Grip Trilogy Box Set - Kennedy Ryan Page 0,378

her to our kids, making sure they know they have a big sister looking out for them all the time, even though they never met her.

“You can have it, Mommy,” Martin offers, his smile slipping, his childish intuition untried, but sharp enough to pick up on the shift of emotions. “I-I drew it for you, so we can put it in the twins’ nursery.”

“It’s so good, Martin. That’s a great idea,” I say, glancing at Bristol, who stares down at the paper. Even though she isn’t crying, her eyes have that look of shattered glass she gets sometimes when she thinks of our little glory baby. She did therapy. We both did, but therapy doesn’t always eradicate hurt. Sometimes it just helps us carry it better, teaches us how to best bear our burdens.

“This is your most beautiful drawing yet, son,” Bristol says after a deep breath, reaching down to caress the purple stick/feather. “I love it very, very much. It will look perfect in the nursery.”

She bends to kiss his hair, closes her eyes tightly and then cups Nina’s little head and kisses her forehead, too. She clears her throat and pulls back to spread an overbright smile between our children and says, “Who’s ready for shave ice?”

Bristol

Demise.

That’s how the nurse described what was happening to my baby, the significance of the purple feather hanging on Zoe’s door in the hospital. The feather that rests in her memory box now, along with all the other keepsakes from her brief time with us.

A demise.

It does hurt less than it used to. At first, I couldn’t think about Zoe without aching and tumbling into a black hole. A witless Alice in an arid Wonderland. I would flinch at the sound of Zoe’s name, not because I didn’t want to hear it, but because I wanted to hold her so badly. It’s been years, but my body perfectly recalls the sweet little weight of her in my arms. Her new baby scent still fills my nostrils if I draw a deep enough breath. I remember the dark tangle of downy curls brushing against my cheek. Some days my senses are locked in a room with those memories, and I don’t want to leave because she’s still there. As difficult as that day was, in that memory, she’s still there.

But life goes on. It has moved on, and I’m at baby three and four. I’m years into a marriage I grew up thinking wasn’t even possible.

“You okay?”

I glance up from the table, from Martin’s drawing, which I’ve found myself pulled back to all day, to see Mama James, wearing concern on her unlined face. The dining room is clear of dishes from tonight’s meal, and everyone’s gone to their respective corners. It’s just Mama James and me.

“I’m fine.” The smile I give her is genuine because after all we’ve been through, Grip’s mother is one of the people who always makes me smile. The same way I couldn’t imagine being married to someone as wonderful as Grip, I couldn’t have imagined having a mother-in-law like Mittie James.

The concern on her face stays put.

“I promise I’m fine,” I say. “Just thinking. Remembering.”

“Anything you want to talk about?” Her voice is soft. Her eyes, as usual, are knowing.

“I’m all talked out. A lifetime of expensive therapy will do that to a girl. I guess I’m feeling more than thinking, but I’m good.”

“Okay. I’m here if you need me.”

“You’ve done more than enough. This is your vacation, too. Let Shondra and me cook tomorrow. We can at least handle lunch.”

“I think I will get me some sun.”

“Now you’re talking.” I sigh and stand from the table, kiss her cheek. “I’m gonna turn in. Take a quick bath since Grip’s putting the kids to bed.”

“Alright. I’ll see you in the morning.” She gives me a wry grin. “I may even let you cook breakfast.”

“Oh, well, I definitely need to get some sleep,” I laugh.

“Lemme get on in here and whoop Shondra and Amir’s ass.”

It’s gonna be a long night down here and the squabbling will be loud. Mama James takes her spades very seriously, and Amir does not back down from Mama James. Poor Kenya and Shondra will be caught in the cross hairs of their bluster.

“Definitely a bath for me,” I say, grabbing Martin’s drawing and turning to head up the stairs. “Goodnight.”

I run water into the deep porcelain extravagance of the master suite’s bath tub, but I don’t soak as long as I planned. There’s