Chapter 47
The house was cloaked in darkness, a fitting reflection of the emptiness I felt inside. In front of me sat a small round cake, adorned with white frosting, three strawberries, and a solitary candle.
How many times had Zane celebrated at this table, blowing out his own candles?
V and Davide waited patiently for me to make a wish, but my heart yearned for something impossible: I wished for Zane to be alive, to kiss me, to hear me whisper that I loved him.
To touch me. To touch me. I desperately wanted him to touch me.
A foolish wish, I knew, one destined to remain unfulfilled. I longed to see Zane again, to experience his presence in reality rather than just in my mind. It was silly. Desperate, I would say.
Davide cut the cake, and I swallowed it as if I hadn't eaten in days, satisfying what I assumed was a pregnancy cravings. I expressed my gratitude to him for preparing dinner and getting a cake for my birthday.
Feeling weary, I decided to step outside for some fresh air. I found a chair to my left and settled into it, gazing upwards as stars gradually claimed the night sky, the sun slipping away behind the horizon. The cicadas chirped loudly, their song a pleasant reminder that summer was here.
“Mind if I join you?” V asked, stepping out of the house. I nodded, and she took the chair beside me, both of us lost in the beauty of the night sky.
“What's our plan now?” I inquired, curious about her thoughts.
“How about a job, then?” she suggested, looking at me earnestly.
“What do you mean?”
“We need money if we're heading to New York,” she clarified.
“Right,” I replied, suddenly aware of how little I knew about preparing for the future. Of course, we needed funds—tickets, visas, living expenses, and more.
“My dad will cover our tickets, but we need to figure out our finances once we get there,” she explained, clearly having thought this through.
“How… how can your dad let you go? I mean, how does he feel about it?” I asked, astonished at the idea of a parent being okay with their child leaving the country. My own parents would never allow such a thing, even for a short trip. V smiled softly and looked down for a moment.
“He wouldn't have even considered it before,” she said, pausing to meet my gaze again. “But after everything that happened, knowing I wouldn't be happy here, I think he understands why I need this. It's hard for him; he tried to convince me otherwise, but he gets it.”
“And your mother? What does she think?” I asked, realizing I knew so little about her mom. I wasn't even sure if she had come to Zane’s funeral.
“I think she doesn't care. Or maybe she's just in shock,” V replied, her eyes drifting back to the stars.
“I wanted to ask about Zane’s funeral, and…
I mean…” I struggled to articulate my thoughts, the lump in my throat making it difficult to speak.
“What happened? The doctor said he was optimistic about his recovery,” I added.
V swallowed hard, tears welling up in her eyes.
It was still strange to see her vulnerable, no longer the cold person I had known.
“I don't know,” she admitted, shaking her head.
“They told us the same thing, but I guess…” Her tears began to fall onto her jeans.
“Mom was upset about flying in from London because Zane was in an accident.
She thought it was nothing—kept asking how many days he'd be in the hospital because she had to get back.” V took a deep breath before continuing.
“But then… he just died. She was convinced everyone was lying; she didn't want to believe it. For three weeks, she stayed in Zane’s room, in bed.
She wouldn't talk or eat the food I brought her.
Then one day, she just left without saying a word.
When Dad told her I planned to move to New York, she didn't react at all. Not a single word.”
I could hear the pain in her voice, and I wondered why her mother didn't care. Was it because V was different? I was about to be a mother too, or at least that was a possibility. I had a child growing inside me, a life I didn't want or love. Did that make me a bad person?
“Why is your dad so nice to me?” I asked V, confusion written on my face.
She froze, as if I had touched on something deeply personal.
Tears streamed down her face, and I felt my own tears welling up, her sorrow somehow contagious.
“V?” I urged gently. She met my gaze, her dark eyes glistening with pain.
“Because Zane asked him to look after you, to help you if you ever needed it. He made him promise,” she finally said, breaking down into sobs, and I couldn't help but join her.
The thought that Zane had spoken of me, combined with the realization that I had lost the chance to talk to him one last time, crushed me.
My heart felt like it was being squeezed, making me gasp for air.
The pain was fresh, transporting me back to the hospital, to the agony of that moment.
That evening, my wish came true. I dreamt of Zane, seeing him as clearly as if he were right beside me. In my dream, I found him in the hospital and poured out my soul, telling him he meant everything to me. I expressed how much I loved him, and somehow, those words seemed to help him heal.
He recovered, and we started a new chapter in New York. He enrolled in architecture school while I pursued a career in painting. We welcomed a little girl with reddish hair, a miniature version of Zane. We were blissfully happy… happy until reality pulled me back from my slumber.
I had scheduled an appointment for a pregnancy termination and asked V to accompany me.
She kindly agreed, and we took the bus to Rome, not wanting Davide to find out.
My poor, and glued together heart raced not only because of the upcoming procedure, but because memories of Zane flooded my mind, both painful and beautiful.
The clinic was small but filled with light and cleanliness. I focused on keeping my thoughts at bay, avoiding distractions that might sway my decision. V sat quietly beside me, her presence a comforting support.
After what felt like an eternity of paperwork and waiting, a young woman in her early thirties, with a warm smile, called me in. The exam room was reminiscent of those I had visited for my regular checkups—nothing extravagant, just a chair, an ultrasound machine, and a computer.
I explained my intentions to the doctor, and I could see her disapproval, but she didn't know the full story.
“Alright then, let's take a look. I'll perform an ultrasound, and we can go over your options,” she said, accepting my decision without further argument.
Despite promising myself I wouldn't look, as I said previously, my curiosity would kill me one day. As the doctor pressed the cold transducer against my belly, I felt a wave of discomfort. My eyes were drawn to the monitor, and she took that moment to turn it towards me.
What I saw sent my heart plummeting—a tiny, fluttering heartbeat. I couldn't really see anything, but that rhythmic pulse was undeniable. Could I really end another life? The weight of despair settled heavily upon me. But I felt trapped; moving to New York with a baby was not an option.
I was resolute in my decision, wanting to put this behind me. The doctor outlined the process for a medication abortion—a few pills, a painful period, and it would all be over.
I returned to the waiting area, and I could feel V’s anxious gaze on me.
After what felt like an eternity again, waiting for the paperwork to complete and the prescription, we left the clinic, but I was far from relieved.
I was about to kill a life that didn't ask for this, but I hadn't asked for it either.
Once home, exhaustion washed over me, and I succumbed to sleep for sixteen hours. When I awoke the next day, V excitedly shared that she had found us a waitressing job. I felt a spark of hope but knew I had to confront my situation first.
Days passed, yet the image of that tiny heartbeat haunted me. I wished I hadn't seen it, and still, I hadn't taken the pills.
Another week went by, and V and I started our waitressing job. I was clumsy, loud, and overwhelmed, struggling to keep up. Though the owners offered us leftovers, I was grateful, while V found it a bit degrading.
We worked shifts on Friday and Saturday nights and Sunday mornings, which proved challenging for me due to morning sickness.
I couldn't bring myself to take those pills. Deep down, I knew I had decided to keep the baby, whether that meant raising it or giving it up for adoption. I just couldn't go through with the termination.
Summer slipped away, and I fell into an unusual routine. I lived in Zane’s room as if it were my own. I occasionally checked in with my father to reassure him I was fine, but I never visited. V had shaved her purple hair into a short, lighter style and had even removed some piercings for the job.
Once a week, we visited Zane, chatting with him as though he were right there with us. V told him everything that was going on, but I was mostly silent, speaking with him only in private and mostly in my mind.
I distanced myself from everyone—my parents, Jessica, Emily, and Marco. They reached out, but I didn't respond. All I wanted was to escape. Fun and carefree days spent at the lake or beach held no appeal for me.
V made new friends, but I preferred the solitude of Zane’s home, which had become my sanctuary. He never truly left me; I clung to the past, unable to let go, not yet.
August 10th,
I wish I could have woken up before you, run downstairs in my stupid unicorn pajamas to the fridge to grab the small cake I bought for you the day before, light the candle before stepping back inside the bedroom, singing "Happy Birthday.
" I wish to see you laugh, showing that insanely cute dimple of yours.
I wish for you to make a wish and blow out that candle.
I wish to kiss you and make love to you like it's the last time before the end of the world. I wish… I wish…
“Are you all set to leave?” V knocked on Zane’s door.
“Yes, just give me a second!” I called back. I shut the diary, tucked it away in the drawer, and hurried outside.
We exchanged a few quiet glances as we made our way down the stairs to meet Davide, who was waiting at the entrance with his car keys in hand.
Upon arriving at the cemetery, Davide picked up some flowers, and soon we found ourselves standing before the marble gravestone, gazing at Zane’s photograph. It would have marked his 20th birthday. We probably would have thrown a massive celebration, with Clous spinning tunes, perhaps at the beach.
“My little Zane Truesdale,” Davide said, tears streaming down his face, catching me off guard.
“Who?” I asked, bewildered by the name. I glanced at V, who offered a faint smile.
“He never told you why he chose the name Zane?” V inquired, her eyes reflecting my confusion. I had sometimes wondered about the origin of the name; it seemed more natural for him to be called Zach, as a shorthand for Zachary.
“It was his favorite anime show,” Davide finally said, his eyes fixed on Zane’s photo.
“He would dash off the school bus, running home to make sure he didn't miss his show.
One evening at dinner, I asked him, 'Zach, could you pass the salad?
' He immediately stood up, fixing me with a serious look that made everyone stop in their tracks. “From now on, call me Zane. I'm Zane Truesdale,” he declared, and we all burst into laughter. The name stuck with him from that day on.” A hint of a smile crept onto Davide’s face at the memory.
I realized there was so much about Zane that I had yet to discover, stories he would have shared with me in time.
“I'm going to wait for you in the car,” Davide said, before making his way to the gravestone. He touched Zane’s photo gently before leaving. We lingered for a few more moments, and I wanted to learn more about Zane, but I didn't dare ask.
Suddenly, a fluttering sensation stirred in my stomach. I instinctively stepped back, placing my hand on my midsection, puzzled.
“Are you alright?” V asked, grabbing my arm with concern.
“Yes, I just… I don't know. I felt something odd,” I replied, still trying to process the sensation.
“What do you mean? What kind of feeling?” V pressed.
“Like butterflies in my stomach. It's strange,” I admitted, lost in thought.
“I think I know what that is,” she said, a smile spreading across her face. I locked my eyes onto hers, filled with questions.
“What?” I asked, my impatience growing.
“I think it was the baby,” she replied.
“The baby? But… isn't that too soon?” I asked, taken aback and skeptical.
“I read that it's not the actual movements you're feeling yet, but as the baby grows, you start to feel it, like those butterflies,” she explained, pulling me into a comforting embrace.
A warm sensation enveloped me—a feeling I hadn't experienced in a long time.
A new life was developing within me, and despite my attempts to resist the thought, to push it away, all I could feel was love.
On our return journey, I smiled softly, my hand resting on my belly. A wave of guilt washed over me for that fleeting moment of joy.
That night, as I lay in bed, I couldn't help but rub my stomach.
It had been a tough day, but I was finally allowed to feel something other than endless sorrow.
I drifted off to sleep, imagining my belly growing, moving, and kicking, picturing myself holding the baby for the first time and kissing its tiny toes.
I fell asleep with a smile, only to wake up engulfed in excruciating abdominal pain, surrounded by a pool of shattered dreams.
Just as I began to embrace the idea of motherhood, just as I started to nurture a warm feeling for the life blossoming inside me, just as I imagined bringing a human being into the world who would love me unconditionally for the rest of my days. It was all taken away from me.
It was taken away…