by Aly Martinez
He’d chosen an Old Norse Valkyrie with her wings spread wide to cover the majority of his back. Her right side was young and angelic. There was no mistaking the playful tip of Nora’s lips or the willowy shape of her body, but it was the left side of that tattoo that stole my breath. She was covered in armor with a sword at her side. Her flowing, brown hair was mine. Her eyes too. And a sparrow sat proudly upon her shoulder.
There had been so many times when he’d been in prison that I’d questioned who I was. I felt weak and stupid for faithfully waiting on a man who had pushed me away. And sometimes, as I grew older, I questioned who I was as a woman for ravenously holding on to the dreams of a sixteen-year-old girl. But as I lay awake one night, tracing my fingers over the dark lines of that Valkyrie’s armor, bits and pieces of me healed from knowing that, in his eyes, I’d always been a warrior.
After that, I’d learned to love his tattoos. They felt like sneak peeks into how he viewed the world. This was probably for the best, because hunting down tattoo shops everywhere we traveled had become something of an obsession for Ramsey.
It worked out. My obsession was watching him smile.
“Where could he be?” I whined as I hung up the phone, still no sign of my dad. “Misty said he and Nora left a half hour ago. It’s only a twelve-minute drive to the airport from their house.”
“Relax. They probably stopped for gas or to grab some coffee. He’s eighteen minutes late. That’s hardly reason to send out the bloodhounds.” He curled me into his side and pressed a kiss to the top of my head.
All concern for my father’s safety was momentarily forgotten as the wind shifted and I got slapped in the face with a stench that would haunt my dreams forever.
“Oh, God, not again,” I groaned.
“What?”
I leaned forward, sniffing the butt of the baby strapped to his chest—because seriously, mom life was glamorous.
“Your son,” was all I had to say.
“Shit,” he breathed, speaking both figurative and literally.
The morning sun was peeking over the Georgia horizon, but my lids were heavy. It had been a long night, I felt like crap, and my patience was waning. Ramsey and I were skilled travelers. Together, we’d faced it all. Overnight flights squished in the middle seat rows apart. Exhausting layovers in miniscule airports without so much as a coffee shop. Delays. Cancellations. Spending hours on a runway just to be taken back to the gate.
But nothing, and I mean nothing, had prepared me for a flight from Seattle to Georgia with a seven-month-old.
We’d thought the red-eye would be best.
We’d thought he would sleep the whole way if we left in the middle of the night.
We’d thought leaving our house with four suitcases, a carseat, a travel crib, and a giant carry-on bag filled to the brim with diapers and formula was a solid plan.
We’d. Been. Wrong.
Apparently, Joseph James Stewart had a nervous travel tummy—or his father’s sense of humor. One of the two.
The day I’d found out I was pregnant, Ramsey and I had been hiking the trails around Mount Rainier. One second, we’d been debating where we’d find the best view. The next, I was puking in the bushes.
We hadn’t exactly been trying to get pregnant, but I’d forgotten to get my birth control prescription filled. We were nomads of sorts, so everyday tasks occasionally slipped my mind. Ramsey had known we weren’t covered that month, and I’d reminded him repeatedly when he spent an entire rainy weekend in London between my legs. We were at a point in our marriage where we loved our lives touring the world, but secretly, we were both ready to settle down.
When I was done fertilizing the bushes that day, I found Ramsey sitting on a rock, scrolling through his phone. He smiled at me, love and excitement blazing in his eyes, and said, “So I found a place we can rent in Spokane until we figure out where we want to live permanently. It doesn’t have a room for a nursery, so we’ll have to decide before he’s born.”
I sat on his lap and rested my head on his shoulder. “What makes you think it’s a boy?”
He placed his hand on my stomach. “God knows I’d end up in prison again if He gave me a daughter.”
I giggled, covering his hand with my own. “You know I might just have a stomach bug. I haven’t taken a test or anything.”
“Nah, he’s in there, Sparrow. I can feel it. Life’s about to change again.”
“That’s a good thing though, right?”
His eyes sparkled as he peered up at me. “He’s a part of you and a part of me. It doesn’t get any better than that.”
Nine months later, our son was born looking just like his father—smile and all.
We never left Washington, though we did buy a house on ten acres. There had to have been a thousand trees on our heavily wooded property. But within two days of moving in, Ramsey had picked a favorite and dubbed it ours.
It wasn’t the same. It didn’t hold over twenty years of memories—good, bad, and ugly. But with Ramsey at my side, we made new memories—good, great, and amazing.
A red SUV pulled up in the passenger pickup lane just as I started to search through my bag for yet another diaper.
Nora rolled the window down and called, “Jeez, about time y’all showed up!”
Ramsey narrowed his eyes, but his scowl was watered down by a massive smile.
My father scrambled out of the passenger seat. “Sorry we’re late, buttercup. They closed Wombly Road, so we had to take Juniper, but there was some kind of Christmas parade going on.”
“Why weren’t you answering the phone? You scared me to death.”
He released me. “I left it at home, but I hope this gives you a little insight to how I feel when you don’t pick up my calls during naptime.”
I rolled my eyes, but he ignored me to pluck Joey out of the carrier on Ramsey’s chest. “How’s my big man doing?” he cooed.
Ramsey curled Nora into his side and teased, “I’m good, Joe. Thanks for asking.”
“Oh my lord, what is that smell!” Dad exclaimed, holding my son out in front of him.
Nora swooped in and took Joey. “Don’t be such a wimp. It’s probably just a—dear God. What are you feeding this monster?”
I laughed and gave her a hug before taking the baby. “You guys load up the car. Ramsey, install the carseat. I’ll use the back seat to change—” I abruptly stopped when a sparkle on Nora’s finger caught my eye. Balancing Joey on my hip, I grabbed her wrist and yanked it toward me. “What the hell is that?”
She snatched it away. “You aren’t supposed to see that yet.”
My mouth fell open as Ramsey barged into the huddle to grab her hand too.
“He proposed?” he rumbled at his sister.
She plugged her ears like a very mature thirty-two-year-old woman and hummed, “La, la, la, la, la! I’m not talking about this yet.”
All eyes turned to my dad, but he was busy staring at his shoes.
Of course he knew—he was the keeper of all secrets.
“You knew about this and didn’t tell me?” I accused.
His head popped up and he shoved his hands into his pockets. “Yeah. And Thea’s pregnant too. There. We’re all even. Now, can we all get the hell out of here? Misty is alone with a cookbook. This isn’t going to turn out well for any of us.”
I swung my accusation to Ramsey. “You told him?”
My husband, who was still wearing an empty baby carrier, tipped his head back and stared up at the sky. “Come on, Joe. I told you that in confidence.”
“Holy shit,” Nora laughed. “You’re pregnant again? Already?” She punched Ramsey on the shoulder. “Good work.”
He shot her a sneaky grin and mouthed, “It’s a boy.”
“Seriously, Ramsey?” I scolded, but it only made him laugh.
Everyone broke out into congratulations, swapping hugs, admiring Nora’s ring, and rubbing my belly. It didn’t matter that Nora was parked illegally and we we
re standing on the sidewalk outside the airport.
We were all just so genuinely happy.
And when you lived a life like ours, you learned to embrace the good times whenever and wherever you found them.
Thrilled at the news of another grandson, my dad took Joey from me again, laughing and dancing him around, stinky diaper and all.
Ramsey sidled up beside me, grinning like the boy I’d fallen in love with. Dipping low, he put his lips to my ear and whispered, “I love you, Sparrow.”
Twenty-four years, three months, one week, five days, eighteen hours, eleven minutes, and counting… “I love you too, Ramsey.”
THE END
Preview of Written With Regret
“Squeeze together,” my sister ordered from a few yards away. She was holding the small disposable camera I’d gotten for my eighth birthday up to her eye.
It wasn’t exactly what I’d meant when I’d asked my parents for a camera. But that hadn’t stopped me from taking thirty-five sure-to-be-incredible pictures of my friends, my school, our iguana Herman, and even a few sneaky shots of third-grade heartthrob Brad Harris.
I’d always loved photography—or at least I’d loved what I could do with my mom’s old thirty-five mm. I didn’t know much about anything else. I’d been begging for a digital camera like the ones I’d seen at the electronics store, but it was never going to happen. My parents were old school to the core. If they hadn’t had it growing up, we weren’t getting it, either. And considering that our grandparents had been the original old-school parents, this meant no TV, no computers, and no cell phones. Short of a horse and buggy, we were as close to Amish as you could find in Watersedge, New Jersey—a sleepy suburb of New York City.
My father owned a bakery off Times Square, but according to him, the dangerous city was no place to raise a family. I didn’t figure that the dozens of young children we saw on the occasional Saturday picnic in Central Park would agree, but there had been no convincing my parents otherwise.
My dad put his arms around my mom and me and curled us into his sides. “I’m pretty sure this is as close as we can get without melding into one big Banks-family monster.”
I rolled my eyes as my dad lifted his hands like talons and roared.
I loved him, but he could be such a dork.
My mom giggled, the sound as gentle as snowflakes on a tin roof. “Just take the picture, honey. I’m sure it will be great.”
It wouldn’t be great. Not at the angle she was taking it. I’d probably be cut out of the frame completely, but then again, that was more than likely her plan. What were big sisters for if not to torment you?
Whatever. I didn’t particularly care if I was in the frame or not. The only reason I’d even agreed to a stupid picture in the middle of the mall food court was to finish my roll of film so I could get it developed. Film was a dying art—rightly so—and Sixty Minutes was one of the few places left in Watersedge that would develop it while you waited.
And, trust me, if you’d seen Brad Harris, you would understand why I was in a rush to get those pictures back.
“Say cheese!” Mom singsonged, no doubt through a breathtaking smile.
My mother was gorgeous in a way that made people stop and stare. Not in a sexy way. Not even in a traditional way. No, Keira Banks had a classic beauty that was all her own. Luckily, she’d passed on her red hair and green eyes to me and my sister. I hated my frizzy, orange curls most of the time, but she’d promised that one day they would turn into deep, rich waves of amber like hers. I wasn’t sure I believed her, but I held out hope nonetheless.
I scowled at the camera, ready to get the dang picture over with and head to Sixty Minutes.
“You call that a smile?” Dad said, tickling my side. “I’m going to need something bigger than that, buttercup.”
“Dad, stop,” I grumbled.
Those were the last words I ever said to my father.
He fell face first, a gaping hole in the back of his head, before the sound of gunfire met any of our ears.
Chaos exploded. A symphony of screams and cries echoed off the white tile floors as the constant boom of a firearm played the bassline.
People ran. Everywhere. In all directions. Scattering and blurring past me in streaks of denim and cotton. I started to move, maybe to follow them, but some primal instinct inside me screamed at me to get down. Panicked, I looked at my mother. She’d know what to do.
She was standing only a few feet away, and our eyes locked just in time for me to see her body jerk from the impact. First, her shoulders, one at a time. Then her torso, her head snapping back from the sheer force of a bullet.
And then she fell, landing over the top of my father’s dead body.
“Mama!” I screamed, diving toward her.
The gunfire continued, each shot bleeding into the last.
Dropped to my knees, I took her hand. “Mama, Mama, Mama,” I chanted, hot tears streaming down my face. Blood leaked through her pale-pink sweater, and pure terror glistened in her eyes as she stared back at me.
I was only eight years old, and Hell was raining bullets all around us, but there was no mistaking the look on her face.
She knew she was dying—and she couldn’t figure out how to make sure I didn’t.
Suddenly, the gunfire stopped, and in a moment of clarity, I popped my head up to look for my sister. But the only thing I could see was death and despair. The once-busy food court had been transformed into a graveyard. Bodies lay crumpled over, rivers of blood merging into pools, those pools joining to form a sea of red. The screams had turned into moans and the shouts into whimpers. The few remaining living souls were hiding under the tables or clinging to injured loved ones much like I was.
Only, when I looked back at my mother, she was no longer injured.
She was dead.
My shoulders shook wildly, silent sobs tearing from my throat. I needed to run. I needed to get out of there. But the fear and helplessness were paralyzing. I rested my forehead against my mother’s the way she’d done to me so many times in the past, calming me after a bad dream.
I needed her—glassy-eyed and unmoving—to fix this. I needed her to sit up and tell me that it was over. I needed my father to rise to his feet and pull me into his strong arms, where nothing could hurt me. And I needed my sister to appear, take my hand, and tease me relentlessly for overreacting.
I needed this not to be real.
Suddenly, a man got up and darted toward the double glass doors. With one single gunshot, he dropped to the ground.
My scream mingled with the gasps and cries of others trapped and hidden in that war zone. Desperate, I scanned the area for help.
More death.
More blood.
More hopelessness.
I caught sight of a man around my father’s age. He had his back to a flipped table, his face scrunched and his hands covering his ears as he rocked back and forth. With a thick beard and muscular arms covered in tattoos, he was someone I would have thought I could turn to for protection. The pure panic on his face made him more of a child than I was.
My stomach seized when another gunshot sounded followed by the thud of what I now knew was a body hitting the floor. I could have lived a lifetime without ever knowing what that sounded like. Yet, now, I’d never be able to unhear it.
“Anyone else want to make a break for it?” a man asked in a deep, gravelly voice.
I didn’t know where he was, but I sucked in a sharp breath and flattened myself on the floor, hoping he wouldn’t notice that I was still alive.
It was eerily silent after that. The only sound besides the thunder of my heart in my ears was the squeaking of his shoes against the tile every time he turned. They were slow, like he was taking his time surveying his damage. Or maybe they were deliberate as he searched for his next victim.
My stomach wrenched each time the sound got closer.
Then I’d shudder with relief when they faded into the distance.
It was only a matter of time though. My parents were dead, maybe my sister too. I would be next.
Lying as still as possible, I closed my eyes and prayed for the first time in my entire life. We didn’t go to church and I’d never been taught religion, but if God was real, He was the only way I was going to survive.
Through it all, I held my mother’s hand.
She would protect me.
Or, as it turned out, she’d send someone who could.
“When I say go, I need you to crawl with me,” he whispered.
My lids flew open and I found a teenage boy, maybe fifteen or sixteen, with dark hair and the bluest eyes I’d ever seen staring back at me. He too was on his stomach, facing me with his cheek resting on the cold tile and a red baseball cap turned sideways to hide the majority of his face. How he’d gotten there, I would never know.
I shook my head so fast that it was almost as if it were vibrating.
His eyes bulged. “Listen to me, kid. He’s pacing a pattern. Right now, he’s down near the froyo place. After he makes his next pass, we’ll have about sixty seconds to get over to the Pizza Crust. They have a door in the back we can escape through, but you gotta stick with me.”
I blinked at him. Who was this boy? He was young but older than I was. And while he wasn’t big and muscled like the tattooed guy, he was tall and could probably put up a fight.
“Did you hear me?” he asked when I didn’t reply. “When I say go, you stay low and head behind the counter at the Pizza Crust. Okay?”
“He…he’ll shoot us,” I stammered out.
“That’s why we have to be fast.” He lifted his head and glanced around. “Shit,” he muttered, putting his cheek back to the tile and closing his eyes.
I stared at his long, fluttering lashes for several seconds, debating if I was seriously going to trust this kid. I didn’t know him any better than I knew the shooter. But he was all I had. Help in any form, even that of a lanky teenage boy, was better than nothing.