11

The ride from the hospital gave me time to think, but I discovered that thinking was not something I wanted to do. The tree canopied Washout Express exit used to hold so much peace for my heart. The turmoil I felt the first time I took this drive could not hold a candle to the tortured heart that plagued me now.

I glanced up to the front seat where Scott drove in silence. I’d sat in a wheelchair at the hospital watching him install two car seats, and then buckle Paul and Helen with care. Pride glowed from his eyes, until he looked at me, then they clouded with worry. I slipped in the back seat beside the babies, my incision stinging with the exertion of the trip up to the seventh floor.

“You all right back there?” Scott peered at me through his rear-view mirror.

“Just tired.” I glanced over at the sleeping twins.

“Almost there,” he said. “I love you.”

The emotion in his voice warmed my heart. If anyone was ever meant to be a father, it was Scott.

“Daddy’s driving really carefully, gonna get you home safe and sound,” he whispered. He had to break suddenly as a reckless driver pulled in front of him. “Oops, Daddy’s sorry, twinsies.”

Daddy’s sorry, tell Brenna Daddy’s sorry.

The words echoed in my head and then the sound of the gunshot.

“No!” I gripped the top of Scott’s seat. “No!”

Paul and Helen both woke and started crying.

Scott pulled to the side of the road, turned off the car and jumped out. He yanked open the backseat door. “What’s the matter? What happened?” He reached across and tried to comfort the twins by patting the tops of their heads.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know. The memory. The gunshot.” I hid my face in my hands. A tsunami welled up in my throat and choked me. My chest heaved but breaths wouldn’t come. My eyes burned with tears that wouldn’t flow.

Warm arms enveloped me. “Breathe with me, just try and breathe with me.”

I closed my eyes and willed my breathing to mimic Scott’s. That giant lump in my chest was anger, I knew it. The babies crying subsided, and I needed to nurse. If I let that anger come, it could hurt them, hurt all of us.

Maybe if Scott would hold me tighter, it would push back down. I reached both my arms around him and pulled him even closer.

“I think we should go back to the hospital. You really aren’t ready to come home,” he said, lifting one arm to cradle my face.

“Home is where I need to be. I don’t know what happened. The memory takes over and I’m constantly in the place just before it happens. As if I could stop it or something.” A chilly breeze wafted into the back seat.

Scott used both hands to cradle my face, put our foreheads together and whispered a prayer for me.

I inhaled the cold air and it sobered me. The knot in my chest subsided.

“All right,” he said. He opened his mouth to say more but pressed his lips together. Most likely thinking he’d call my mom as soon as we got home. I knew he wouldn’t let this outburst go. He grasped both my shoulders and set me back against the seat, and then got back behind the wheel.

Scott switched on the radio, and Christmas carols filled the car. I noticed a fragrance card hanging from the rear-view mirror shaped like a Christmas tree. He’d never have thought of that for himself. He did it for me. Christmas. Time, the holidays, everything kept moving forward. Everything, except me.

I pushed the window button and let it down an inch, breathing in the cool autumn air. I closed my eyes and reached out to my babies. The softness of their skin calmed me. I’d had difficulty nursing in the hospital. Mom assured me that it would go better when I got relaxed at home. They must have gotten some nourishment in the nursery to be able to sleep so soundly. The easy whiffling of their breath caught my heart. So sweet and pure.

But their mother was in a very dark place.