I’ve never seen a picture of Diem. I don’t know if she looks like me or Scotty. Are her eyes blue or brown? Is her smile honest like her father’s? Does she laugh like me?
Is she happy?
That’s my only hope for her. I want her to be happy.
I have complete faith in Grace and Patrick. I know they loved Scotty, and it’s obvious they love Diem. They loved her before she was even born.
They started fighting for custody the day they were told I was pregnant. The baby didn’t even have fully developed lungs, but they were already fighting for its first breath.
I lost the custody battle before Diem was even born. There aren’t many rights a mother has when she’s sentenced to several years in prison.
The judge said, because of the nature of our situation and the duress I’d caused to Scotty’s family, he could not, in good conscience, honor my request for visitation rights. Nor would he force Scotty’s parents to maintain the relationship between my daughter and me while I was in prison.
I was told I could petition the court for rights upon my release, but since my rights were terminated, there’s probably very little I can do. Between Diem’s birth and my release almost five years later, there has been little anyone could, or would, do for me.
All I have is this intangible hope I try to cling to with childlike hands.
I was praying Scotty’s parents just needed time. I assumed, ignorantly, that they would eventually see a need for me to be in Diem’s life.
There wasn’t much I could do from my isolated position in the world, but now that I’m out, I’ve thought long and hard about how I should go about this. I have no idea what to expect. I don’t even know what kind of people they are. I only met them once when Scotty and I were dating, and that didn’t go over very well. I’ve tried to find them online, but their profiles are extremely private. There wasn’t a single picture of Diem online that I could locate. I even looked up all of Scotty’s friends whose names I could remember, but I couldn’t remember very many, and all their profiles were private.
I knew very little about Scotty’s life before he met me, and I wasn’t with him long enough to truly get to know his friends or his family. Six months out of the twenty-two years he lived.
Why is everyone from his life so locked down? Is it because of me? Are they afraid of this very thing happening? Me showing up? Me hoping to be a part of my daughter’s life?
I know they hate me, and they have every right to hate me, but part of me has been living with them for the past four years in Diem. My hope is that they’ve found a sliver of forgiveness for me through my daughter.
Time heals all wounds, right?
Except I didn’t leave them with a simple wound. I left them with a casualty. One so heartbreaking there’s a possibility it will never be forgiven. It’s hard not to cling to hope, though, when all I’ve been able to do or look forward to is this moment.
It’s either going to complete me or destroy me. There is no in-between.
Four more minutes before I find out.
I’m more nervous in this moment than I was in the courtroom five years ago. I grip the rubber starfish tightly in my hand. It’s the only toy they had for sale at the gas station next door to my apartment. I could have had the cabdriver take me to Target or Walmart, but they’re both in the opposite direction of where I’m hoping Diem still lives, and I can’t afford that much cab fare.
After I got hired at the grocery store today, I walked home and took a nap. I didn’t want to show up while Diem wasn’t at Grace and Patrick’s, and if Amy is right and Ledger doesn’t have kids, it’s a reasonable assumption that the little girl he coaches in T-ball is my daughter. And judging by the amount of Gatorade he bought, he was preparing for a long day with a lot of teams, which, using deductive reasoning, would mean it would be hours before Diem was back home.
I waited as long as I could. I know the bar opens at five, which means Ledger will likely be taking Diem home before then, and I really don’t want Ledger to be there when I arrive, so I timed my cab ride to get me there at five fifteen.
I didn’t want to arrive later than that because I don’t want to show up when they’re having dinner, or after she’s gone to bed. I want to do everything right. I don’t want to do anything that will make Patrick or Grace feel more threatened by my presence than they probably already will be.
I don’t want them to ask me to leave before I can even plead my case.
In a perfect world, they’ll open their front door for me and allow me to reunite with the daughter I’ve never held.
In a perfect world . . . their son would still be alive.
I wonder what I’ll see in their eyes when they find me at their front door. Will it be shock? Hatred?
How much does Grace despise me?
I try to put myself in Grace’s shoes sometimes.
I try to imagine the hatred she holds for me—what it must feel like from her perspective. Sometimes I lie in bed and close my eyes and try to justify all the reasons this woman is keeping me from knowing my daughter so that I don’t hate her back.
I think, Kenna—imagine you’re Grace.
Imagine you have a son.
A beautiful young man that you love more than life, more than any afterlife. And he’s handsome, and he’s accomplished. But most importantly, he’s kind. Everyone tells you this. Other parents wish their children could be more like your son. You smile because you’re proud of him.
You’re so proud of him, even when he brings home his new girlfriend, the one you heard moaning too loud in the middle of the night. The girlfriend you saw looking around the room while everyone else was praying over dinner. The girlfriend you caught smoking at eleven at night on your back patio, but you didn’t say anything; you just hoped your perfect son would outgrow her soon.
Imagine you get a phone call from your son’s roommate, asking if you know where he is. He was supposed to show up for work early that day, but for whatever reason he didn’t show.
Imagine your worry, because your son shows. He always shows.
Imagine he doesn’t answer his cell phone when you call to see why he didn’t show.
Imagine you start to panic as the hours stretch on. Normally, you can feel him, but you can’t feel him today; you feel full of fear and empty of pride.
Imagine you start to make phone calls. You call his college, you call his employer, you’d even call the girlfriend you don’t much care for, if only you knew her number.
Imagine you hear a car door slam, and you breathe a sigh of relief, only to fall to the floor when you see the police at your door.
Imagine hearing things like “I’m sorry,” and “accident,” and “car wreck,” and “didn’t make it.”
Imagine yourself not dying in that moment.
Imagine being forced to go on, to live through that awful night, to wake up the next day, to be asked to identify his body.
His lifeless body.
A body you created, breathed life into, grew inside of you, taught to walk and talk and run and be kind to others.
Imagine touching his cold, cold face, your tears falling onto the plastic bag he’s tucked into, your scream stuck in your throat, silent like the screams you’ve had in nightmares.
And yet you still live. Somehow.
Somehow you go on without the life you made. You grieve. You’re too weak to even plan his funeral. You keep wondering why your perfect son, your kind son, would be so reckless.
You are so devastated, but your heart keeps beating, over and over, reminding you of all the heartbeats your son will never feel.
Imagine it gets even worse.
Imagine that.
Imagine when you think you’re at rock bottom, you’re introduced to a whole new cliff you get to fall off when you’re told your son wasn’t even driving the car that was going way too fast on the gravel.
Imagine being told the wreck was her fault. The girl who smoked the cigarette and didn’t close her eyes during dinner prayer and moaned too loud in your quiet house.
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.”
There’s a sharp intensity in the way he’s looking at me that sends a chill up my arms. “What are you doing here?” he asks.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. “Nothing.” Fuck. My eyes flicker across the street. Then I look behind Ledger, at what I’m assuming is his house. I remember Scotty saying Ledger grew up across the street from him. What are the odds that he would still live here?
I have no idea what to do. I stand up. My feet feel like weights. I look at Ledger, but he’s no longer looking at me. He’s looking across the street at Scotty’s old house.
He runs a hand across his jaw, and there’s a fresh disturbing look on his face. He says, “Why were you staring at that house?” He’s looking at the ground, then across the street, then toward the sun, but then his eyes land on me after I’ve failed to answer his question, and he’s a completely different person than the man I saw at the grocery store today.
He’s no longer the fluid guy who moves around the bar like he’s on Rollerblades.
“Your name isn’t Nicole.” He says it like it’s a depressing realization.
I wince.
He’s put it all together.
Now he looks like he wants to rip it all apart.
He points at his house. “Go.” The word is sharp and demanding. I take a step into the street, away from him. I feel myself begin to tremble, just as he steps into the street and closes the gap between us. His eyes are on the house across the street again as he reaches his arm around me, pressing a firm hand into my lower back. He begins pushing me along with him as he points toward the house opposite where my daughter lives. “Get inside before they see you.”
I expected he’d eventually put the pieces together. I just wish he would have made the connection last night. Not right now, when I’m only fifteen feet away from her.
I look at his house, then look at Patrick and Grace’s house. I have no method of escaping him. The last thing I want to do right now is cause a scene. My goal was to arrive peacefully and make this go as smoothly as possible. Ledger seems to want the opposite.
“Please leave me alone,” I say through clenched teeth. “This is none of your business.”
“The fuck it isn’t,” he hisses.
“Ledger, please.” My voice shakes from both fear and tears. I’m scared of him, scared of this moment, scared of the idea that this is going to be so much more difficult than I feared. Why else would he be pushing me away from their property?
I look back at Patrick and Grace’s house, but my feet keep moving toward Ledger’s house. I would put up a fight, but at this point, I’m no longer sure I’m ready to face the Landrys. I thought I was ready when I got into the cab earlier, but now that I’m here and Ledger is mad, I’m absolutely not ready to face them. It’s obvious from the last few minutes that my arrival might have been somewhat anticipated and is not at all welcomed.
They were likely notified when I was released into transitional housing. They had to be expecting this to happen eventually.
My feet are no longer weights. I feel like I’m floating again, high in the air like a balloon, and I’m following Ledger as if he’s pulling me along by a string.
I feel embarrassed to be here. Embarrassed enough to follow behind Ledger like I have no voice or thoughts of my own. I certainly don’t have any confidence in this second. And my shirt is too stupid for a moment of this magnitude. I’m stupid for thinking this was the way to go about it.
Ledger closes his door once we’re inside his living room. He looks disgusted. I don’t know if it’s at the sight of me, or if he’s thinking about last night. He’s pacing the living room, one palm pressed against his forehead.
“Is that why you showed up at my bar? You were trying to trick me into leading you to her?”
“No.” My voice is pathetic.
He slides his hands down his face in frustration. He pauses and then just mutters, “God dammit.”
He is so mad at me. Why do I always make the worst decisions?
“You’ve been in town for one day.” He swipes keys off a table. “You really thought this was a good idea? Showing up this soon?”
This soon? She’s four years old.
I clench an arm over my churning stomach. I don’t know what to do. What do I do? What can I do? There has to be something. Some kind of compromise. They can’t just collectively decide what’s best for Diem without consulting me.
Can they?
They can.
I’m the unreasonable one in this scenario. I’ve just been too scared to admit it. I want to ask him if there’s anything I can do to get them to hear me out, but the way he’s glaring at me makes me feel completely in the wrong. I begin to wonder if I’m even in a position to ask questions.
His focus falls to the rubber starfish in my hand. He walks over to me and holds out his hand. I place the starfish in his palm. I don’t know why I hand it over. Maybe if he sees I showed up with a toy, he’ll know I’m here with good intentions.
“Really? A teething ring?” He tosses it on his couch like it’s the stupidest thing he’s ever seen. “She’s four.” He walks toward his kitchen. “I’m taking you home. Wait until I pull my truck into the garage. I don’t want them to see you.”
I no longer feel like I’m floating. I feel heavy and frozen, like my feet are trapped in the concrete slab of his house.
I glance out the living room window toward Patrick and Grace’s house.
I’m so close. All that separates us is a street. An empty street with no traffic.
It’s clear to me what’s going to happen next. Patrick and Grace want nothing to do with me, to the point Ledger knew to intercept my arrival. This means there won’t be any negotiating. The forgiveness I was hoping had found its way to them never made it here.
They still hate me.
Apparently, so does everyone else in their lives.
The only way I’m going to be able to see my daughter is if, by some miracle, I can take it through the court system, and that’s going to take money I don’t yet have and years I can’t bear the thought of passing by. I’ve already missed so much.
If I want to see Diem at all, ever, this is my only chance. If I want the opportunity to beg Scotty’s parents for forgiveness, it’s now or never.
Now or never.
Ledger probably won’t notice I’m not following him to his garage for another ten seconds, at least. I might make it before he catches up to me.
I slip outside and run as fast as I can across the street.
I’m in their yard.
My feet are sprinting across grass Diem has played on.
I’m beating on their front door.
I’m ringing their doorbell.
I’m trying to look through the window to get a glimpse of her.
“Please,” I whisper, knocking harder. My whisper turns into panic as I hear Ledger approaching me from behind. “I’m sorry!” I yell, beating on the door. My voice is a fearful plea now. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please let me see her!”
I’m being pulled, and then carried, back to the house across the street. Even through my struggle to get out of his arms, I’m staring at that front door as it gets smaller and smaller, hoping for even a half-second glimpse of my little girl.
I don’t see any movement at all in their house before I’m no longer outside. I’m back inside Ledger’s house, being dropped onto his couch.
He’s holding his phone, pacing his living room as he dials a phone number. It’s only three digits. He’s calling the police.
I panic. “No.” Plead. “No, no, no.” I lunge across his living room in an attempt to grab at his phone, but he just puts a hand on my shoulder and steers me back to the couch.
I sit down and bury my elbows into my knees, bringing my fingers to a shaky point against my mouth. “Please don’t call the police. Please.” I sit still, wanting to appear unthreatening, hoping he just looks me in the eye long enough to feel my pain.
His eyes meet mine just as tears begin to fall down my cheeks. He pauses before completing the call. He stares me down . . . studying me. Searching my face for a promise.
“I won’t come back.” If he calls the police, this will not look good for me. I can’t have anything added to my record, even though I’ve broken no laws that I know of. But just being here unwanted is enough of a mark against me.
He takes a step closer. “You cannot come back here. Swear to me we’ll never see you again, or I’ll call the police right now.”
I can’t. I can’t promise him that. What else is there in my life other than my daughter? She’s all I have. She’s why I’m still alive.
This can’t be happening.
“Please,” I cry, not knowing what I’m even begging for. I just want someone to listen to me. To hear me out. To understand how much I’m suffering. I want him to be the man I met in the bar last night. I want him to pull me to his chest, to make me feel like I have an ally. I want him to tell me it’s going to be okay, even though I know with everything in me that it will never, ever be okay.
The next several minutes are a defeated blur. I’m a mess of emotions.
I get into Ledger’s truck, and he drives me away from the neighborhood my daughter has been raised in her whole life. I’m finally in the same town as her after all these years, but I’ve never felt farther away from her than I do in this moment.
I press my forehead to the passenger window and I close my eyes, wishing I could start over from the beginning.
The very beginning.
Or at least fast-forward to the end.
