Oh,thatbrother-in-law. “No, that was my late husband’s younger brother.” The one who wasn’t estranged from the family. He was at my trial and sat on the opposite side of the court room from where Craig was sitting.
“Sometimes it’s hard for those who’ve lost a loved one to move on and see the truth for what it is. But hopefully in time he will, and you’ll no longer be a news story he can capitalize on.” Delores pulls me in for a hug, one I’ve been so desperate for during the past few days. I return her hug, not wanting the moment to end.
I’m so tired—a tired that has nothing to do with me writing late into the night. I’m tired and I’m trying so hard not to break down in tears.
“It’s going to be okay, Jess,” Delores says, her voice a low lullaby. “I promise you, things will eventually get brighter again. But do let me know if you need anything.”
I release her and step away. “I will. Thank you. And thank you for everything you’ve done for me.”
She touches my cheek. “Of course, dear. You’ve become like a granddaughter to me.”
Her words crack the dam holding back my tears, and I almost choke on a sob.
I excuse myself before she can see them, and I rush to my house.
57
JESSICA
September, Present Day
Maple Ridge
I step into the backyard,a stack of paper and a pen in my hand. The blue September sky is free from clouds that might have otherwise been a nightmare for the festival today. Troy couldn’t have asked for better weather.
I shove down the pang of pain that has sat in my chest since the day I pushed him away. The antidepressants I’ve been taking for the past three weeks can take up to six weeks to fully kick in.
But even then, expecting them to heal my heart is probably asking too much.
Troy hasn’t texted or called me. He hasn’t made any attempt to reach out, not even as a friend. I lost him as that too.
His brothers—especially Garrett and Kellan—have regularly come by to check on me during the past three weeks. Garrett mostly talks about writing novels and gardening. Kellan just sits and doesn’t say much, which I appreciate more and more with each visit. I gave him the noise-canceling headphones Troy lent me and asked him to return them to Troy.
Simone, Zara, Emily, and Avery have also come over to make sure I don’t bury myself too deep in the novel I’m writing…and too deep in my grief.
I sit on the wrought-iron chair where I’ve spent the past six weeks writing about Angelique’s time in occupied France. Anne is due to drop by in a few hours. I told her I have something important for her.
Bailey picks up her toy fire hydrant from the grass. The loudsqueeeeeeeakstartles a small bird in the tree. The bird flies away.
I draw in a long breath, filling my lungs with the soothing scent of pine and the early days of fall. Autumn began three days ago, and the colors of the leaves are already starting to change.
I open the article “Confessions of an Abused Wife” and read through it for the final time. I do the same for three other articles I’ve written since I poured my heart out on that one. The articles have become part of my therapy. Like journaling.
As expected, each one is raw and hopefully eye-opening and compelling. They don’t include quotes from experts I’ve interviewed—because I haven’t—or from other people going through the same things that I have.
The articles are completely based on my experiences, with quotes from credible sources to solidify my points. Points about discrimination against those who have spent time in prison for minor crimes or who have been wrongfully imprisoned. About the misguided beliefs some people have toward the victims and survivors of domestic abuse. They are a voice for those who don’t feel like they have one. Fuckers, maybe I still don’t have a voice. For me to have a voice, people have to hear it.
I reread the carefully crafted pitches and press releases I wrote over the past week. Each one is for a different article and for a different media outlet. None of the places are the ones that had requested an exclusive interview with me when I had pitched the PTSD articles.
Once I’m satisfied with everything, I email the query letters and articles to the appropriate individuals. It might be that in the end no one will be interested, but if I don’t take this baby step, I’ll never be able to move forward. I’ll always be stuck in the past, buried under a shitload of shame and regret.
With that done, I pull out my phone and click on the photo Grace sent me of Amelia playing with her dog. She’s so beautiful. So happy.I can do this.It’s time I move on, as much as it hurts.
I put the phone on the table, pick up the pen and paper, and get to work on writing the letter I’ve been thinking about for the past four days. A letter I’m not sure I could write if not for the medication that is beginning to help with my anxiety and depression.
Dear Craig and Grace,
I promise this is the last time I plan to reach out to you about your daughter Lia.
