Dear Emily (Forever Family) (6 page)

Philadelphia, PA

Past

Age 19

It’s been
three weeks since I escaped from Hell. Three weeks since I got away from that pig, Tony.

Five weeks since I gave up my little girl.

Sara.

I’ve lived with nineteen years of emptiness.

I left Oregon in the dust. The wad of money that I took from Tony’s pocket was the mother-load.

Four thousand, five hundred dollars!

I know that if he ever gets his hands on me again, he will kill me. I’ve never seen him carry this much money on him before, so this must have been for something significant. Shit. I don’t care. It’s mine now, and I’m so far away. He won’t find me.

I hope.

I took several busses across the country, and I didn’t do any sightseeing. I just wanted to get to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania as fast as I could. My hometown.

I was able to rent an efficiency apartment on the north end of Philly. Not the greatest area, but it was someplace that I could afford and call home.

Home.

I need to make this feel like my home.

I found a job waitressing three nights a week at a diner two bus stops away from my apartment. Again, not in the best part of the city, but it’s a job. I also found a second job in a small bookstore. I worked it out so my shifts for both don’t overlap. I need to keep adding to this little nest egg that Tony so graciously started for me.

I cringe. What a douchebag!

I don’t know why I spent so many years with Tony.

I was desperate and ran away from foster home after foster home. I made it across the country when I was seventeen years old and wound up in Portland, Oregon. The first place I came across was Tony’s club. I lied to the manager about my age. He only cared about my tits and hired me on the spot.

The moment that Tony saw me working the tables near the stage, he approached me and said that I was something ‘special’. Yeah, special enough to fuck and then beat the shit out of on a regular basis. But what did I know at that point?

He talked me into renting the apartment above the club. He knew I needed a cheap place to stay and how could I turn down two hundred dollars per month rent? Little did I know what would follow. Almost daily beatings, sexual abuse. Fuck.

I shake my head to snap myself out of it. That is over now.

I’m starting my new life.

I touch my cheek where Tony cut me. I have a jagged scar about four-inches long that is still healing. One day, when I have enough money, I’m going to get it fixed and erased. I don’t want this reminder to carry around and wear like a badge for all to see. It’s disgusting and a reminder of what I am. Of who I am. Of what I’ve done. Fucking scar.

Today I’m working at my favorite place on earth, the bookstore. Nothing smells better than a crisp, new book. I could inhale the scent of these books all day. Ah. Yes, I’m weird. The bookstore is quiet today as it is almost every day and I’m here by myself while Kirsten, the owner, is out to lunch.

As I’m arranging the latest books to display, I hear the door chimes jingle.

Not turning around, I yell, “I’ll be right with you!”

I stack a few books on a shelf and turn my head toward the front of the store.

I see a guy standing by the front counter, and he’s playing with the bookmarks that are hanging from the metal hooks on the small display case. He’s actually
playing
them as if they were
instruments
. He’s weaving his fingers back and forth against the strings of the hanging bookmarks, and I swear his lips are moving, silently singing a song to the music he is creating with those bookmarks.

“Excuse me.” I stare at his lips while trying to figure out the words he’s mouthing.

He stops abruptly and snaps out of the creative trance that he’s in. I almost apologize for disturbing him. I shake my head. What is wrong with me?

He turns to look at me, and I immediately start stuttering. “How… How can… can I help you?” His eyes are so dark brown that I can almost see my reflection in them. He’s beautiful. Not too tall, just about six feet. Jet-black hair, a little long and spiked on the top. Pale skin. Thin, but not too thin. Tattoos on his arms make them look like he has sleeves under his tight black tee shirt. He’s wearing black jeans and black Chuck Taylors.

I have now completely lost the ability to speak.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m looking for a music book.”

“Oh,” I answer. “What kind of music book? Instructional? A certain instrument?”

He huffs a little. “No. I mean a book that I can
write
music in,” he answers.

He’s a musician.

My eyes glaze over, and I don’t speak. I just stare.

At him.

“So?” he says. “Do you have any?”

I snap out of it and shake my head back and forth as if to shake cobwebs from my hair.

“Um, no. We don’t have music ledgers. I’m sorry.” And I really am sorry.

Like really sorry.

I couldn’t be more sorry.

I almost say I’m sorry again because that’s how sorry I am.

I shake my head.

“OK.” He turns to leave.

“Wait!” I yell. I don’t want him to leave.

Think Tabby!

I grab the three-subject notebook that I was using to take inventory earlier this morning, open it up and rip out the pages that I used. I thrust the notebook at him and say, “Here! Use this!”

He turns around and wraps his hand around the end of the notebook, brushing his fingers along mine. Across the knuckles of his right hand are tattooed letters that spell ‘E-P-I-C’. Holy hell. His rough, calloused fingers feel divine.

“You’re giving me your notebook?” he asks almost incredulously.

“Well, yeah.” I answer back.

“Cool,” he says with a slight chuckle. Then he smiles at me, and my knees almost collapse. “Thanks.”

He hesitates before he takes the notebook from my hands, and he stares at me. He’s squinting his eyes trying to figure me out. I’m so drawn to him.

“Well.” He pulls the notebook and I release it. “I’ve gotta run. But…”

“What?” I interrupt him. Shit.

He continues. “My band is playing at the ‘High Note’ on Friday night at nine. Why don’t you come and I can buy you a drink? You know. To thank you for the notebook?” He winks at me.

I’m not twenty-one. I have no chance of getting into the High Note. Shit. I have a shift at the diner that I’m supposed to work.

“Yes! I’ll be there!” I answer. My damn mouth doesn’t listen to my damn brain.

“Great!” His smile gets bigger. “I’ll leave your name at the door. You should have no trouble getting in.”

“OK,” I say quietly.

He smiles. “I’m Alex. Alex Treadway.”

“Hi Alex. I’m Tabitha. Tabby. Tabby Fletcher.”

“OK, Tabitha. Tabby. Fletcher. See you Friday night,” he says as he turns and walks out the door.

Alex.

I turn to the bookmarks that he was so magically playing, and swipe my hand through them. I swear I feel a vibration between my fingertips and hear the music that he created.

I think of the tattoo across his fingers.

E-P-I-C

I smile.

Yes, meeting him certainly was.

Spring Lake, New Jersey

Present

Age 29

Dear Emily,

Time is just flying by! We are getting ready for you my sweet little girl.

Your room has been painted (pink!) and your furniture has been ordered. I already have a rocking chair, and it’s the only piece of furniture in your room right now. I’m sitting in it as I write this letter to you! I feel like I can already smell you and feel you in this room.

Tonight, your Daddy painted your name onto the wall above where your dresser is going to be. He spent over three hours on this project! He wanted it to be perfect!

When he was done, he stood back, stared at the letters, and just nodded his head. He said, “Yes, Emily. You belong here.”

He is so right, sweetie. You do belong here.

I can’t wait!

I’m having lunch with Tabitha today, and I hope that she is OK. I think about her so much and it pains me to think about what she is going through. She loves you Emily. With all of her heart. She wants you to have the life that she can’t give you.

We are going to make her so proud and so happy with her decision. We’ve made that promise to her. Our Promise. We promise to love you and keep you safe forever.

Love and kisses,

Momma

I close my journal and lay it across my lap. It’s Sunday morning, and Kyle is out jogging. If I’m going to make it in time to meet Tabitha in Philadelphia for lunch, I need to get moving!

I stand up and place my journal on the chair that I was sitting in. I turn around and hug myself with my arms wrapped tight around my sides. I survey the room and close my eyes, picturing the room full of furniture and stuffed toys. Princess dolls and dollhouses. A smiling little girl with brown hair and eyes with the rosiest cheeks and the cutest dimple.

I pause to remember the day last year that we found out we couldn’t have children of our own.

Kyle and I sit across the desk from our reproductive endocrinologist, Dr. Banks. We have now attempted intrauterine insemination three times and in-vitro fertilization five times. All unsuccessful. During our last cycle, Dr. Banks ran some additional tests to try to figure out what was going on. Today we are about to find out those results.

“Kyle. Carly.” His gaze moves between us.

“I’m afraid the news isn’t good.” His face softens as he gently frowns.

We both take a deep breath as Kyle grabs my hand and squeezes tight. He rubs his thumb along my knuckles softly.

“As you know, during your last cycle, we tested the embryos that you produced.” He pauses to breathe. “Those embryos were all tainted. Tainted with bad DNA and chromosomal abnormalities. The stage that these embryos were in indicates with a high probability that your eggs, Carly, are extremely poor quality.”

Tears are now welling up in my eyes and about to spill over. Kyle shifts in his seat and moves closer to me, puts his arm around my shoulder and pulls me to him. My shoulders are shaking now, and I’m about to start heaving with sobs. Kyle knows this and just holds on.

Dr. Banks takes a pause and allows my emotions to settle.

Once I’ve regained my composure, I whisper, “Why?”

Dr. Banks raises his eyebrow. “Carly, Kyle, we’ve talked about the damage done to Carly’s reproductive tract caused by the infection she had when she was eighteen.” He turns to look into my eyes. “The scarring is extensive. What I didn’t realize was that the scarring also affected your ovaries. I am almost certain that this is causing a rapid decline in your egg quality, which in turn will produce very poor quality embryos.” He pauses to let us digest this statement.

“It’s my fault,” I whisper. “My fault.” I feel as if my insides are becoming cold and hollow. I’m being gutted by an invisible force.

Kyle grabs my hand and squeezes, turns to me and says, “Carly.”

I can’t listen to this any longer. I stop him. “Stop! I just can’t.”

Dr. Banks clears his throat. “Carly, there is no blame or fault here. What happened to you back then is not your fault. Believe me. There are other options we can discuss to help you have the family you want. The family that you both deserve.”

“No.” I state. Matter-of-fact.

“Carly,” Kyle says. “Let’s hear him out.”

I breathe deeply and nod in agreement. “Continue,” I say softly.

Dr. Banks continues. “We have the option to use donor eggs here. I’m very optimistic that this would work well. The majority of your scarring is in your fallopian tubes, external to your uterus. I’m still confident that you could carry a baby full term.”

“Donor eggs?” I ask incredulously. “Someone else’s egg with Kyle’s sperm?”

He nods.

“No.” I state. Again, matter-of-fact.

“Carly, let’s discuss this at home,” Kyle responds.

“There is nothing more to discuss Kyle. I’m done with doctors. Done with medicine. Done.” I start to stand up.

“Dr. Banks, you have been nothing but patient, kind, and informative, but I just can’t do this anymore.” I walk toward the door and hold my hand out for Kyle to join me.

He turns to Dr. Banks. “We’ll be in touch and thank you.”

We walk out the door.

We are silent until we are in the car. He turns to me. “Carly.”

“No!” I yell. “Kyle, I can’t! We have been going through medical procedures for the past four years! I can’t be poked and prodded any more! NO. MORE!”

I start sobbing now, and it feels good. For once, my sobbing feels like a real release. I’m ending this chapter of my life, and I need to move on to what is next. What that is, I don’t know at this point, but it isn’t more needles or turkey basters.

My sobbing turns to laughter. Holy shit, why am I laughing?

Kyle’s eyes are soft, and he reaches for my hand across the center console of the car.

“Carly, are you sure? Because if you are, I will do whatever you want. I love you, and we will get through this. Together.”

My laughter is slowing, but I still have tears streaming down my face. He smiles at me, chuckles, and then he shakes his head.

I’m like a crazy person with emotions flooding out of me.

“Yes, Kyle, I’m done.”

He smiles at me and wipes the tears from my cheeks with the back of his hands. He then softly cradles my face in his palms and says, “Then I’m done too.”

He leans across and softly places a chaste kiss on my wet lips.

“OK,” I whisper against his closed lips.

We stay like that in the car for a while, silently inhaling each other.

Then Kyle turns toward the steering wheel and drives us home.

~

That was an extremely difficult day for us. I honestly don’t know if and when I will ever get over the emotional loss of not being able to physically have my own child. But it’s finally time to move on, and we are, with Emily.

I wipe my eyes and head toward my bedroom. Finding a comfortable sweater and a pair of jeans, I get dressed, slip into my flip-flops, and I’m ready to meet Tabitha for lunch.

I get into my car and see that Kyle has already pre-programmed the GPS with the restaurant information. God I love this man! I wish I could thank him personally, but he’s still out on his run.

I put the car in reverse and let the GPS guide me to Philadelphia.

I hope Tabitha is OK.

I’m anxious.

I turn on the radio and drive.