I Made You My First (30 page)

Irish’s birthday was on the twentieth of November, so of course he was hoping that Paris would be a day late in delivering Jewel Marie.  I’d been to the book store and bought every new parenting book available and even found myself stopping new mothers at the grocery store asking them all sorts of questions about raising a child.  I was ready.  I was
pretty
sure.  Irish and I had agreed we’d wait a year, giving us time to learn as much as we could from our new little girl
before
we tried to have our own child.  Two children close in age was our agreement.  That meant one for each us in any situation, and together we could handle anything that arose.  Irish wanted two girls.  I just wanted to be good at parenting. 

All of the
legal
stuff was in order and Paris had decided that she didn’t want to see or hold the baby the day of delivery.  She wanted to meet her when she was happily adjusted with us, probably her mom’s suggestion Irish thought.  His mother was going to be in the delivery room with her and we’d fly down to pick up Jewel the next day. 

Judy had planned a small baby shower for us and so we were going to stay overnight with her. I was excited about that and to my surprise so was Irish.  I had spoken to Judy a few times since our move and when we did talk, I couldn’t help feeling that she was holding something back. 

She changed the subject if I mentioned my brother John, which was really unlike her.  Irish had found out from his dad that John had moved back from Hawaii two weeks after we moved to San Francisco but wouldn’t give him any solid details about what John was doing.  Irish and I both thought that he and Judy were probably together and they thought that it would upset me somehow.  It was a little weird to think of Judy with John, but mostly it was the awful picture in my head of them naked.
That simply wasn’t right
, I thought.

Along with my parenting books, I had been using several of the cookbooks Irish and I had received as wedding gifts from the friends of Irish’s parents.  I’d burned my share of meals but I didn’t give up; I always tried the meal again until I mastered it,
making sure I read the directions more than once.  Irish was patient and we managed to have a few really good food fights with some of my more awful creations.  I was now the
Panini
sandwich queen
, and I often made them when Irish came home for lunch.  Sometimes he’d offer to pick something up on his way home, but most of the time I had one of my new creations waiting for him. 

After lunch
 he had started teaching me to play his guitar, and again his patience was praiseworthy.  I had learned to play
the ‘90s tunes “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” and “Lay Lady Lay” by Bob Dylan, and was currently learning to play “Harvest Moon” by Neil Young.  Once I was able to get myself past ogling over Irish playing, and the emotions he stirred when watching him strum, I was able to get serious about learning the chords.  Irish was a great teacher, and I was a dedicated student as long as he was wearing a shirt. 

Shirtless,
 I couldn’t do anything but concentrate on his chest and abs.  His naked body always looked so remarkable I stared at every muscle on his body.  All I wanted to do was touch him and he never denied me.  I quickly learned that a shirt and pants
for Irish
were mandatory for guitar lessons.  Irish often brought home paperwork at lunchtime that needed to be completed and if I helped him, he didn’t have to return to the office for the rest of the day.  That didn’t happen often enough for me, but when it did, I really enjoyed having him home.  I was slowly but surely learning the way jobs were organized and the way the company operated.

Saturday was date night.  We hadn’t really dated before we got married, so we tried to make up for it by surprising each other, trading off each week letting the other choose
 our date destination.  When it was Irish’s night to pick, he
always
walked out the back door and went around to the front door, ringing the bell.  When I opened it he’d have his wonderful Irish smile or better yet a sexy grin while he looked me up and down. We realized early on that we had to leave the house physically for at least two hours before we could return home, or we’d never make it out on our date. 

Sundays were spent pretty much the same every week.
  Irish and I went to the beach; he surfed while I doodled on a pad of paper or read a book.  We took a bike ride after lunch and piddled around the house for the rest of the day.  Lately our days were filled with finishing Jewel’s room and getting ready for her arrival.  Irish had picked out a really sweet rag doll on one of our shopping trips to the baby store and I’d caught him practicing his diapering skills, which were actually way better than mine.  We had picked the colors of her room together and decided on pink with a warm teddy bear brown as the accent color.  Brown bears sat everywhere in the room and the different shades of pink were beautiful and girlish.  We were excited about meeting our little Jewel. 

It was November seventeenth, two days before Paris was due to deliver the baby. Irish had gone to work early to arrange everything for his ten-day vacation.  He’d been training an employee,
 Travis, to handle things for him while he was on paternity leave.  He’d said that he felt good about leaving Travis in charge as he was one of the employees working there the longest.  I was grateful to have Irish to myself for ten whole days.  I’d accidentally dropped the washing machine top with the last load of baby clothes when I heard a knock on the front door.  My eyes flew to the clock on the wall.  It was still too early for Irish to be home and he wouldn’t knock.

I cautiously opened the front door.  A stocky man, medium height with a heavy blue coat was standing on the porch staring back at me.

               “Hello,” I barely said.

“I’m looking for a Mr. Thompson,” the man said with a nervous smile. 

My eyes quickly went up and down his body, and when I was sure that I didn’t know him, I asked, “May I ask who you are?” Holding the door firmly now, I only allowed him to see me and not the inside of the house.  

“I’m an old friend of his, in the neighborhood so I thought I’d look him up is all,” and he nervously rocked from foot to foot.  I looked him square in the face, knowing for a fact that he wasn’t a friend of Irish’s and that he was lying to me.

I quickly answered, “The senior is here and the junior will be along in about twenty minutes.”   He just looked at me with a blank stare.  

“You know, I might have the wrong house.  I’m really sorry to have bothered you
, miss,” and before I could respond he turned and headed for a black van parked on the street.  I shut the door and took a deep breath.
  Who the hell was that?
I hurried to the window and peeked out to the street, being careful not to be seen.  The van was still parked there, and I tried to look for the license plate, but there was none. 
This is just too weird
, I thought.  Seconds went by and the van finally pulled away and disappeared down the street.

He’d asked for Mr. Thompson, so he had the right house
, I thought.  I grabbed my phone ready to call Irish when I noticed the van slowly pass by the house again.  I punched in Irish’s number and it went straight to his voicemail.  I closed my phone, jumped up, and hurried to the back door, double checking that it was locked.  When I was satisfied that it was secure, I returned to the front window and watched the road now.  Only minutes had passed and I saw the van slowly begin to pass the house again, going the other way.  Standing behind the curtain, I tried to make out the person in the passenger’s seat.  I thought I saw red hair but I couldn’t be completely sure.  Just then my phone rang and I jumped.

“Hello, baby,” I said.

“Hey love, sorry I missed your call, I had to go outside and left my phone on the desk.  What’s up?”  The sound of his voice was really comforting.

“Not much, when do you think you’ll be home?”  I tried to keep my voice calm but I wasn’t able to pull it off.

“Jurnee, what’s wrong?  Are you okay?”  I could hear the urgency in his voice.

“Yeah, I’m okay but a man stopped by and asked for you and
 has passed our house four times in his black van, and he’s passing again right now.”  I stood frozen watching out the window.

“Jurnee, I’m on my way, call nine-one-one when we hang up and don’t open the door...you hear me?”

“I hear you, bye.”

I dialed nine-one-one and just as they answered, the van stopped in front of the house.  I slipped away from the window and stood against the wall, giving the operator all of the
information I could remember about the man’s description and told her the van he was driving was now parked outside my house.  She insisted I stay on the phone with her and continues to ask me questions. I heard her but I now saw Irish’s Mustang coming up our street. 

I watched the van.  It had been parked for
 several minutes and I was growing anxious as Irish’s car moved closer to the van.

“Jurnee, is the van still out there?”  I finally heard her say.

“Yes, my husband’s driving up the street right now.  Are the officers on their way?”  I was beginning to panic.

“They should be there any moment, stay on the line with me until they get there, okay?”

I didn’t answer her but stared as Irish pulled into our driveway.  I closed my phone and ran to the front door.  As I turned the knob and opened the door, I heard what sounded like fire crackers going off.  My eyes went straight to the Mustang and then back to the van, running out onto the porch and looking into the car for Irish.  He wasn’t sitting up straight in the driver’s seat.  Just then the van sped off down the street.  I heard a police car race by following the van. 

My heart was racing and I had to make myself run to the car.  Before I could
 reach Irish, another police car pulled up.  I glanced at it but ran harder until I had my fingers on the passenger door handle.  I could see Irish now.  The door was locked, so I ran around and pulled his door open.  Irish was slumped over the side console holding his side.  Blood was all over his hand and pants.

“Irish...Irish,” but he didn’t move.  “My husband’s been shot,” I yelled loudly while making myself breathe.  I reached in, touching his shoulder.  “Baby, can you hear me?  Irish, please say something
,” and now an officer was leading me away from the car. 

I swung at him
, trying to get him to let go of me.  He had both hands on me and almost picked me up while still taking me away from the car.  An ambulance arrived and sirens sounded in every direction.  The officer holding me was not letting go.

I burst out crying when I saw the paramedics pull Irish from the car.  “Let me go... please, I’m begging you.”

He held me tighter as they put Irish on a stretcher and whisked him away to the ambulance before I felt the officer release me.

“I’m his wife and I want to ride with him,” I yelled at the top of my lungs to the paramedics.  I saw one attendant drop back and lean in to say something to an officer walking toward me. 

He reached out his hand to me and tried to get me to listen.  “Your husband has lost a lot of blood and they’re going to need all the room they have to help him during the ride to the hospital.  I’ll take you to the hospital.  Do you need to get your purse and lock your door?”

I stared into his eyes and I could tell he was trying to help me.  I wiped my eyes and ran to the house, grabbing my purse and phone, locking the door behind me.  The ride to the hospital took forever.  I heard a call come over the radio that an
 officer had apprehended the suspect in the black van.  I looked at the officer driving.  He didn’t say a word but replied to the dispatcher. 

I was numb and frightened.  This was not happening.  My mind started screaming because my vocal chords couldn’t. 
My parents, then my aunt, and now Irish, what was happening
? I thought
.
Tears streamed down my cheeks and I couldn’t stop the flow.  I kept wiping my face until I finally saw the emergency sign for the hospital.  I unsnapped my seat belt and launched myself out the door as soon as the car stopped.  I ran but I couldn’t feel anything until I reached the woman at the counter.

“I’m here for Irish Thompson; I’m his wife.  They brought him here not long ago,” and I wiped my eyes to see her expression.

“Sweetie, you’re going to have to take a seat for a few minutes until the doctors can finish working on him.  We’ll get you back to see him as soon as we can, okay?”   I felt my face do its
moment thing
and I couldn’t stop it.

“No...
I want to see him now, please, please, don’t make me sit out here,” and I felt myself start to crumble to the floor.

A door opened and an older nurse walked toward me.  She took me by the shoulders and walked me back through the
door.  She guided me into a room with a sofa, chair, and small table.  I reached for her arm and begged her to take me to Irish. 

She sat me down on the sofa and reached for my face.  “I can’t take you back there, sweetie, you’re going to have to let the doctors do their job.  Your husband’s
 in good hands and I’ll bet if you just give them a little more time, you’ll be able to go see him soon.  Can I call someone to stay here with you?”