I remove the headphones. The chanting hasn’t stopped, but the intensity is far less than it was earlier. Maybe some of the protesters have gone home for lunch or my words got through to them. I hope my words got through to them.
Bailey bounds over to me, and I stroke her, happy to see her again. Her tail wags, and she plonks her ass on the cobblestones by my feet.
I look up at Simone. “I’m sorry for what they said to you when you left.”
She offers me a wide smile that’s like a big warm hug, and it eases something in me. “What you said out there…you shocked a lot of them. They weren’t expecting you to say any of that. They weren’t expecting you to stand up for yourself.”
A short, self-deprecating laugh huffs over my lips. “Maybe if I had stood up for myself a little more while in prison, I wouldn’t have almost died.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“No,” I say on a sigh. “From day one, it was like some of the prisoners and guards were out to get me. I was afraid.So afraid. Not just of them hurting me, but of what would happen if I tried to protect myself.”
Simone’s eyes seem to delve inside me and search for what makes me tick. And for once, I don’t try to refortify the wall around me. The wall Troy has been slowly destroying brick by brick. I let her see the raw, uncensored pain that’s been hidden inside me for too long.
“How are you doing?” she asks. “I don’t mean about what happened out there.” She points to the gate. “It’s like you’re sad. Sadder than normal.”
I’m not sure how to answer. Later in my marriage and during my incarceration, I made myself numb so I didn’t have to feel much of anything. And now that the safe containing my emotions has been flung open—thanks to therapy—I’m dealing with a flood of emotions like never before. Therapy is helping, but there are days when the coping strategies I’ve learned are not enough, and I’m left trying to keep my head above the water.
“Let’s go inside for lunch.” I don’t need anyone else hearing any part of this conversation.
The four of us go into the house, and I grab a couple of plates from the cabinet and pour lemonade into two glasses. The dogs settle down on Bailey’s bed. It’s barely large enough for them both, but they don’t seem to mind.
I pile the samosas from the Picnic & Treats bag onto a serving plate and take a seat at the kitchen table.
“Sooo,” Simone begins, removing a samosa from the plate, “why do I have the feeling it’s not just the protesters that are responsible for making you sad? Does it have something to do with your daughter?”
I startle at how easily she’s pinpointed part of the problem. But after what she went through with losing her own baby, her mother’s instincts shouldn’t surprise me.
I nod and tell her about the phone call from my brother-in-law. “Amelia’s eighth birthday is tomorrow. I was hoping to get to spend it with her. Or at least see her sometime soon.” I fiddle with my samosa, pulling tiny bits of deep-fried dough from it. “It was delusional thinking, but five years of living in prison can have that effect on you.”
“There’s nothing wrong with hoping to spend your daughter’s birthday with her. After I lost my baby, I’d go to Lily’s grave on her birthday. And every year around that date, I would struggle with depression.”
“I struggled the most in prison when it was Amelia’s birthday. It was one more painful reminder of everything I had lost. Did visiting your daughter’s grave help?”
Simone dips her samosa into her chutney container. “Yes. No. Until Lucas recently learned the truth that I had once been pregnant, Avery was the one who’d been there for me on Lily’s birthday. But that didn’t help me move on. Not in the way I needed. What do you usually do for your daughter’s birthday? How do you celebrate it?”
“I threw parties for her first two birthdays. After I was arrested, I had to treat Amelia’s birthday like it was any other day.” I would dream about her birthday parties—the ones I wasn’t part of—and of her blowing out her candles, but that was all I could do.
“You know, there’s no law that states you can’t commemorate your daughter’s birthday if you can’t be with her. Her birthday is still a reason to celebrate. You gave birth to a beautiful baby girl, and she’s able to have a wonderful life because of the sacrifices you made for her.”
I take a bite of my samosa and chew it, mulling over Simone’s words. She might have a point. I swallow the spicy food. “You’re right. I’d never thought of it that way before.”
“You can get a small birthday cake to mark the day. Maybe include Troy in the celebration. I’m sure he would love to do that for you. Or you could celebrate it on your own. Do whatever will make the day special foryou.”
Evie mentioned the other day that Taylor used to be a tattoo artist. The memory of the gorgeous hibiscus design on Evie’s shoulder sparks an idea. “I think I know what I want to do,” I tell Simone.
I call Taylor. She answers on the third ring. “Hey, Jess.”
“Hi. What is the name of the tattoo studio you used to work at? I’m thinking of getting a tattoo.”
“What kind of design are you looking at?”
I explain my idea to her. “It’s to symbolize someone who is special to me, but who can’t be with me. I want a way to keep her close.”
“The studio is usually closed on Sundays, but let me call Jeannie. I’d be happy to do your tattoo for you, Jess, if you want. I love what you’re thinking of doing.”
Gratitude swells in my chest. Gratitude and excitement. “Thank you. I would love that. Evie showed me the flower tattoo you inked on her shoulder. It’s gorgeous.”
