End of Eternity 2

by Loretta Lost

  “You will have that,” he promises me. “I will set up appointments with a specialist whenever you’re ready. I’ll go with you.”

  “But what if there isn’t a quick fix?” I ask him. “What if it takes years for me to get better? What if I never do? If I date someone who wants children, then he could end up waiting forever, only to be disappointed when I don’t get better. And if I date someone who doesn’t want children—like Brad—then when I finally can have kids, he won’t want to.”

  “Carmen, you’re a woman,” Owen says with a grin. “You hold all the power in this situation. There will always be a man around who is dying for the opportunity to get you pregnant. And if your significant other is reluctant? You can just give him an ultimatum or something.”

  “Maybe.”

  Owen chuckles softly as he places his hands in his pockets. “Isn’t this a little ironic? I’ll be taking you to get your lady parts healed so that you can have a baby, while I’ll be taking my girlfriend to the doctor to get her body butchered so that she can’t.”

  “Life can be filled with such ridiculous situations,” I muse as I begin to walk barefoot between the trees. I gaze upward into the canopy, idly searching for a relic from my past.

  “I guess it’s just proof that God has a sense of humor,” Owen jokes glumly. “Are you trying to find him in the trees? If you spot him, tell him that he’s a jerk.”

  I smile as I turn back to Owen. “Not god. Something better.” Moving to his side, I squint and point up to a small wooden cabin hidden within the green leaves. “It’s my old treehouse. Helen and I used to play here as children. Our dad helped build it for us.”

  “Your parents approved of your blind sister climbing forty feet that she couldn’t see?” Owen remarks in surprise.

  “Helen was very agile and well-coordinated. She could kick my ass sometimes,” I explain nostalgically, “so we never had any concerns. The rope ladder is really secure. You have to climb a little to get to the first tree branch in order to retrieve it and toss it down. I’d always do that for her, and she was fine.”

  “I would love to check out your treehouse,” Owen says happily. “I mean, I assume that I have permission from the owner? I don’t want to trespass on your property.”

  I nod lightly. “Consider yourself cordially invited to explore the premises. I’m not sure if it’s still safe after all these years, but it was extremely well-made, so it should be fine. I wish I could climb up there too, but I probably shouldn’t attempt it.”

  “Let’s see,” Owen says, shrugging out of his leather jacket and moving to the thick trunk of the old oak tree. He gazes up for only a second to make a game plan before grabbing a branch and expertly pulling himself up into the branches. He easily locates the ladder and tosses it down. “Join me if you can!” he calls out, before grabbing the rungs and beginning to climb to the top.

  I stare at the ladder with hesitation, wrapping my robe more closely around my shoulders. I would love nothing more than to climb up to my old wooden sanctuary and relax there for a little while. Unfortunately, I don’t think I’m strong enough. I hate being that pathetic, timid woman who stays on the sidelines. I hate not being able to dive in and get dirty.

  “Hey!” Owen calls out from above. “What the hell kind of childhood did you have? This treehouse is awesome! It must cost more than my car!”

  “In fairness,” I shout back with a smirk, “everything costs more than your car! But yes, we did have an arborist come and choose the perfect tree. A special treehouse-building company came and supervised the construction. We even got a permit from the city. It was a pretty legit operation. It cost my parents about fifteen thousand dollars.”

  “Fifteen thousand dollars?!” Owen bellows out from the treetops. “My parents couldn’t spare fifteen cents to buy me a few gummy bears! I literally hunted for fallen change in the playground so that I could afford to buy candy. You girls had it made.”

  Moving over to the tree trunk, I slowly lower my body until I can sit on the ground. I stare up into the tree branches sadly. I’d always hoped that someday, I’d be able to take my own children here to play. It was such a source of comfort and joy for us when we were younger; it was a place where we could let our imaginations roam free. I don’t know how I can cope with the thought that I might never be able to share this with excited little people who would surely think that my treehouse was simply the best place on the planet.

  “This is a sweet setup!” Owen calls out. “I could have spent days up here. This must be why Helen likes to run away to little cabins in the woods. She probably got that habit from coming here when she was younger. Although, I think that this treehouse is bigger than the tiny shoebox-shack she was living in when I first met her.”

  Thinking about Helen makes me a little sad. I realize that while my husband and daughter were taken from me by fate and uncontrollable circumstances, my sister left on her own. She only really wanted to be close to me again after a traumatic brain injury. I make a mental note to call her soon, so that I can talk to her while she still wants anything to do with me. Once she gets her memories back, I might return to being on her list of people to avoid. And who can blame her? I remember the hundreds of images of her covering the attic walls and I get a little shiver of disgust. Thanks to me, the awful man who hurt her was reintroduced to her life.

  “Hey, is this Helen’s diary?” Owen says with delight. “I can see what she was like as a ten-year-old girl! We should bring this to her to see if it helps with her memory. Oh, look! I’ve found some of your journals. Let’s see what kind of trouble you were getting into in 1999.”

  I had almost forgotten about our diary-writing sessions in the treehouse. I close my eyes and lean back against the trees in memory. The melodic sounds of the small forest wash over me gently, like a favorite song playing on the radio many years since I’d last heard it. I can somehow still remember all the lyrics, and my heart sings along with perfect timing. It feels like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. I am overwhelmed with pleasant memories as I deeply inhale the fresh air, and I realize that this is still my favorite place on the planet.

  “Don’t read those diaries!” I call up to Owen as I grasp the tree trunk to help myself stand. I wince and hold my abdomen as I slowly rise to my feet. Moving over to the rope ladder, I grasp one of the old wooden rungs and pull on it to check that it’s secure. “Those books contain top-secret, sensitive information, and they specifically stipulate in the beginning that there are ‘No boys allowed!’“

  “I guess that makes me a spy,” Owen responds. “I’m gathering intelligence on the enemy so that I can infiltrate her base.”

  Gritting my teeth, I reach for the rung above and try to pull myself up the ladder. I feel dizzy and I gasp out in pain as my body protests, but I continue pushing upward. There is stinging pain in my heavy breasts and stomach, but keep stepping onto the higher rungs as I grasp the ones above and drag myself up. Each upward stretch of my arm pulls my abdomen tight and makes me wince in pain, but I’m not going to let that stop me.

  I want to visit my damn treehouse.

  After what feels like nothing short of an eternity, I manage to grasp the final rungs. I am so weak and tired that I almost feel like I might pass out and go tumbling back to the ground, but a firm hand clamps around my wrist. I feel a rush of relief as Owen helps me ascend the final few inches, and leads me to sit on the small bed in the corner of the room. I rest there for a moment, panting and gasping for breath with my fingers splayed against my abdomen.

  “Why’d you do that?” Owen asks me softly.

  “I wanted to be up here with you,” I explain weakly as I look around. “I just hope I can get down.” I take in the sight of our makeshift kitchen and bookshelf with dozens of vintage board games. A smile settles on my face. “This was worth the climb. It looks exactly the same.”

  Owen sits by my side, holding the diary in his lap. He flips through the pages slowly, as if carefully soak
ing up each one and searching for the key to my soul. When he gets to a particular entry, he pauses and smiles before he begins reading out loud:

  “There’s something missing from my life. I have almost everything a girl could want, but I know that there is still a bigger, more important event that I’m waiting for. I feel like everything I do is only preparation for that moment. I don’t know what it is yet, but I’ll feel it when I get there. I know that it’s going to be wonderful, and I’m going to finally be happy. It feels like forever, waiting for each day to slowly pass so that I can get there. I can’t wait to be a grown up, so I can finally do something great.”

  Reaching out quickly, I shut the diary. Every word makes me die a little inside, and I find myself fighting back tears. It’s unbearable to see how full of hope I was. I feel like I’ve let my younger self down. “Don’t read that garbage, Owen. It’s just the ranting and raving of a lonely teenage girl.”

  “Then I must be a lonely teenage girl,” Owen says solemnly, “because I feel the exact same way.”

  “You can’t wait to grow up?” I ask him bitterly.

  “Yes. And there’s something missing from my life.”

  I find myself staring out the small glass window of the treehouse. The sun is setting, and it will be dark soon. I wonder how I could have matured so little in over a decade that I feel the exact same way as I did when I was fourteen. Have I achieved nothing in all these years? I thought I had. I thought that I had started a family. But now I’m all alone again, and I have to start everything over from scratch. I’m right back at square one.

  All the fear and insecurity of that fourteen-year-old girl comes hurtling back to me. I am just as uncertain about my future, and just as unprepared. Extending an arm to take the weathered purple diary from Owen’s hands, I skim my fingers over the musty pages. They have created a supernatural rift in space and time. I feel like I am holding the hand of my younger self, and she is reaching out to me across the years, reassuring me that everything is going to be okay. I know that I am the one who should be reassuring her, but what can I tell her? How can I guide her? She is in for a world of pain, and she isn’t ready. Life is going to crush her.

  Owen shuffles closer so that our shoulders are touching. He wraps an arm around me and I lean my head against him. We sit in silence for a few minutes as I stare down at the old journal. Finally, I lift the precious book to my chest, and hug it gently against myself. I am immediately surprised by the extreme sensitivity and painful throbbing sensation in my swollen breasts. For a moment, this is confusing to me.

  Then I understand.

  My breasts are still engorged with milk.

  They are reminding me to feed a child that is no longer alive. Tear gather in my eyes, and I am appalled by the sadistic cruelty of my body. Why would it slap me in the face like this? Why can’t my body just understand that it’s over, and go back to functioning as a normal, childless body should? Instead it has to taunt and ridicule me. Apparently, I have begun trembling slightly with this discovery, for Owen has noticed my discomfort.

  “What’s wrong?” Owen asks me softly as he rubs his hand over my arm, trying to warm me up.

  “It’s my… my breasts,” I whisper with embarrassment. “They feel like they’re going to explode. I guess they didn’t get the memo that their services won’t be required.” I probably wouldn’t have told most men a personal detail like this, but Owen being a doctor makes me a little more comfortable. I certainly couldn’t have told Brad.

  “Yes, the milk usually comes in a few days after giving birth,” Owen says with a nod. “You could get medication to stop them from producing milk, but I would recommend just waiting. You should avoid warm baths, as that will cause the milk to flow, and you can put ice packs in your bra to ease the pain. If it becomes too uncomfortable, you can release a tiny bit of the milk by hand or use a pump to remove some of the pressure. But don’t do it too often, or it will mimic feeding, and cause more production.”

  “Thanks,” I say hoarsely, wrapping my arms around my malfunctioning breasts to shield them. “I never realized this was going to happen. It’s kind of upsetting.”

  “I’m so sorry, Carmen. But you know, it doesn’t have to go to waste. If you have the energy, you could actually donate it to a milk bank.”

  “A milk bank?” I say in surprise. “Is that a real thing?”

  “Sure!” Owen says. “It might make you feel better, knowing that your milk could save the lives of other babies. There are always a lot of premature or sickly infants in desperate need. They might be waiting for their own mothers’ milk to start or they might have been abandoned by their mothers altogether.” Owen nods enthusiastically. “Donated breast milk is considered liquid gold by hospitals. There are so many important antibodies in human milk that help to protect babies from dangerous infections. It also improves their lifelong health and reduces the risk of a number of diseases. Extremely premature babies often suffer from something called necrotizing enterocolitis when their little bodies can’t process formula. There are many hormones, enzymes, and cytokines… God, I’m sorry. I probably sound like an idiot, babbling like this.”

  “No,” I tell him with wonder. “You know so much more about this than I do. It’s fascinating.”

  “Breast milk is magical,” Owen says seriously. “Did you know that it’s created specifically by each mother’s body for the needs of her baby? And the milk changes as the baby’s needs change. Anyway, let me shut up about this. I just think it could be really rewarding for you, knowing that your milk could help save another family from experiencing the same loss you did.”

  “I think I’d like to do that,” I say softly. “Donating, I mean. I might as well.”

  “I’ll look it up and help you figure out the process,” Owen says happily. “Is that weird? I know it’s super personal… but I don’t want you to go through this alone, and I genuinely want to be involved. I’ll never get to do something like this with my actual girlfriend.”

  “Thanks for being so sweet, Owen. If not for you, I would probably have just sat in my bathtub, depressed and crying for days while my boobs ached. I don’t really have any female friends I can talk to about this, and I’d probably end up drinking vodka to deal with the pain.”

  “Vodka is never a good solution,” he says with disappointment.

  “Yeah,” I murmur softly. I remember Brad encouraging me to have champagne the night that Grayson died, while Owen wouldn’t even let me have coffee. I know it was only a bit of champagne, but could it have contributed to losing my baby? I really value Owen’s commitment to health and good habits, and I wish that I could spend more time with him. If my baby had lived, I would have wanted Owen to be around her as much as possible. With his vast knowledge and passion for everything to do with babies, he would have been an invaluable asset. And with his kindness and compassion, he would have made an excellent father.

  I don’t know why I am allowing such thoughts to cross my mind. Turning to him with a sad smile, I look directly into his blue eyes. “I know this isn’t my place, Owen, but I don’t think you should stay with your girlfriend. She doesn’t seem like she’s the right person for you.”

  “You’re right, of course. But I can never leave her.” He gives me an equally hard stare. “Speaking of which… I don’t trust that douchebag Brad. He’s a royal asshole, and you deserve better than him, Carm.”

  I nod slowly. “But he’s the closest thing I have to Grayson.”

  “Don’t start dating him,” Owen says softly. “Please.”

  I take a deep breath and hug my diary closer against me. “I think I’ve already started seeing him. I didn’t intend for it to happen, but we just sort of fell together.”

  “Don’t do that. Don’t just go with the flow because it’s easy. The best things in life are worth fighting for. Don’t settle for less than perfect.”

  “I just can’t be alone right now, Owen. I’m not strong enough.”

  “
You’re stronger than you think,” he tells me. “Besides, I’ll try to be here for you as much as you need, and as often as you need.”

  “But not in the way that I need.”

  Owen looks away with guilt. “Just be careful, Carm. If you stay with him over these next few weeks, you’ll end up bonding and it will be hard to pull away. You’ll get in too deep, and you’ll be stuck for life—like me.”

  “Maybe that’s not so bad,” I whisper. “Maybe that’s all love really is. Being stuck.” Smiling, I place my hand on the bed to push myself to my feet. “Speaking of being stuck, will you help me get down from this tree?”

  Chapter Eleven

  Driving back home from the park, I think about my time spent with Owen. I glance over to the passenger seat, where a few of our childhood journals are neatly sitting. I figured it could be interesting to read them over, since I should have some spare time while recovering. I know that Helen would really love the opportunity to do so as well. I am a little uneasy about returning to the house, because I’m not sure if Brad will be there. I want to confront him about why he lied to me, but I’m not sure if this is the right time to do so. I’m not quite back to my normal self, and I don’t know if I can deal with conflict as well as I usually can.

  The burgundy color of Helen’s journal reminds me of how I used to deal with all my boy problems. I would simply talk to my sister. Maybe I should take a moment to seek the council of the wisest person I know before I return home to the lion’s den.

  Fishing my phone out of my pocket, I quickly dial Helen’s number while simultaneously paying attention to the road. I am already arriving at my house, for the park was not too far away, but I keep on driving past it because I don’t want to stop just yet. Driving is soothing, and makes me feel capable even though my body is out of repair.