Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 132321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 529(@250wpm)___ 441(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 529(@250wpm)___ 441(@300wpm)
She perches on one end of the couch, and I take the armchair closest, so I’m facing her at an angle but not crowding her.
A red, quilted tote bag rests on her lap and her fingers keep fiddling with the straps.
“How are you doing?” I ask.
“Better. I can’t stay long but I wanted to ask if you can do something for me?”
I’ve been thinking of many things I’d like to do to help her. “Sure.”
She reaches in the bag and pulls out a small hand-knitted pink and mint green blanket. “It’s not much but I can’t stand thinking of Ashley wearing nothing—”
“Oh, no, Laurel. When we took her into our care from the hospital, she was swaddled in a blanket.” Emotion threatens to choke off my words. Stay calm.
She blows out a slow, relieved breath. “Oh, that’s good. Still, I’d like her to have something I made with my own hands. I was making this for her before…and I want her to have it.” She passes the blanket to me. “Will you please wrap her in this?”
A deep pang of sorrow tugs on my heart. “Absolutely.” With reverence, I accept the soft, small bundle. “Yes, of course, I will. We’ll take good care of her. I promise.”
“Thank you.” She sniffles and dabs her cheeks.
I grab a tissue from the box on the end table and hand it to her. She bursts into tears. I move to the couch to sit next to her. Years of practice have forced me to balance professionalism with empathy, but I still struggle.
“They’re letting Patrick out on bail,” she sobs into the tissue.
A shock of disbelief shoots through me, followed by a rush of protectiveness.
“Do you have somewhere you can go?” Her husband already tried to kill her once, causing their baby to be stillborn. Now that he’s out, he might try to finish the job. I’ve seen it happen before. Dealt with the aftermath. How could they let that man out after what he did?
“I have a restraining order. And they’re going to make him wear an ankle monitor. He can’t come near me.”
That isn’t reassuring but I don’t want to scare her.
“He’ll be at the Horizon Inn,” she sneers as if she knows the drill from years of practice. “Knowing him, he’ll be ordering takeout and hookers while living like a slob. Not caring at all about what he did.”
Horizon Inn, takeout, and hookers, huh?
“You shouldn’t be alone, though,” I insist.
“My mother and sister are going to stay with me for a while.”
“That’s good.” I rest my hand over hers. “You can call me if you need to. If you have any questions at all.”
A soft creak comes from the hallway, only noticeable to me because over the years I’ve cataloged every sound this house makes. I flick my gaze up to my father in the doorway. He tips his head in a quick nod of approval and silently slips away.
Laurel grabs another tissue and blows her nose. “She’ll be cremated in her casket by herself, right?”
“Yes, of course.” I squeeze the blanket. “Wrapped in this and anything else you’d like me to place with her.”
“Good.” She frowns. “Does that cost extra?”
“What? No. Don’t worry about any of that. Everything has been taken care of for you.”
She blinks and wipes tears away. “Really?”
“Yes.
More tears flow over her cheeks. “Thank you for everything. Both you and your father.”
You’re welcome sounds painfully inadequate. “Of course. I meant what I said, if you have any questions, no matter how small, you can call me at any time.”
“This is what kept me awake.” She pats the blanket affectionately.
After she leaves, I honor my promise.
I’m finishing up when my father joins me.
“Horrible, horrible thing.” He rests his hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay?”
I start to nod but end up shaking my head. “No. I’m angry. That man shouldn’t be granted bail. But it looks like he’ll get out.”
My father nods in agreement. “I was hoping he’d get served inmate justice, but he won’t even be in there long enough. Hopefully, he’s convicted and gets sent to prison.”
Hopefully. Too many variables. Too many what-ifs.
Where’s the justice?
“Babies and children are always the hardest.” My father’s voice cracks. He touches the edge of the blanket. “This is a beautiful way to make sure she’s wrapped up in her mother’s love.”
“I thought so too,” I whisper.
He focuses on me with concern in his eyes. “I heard you singing to the baby earlier.”
I nod. We always take special care with children and babies.
“Your mother used to do that too.” His voice turns distant but full of affection.
I swallow hard. My memories of my mother are few but the ones I have are of her warmth and gentleness. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes. Dad rarely brings her up—it still hurts too much even after all these years. Hearing him mention her now, in the context of my work, stirs something deep inside me.