One to Take (One to Hold 8)

“Nothing! You wear it well. It’s just… different.”

I slide my short hair behind my ear and lean forward on my elbows. “I think of it as me being neutral. Nothing special.”

“Hmm,” she says, and I can hear she’s switched into focused mode. “You’re special to me.”

That makes me smile right before I wince as the needle pierces my skin. Blue eyes flash to mine, evaluating my reaction.

“Sorry. This won’t take long. It’s a small mark.”

“It’s okay. I’ve got a higher pain tolerance now.” In more ways than one.

She’s finished quickly, as she predicted. Finishing touches made on the numbers, and the swirling wings of my angel are forever with me on my skin. I stand while she cleans it and puts a strip of clear plastic over it.

“You can take this off and just put lotion on it after a few hours. It won’t need much healing time.”

I turn to the side and look at it in the mirror. “I like it. It feels right.”

“Another satisfied customer!” She grins. It’s her favorite line after finishing a tattoo, and I dig in my wallet for the cash to pay her.

“So Patrick’s driving up with Lane tomorrow. Why don’t you come over and say hello? I’m sure he wants to see you.”

My shirt’s tucked in, and I stop at the door thinking about the little boy who looks more and more like a Knight every day. “I think I can do that,” I say, giving her a little smile.

A month ago, my response would have been very different, but the more time passes, the more I can see the small steps I’m taking toward being whole again.

I’m in the car driving back to my place when my phone goes off. I glance at it in the cupholder, and it’s not a number I recognize. I don’t answer, but when I get to my apartment building, I’m frozen in the car by the stern voice on the line.

“Hello, Miss Heron, this is Dr. Endicott. I wanted to follow up on your visit.” My heart beats painfully hard in my chest, and I struggle to breathe. I hadn’t realized how desperately I’d been waiting for his call.

“After reviewing the few notes I have left from your case, I’ve determined my diagnosis was an accurate starting point for the behaviors exhibited.” My heart sinks, and I lean back in the seat as feelings of fear and shame wash over me.

“However,” he continues, and my ears perk up. “Because your grandmother removed you from my care before I was able to do a full battery of tests, whether it would have been my final diagnosis is impossible to know.”

“What?” I whisper. My heart beats faster.

“My recommendation at this point would be further evaluation and testing if you have reason to believe my original diagnosis is accurate. I would be happy to make an appointment for you with one of the doctors who have taken over my practice…”

Touching the screen, I end the call. For several moments I sit in my car in silence. Do I want further testing? Do I have reason to believe his diagnosis might have been accurate? Leaning forward, I wrap my arms around my waist and hold on tight. I’m going to make it through this. I am.

Inside the house, I drop my purse on the bar and strip out of my polo shirt and khakis. I leave them in a heap on the floor in my living room and pick up the ancient tee I was wearing this morning. The plastic on my hip itches, so I peel it carefully off my new ink. Turning to the side, I examine the little pair of infinity wings. They’re exactly what I had in my mind, a perfect memorialization for our baby.

My paints are all still set up in the small studio room, and that empty space in my latest abstract sits waiting for the little girl to fill it. Taking my brush out of the turpentine, I clean it on the rag before dipping the tip in a bit of purple.

White followed by green blends her into the prairie grasses the same way I saw her. Finally, I take the bright yellow and mix it with the white. Lights so bright my eyes ache…

I paint late into the evening until I’m falling asleep on my feet. It’s finished, but I can’t look at it now. It’s too fresh in my mind, and I won’t see it properly. It’s best if I go to bed and look at it in the morning.

Stripping off the comfortable old tee, I stop off in the bathroom to wash my face and brush. I’m on my way to bed when I see the text on my phone. Picking it up, I read one line from Stuart: I love you.

A tingle of warmth moves in my chest, and I feel the ice starting to melt.

* * *

Stuart

Patrick wakes me up early Friday morning. I’m on the couch where I fell asleep reading an article Derek sent me about the new breed of identity theft. It was about as boring as I expected, and I lost the battle with sleep around midnight. Not before I sent a text to Mariska—just making sure she knows where I stand.

“What’s up?” I say, answering the call.