Now #2
I turn toward the room, wishing I could ask Evie what she thinks we should do. The nurse who entered is with her, and the machine she came in with seems to be a breast pump. With sluggish movements, Evie opens her gown so the nurse can attach the pumps to her breasts.
So, she is conscious. She just doesn’t want to talk to me. Or even acknowledge me.
“Can we mark it down as cremation for now?” I ask the nurse. “But we’ll wait until I have my wife’s opinion on it.”
“Of course.” She shuffles through the papers attached to her clipboard and pulls out a leaflet. “These are our options for cremation. Parents often go for the biodegradable urn, which is designed to dissolve in soil and grow into a tree of your choice.”
I can’t help the cynical grin that stretches a corner of my lips. Given our history with plants, this might not be the right option. We’d manage to kill that tree, somehow.
“I’ll look into it and let you know.”
“Perfect. Are you okay to discuss the memory box options now, or would you rather we do it later?”
I look back at Evie again, unsure. I’ve just arrived, and I want to spend more time with her. But she’s occupied for now, pumping out the milk that was meant for our daughter.
When she meets my eyes, something in the blankness of hers releases an icy shiver that crawls up my spine.
She blames me. No matter what the doctor said, she thinks this is my fault.
And maybe she’s right. All I had to do was skip a few races to help keep her blood pressure down. But I didn’t. I told myself everything would be fine and kept racing. I was wrong. I was so fucking wrong.
“Mr. Reyes?” the nurse softly calls out.
“Let’s do this now. Is there an office or somewhere we can go?”
“Of course. Follow me.”
As I do, I can’t help but feel like a coward. Whether Evie wants me with her or not, she needs me. I should be by her side and handle this later. But as terrible as it might sound, handling my daughter’s death seems easier than talking to my wife.
Something broke between us. Something I’m not sure we can fix.
And it fucking terrifies me.
“Evie?” I call out.
We’re heading to Monza, just north of Milan, for the next race. It’s right here in Italy, so we’re driving there. It should take around four hours, and we will not be crossing any borders. Alas.
Walking toward the bedroom, I call out for Evie again. Where is she? A prickle of concern spreads in the back of my neck.
She hasn’t been feeling her best since we came back from the Netherlands.
At first, I thought it was because of the crash.
Part of me worried it reopened old wounds and brought her doubts and reluctance back to the surface.
But when I found her that evening, doomscrolling on her laptop while downing a bottle of wine, I understood where the problem came from.
And as much as I tried to comfort and reassure her, I understand where she comes from.
The internet has a way of poking at your insecurities, and she’s become a target overnight.
The shock was brutal, and she’s had no time to adapt.
Unlike me. It started slowly for me, first in F2, then during my rookie season.
Hell, I’ve read and seen mean shit targeted at me since F4, even.
So, as sad as it may be, I got accustomed to it. And by the time it got really bad, there were far more people who loved me, and they drowned that fucked-up noise.
But Evie got none of that. She didn’t get the slow climb, nor did she get the supporters. Or barely any. The few comments that don’t attack her usually sexualize her, and the ones who defend her never quite catch on.
Because yes, I looked. Even before I found her that evening, I looked at what people were saying online.
And it’s ugly. It’s fucking foul, but I can’t say I’m surprised.
It’s the internet, and she’s a woman. They’re unforgiving.
Men and women alike. She could be the best fucking person in the world—which, in my eyes, she is—they’d still find some nasty shit to say about her.
It’s a useless talent that millions of people seem to have.
And a bunch of them have decided she’d be their next victim.
Fuck … no wonder she’s been feeling terrible.
We should have kept our relationship private, just for a little longer. It’s still so new, so fresh, that I’m not sure we’re prepared for this. But we have to be. I want to believe we’re strong enough to overcome anything. Even an army of fucking morons talking out of their asses.
As I arrive in the bedroom, I look around for her. She isn’t here, nor is she in the walk-in closet or the bathroom. But her suitcase is all packed next to mine, ready to be put in the car. I roll them out into the hallway and continue my search.
When I see the door that’s open a little farther, I pause. I found her. She’s in Ophelia’s room. Which can’t help her gloomy mood.
I reach the door and softly knock on the frame, eyes landing on her. She’s standing before the changing table, staring at the wooden box perfectly centered on top of it.
“There you are,” I say when she doesn’t notice the knocks.
Startled, she turns around, looking a little embarrassed, as if I caught her doing something she shouldn’t.
“Sorry, I just … I wanted to soak it all in before I lea—before we leave.”
“It’s okay, princess. You have every right to be in here.”
She smiles sheepishly and returns her attention to the box.
“You never opened it, did you?” I ask, coming in to stand beside her.
“No, I … I wasn’t ready then.”
“And now?”
“Well, I’ve been staring at it for ten minutes. So I’m not sure. Probably not.”
We both stare at it together in silence, like it’s a sacred relic.
“When it happened, I … I refused to hold her,” I confess to her for the first time.
“I thought it would break me, that having her tiny, cold, lifeless body would bring me to my knees, and I’d never get back up.
” My fingers go to the box, following the engraved letters of her name on it.
“I’ve regretted it ever since. I wish I could have held her, just once.
She deserved that. She deserved to know that even in death, her daddy loved her.
But I fucking failed her. I failed her in so many ways. ”
Evie hooks her arm onto mine and rests her temple on my shoulder.
“We both did, Jax … And she knew, by the way. She knew you loved her. During the brief moments they let me hold her, I let her know how much she was loved, and that she had to fight to live so we could love her for the rest of our lives. So we could watch her grow up. So her daddy could teach her how to drive, like he did with Mommy. I begged her to stay with us because we wouldn’t be able to live on without her. ”
After a pause, I clear my throat, chasing away the tight ball that grew in it. “You were right. We couldn’t live on.” I kiss the top of her head before facing the box again. “Do you want me to open it for you?” I offer.
She seems so thankful as she looks up at me and nods.
With slow deference, I open the wooden lid. I don’t come into this room often, and it’s even rarer that I do this. Eight years and it still hurts. I don’t think it’ll ever stop hurting, really. But I’ve grown used to the dull ache.
The memory box they made for us stayed closed for almost a year before I found the strength to look into it. It had been so long that I barely remembered the items they put in it. I paid little attention when the nurse read me the list that day, nodding at everything.
My hands unhurriedly take out each precious memento, laying them on the changing table.
There’s the pink beanie she briefly wore.
The matching socks, which always seem alarmingly small when I see them, and a onesie.
Then there are the hand and foot prints in plaster, which again are tinier than I recalled.
There’s a photo of Evie, looking exhausted but happy to be holding our baby girl.
I’m the one who slipped it in there, where it should be.
The hospital tag might be the hardest one to look at, with her name, date and hour of birth, and weight on it.
When all is spread around, allowing Evie to take it in, I rip my eyes from the changing table to look at her instead. She’s emotional, eyes shiny as they go from item to item.
“Is it what you thought it would be?” I softly ask.
She shakes her head. “I don’t—I don’t know. This isn’t her. This is … stuff. I mean, the molds are partly her, but they’re not. I thought it would be more … real.”
I know what she means. And I know exactly why she feels this way. I took out the most important thing that was in this box. I carry it with me everywhere I go.
“Give me a second,” I say, kissing her temple before exiting the room.
I grab my suitcase, throw it on the cushioned bench at the foot of the bed, and open it. I always pack it exactly the same way, so I easily find what I’m looking for. In and out I breathe, aware there’s no going back after this.
Evie is exactly where I left her when I return. I walk up to her and bring the small box in front of her. “What is this?” she wonders.
I open it, revealing her heart locket within. She blinks a couple of times, surprised, but not as much as I expected. When she motions to take it out, I let her. The locket hangs from the chain as she holds it up. She stares at the piece of jewelry, reacquainting herself with it.
This time, she’s the one who lets me when I reach for the locket to open it. In the small space that used to be empty, a short strand of thin, dark hair is curled on itself, held together by a tiny white ribbon.
This isn’t “stuff.” This is Ophelia. The only real thing we have left of her.
It used to be neatly arranged in a small white frame, but I took it out and placed it there. This is where it belongs—in her mother’s necklace, close to my heart every time I get in my car to race.