of the classroom are green chalkboards lightened by smears of erased chalk and an old wooden desk near the window with a lady sitting on the corner of it watching a young guy try to write some formula on the chalkboard. The kids are silent; I can hear the chalk tapping against the board as he attempts to complete the problem. The lady on the edge of the desk has her back to me, is wearing a short blue dress, a long braid of auburn hair hanging past her neckline. Propped on the edge, she swings her leg a little while the student hesitates, stares at the problem he’s trying to solve. He stops and drops his hand to his side, and after a few seconds the lady says something and the class erupts into laughter; the boy laughs, too, and returns to his seat. The lady goes to the board and steps partly out of view. She finishes the problem—three lines and she’s done—then tosses the chalk on the ledge of the board, claps her hands free of dust, and spins around to face the classroom.
I inhale so hard and fast I might have robbed Sean of anything to breathe.
It’s Melody.
I pull back from the window as though someone punched me in the face, cling to the wall like I’m trying to avoid a surveillance camera. I peek from a farther distance. Three years have passed since I last saw her, yet she seems to have grown younger, looks like she’s twenty-five instead of approaching thirty. I feel like Scrooge, except I’m seeing the past, present, and future all at once. I’m spying the version of Melody she was always meant to be, almost unrecognizable, the beaten woman who finally escaped her abusive environment and has completed a comprehensive restoration. Her face is full and tanned, every word that escapes from her lips makes its way past a peaceful smile. She crosses her feet as she stands in front of the students, tucks a few hairs that have broken free of the braid behind her ears—the move pulls a sigh from my lungs with such force that my shoulders slouch as the air escapes. She says something else and the class laughs again. As she smiles at the students, I drop down on my knees, make it look to Sean like my movement is intentional instead of the truth: I’m on the verge of collapsing.
Sean stands across the hall, back to the wall, one knee bent and foot propped up. I can barely move, barely look up at him; he frowns in my direction. This has hit me harder than I’ve ever been hit in my life. I stare up at Sean the way the guy in the alley in Baltimore looked up at me, with the knowledge that destruction is moments away.
I slowly pull myself to my feet. I glide along the wall until I can once again look in the classroom. I watch Melody speak, still cannot make out any words, cannot hear the true sound of her voice. She motions with her hands as she explains something, large round earrings swing next to her face with each movement. Half the class raise their hands at the same time and she points toward a girl, listens as she rubs her lips with the back of a finger, then nods her head and comments on the girl’s answer.
Her skin is darker then I ever remember, from any year or age, still showing the remnants of a summer tan, and her hair holds the color of amber ale, so rich and red you couldn’t help but stare to the point of discourtesy. She pulls the braid over her shoulder and plays with the end of it as she listens to a student speak.
I could spend the day here, might never look away. Melody’s face brims with contentment, her smile so pure and perpetual; I could’ve never made her this happy.
But then a thought occurs to me and I correct myself: What I did made her this happy.
I say, “It worked. Everything she and I went through, all of the risks and things we surrendered, it all worked. I saved her.”
Sean smirks. “Saved her? You wrecked her.” He walks up behind me, looks at Melody over my shoulder. “Look at her left hand.”
As she slides it up and down her braid, the unmistakable shimmer catches my eye: a diamond-studded wedding band.
Second only to the notion of never seeing her again,