Page 43 of The Last Trip

“You could come with me.” I don’t know where the offer comes from, except that my eyes are suddenly filled with tears. I don’t know if I forgive her or if I ever will, but she’s a victim in this, too. She’s also the only reason I’m alive.

She doesn’t meet my eyes, looking at the baby in my arms instead. “I wish I could, but I have things to take care of here. Maybe…maybe let me know where you end up, and I’ll find you.”

She reaches out and takes my hand, tears now falling down her own cheeks as she glances at the baby again. “She’s a lucky girl, you know? To have such a strong mother.”

“I’m not strong,” I argue through my tears. “I should’ve seen him—should’ve seenthis—coming long before now.”

She presses her lips together, looking away. “Calvin is good at making people see what they want to see, but you came to our house, you followed him, because you sensed that something was wrong. If you hadn’t…I’m not sure what would’ve happened. I don’t know that I would’ve ever been able to convince him to stop.”

I stare down at my daughter, fast asleep in my arms. “We’re going to be okay,” I tell her. And Janelle. And myself.

“He didn’t break us,” Janelle adds, already backing up toward the door.

I meet her eyes. “And he never will.”

She brushes a tear from her cheek. “Take care of yourself, Sadie.”

“You too,” I whisper, my voice choked with sobs. For the first time, I don’t mind the tears.

When she closes the door, I kiss my daughter’s nose, realizing that I still need to give her a name. For the first time, it hits me that the decision is entirely up to me. I no longer have to listen to Cal’s pros and cons list for every name he prefers. “He didn’t break us, Amelia.” My mother’s name. The woman who gave me my strength. The woman I feel here beside me, inside me, even when she can’t be.

Later that night, when Amelia is asleep, I place her in the clear bassinet next to the bed, and we go for a walk. The hallway isempty and quiet as I pad down the hall toward the room Janelle mentioned Cal is staying in—417.

My hands shake as I push open the door. I’m exhausted and in pain, but I’m not weak. If anything, I feel stronger than I have in a long time. Strong enough for this.

In comparison, on the bed, he looks almost frail. His eyes are closed, his chest is rising and falling with slow, steady breaths. Already, Janelle told me, he’s confirmed to the police that he won’t be pressing charges. He’s told them what happened. His version of it anyway. A version that leaves Janelle and me as innocent as he is.

I could walk away from all of this.

I run it through my head. He shouldn’t press charges, but somehow, I know him better than that. Even if the battle isn’t legal, Cal won’t go down without a fight. Janelle was right. My instincts are right. He won’t just let us disappear.

This is the only way.

I look around for something to use, and I find it when my eyes land on a tray with a roll of gauze, tape, and medical scissors. With trembling hands, I grab the scissors and approach his bed.

Cautiously, I touch his fingers. This is the same hand that has held mine so many times, the hand that has prepared my meals, the hand that was wrapped around my throat just hours ago.

If I think too much, I’ll chicken out. I glance at my daughter.

I’m doing this for her. For us.

With that thought, I lift the scissors and press them into his skin. With a fluid motion, I slice them down his wrist. Dark blood immediately pours out. His heart monitor begins to beep faster, and his eyes flutter open.

He looks left, right, his eyes finding focus as he checks his wrist, the source of the pain. The next thing he sees is my face, my smile, as I hold our daughter in my arms.

Almost like my body is proving a point, blood passes between my legs at once, spilling onto the floor. It’s further proof that she’s mine, that I went through the brutal work to bring her into this world. And that she’ll never be his.

His panicked eyes flick from me to the baby, and I place her down again in the bassinet seconds before he opens his mouth. I know him—know exactly what he’s going to do next.

There’s something beautiful about knowing someone in this way.

I grab the pillow from under his head and cover his face. His hand reaches, stretching for the button to call a nurse, but I’m stronger right now. I’m strong enough to do this.

He thrashes around, fighting to force the pillow away from his face, but he’s weak. His motions are drugged and sloppy with sleep, injury, and whatever pain medication they have him on.

It’s funny, in the end, that despite both being brutally injured and in pain today, he was clearly given something strong enough to knock him out, while I was hardly given more than over-the-counter pain medication, and that will be the thing that saves me.

The fight lasts longer than I expected. It’s brutal, nasty work taking someone out of this world, almost as tough as bringing someone into it.

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