Captured Again (20 page)

“Gabby, answer me,” Emma yelled through the door. She again thumped her knuckles against the door, louder and faster than before. “If you don’t answer, I’m coming in!”

Gabby couldn’t answer. More of her undeserved grief choked her with its persistence, not willing to let Gabby give any of it away, to share it with anyone. It was a harsh and greedy master and she its unwilling host. Her heavy sobbing turned into bawling moans, and Emma quickly opened the door. She gasped when she saw Gabby lying crumpled, naked, on the floor.

“Gabby! What is it?”

“I know, Emma. I... r-r-remember... now,” Gabby wept.

Emma dropped to the floor, to Gabby’s level, and gently lifted her face, looking into her eyes—eyes identical to Olivia’s and her own.

“You do, Gabby? You remember. Wait. What do you remember?” Emma asked hesitantly.

“I r-r-remember... the... f-f-funeral... and everything,” Gabby forced out around her wailing while pushing away Emma’s hand. Emma didn’t have to indulge her delusions anymore or pretend... or dance around the truth. Gabby expected her to be relieved that she was no longer her burden at the very least.

“It’s okay, Gabby. You’ll get through this. We did—we do... every day, and it gets easier.” Emma grabbed a towel from the rack for Gabby and covered her with it. “Gabby, I don’t know what to do. I’m sorry. This has always been Olivia’s area so I’m winging it, big sister. I’ll tell you like Olivia would if she were here. Buck up. Get in the shower. It’ll make you feel better. Then put on your big girl panties and come out. We can talk then—when one of us isn’t naked. This just feels weird, even if it is you.”

Emma took her arm and pulled her up, surprising Gabby with her strength. Gabby offered no resistance but no help either. She was clinging to the towel, finally covering her nakedness, though her soul felt bared.

Gabby watched Emma walk determinedly out of the bathroom and firmly shut the door. She reminded her of a mini-sized Olivia. Was that where her little sister was finding this strength—by emulating Olivia? How could she so calmly handle this, knowing it was Gabby’s fault and Gabby had avoided facing it by blocking it out for six weeks?

Gabby stepped into the shower, letting the water run down her face, the tears repeatedly playing a game of chase with the water streams, not deterred at all. She allowed herself to continue to cry just the time it took to wash, top to bottom, and then sucked in a huge breath, held it, then let it go.

She dried and dressed quickly, then jerked the comb carelessly through her wet hair, pulling hard at the tangles. She tried to avoid looking at the shattered mirror, but she couldn’t help it. One glance up and she saw dozens of miniature Gabby/Olivia meshed faces in the cracked glass, looking back at her. Her chin quivered as she closed her eyes forcefully, not wanting to see her face or Olivia’s. Not that Olivia would blame her; she knew she never would, but she knew that the three-minute head start Olivia got down the birthing canal had always made her think she was the
big
sister, the strong one, the one that always had to pick up the pieces, but she wasn’t here to pick up the pieces now. This was Gabby’s responsibility, and like the mirror, her life was shattered and barely held together. She had to be the strong one now, to do this on her own, without Olivia.

She stepped out of the bathroom, wet head and unembellished face, but ready to go. There was no use in expending too much energy fixing herself up. She had no illusions that the ugly bastard, grief, had gone for good. He’d be back any minute, and she’d end up just looking a mess anyway.

Before she left her bedroom, she glanced down at her outfit. The black pantsuit she’d grabbed before coming into the bathroom looked off, just... wrong.
Maybe too dressy?
Gabby thought as she rummaged through her closet, choosing jeans and a top instead. She stripped and redressed, slipping her feet into her knock-off Jimmy Choo heels—these shoes usually gave her confidence. She’d take any help she could get.

Now, she was ready.

Gabby opened her door to find Emma sitting primly opposite a still-uniformed Officer Rowan—another shock to start her day. She stood gaping at him, ignoring the fluttering in her stomach. She tilted her head, still staring, and asked, “Why are you here?”

“Um, I’m Officer Rowan. Emma asked me to stay,” Dusty answered sheepishly. “I hope you don’t mind. I thought it was a good idea after all that ruckus last night. Just in case... And you can call me Dusty.”

Gabby shook out of her daze and tried on a smile, but it felt forced. Her face fell back into its grave expression. She hesitated and then answered, “No. Of course not... I mean, I don’t mind you being here, and I will... call you Dusty. Thank you... for helping us—me—both of us. You’re welcome here anytime. I hope you didn’t get into any trouble with your job?”

“No, ma’am. My shift was nearly over anyway. I’m good. Everything’s cool,” Dusty said nervously, then quickly realized how it came out. “I mean... everything with my boss. I know everything’s not cool with you and all... I, um—”

“Officer Ro—I mean, Dusty. I know what you meant.” Gabby smiled at his nervousness, so much like Jake when she’d first met him. Little sister had picked Jake’s doppelganger, although probably five or so years younger. His personality, demeanor, and even looks were eerily similar to her husband. She noticed the striking resemblance last night when he’d saved her from her self-imposed box of captivity. She hoped Emma would grab onto this one; he seemed very nice and genuine.

“So. Where we going?” Emma asked, wide-eyed, as she looked Gabby up and down.

“WE are not going anywhere, Emma. I’m going alone,” Gabby answered firmly.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Gabby. You look like you’re dressed for a funeral. Where are you going?”

Gabby grabbed her purse and keys from the end table and faced Emma and Dusty. “Since I was mostly out of commission the first time, I’m having a redo. I’m going to the graveyard.”

“Gabby, you don’t have to do this alone. I’ll go with you. Or me and Dusty can drive you. Give me a few minutes to get ready.”

“Emma, as
you
said, it’s time I put on my big girl panties and talk. And talking to you isn’t going to help. I know who I need to talk to.”

Gabby turned around and walked to the door. “I’m not taking my cell. So don’t call.”

Emma waited a moment, staring at the closed door, then jumped up and ran into the spare bedroom she’d slept in—opposite the one where Dusty had refused to sleep—preferring instead to camp out on the couch with his gun nearby. She returned with her purse and settled back down in her chair before digging into it and finding her own phone.

“She said not to call her, Emma,” Dusty reminded her. “She doesn’t have her phone.”

“I’m not calling Gabby,” Emma answered firmly.

“Who you calling, then?”

“Reinforcements.”

CHAPTER 24

GABBY
slowly drove through the graveyard, trying not to kick up any dust from the winding dirt road onto the nicely kept graves and headstones. She was surprised at how much she remembered from that day now that her mind had allowed the memory to break through. She knew exactly where the plot was. The other details were still hazy, probably because of the sedatives, but she somehow knew exactly which way to go to where she needed to be; she was zoned in on the location.

She nudged her car off to the right of the little dirt road that meandered through the graveyard, getting as close to the gravesite as she could, but she would still have to walk a distance. Trying to keep it together, she focused her attention on each clumsy step in her stupid choice of shoes—she would have been better off in flats or sneakers—trying to step where other footsteps had beat the grass flat, marking those that went before her.

Each step brought new snapshots of memories from that day; it was all coming back. She had sat in chair at the front—the first row—with the family. Lines of dark suits and dresses had towered behind and all around them, appropriately matching her state of mind: dark, void of beautiful colors, only the color of sadness and regret—and guilt. She’d felt so small, sitting while they were standing, but she remembered not having the strength to stand.

She also remembered the cloying smell of dozens of perfumes and colognes, competing with the half dozen wreaths and sprays that were sent for the memorial assaulting her nose. As she had looked up to see where the smells were coming from, she’d caught just a glimpse of the flowers before looking back at her lap, blocking them out forever, until now. She remembered thinking how dare anyone send anything to brighten their mood or add festivities to this day? Whoever originally decided flowers at a funeral would make anyone there feel better—dead or alive—must’ve been a dumbass. But now, with distance from it, she could appreciate the gesture of the tradition. She would have to find out if anyone sent cards out thanking people yet.

Closer now to the place that held a piece of her heart, she stopped. She wasn’t sure what she would say. Would it come to her when she saw the stone? Or would she succumb to denial again? She was worried about herself, worried that the shock of seeing the marker would trigger her PTSD and would push her back into her false security of not remembering. She
wanted
to feel the pain and the loss. She didn’t want to be pushed back. How fair was that to anybody else? She needed to suffer, too.

A nearby landscaper kneeling in a flower bed looked up and gave her a questioning look. Gabby continued to walk, trying to appear surefooted and stony faced. He ended his unspoken question with a nod and then turned back to his work. He was probably thinking she was lost, and she was, but not in the way he thought. She just needed to keep moving forward.

She trudged on, repeating to herself, “I will remember. I will remember. I will remember,” until she finally saw the marker.

She was struck down by the pain.

This was the worse pain she’d ever felt—much harsher than the day she’d said good-bye to her baby boy—and the agony of it enveloped her. She fell to her knees in front of the headstone and embraced it angrily. “Bring it, you bastard! I’m here. I’m finally here. I’m talking to you, grief! Is this all you got?” she screamed through a veil of tears. “You can’t keep me away from this anymore. I’m ready to face you.
See me now?
I’m here, aren’t I?”

Gabby panted as she lay against the headstone. She stoically refused to let the first sob out, for fear she wouldn’t be able to say what she needed to. The tears ran unchecked as she took a sharp intake of breath, feeling as if something was broken inside of her.

She sat up and looked at the headstone, rubbing the back of her hand against the smoothness. She wasn’t sure who had picked it out, she had no memory of that, but it was beautiful—a perfect choice.

“I guess what I want to say is... I’m sorry... I’m just... so sorry. I wasn’t trying to forget you or ignore you. I think... I think I was trying to forget you were gone. I wasn’t ready for you to be gone. I know it’s my fault. If I had only listened that night, instead of stupidly freaking out, this would’ve never happened. I had no idea it could hurt this bad to lose someone, to lose you.”

Gabby stopped to take a breath. She pulled her long hair back away from her face and placed her cheek against the stone, imagining she was cheek to cheek, maneuvering her body sideways to fit tightly, as close as she could get to that slab of marble that represented her loss. She grimaced at the coolness of the stone through her jeans and thin shirt. The coldness nearly broke her—the realization that the warmth was forever gone. Images flooded her mind, one after the other: shared laughs and cries, celebrated accomplishments and defeats. Why does God take too soon? Just when it seems all our problems are worked out?
I’m not ready... not ready for this loss... I want more time!
Gabby slammed her open palm against the ground, squashing the shiny, sharp blades of grass that were just shooting up, planted six weeks earlier—new life emerging, covering a lost one too soon.

She shuddered and took in another deep breath.

“I love you so much. I always have. I know I was a real pain in the ass most of the time, and I’m sorry for that, too. And I’m sorry your life was cut short... and... and I’ll miss you.”

She was at a loss for what else to say. She knew there was probably so much more, but before she could pick through her thoughts, the dam broke and thick sobs came relentlessly. Her shoulders heaved with each stomach-wrenching cry, so much that they ached.

“
Mm-mmm
.” Someone cleared their throat—a male someone.

Gabby jerked her head away from the headstone in surprise.
Dammit, doesn’t that landscaper have the decency to ignore someone mourning?
she thought.
What an asshole.

She swiped at her teary face and wet nose before looking up, ready to dress him down for his rudeness.

She rapidly blinked against the sun in her eyes as she tried to make out the oddly-shaped person standing at the foot of the grave. Before her eyes could adjust, she made out five legs but one body, making one big block of a torso—with two heads?
Maybe I’m seeing things now...

She held her hands over her swollen eyes to provide some shade, trying to get a better look as her chest continued to heave in short bursts, sucking in oxygen to replenish what the crying had taken out of her. As her eyes adjusted, she finally made out the individual figures. There was no fifth leg; it was a crutch.

She jumped to her feet and closed the distance between them in just a few steps, throwing herself into him.

“Whoa, Gabby. You’re going to knock him over. Be careful! He’s still healing. It took threat of physical violence to get the doctor to release him from the hospital when Emma called to tell us you remembered today.”

“You hush, Olivia,” Gabby answered through new tears—tears of joy and relief.

“Great day, Gabby. Stop fussin’ with your sister at your mama’s grave,” Jake scolded as he dropped his crutch and wrapped his arms tightly around his wife, this time leaning on her for support.