What was I doing? Her opinion of me was going to sink to the depths of sewer scum after this. Too late, my fingers were already strumming the tune I’d had in my head constantly for weeks.
I opened my mouth and closed my eyes, pouring my heart into the song I’d written for her.
You woke me up,
and I brought you down
Had me on cloud nine,
and feeling proud
I ran away,
from the one I love
Ruined chances,
I was dreaming of
You can depend on me
Baby, will you bend to me?
Don’t be sending me
Away, away, away
So baby,
can you hear me out?
Or baby,
will you scream and shout?
’Cause there’s no way,
this will go away
This love,
it is here to stay
You can depend on me
Baby, will you bend to me?
Don’t be sending me
Away, away, away
Hangin’ by a string,
What could possibly bring
You back to me?
My guitar apology?
You can depend on me
Baby, will you bend to me?
Don’t be sending me
Away, away, away
I unclenched my eyelids to find her chewing on her lips, her eyes glossy with tears.
She sniffed, clearing her throat. “What’s it called?”
“‘Guitar Apology.’”
“It’s good.” Her mouth curved with a hint of a smile. “You say you took me like an animal. I loved it. I loved what we did. It was perfect. You made me feel desirable, sexy. I wanted you hungry for me.”
Her words punched me in the gut and lifted me through the roof at the same time. She’d loved it. I was such a fucking idiot.
“Don’t ever hurt me again.” The words crumbled as she twisted away from me, swiping at the moisture streaming down her face.
I got out, abandoning the guitar on the front seats and joined her in the back. She’d curled in on herself. Shit. Do I hug her? Will she let me? Whatever hope I’d had deflated like a limp penis. That hadn’t gone as well as I had planned. I banged my head back on the headrest, waiting for her to run from the car.
She didn’t.
She crawled into my lap and sobbed.
I folded around her and breathed her in. “I will never leave you again.”
Please don’t ever leave me.
Emmeline
Hampshire, England
9th of March, 1868
Marybeth wiped a cool cloth over my brow and held my hand as I bore down through another contraction. It had been eight months since my father had tossed the earl from the property. I only hoped the timing concluded the baby was Sebastian’s and not an early delivery of Reginald Fortescue’s offspring.
“’Tis crowning. Not long now.”
“I am going to be sick.”
She dropped my hand and ran to fetch a bowl.
I leaned over the side of the bed and vomited on the floorboards, unable to wait. “Sorry.” Resting back on the pillow, I pressed a palm to my forehead. My head was threatening to split open and my vision blurred in and out of focus. “I cannot—” Bowing forward, pain ripped through my stomach. “Aargh!”
The overwhelming feeling that I had done this before settled in my chest. I had a son. His father’s name was “Ben.”
“Pardon, miss?”
“Ben. If it is a boy, name him Benjamin Sebastian.”
“You can name him yourself.”
I shook my head. No. I had to return. It was time.
Another contraction squeezed my insides. I screamed as my flesh tore, allowing the baby’s head to enter the world. White spots danced across my vision. I fought for breath. With one more push, the body followed. I collapsed onto the mattress, fighting to stay conscious.
Marybeth gathered the crying baby in a towel and held it up for me to see. “’Tis a boy, miss.”
Ben. Sweet boy.
“Look after him ... for ... m—”
My eyes drifted shut.
“Miss? Miss!”
My heartbeat sputtered and stalled.
_____
Ben
Brisbane, Australia
8th of January 2017
I hummed our song, holding her hand, being careful not to mess with any tubes. My forehead rested on the bedrail as my eyes traced the pattern on the lino floor. This had become my routine over the last couple of weeks. Mum would look after Seb, while I came to visit Andy. I’d walk in with a question on my face. The nurses all knew what I was asking. The answer was always the same.
“No change.”
Her hair had appeared greasy today. I’d have to remember to ask the nurses to help me wash it. There must be a way. Her skin was cold against mine. She smelled like Sorbolene cream. They must’ve given her a bed bath recently. The machine keeping her breathing gave me a beat to hum to even if it wasn’t the right tempo. I slowed my song down to match her. And I would do it for the rest of her life.
The song came to an end.
“Seb smiled today. I think he may have had gas, but I’ll take it.” I raised my head and smiled at her. “He regained the weight he lost after birth, plus two hundred grams already.” I rubbed my thumb in circles on the back of her hand. “He’s doing great. He needs his mamma. Come back to us, Andy.” I broke our connection and pushed my fists into my eye sockets. I was so fucking sick of crying. It didn’t do shit. Didn’t solve anything. Didn’t make me feel better—just made it worse.
It didn’t bring her back.
I dropped my arms, sighing. Maybe I needed a coffee.
Hauling to my feet, I wiped my palms on my jeans and turned towards the door. Making it three steps clear, I stopped when the beep of the heart monitor changed behind me.
