Reminders of Him

Imagine being told she was careless and so unkind with the life you grew.

Imagine being told she left him there. “Fled,” they said.

Imagine being told they found her the next day, in her bed, hungover, covered in mud and gravel and your kind son’s blood.

Imagine being told your perfect son had a perfect pulse and might have lived a perfect life if only he could have had that wreck with a perfect girl.

Imagine finding out it didn’t have to be this way.

He wasn’t even dead. Six hours they estimated he had lived. Several feet he had crawled, searching for you. Needing your help. Bleeding. Dying.

For hours.

Imagine finding out that the girl who moaned too loud and smoked the cigarette on your patio at eleven o’clock at night could have saved him.

One phone call she didn’t make.

Three numbers she never dialed.

Five years she served for his life, like you didn’t raise him for eighteen, watch him flourish on his own for four, and maybe could have gotten fifty more years with him had she not cut them short.

Imagine having to go on after that.

Now imagine that girl . . . the one you hoped your son would grow out of . . . imagine after all the pain she’s caused you, she decides to show back up in your life.

Imagine she has the nerve to knock on your door.

Imagine she smiles in your face.

Asks about her daughter.

Expects to be a part of the tiny little beautiful life your son miraculously left behind.

Just imagine it. Imagine having to look into the eyes of the girl who left your son to crawl several feet during his death while she took a nap in her bed.

Imagine what you would say to her after all this time.

Imagine all the ways you could hurt her back.

It’s easy to see why Grace hates me.

The closer I get to their house, the more I’m starting to hate me too.

I’m not even sure why I’m here without being more prepared. This isn’t going to be easy, and even though I’ve been preparing myself for this moment every day for five years, I’ve never actually rehearsed it.

The cabdriver turns the car onto Scotty’s old street. I feel like I’m sinking into the back seat with a heaviness unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before.

When I see their house, my fear becomes audible. I make a noise in the back of my throat that surprises me, but it’s taking all the effort inside me to keep my tears at bay.

Diem could be inside that house right now.

I’m about to cross a yard that Diem has played in.

I’m about to knock on a door that Diem has opened.

“Twelve dollars even,” the driver says.

I fish fifteen dollars out of my pocket and tell him to keep the change. I feel like I float out of the car. It’s such a weird feeling; I glance into the back seat to make sure I’m not still sitting there.

I contemplate asking the driver to wait, but that would be prematurely admitting defeat. I’ll figure out how to get home later. Right now, I cling to the impossible dream that it’ll be hours before I’m asked to leave.

The driver pulls away as soon as I close the door, and I’m left standing on the opposite side of the street from their house. The sun is still hanging bright in the western sky.

I wish I’d have waited until dark. I feel like an open target. Vulnerable to whatever is about to come at me.

I want to hide.

I need more time.

I haven’t even practiced what I’m going to say yet. I’ve thought about it constantly, but I’ve never practiced out loud.

My breaths become harder and harder to control. I put my hands on the back of my head and breathe in and out, in and out.

Their living room curtains aren’t open, so I don’t feel like my presence is known yet. I sit down on the curb and take a moment to gather myself before walking over there. I feel like my thoughts are scattered at my feet and I need to pick them up one at a time and place them in order.

Apologize.

Express my gratitude.

Beg for their mercy.

I should have dressed better. I’m in jeans and the same Mountain Dew T-shirt I had on yesterday. It was the cleanest outfit I had, but now that I’m looking down at myself, I want to cry. I don’t want to meet my daughter for the first time while wearing a Mountain Dew T-shirt. How are Patrick and Grace expected to take me seriously when I’m not even dressed seriously?

I shouldn’t have rushed over here. I should have given this more thought. I’m starting to panic.

I wish I had a friend.

“Nicole?”

I turn toward the sound of his voice. I crane my neck until my eyes meet Ledger’s. Under normal circumstances, seeing him here would shock me, but I’m already at max capacity for things to feel, so my thought process is more along the lines of an apathetic “Great. Of course.”