crown. Her daughter sits at her feet, her hair woven through with the same flowers as her mother’s.
I can’t wait to meet them and see her with them.
I stop at a picture of Regan pregnant. She’s on a beach, in profile, standing in ankle deep surf. She’s wearing a brilliant blue sarong; her hair is loose and flowing behind her. Her hand cups her hugely pregnant stomach, and her head is bowed as if she’s talking to the baby.
I want to see her like that.
I never imagined that domesticity could be as thrilling as globe-trotting, but I’m getting that tingling just thinking about being in that backyard with her and the kids. I wonder if she wants more children.
I walk past her kitchen and enter a short hallway that has a door with a piece of paper with “Mom’s Office” written by a child’s hand in green crayon, decorated with huge red exclamation marks.
She’s got a small recording station set up at one end. At the other is a large, pristine white desk. The only thing on it is a small silver laptop, a cordless landline phone, and a huge computer monitor.
I sit in the white leather chair behind the desk and see a small business card tucked underneath the laptop. It reads simply, “The Jezebel” Herstory with a phone number on it and a URL.
I dial it. It goes straight to voicemail and Regan’s voice starts speaking. “You’ve reached The Jezebel. If you’ve got a tip, leave it after the beep. If you’re calling to try and scare me, you wasted your time.”
What the hell is she doing?
I go to the URL listed on the card and start reading. The logo is similar to the tattoo on her lower back, but it’s adorned with gold leaves.
“It is a universally recognized lie that well-behaved women rarely make history. In fact, it is only by behaving in ways that the men who write our history books approve of that they do. I’ve heard it said that The Jezebel is a voice for those of us who want to set the record straight and know that the person listening believes them. Tell me the truth that’s so inconvenient, you’ve been forced to rewrite it. Release the ache of your untold story. Let’s make herstory, together.”
There are three dozen episodes. The first one six months ago, around the time I sent her the book and my letters.
The first episode is titled: He Called it Revenge.
With my heart in my throat, I pop my earbuds in, click the link and start listening.
By the time I’m on the last episode, the sun has come up and my world view has been turned inside out. I’m afraid I’m going to be sick. My stomach heaves and my blood feels like it’s been set on fire. I’m sweating from the effort it’s taking to sit still.
Not just because now I know what happened to her the summer after her Freshman year. The other stories I heard and the assumptions and premises they’ve challenged me to question.
Tyson only knows half of what is wrong with Regan. Now that I know everything, I don’t blame her for wanting distance to figure it all out.
I only wish her grandfather was still alive so I could kill him myself.
How could he have done those things to her?
Even through these new lenses, one thing remains true. I wasn’t wrong all those years ago when I thought Regan was magic personified. My woman’s blood is tinged with mercury. Her spine is fortified by steel, her mind is wondrous, and her heart is a boundless bounty, and I love her without any condition.
And even though she’s proven herself more than capable, I won’t let her carry this load alone for one more day.
From the day she put her arms around me, meeting my fury with her gentle words and safe sanctuary, she started shaping me. When I saw her last, I swore that one day, she’d be mine. Since then, every decision I’ve made has been influenced by that goal.
Thank God that the struggles of my youth were a whetstone for my character, my confidence, and my tenacity. Regan’s walls are up so high, I’ll need all of them in spades to get over them.
I shut the computer down, walk back to the bedroom and crawl into bed with her. I draw her warm, sweet smelling body against my chest and close my eyes and let my mind shut down so I can get