Etching Our Way (Broken Tracks Series Book 1)

by Abigail Davies

  “Oh, God, Harm.”

  “I miscarried... not once, but twice in the time that we tried for kids.”

  I feel his hand touch my shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

  I stare into his gray eyes. “I’m not telling you this for sympathy, I just… I needed to tell you.” He nods and waits for me to get my emotions under control. “After the miscarriages, Gerry didn’t want to try again. I wanted kids more than anything so I saw a doctor.” I sigh. “I found out that I can get pregnant, but I can’t carry a baby. I hated myself for not being able to do the one thing that a woman should be able to do for a long time. I threw myself into working with the kids at the studio, but something was missing. There’s always been something missing, that is until my mom brought me here.”

  “I don’t understand,” he says, his brow furrowed in confusion.

  I take a deep breath, suppressing the memories and pushing them back inside that locked box inside my mind before sterilizing my hands again and buzzing us through the door in front of us. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

  He sterilizes his hands and walks through the now open door, his face an unreadable mask as he looks around at all of the incubators.

  I walk over to “Baby F” and the nurse joins me, smiling. “Good to see you back here again. He’s gotten big, hasn’t he?”

  I glance down at the gorgeous baby boy and nod. “He sure has, can I?”

  “Sure.” She takes him out, making sure all the wires that he’s hooked up to aren’t disturbed as I sit down in the armchair beside the incubator and she places him on my chest.

  “Hey, little man. I’m back, did you miss me?” I run my finger down his cheek, marveling at the fact that he’s no longer shaking.

  I’m so lost in the moment that I don’t notice Tristan has bent down beside me until he speaks. “Hey, little guy.” He does the same as I did, running his finger across his cheek before looking up at me, a smile on his face and a glint in his eyes that I haven’t seen before.

  Our eyes meet and he nods at me like this explains everything, but I have to voice it anyway. “Coming here has helped relieve the ache that I feel. What I do at the studio means everything to me, but these babies?” “Baby F” wraps his tiny hand around my finger. “They need people like us. These aren’t ordinary babies, Tris. They’re essentially recovering addicts.”

  “What?” he whispers, but his voice is gravelly, and I can tell that he’s not happy with what I said from the way his brow furrows and the muscle that tics in his jaw. “They’re recovering addicts?”

  I nod, a tear rolling down my cheek. He wipes it away, his hand lingering on my face as I barely breathe my next sentence. “I won’t ever get to be a mom, yet there are women out there that fill their bodies with substances, damaging these innocent lives that they’re carrying. How is that fair, Tris?”

  “Not everyone has the kind heart that you do, sunshine.”

  My head snaps up at the use of his old nickname for me and I smile. “Sunshine? You remembered.”

  He snorts. “Of course I remembered.” I lean into his hand that is still lingering on my face.

  “I bet you want to run away now.” I smile sadly.

  “Never again,” he says, suddenly turning serious. I blush as I cuddle the baby against my chest, looking up at him when he clears his throat. “When do I get my turn?” he asks, putting on a smile and looking around at all of the babies that are lying in their incubators.

  “Well, this one’s my special boy, but I’m sure Nurse Franklin can hook you up.”

  The nurse chuckles and walks over to an incubator. “This little guy could sure use a cuddle. He’s been out of the danger zone for two weeks now and is yet to be cuddled by anyone but us.”

  Tris smiles and walks over to the incubator opposite the one I’m sitting next to. He sits down in the armchair as she hands the tiny baby to him, his face suddenly looking frightened.

  “Tris?” He looks over at me and I give him an encouraging smile. “Thanks for being here.”

  His lips lift at the corner before he looks down at the baby and then back up at me. “Of course. Although it’s not what I expec—” His body tenses and his eyes widen. “Harm, what’s happening?” His voice is panicked as he looks at the machines that start to beep like crazy around him. “I… Harm?”

  I sit up, cradling the baby I’m holding against my chest as I look around for Nurse Franklin. I can see the back of the baby that Tris is holding moving up and down rapidly as it shakes uncontrollably. “Don’t panic, Tris. Everything’s okay.” His eyes look far away as he watches Nurse Franklin and another nurse rush in and take the baby off him.

  He stands and starts to back away toward the door, his eyes focused on the nurses working to get the baby stable.

  “Tris, look at me.” His gaze flashes toward mine but immediately darts back as if he’s not really seeing me. I’m frustrated because I can’t go after him. “Nurse, can you please take him?”

  A nurse standing off to the side takes “Baby F” from me as Tris walks out of the door. I walk out after him but he’s not here. His clothes are still beside mine in a pile so I walk out into the hallway, catching sight of him as he turns the corner to the stairwell.

  I run to catch up and find him running down a flight of stairs. “Tris? It’s okay, he’s stabilizing.”

  He stops but doesn’t turn to look at me. “I can’t…” His voice breaks, causing a lump to bubble up in my throat. “You… you shouldn’t have brought me here.” He shakes his head, still not looking back at me.

  “I wanted you to understand. If you’re serious about us, you need to know that we can never…” My heart breaks saying the words. “We can never have kids.”

  I can see his back moving as he gasps for breath before he turns around. “You didn’t need to bring me here to tell me that, Harm.” He rakes his hand through his hair, blowing out a breath. “This place… I can’t…” He bends at the knees and lets his head drop in his hands.

  “You can’t what? Be here and support me? I’m sorry for what’s happened to you, Tristan, I really am. But you need to stop running. You can’t keep doing this every time something reminds you of her.”

  My voice echoes around the stairwell, making my statement a whole lot more powerful. But it breaks to silence; silence that is so full of tension that I wait on bated breath for his reply.

  He laughs sarcastically—a laugh that I’m getting a little tired of hearing—before he stands and takes two steps toward me. “You’ll never understand, Harmony. I get why you wanted to bring me here, I do. But that in there?” He points back toward the hallway that we came out of. “That was too much for me. This weekend has been too much.”

  I sigh in defeat, maybe he’s right. Maybe I shouldn’t have brought him here. “Let me get our things and I’ll take you home.”

  “No.” My head snaps up at his tone. “I’ll make my own way home.”

  “Tristan, it’s not a—”

  “Harmony.” His voice is a warning. “I’m leaving and you’re staying.”

  I’m gobsmacked at his blatant order, not really knowing what to say back to him. I’m a patient person, but this is all too much. “You know what? Leave. Run. Apparently it’s your signature move.”

  I wait for his reply but all he does is shake his head, turning and continuing walking down the stairs.

  I turn and push the door behind me open with force, hearing it bang off the wall as I walk away, tears rolling down my cheeks at his selfishness.

  Birdy, RHODES—Let It All Go

  Pentatonix—Say Something

  Mo—Unsteady

  My jaw clenches and I grip the steering wheel tightly, my knuckles turning white as the leather creaks from my grip before I come to a stop. My eyes narrow at the red light that shines bright, willing it to change so that I can get the kids to their art class and be out of there as soon as possible.

  I haven’t spoken to Harmony since Sunday; since the hospita
l.

  What I said may have been harsh, but she wouldn’t understand how that set me off. How it brought back so many memories. Memories that I don’t want to have to relive.

  Natalia’s face and Harmony’s are blurring together; flashbacks twirling together and playing in my mind like a movie trailer. My eyes burn from lack of sleep and my head hurts from not being able to relax.

  It’s taking a toll on me, and I don’t know whether it’s because I ran—again—or whether it’s my body and brain’s way of telling me that maybe Harmony and I aren’t meant to be.

  Maybe what we had should stay in the past? Maybe that’s all we’re ever going to be?

  The whole weekend feels like it went to crap, and I honestly don’t know what to do, how to act or what to say about it all.

  I shake my head at myself, taking a deep breath and pressing my foot down on the gas pedal when the lights change to green.

  “Daddy?”

  Izzie’s small voice wraps around me and I wait a beat before answering her. “Yeah, pumpkin?”

  I flick my gaze to the rearview mirror, watching as she turns to Clay and whispers, “You ask.”

  Clay rolls his eyes, puffing out a breath and I turn my gaze back out of the window. Neither of them say anything for several moments. The silence in the car becomes deafening and I can’t stand it a moment longer.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, my brows coming down on my forehead as I frown.

  “Are you okay, Dad?” Clay asks, his voice sounding so much more mature than the eight-year-old that he is.

  “Me? Yeah, I’m fine.” I plaster a smile on my face, showing my teeth as I move my eyes back to the mirror.

  Izzie smiles and nods before turning around and facing the side window, counting the trees out loud as we pass them and getting to thirty-six before she stumbles on her counting.

  Clay on the other hand, he doesn’t look convinced, but I know that he won’t say anything in front of Izzie. He’s protective of her, he keeps quiet so that she’s none the wiser, and however sad that is, right now I’m grateful for his conscious effort of protecting his sister in that way.

  I take a left turn onto the road that Harmony’s studio is on and my breath stutters in my chest.

  It’s been six days; six days since I last saw her smiling face; six days since I last saw the light that shines in her eyes when she looks at me.

  Several times I’ve wanted to run back to her and tell her that I’m sorry—again—and that I shouldn’t have been so harsh toward her. But then her words ring loud in my head on repeat “You need to stop running. You can’t keep doing this every time something reminds you of her.”

  How could she say that? How could she think that I can switch it off so easily? There will always be things that remind me of Natalia: I have two beautiful children that are a daily reminder of her, I look into the same eyes that she had every time I meet Izzie’s gaze.

  She doesn’t understand. She never will. The blood, her face, all of the shouting to try and save her; and then there was the newborn baby that I held in my arms that suddenly needed me.

  My breath catches in my throat as I pull into the first open parking space, turning the engine off and closing my eyes as I try to gather myself. I’m not ready for this: not ready to see her and talk to her.

  My head and heart are at war, and right now my head is winning without a doubt, but there’s not a thing that I can do to change it.

  “Dad?”

  I nod when Clay calls my name, knowing that he’s asking more than that one word.

  Pushing out of the car, I open Clay’s door and get him out safely before walking around to Izzie’s side and catching her as she jumps out of the open door.

  “You’re so good at catching, Daddy!”

  “Thanks.” I laugh and tickle her as we walk up the path toward the doors, my breaths becoming short bursts. But I don’t let it show, I put the mask on that I’ve been so good at wearing this last decade and shut off all of my emotions. I’d rather feel nothing at all than everything.

  I pull open the door, setting Izzie down as soon as we step inside. My gaze flits around the studio as the atmosphere wraps around me; comforting me but putting me on edge all at the same time. I don’t deserve to feel that way: not now, not ever.

  “Have a good session,” I tell Izzie, giving her a cuddle and kissing the top of her head before she skips off into the main part of the studio.

  I turn back to face Clay, about to tell him the same but he shakes his head and tilts it toward the door, signaling that he wants to talk. I frown, confused by his actions but shrug and follow him back out of the door.

  “Dad?” He huffs. “I know that you’re not okay.”

  “I—” I plant my hands on my hips, blowing out a breath before crouching down in front of him. “Sometimes things happen when you’re an adult, sad things that you need time to process.”

  His face screws up. “When I talk to Leonie, she makes me feel better. Maybe you should talk to her too?”

  I smile warmly at his concern. “I need some time to think, that’s all, buddy.”

  “But…” He looks behind me, his eyes widening at something before he continues. “Why are you sad? Is it the painting of Mom and Izzie? Because I love it.”

  “No, son.” I pull him against my chest, wrapping my arms around him as I breathe him in. “It’s not that and it’ll never be anything about you or Izzie. You don’t need to worry about me.” I pull away, framing his face with my hands. “I’m the adult, you’re the child. It’s not your job to worry. I’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.”

  He stares at me for several seconds, his gray eyes that reflect mine filling with relief before he dives at me and wraps his hands around my neck, squeezing tightly and then letting go before he walks back through the door. I follow him back inside and watch as he walks over to where Izzie is sitting, already drawing a picture.

  “Tristan?” Harmony’s voice has my back straightening, my nostrils flaring and my hands clenching into fists.

  I know that I should turn and look at her, talk to her and say something—anything—but I can’t; I can’t bring myself to do it. I shake my head, turning around and opening the door. Maybe she is right, maybe running is what I do best? But right now, I’d run a thousand miles to rid myself of the turmoil that I’m feeling inside.

  It’s been thirteen days since he walked out on me in the hospital and six since he ignored me in my own studio while dropping off the kids. My heart aches, my emotions are frazzled, and I’m struggling to stay above water. Why I’ve let him do this to me again, I don’t know. No, I do. I love him, I always have and I always will.

  I suck in a deep breath as the bell above the studio door rings and someone calls out “hello” into the space. I paste a smile on my face and walk out of my office, greeting the first two adult art class attendees.

  I’m not fully present though. I pour each one a glass of wine and even though I normally don’t drink in these classes, I pour one for myself too, drinking a few gulps before topping up my glass to take the edge off and allowing myself to relax.

  My senses are on high alert as we sit around, waiting for the next arrivals. Every time the bell rings, my head snaps toward the door, a lump in my throat forming at the thought that it could be him.

  Through the pain of him not being able to work through his past with me instead of against me, I smile as I remember the first time that he came to the adult art class. I was so mad at him.

  I snap myself out of my memories and clap my hands, ready to start the class, not wishing to dwell on it any longer when I have work to do.

  I immerse myself in the colors of the paint and the stroke of the brush, joining in with the idle chitchat from all of my clients. I should be teaching them something in the grand scheme of things, but tonight I can’t bring myself to do it. I’ve had a few glasses of wine and I can feel the light buzz they’ve given me, making my thoughts a little wiry.

 
After the class is finished, I don’t bother to clean away everything from the night like I normally would. Instead, I stomp my way up the stairs to my personal studio and put a new canvas on the easel in the place of the portrait of “Baby F”—or Frankie as I’ve secretly named him.

  I’m lost in the painting for a second and my finger brushes down the surface of the canvas over his cheek, but it’s not the same, it’s rough. Nothing like the soft skin of the real Frankie.

  I swallow and place it on the bench in the middle of the room and walk back over to the easel, determined to channel all of my emotions and put them to good use. I pick up the paintbrush that’s ready and waiting for me and squirt a palette with a few splodges of paint.

  My hand stills in front of the canvas. For the first time in my life, I don’t know what to paint.

  The paintbrush drops from my hands and I stare at the blank canvas in front of me, feeling the anger about the whole situation with Tristan and me bubble up all over again.

  Taking him to the hospital and sharing the innermost part of myself was a way of trying to make up for not talking to him about Izzie’s birthday painting; an olive branch of sorts so that he didn’t feel like he was the only one that ever felt like they were drowning. I wanted to work through all of our trials and tribulations together, as a team. But he’s shut down on me.

  I don’t know why I was waiting for him to walk through the door. He ran away once, and ever since we started to see where this went, he’s done it time and time again. I understand that he’s been through a lot, but so have I. I guess wanting him to turn up was wishful thinking; wishful thinking that will only drag me under like it did all those years ago when he left me the first time.