her daddy."
I ramble on for several minutes, recounting everything she's done in her short existence, from making me violently nauseous during the first trimester to pushing herself up during tummy time.
Eventually Alan and Andrea join me, the three of us sprawled out while Erin discovers grass for the first time.
For a brief moment, a feeling so strong, so real, washes over me, raising goosebumps on my exposed arms—for a moment, it truly feels like we're a family of five.
Whether it's something spiritual, or simply the pieces of him that live in us, I really believe in the deepest part of my soul that Aaron is here with us.
As the sun raises higher in the sky the air grows uncomfortably warm, a reminder that Texas heat relents for nothing and no one, not even something like this.
"Would you give me just a sec?" I ask after strapping Erin back into her car seat and handing it over to Alan. "I'll meet you back at the car, I'll be quick."
"Take your time, dear," Andrea says, squeezing my hand before following her husband back to the car.
I turn back toward the grave, suddenly desperate to stay in a place I've spent so long pretending doesn't exist.
"I'm sorry it took me so long to come see you," I say. "It's been so hard without you. I'm a little pissed at you, actually. Pretty fucking rude of you leave the party this early. I hope you have the worst case of fomo."
A rogue gust of wind whips through hair, obscuring my vision and filling my mouth with curls. I sputter, clearing them out of my face and laughing.
"Okay, okay," I say, my voice shaky with laughter. "It wasn't your fault, I know. I wish you weren't missing out on any of this."
I push off the ground, clambering to my feet and brushing the grass off my knees.
"I'll come back soon," I promise. "And often. I never stop thinking about you, honey, not even for a second. I promise I'll tell her everything there is to know about you, she's going to know exactly who her daddy was. I hope she's just like you."
I kiss the tips of my fingers, stooping down to press them against the carving of his name.
"Bye, honey."
I walk back to the car, the weight of grief still there, but immensely lighter than it was before.
This feels monumental, like it might be a lifeline out of this awful journey I never asked to be a part of.
It's shifting, from something bitter that's been dragging me kicking and screaming, to something I can't quite name yet. But I know it's something good.
Everything changes.