“At Knight & Day Production? Am I assuming correctly you are his employer?”
“Yeah. We’re friends, though.” Probably one of the only real friends I have left after I disappeared from all the relationships Sarah and I had together.
I bounce my knee up and down in a nervous cadence, not sure how this works and what I’m supposed to do.
“Mr. McKnight…”
“Silas is fine.”
“Okay, Silas. I need to have full disclosure before I start seeing you as a client. Your friend Atlas is my best friend’s husband.”
“Mila?”
She nods with a small smile. “I believe we know many of the same people, and yet we haven’t run into one another.”
“No, I’d remember you.” I smirk, not being able to help it. She’s beautiful. A blind man would remember this woman.
She purses her lips. “If there comes a time when our worlds do collide, I may have to suggest alternate therapy. For now, I can and am willing to work with you if you are.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. “Yeah, I gotta do something or I’m going to lose them.” The words roll off my tongue without thought.
“Well, that’s as good a place as any to start. Who are you afraid to lose?”
“Dara and my unborn child I just found out she’s carrying four days ago.”
“And what makes you think you’re going to lose them?” She sets her elbow on top of the arm of her chair and rests her chin on her knuckle and thumb.
A river of feelings ram up against my subconscious, and I blurt it out. “Because I already lost my wife and unborn child three years ago.”
Dr. Hart sits up in her chair. “Let’s back up a bit so I’m up to speed. You were once married. What’s her name and from when to when, so I can keep track of the details as we discuss.”
I suck in a fast breath and push out everything I can think of just as quickly. If I say it fast enough, maybe I won’t have to hear it myself. “Sarah. We were high school sweethearts. Met freshman year. Dated until we were out of school. Moved in together at eighteen. I went to college, and she worked until she was twenty when we married. We tried to have a baby right away. Suffered a couple miscarriages, and then…I lost them both. Three years ago.”
Dr. Hart doesn’t say anything for a long time while my chest rises up and falls back down, a weight so heavy on my ribcage I can barely breathe. Its arrival always coincides with discussions of Sarah and the baby.
“Okay, that’s an awful lot of hardship you experienced. To have suffered even one miscarriage can be tough.” Her tone is soft and soothing, thoughtful, bordering on considerate. I can see why people like telling her their secrets. She doesn’t seem to take the hurt and make it her own, yet she’s still offering up a little of herself in her body language, her words, and the small crinkle at the corner of her eyes that tells she’s taking it all in and also finds it sad.
I nod. “Sarah got depressed. Then when we lost the second one, I could barely get her out of bed. Until we found out we were pregnant with our daughter.”
“And what happened then?” Dr. Hart asks.
“She got better, started to live again. For her. The baby. And the day we got to the twelve-week sonogram and the baby survived, was healthy, that was the day she broke out of her deep depression. It came and went so quickly. I didn’t question it. At the time, I only cared that I had my wife back.”
Dr. Hart scribbles something in her notepad, and I wait until she sets her dark gaze upon me once more. “Now tell me about three years ago.”
I swallow the bile that crawls up my throat. The monster that owns my heart when I talk about Sarah makes its appearance, putting a vise grip around the small mass of muscle and squeezing hard. I rub at my chest, above my heart, trying to quell the pain remembering brings. Not being able to contain it, I burst out of my seated position and pace behind the couch, stopping in front of the window. It’s going to rain. The clouds are dark, bloated with moisture, filled to the brim and ready to offload a torrential amount of cold wetness from the sky. I welcome the bad weather. Suits my current mood.
“Silas…what happened three years ago?” she asks again.
I close my eyes and go back to that very day before my wife headed off to work.
“You look like a juicy red apple in that dress, sweetie,” I tell my wife as she fluffs her hair, looking in our bedroom mirror.
I wrap my arms around her waist and place my hands over her huge belly, feeling our daughter kicking away.
“She giving you trouble already?” I chuckle and kiss her neck.
Her blonde hair falls to one side as she holds my hands against her baby bump. “Never. She’s perfect.” My wife turns around, pressing her belly against mine while she reaches up on her toes to kiss me. I take her mouth willingly.
“Just. Like. You.” She pecks me three times in a row. “I’ve got to go, though. Training my replacement at the law office.”
“Good.” I’m happy she agreed to quit her job, be an at-home mom, and take care of our daughter. Then the red color of her dress reminds me of the secret I have for her. “But, before you go, I have a present for you.” I waggle my eyes and grin.
Her eyes sparkle, and her smile fills my heart full of joy.
“Come on.” I grab her hand and lead her to the garage.
“What in the world have you done, husband of mine?” She waddles along with me.
I chuckle. “You’ll have to close your eyes and wait and see, wife of mine.”
She dutifully closes her eyes, and I lead her into the garage, standing her in front of the present I bought her.
“Okay, open them.” I let her hands go, and she opens her eyes.
Her pink pout opens on a gasp. Those blue eyes I adore so much cloud with fresh tears. “It’s…so…so…my goodness!” she finishes.
“Red! Beautiful. Expensive!” I offer up, excited to hear what she thinks of the brand-new, off-the-lot, red Lexus RX 350 I bought her.
She hovers her pale, white hands over the hood. “It’s so shiny. I can’t believe it, honey.”
“Believe it, sweetie. You’re about to be a mother. You need an SUV with class and style. The car spoke to me when I saw her, and I knew she was perfect for you and our girl.”
My wife spins and flings herself into my arms, tears running down her face. “I love you so much. Thank you, honey. Thank you!”
Still locked in the memory, I shake my head from left to right, bringing the room back into focus, trying to forget again.
“Keep going,” Dr. Hart urges.
Pain lances through my chest, and I grit my teeth, taking several deep breaths. “And that very day, when she stopped her car at a stop sign close to her work in downtown Oakland, a drugged-up junkie saw my wife’s shiny, new red car as his meal ticket to more drugs. He pulled a gun on her, yanked her out of the car, and shot her in the face. Killing her and our baby. He didn’t care that she was pregnant. Only twenty-seven years old, with an entire life ahead of her. A home and a husband waiting for her. He looked into her beautiful face and saw nothing but a woman who was getting in the way of getting his next fix.”
I can feel my shoulders drop as I lean my forehead against the cool glass of the window, allowing the sound of the rain pelting against its surface to keep me standing, the cadence soothing.
“So you think because you bought the car for her it’s your fault they are dead?”
With zero time to think about it, I turn my head and match my gaze to Dr. Hart’s. “Yeah. It’s obvious. Had she been in the piece-of-junk Honda she’d been driving around since she was sixteen, which was a hand-me-down even then, I would still have my wife. My daughter would be three years old. Yeah, it’s absolutely my fault.”
Dr. Hart shakes her head. “Silas, it’s not that simple.”
“Isn’t it? No car, no death.” Seems pretty fucking simple to me, but I leave off the last part. It’s her job to ask me the tough questions.
She gestures to the couch. “Please sit down.”
I do what she says and ease back across from her.
“Do you believe in fate and destiny?” Dr. Hart asks randomly.
“Yes.” I was raised believing our lives are already laid out for us. Free will allows us to take one step or another, certain paths, but for the most part, God is in control.
“Then if you accept that fate exists, you accept the knowledge that events happen and occur beyond any one person’s control. And by the same token, if you believe in destiny, you accept that events are meant to happen. It’s already decided before we are born.”
I close my eyes, the guilt hammering a beat in my heart so loud I can hear its thump thump resonating through my body as I sit. “I’m not sure it’s so cut and dried, Dr. Hart.”
“I’m afraid that if you believe in fate and destiny, it is that cut and dry, Silas. You just want to accept it’s your fault they’re gone. That had you reacted differently, say, not bought the car or given it to her, the outcome would be different. This is simply untrue based on the logic that fate and destiny mean everything is predetermined and a supernatural power holds all the cards.”
“You mean God?”
“Do you believe in God?” she counters.
Damn, this woman is good. “Yes.”
“Have you ever experienced what you believe is a miracle?”
“Every day I see God’s miracles. Through the love of my family, my friends, the success of my business. He’s everywhere.”
“Then why can’t you believe it was God’s decision to take your wife and daughter that day?”
“Because God wouldn’t be so cruel. He’d have known they were my everything.”
“Unless he was preparing you for this moment. Right now. When you were to be the man in the life of this woman Dara and your child with her?”
Her suggestion blasts me like a fireball to the gut. “Fuck!” I gasp, allowing it to resonate internally.
Could Dara and this baby be my fate? My destiny?
I stand up, not knowing what else to do with myself.
“I gotta go.” Too many images and thoughts are swirling around my head for me to sit in this room and focus any longer. I need to think. Figure this out.
Dr. Hart smiles, sets the legal pad on the table, and stands, holding out her hand for me to shake. “You have a lot to think about, I gather.”
“Yeah.” I shake her hand.
“Don’t be too hard on yourself. You’ve suffered a great deal, Silas. These kinds of tragedies mark us. They lay a hurt on our souls, which can take a long time to heal. Sometimes they never do. It’s up to us to try to manage that hurt. You’ve made the first step.” Her words dig deep, coating my nerves with a soothing balm. “I’d like to see you again.”
I nod, already recognizing this woman is capable of putting things into a different perspective. One I could never see through my own self-pity and sorrow.
“When should I come back?”
“When do you want to come back?” She cocks an eyebrow and lays a hand over her swollen abdomen.
“Tomorrow?” I clear my throat.
She chuckles. “I think next week, around the same time, would be good. Don’t you?”
“I need to solve this as soon as possible.” I force as much sincerity into my voice as I can so she understands how important healing is to me. “My life with Dara and our baby depends on it.”
She shakes her head. “You can’t force the mind or the heart to heal. It happens naturally, organically. What you can do is offer Dara your progress. Discuss some of what we talked about with her. Perhaps the two of you can help one another through this until you find a happy plane of existence where your past life and future can coexist together.”
“Thank you.” I walk over to the door and grab the handle. “You really helped. And uh, congratulations on your baby too. When are you due?” As I ask the question, it dawns on me I don’t know when my baby is due. Suddenly I need to know that more than I need to take my next breath. Only I’m not sure I’m ready to see Dara just yet. This new logic the doctor presented needs to be fleshed out in my mind, mulled over, given some breathing room.
I’ll text her instead.
“Two more months.”
“Exciting,” I mumble, thinking about how exciting a new life would be. A baby. My baby.
“It is. See you next week, Silas.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” I offer and push through the door.
Once I’ve made my appointment for next week, I escape outside. The rain pelts my jacket, face, and chest, soaking right through my clothing and chilling my bones. I need the cold. It reminds me I’m still here.
* * *
I’m seeing a therapist. She’s great. I think she’s going to help me work through my past.
I read the text over and over again to make sure it conveys what I want to tell Dara. I’m seeking help. I’m working on my issues. She’s still on my mind.
While I wait for the text to be seen and responded to, I pull from the fridge one of the readymade dinners Ma made for me. A Post-it is stuck to the top. Cook on 350 degrees for forty minutes.
I lift open the lid and sniff the contents. Looks like some type of chicken bake. Anything will do. I’m a shit cook, and my mother knows it. When Sarah died, I lost thirty pounds in six months. Eating wasn’t a priority, and I didn’t know how to cook. Plus, I didn’t care about me. My mind was wasting away; why not my body too?
My mother had other ideas. She and my two sisters started up this plan. Each of them would cook two dinners big enough to put some aside for me. Mom would pick them all up and deliver them each week. She picks up the clean casserole dishes I leave sitting on the counters and fills them up with the new meals. It’s pretty pathetic. A thirty-year-old man whose mom and sisters make his meals and take care of him.
I’m going to have to put a stop to that too. Maybe I could take a cooking class or something. Learn a few things.
I’ll bet Dara could teach me.
The thought runs a race through my mind. She loves to bake, and I’ll just bet a million bucks she knows how to cook a fine meal too.
My phone pings, and I practically jump out of my skin to get to it. A text from Dara.
That’s fantastic. I’m happy for you.
My heart starts pounding, and I lick my lips, trying to think of what to say.
Instead of typing her a message, I take a deep breath and hit the call button. It rings twice before she picks up.
“Hi,” she says almost shyly. I like hearing her low, sexy timbre. It reminds me of her whispering in my ear when we couldn’t get enough of one another.
“How are you doing?”
“Fine,” she offers, and I rub at the back of my neck, not sure how to best respond.
“And the baby. Everything going okay? You’re not spotting or anything?”
“Nope. Everything’s great. I’ve been really tired, so Ricky’s been taking the mornings alone on my behalf.”
The mention of another man rankles against my nerves. I twist my hand into a fist and set it up on top of the counter, willing myself not to punch anything. If she needs something, I should be the one there to help.
“What needs to be done in the morning?” I ask, not even knowing what she was talking about but still frustrated someone else is doing it. Someone who’s not me. Another man.
She yawns and sighs as if she’s snuggled up in bed. I am enjoying imagining her in her bed. Which reminds me, I don’t even know where she lives. God, there’s so much I don’t know about the woman who’s got my heart in a vise and is carrying my future in her womb.
“The bakery start-up. A night crew comes in, remember, and then Ricardo and I take over baking the fresh daily pastries and get set up. He’s handling it, though. I think he likes to know he’s helping me. He’s got this plan to be the best uncle in the world. And since children need all the love they can get, I’m allowing it.”
“Makes sense. So, today marks eight weeks.”
She chuckles. “You’re right. I didn’t even realize it. I need to read my weekly pregnancy announcement.”
“What’s that?” I ask, eager for any information about our baby.
“I have this book, and it goes week by week and tells you what your body is doing and what’s happening with your baby in this week.”
“Read it to me?” I ask, wondering if the request is too stupid but not caring if it is. I’m in desperate need of anything she’ll share with me.
“Okay, hold on.”
I can hear the sound of paper rustling. “Okay, I’m back. Oh, cute. Our baby bean has a little head.” Her voice softens, sounding very girly. “Baby has webbed fingers and toes, the lungs and throat are forming. Oh…” She starts laughing.
“What?” I find myself smiling into the phone.
“It says here our baby’s tail is almost gone. Did you know they have a tail?”
I chuckle and respond with a low, “Yeah.” I did know because I’ve been through this phase before. Still, I never read through these things with Sarah. And right now, hearing Dara read about our child’s growth is making it more real. Making a lightness enter my chest. “What else?”
“Says our baby’s genitals are not completely formed so we won’t know if it’s a boy or a girl. Do you care either way?”
“No. Healthy,” I choke out, when I really want to just say, “Alive.”
“Ah, our baby is the size of a kidney bean. See, baby bean, you really are a bean!” She laughs, and it’s music to my ears. Like a fresh rain shower in a dry desert.
“Baby bean sounds like it’s going through a lot of changes,” I say, wanting to add something to the conversation.
“Yeah. And my body too. Yowza.”
“Like what?” She’s the mother of my child. I want to know everything.
“My uh… Well, it says my boobs are going to start getting bigger. Great.” She says the last word as if it’s the opposite of greatness.
“What’s the matter with that? You’ve got an amazing rack! The more the merrier.” My voice lowers to a sultry timbre, remembering just how great her rack is.
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