Reminders of Him

This also isn’t the time or the place for Kenna to meet her daughter for the first time. It would be too chaotic. It would scare Diem.

“Wait!” I hear Kenna yell.

Diem isn’t even buckled in all the way when I say, “Go,” and shut her door.

Grace puts the car in reverse and pulls out of the parking spot as soon as Kenna reaches us. Kenna passes me and rushes after the car, and as much as I want to grab her and pull her back, I keep my hands off her because I still feel remorse for pulling her away from their front door.

Kenna gets close enough to their car to tap the back of it and plead, “Wait! Grace, wait! Please!”

Grace doesn’t wait. She drives away, and it’s painful to watch Kenna debate on running after the car. When she finally realizes she isn’t going to stop them, she turns around and looks at me. Tears are streaming down her cheeks.

She covers her mouth with her hands and starts to sob.

It’s conflicting, being thankful she didn’t make it to us in time, but also heartbroken for her that she didn’t make it to us in time. I want Kenna to meet her daughter, but I don’t want Diem to meet her mother, even though they’re one and the same.

I feel like Kenna’s monster and Diem’s protector.

Kenna looks like she’s about to collapse from agony. She’s in no shape to finish her shift. I point to my truck. “I’ll give you a ride home. What’s your boss’s name? I’ll let her know you aren’t feeling well.”

She wipes her eyes with her hands and says, “Amy,” as she walks defeatedly toward my truck.

I think I know the Amy she’s referring to. I’ve seen her in the store before.

The cart Kenna abandoned is still in the same spot. The elderly woman Kenna was walking groceries out for is just standing by her car, staring at Kenna as she climbs into my truck. She’s probably wondering what in the hell all the commotion was.

I run to the cart and push it over to the woman. “Sorry about that.”

The woman nods and unlocks her trunk. “I hope she’s okay.”

“She is.” I load the groceries into her car and then return the cart to the store. I make my way to the customer service desk and find Amy behind the counter.

I try to smile at her, but there’s too much shifting around inside of me to even fake a smile at this point. “Kenna isn’t feeling well,” I lie. “I’m giving her a ride home. I just wanted to let you know.”

“Oh, no. Is she okay?”

“She will be. Do you know if she has anything I need to grab for her? Like a purse?”

Amy nods. “Yeah, she uses locker twelve in the break room.” She points to a door behind the customer service desk.

I round the desk and walk through the door to the break room. The girl from Kenna’s apartment complex is sitting at the table. She looks up at me, and I swear she scowls. “What are you doing in our break room, jerk?”

I don’t try to defend myself. She has her mind made up about me, and at this point, I agree with her. I open locker twelve and go to grab Kenna’s purse. It’s more like a tote bag, and the top is wide open, so I see a thick stack of pages shoved inside.

It looks like a manuscript.

I tell myself not to look, but my eyes unwittingly land on the first line on the front page.

Dear Scotty

I want to read more, but I close the bag and respect her privacy. I go to leave the break room and say to the girl, “Kenna is sick. I’m taking her home, but do you think you can check on her this evening?”

The girl’s eyes are focused hard on me. She finally nods. “Okay, jerk.”

I want to laugh, but there are too many things suppressing that laugh right now.

When I get back to Amy, she says, “Let her know I clocked her out, and to call me if she needs anything.”

She has no phone, but I nod. “I will. Thank you, Amy.”

When I reach the truck, Kenna is curled up in the passenger seat, facing more toward the window. She flinches when I open the door. I set the tote bag between us, and she pulls it to her side. She’s still crying, but she doesn’t say anything to me, so I don’t say anything to her. I wouldn’t even know what to say. I’m sorry? Are you okay? I’m an asshole?

I pull out of the parking lot and don’t even make it half a mile down the road when Kenna mutters something that sounds like “Pull over.”

I look at her, but she’s looking out the window. When I don’t put on my blinker, she repeats herself. “Pull over.” Her voice is demanding now.