Page 34 of Despite It All
Damn lucky dog.
“So, what do you want to do, Little Bee?”
Stevie cocks her head, thoroughly thinking out her options. “Hmm, we could paint!” She beams.
“Paint?” Why do I feel like paint is usually a no-go activity?
“Yeah, paint! Mommy has all the stuff in her room. We put the sheet on the table and paint. It’s really fun.”
I kneel down in front of her. “And does your mom always let you paint?”
Stevie scrunches her nose and pauses. Mm-hmm, my daughter thinks I’m a sucker.
“Well, Mommy says we can paint sometimes. Sometimes it is messy, but I’ll be super careful. And we could paint something for Mommy too. She’d really love it. Pleaseeee.” She drags out the word for good measure.
Yup, definitely a sucker.
I sigh. “Alright, show me where the stuff is.”
Stevie squeals while jumping up and down. “Come on, Daddy.” She takes off down the hallway into Wyla’s room and whips open the closet door. “It’s all in this box right here.”
Stevie points to a bin on the floor. “You carry it. I’ll clean off the table.” Stevie races back out without a second thought. I chuckle to myself and reach for the blue bin. As I pull it out something in another box catches my eye.
Another storage bin sits back to the side but unlike Stevie’s paint box, there isn’t a lid on this box. At the top, folded neatly is a white t-shirt with a big brown stain over the words “cowboy pillows.”
I shouldn’t look but I can’t help it. I pull the box out toward the front. I instantly pull out the t-shirt and there’s that clench in my chest that I’ve felt many times over the years. Memories of Wyla’s scrunched nose smile and infectious laugh soon turn into memories of ripping this shirt off and having her skin against mine. The memories of being glued to her that night are easily recalled, and suddenly the sounds she made in my ear become all too real.
I put the shirt back in the box and tell myself to slide it back but then I see a picture of Wyla holding a tiny baby and all bets are off. I pick up the picture, and I swear I’ve never seen something so incredibly beautiful. Wyla’s laid back on a hospitalbed, her hair pulled back, and nothing but a smile on her face as she looks down at Stevie in her arms.
I stare at the picture for I don’t know how long. I missed this. I didn’t get to see Stevie being born. I didn’t get to hold Wyla’s hand. I wasn’t there for the big milestones. I know she didn’t know, but four years of my daughter's life are gone. Those nine months of seeing Wyla carry our daughter gone, and I can’t get them back.
I look back in the box hoping to find more pictures of Stevie. It looks like there are some possible scrapbooks at the bottom of the box. But on top are some baby hospital blankets, a onesie, and a couple journals. I pick up the top one that has some papers that look like Stevie’s drawings tucked into it. As I open it to pull out the papers, a single name at the first page of the journal nearly knocks me on my ass.
Jett.
I don’t really know why I'm doing this. Winry told me that journaling helps her anxiety, and suggested I should give it a shot. Writing to no one feels weird to me, but writing to you feels better for some reason. I guess it’s because I know I have no way of getting ahold of you about this baby, so I guess this is my way of making you a part of our life. Our—goodness, no longermylife—our life. How am I supposed todo this, Jett? I’m having a baby. A human is growing in my stomach. Gah, that sounds weird. No wonder I’m sick. Not to mention emotional, I’ve cried more these past two months than I ever have. I cried in the grocery store today because they didn’t have orange roses. I know they don’t always have them, but today it sent me over the edge and I broke down in tears.
I don’t really know where to go from here. I still have a year of school left and this baby is due a month before the semester ends. My sister’s told me they’d support me no matter what, that this is my choice. But I’ll figure it out, right… No, I will figure it out. Everything will be fine, it has to be. I guess I do feel a little better, maybe I’ll keep doing this when I feel overwhelmed.
She wrote to me. Whether she could send them to me or not, she wrote to me. I flip through the journal to see pages full of her handwriting. Flipping through each entry starts with one word.Jett.
“Hey, slow poke, where’s the paint?” Stevie asks, walking back in the room.
Her little voice seems to be the only thing that can pull me away from this journal. “Sorry, Little Bee, I got distracted.” I put the journal back begrudgingly. As much as it kills me, I know I shouldn’t be reading them.
“Those are Mommy’s books. She writes in one every day. But she’s not writing like a princess story though.” Stevie frowns. “She told me she writes them for a friend, but she said I’ve never met this friend so I think it’s Mommy’s imaginary friend.”
I chuckle. I'm sure I felt imaginary to Wyla too. “Your mom still writes in one of these?”
“Yeah.” She shrugs. “Can we paint now?”
I smile. “Yeah, Stevie, we can paint now.”
Nashville Night – 5 years ago – pt. 3
One block. It took one more block for a ride to be called. One block to be making out with Wyla in the back of the Uber. In one block, we went from tasting each other's ice cream to tasting each other.
This woman is going to be my undoing, but for her? I’ll gladly unravel.
