The Battered Heiress Blues - By Laurie Van Dermark Page 0,5

the police and get that over with. Then, I promise I will find Conner. I’ll bring him to you. You have my word.” He walked to the sink and wet a washcloth, returning and wiping dried blood from my hairline.

“I won’t think about that night. I can’t.” I turned away from him toward the window, losing myself in the vastness of the sky, angry that he was pressing me to participate in remembering the attack.

“You have to tell them what you know. There is nothing more important. He has to pay for what he did to you and the baby.”

“I can’t…talk about this…ever.” My eyes began to well up with tears, but I held onto them as best I could.

“They’re not going to accept that, Julia. The embassy wants answers on why an American was attacked. They won’t let this go.”

“I don’t remember anything. I don’t know who did this.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“What will the truth bring me? My son is dead. There’s nothing to tell. You tell them that. It’s done. I’m taking him home. Make the arrangements.”

Henry could sense that I was fragile. He didn’t push against my defiance. He reluctantly shook his head in agreement.

“I’ll tell them that we’ll send a written statement in a few weeks, once you’re home and you’ve had some time to reflect on the importance of justice.”

“Get Connor…there is nothing more important,” I replied, my tone unkind.

“In here?”

“Yes. Can you help me into the rocking chair?” I said, trying to pull my body up into a seated position.

“Of course, but wait- let me help you,” he insisted. Henry walked over to the rocker and placed it alongside the bed, carefully pulling me to the edge and down into the chair. The discomfort was evident on my face.

“Thank you,” I muttered, trying to catch my breath.

“Are you sure about this, Jewels? Is this a good idea?”

“Probably not, but I was supposed to deliver him, in this very hospital, next week. I have to hold him, Henry. Please.”

While his judgment softened, the expression on his face was one of worry and premature regret. “Then I’ll be back in a few minutes. Will you be okay alone?”

“Yes,” I responded as if asking a question.

After he left, my mind returned to the day of the assault. I grew concerned wondering if Maria and her family were safe. Helping them had cost me everything. As I reached for the phone to make inquiries, the door opened and a nurse cautiously pushed a bassinet toward me.

There was my son, swaddled in a white blanket with a blue cap pulled down over his head. His eyes were closed and his face was very pale, but the corners of his mouth seemed to hold a small smile. He looked as if he were simply sleeping- like any loud noise would startle him and prompt a crying spell.

Henry knew me well. Dismissing the nurse, he asked that no one disturb us. I was thankful for that- for him being with me. He reached in and picked up Connor, pausing to steal a moment before gently placing him in my arms. That’s when it happened. A mix of emotions overwhelmed me so completely. I was happy, but sad. I was enraged, yet at peace. He was finally in my arms, but unable to respond to my voice or touch. Our roles had reversed. As a mother, the job of comforting my child was meaningless. Connor comforted me now.

Henry stood over me as I began to rock my baby. His discomfort was palpable. He wasn’t a man that was accustomed to not having the answers or perfect quip to alleviate an awkward moment.

“Do you want me to go?” he whispered.

“Do you want to stay?”

“Do you need me to stay?”

“No,” I replied, letting him off the hook.

“I’ll go get us some coffee. Would that be okay?”

“Okay? Yes.” I became keenly aware of the remarkable talent I had for clearing a room.

We were alone at last. With Henry gone and the promise of no interruptions, I began humming a lullaby- mostly for me. I wasn’t so far gone that I expected to soothe my dead child, but I needed a moment of normalcy. Unwrapping him as we rocked, I counted his fingers and toes. He had ten of each. This was the time that Connor should have gripped my finger. He didn’t.

My hands were drawn to his cap. Tugging at the fabric revealed dark, thick hair- so soft. This was too much. He was