Page 72 of All of You

Why? Why? Why? I cried over and over again in her arms. She said she didn’t know but she was sorry. I pulled myself together and sucked in a huge breath. Are you keeping the baby? She asked.

Take me to see him, I told her.

She said no.

I pushed her aside climbed in my car and drove to his house. The doors were locked and the lights were off. I drove toourhouse, more of a cabin really, that he had almost finished building forus. He wasn’t there either. A note was taped to the door with my name on it. I ripped it off, angrily, and unfolded it. Money slipped out and fell to my feet.

“Leave. Get out. Forget about me. "

I raced home, thrust myself through the front door, and screamed at Mom and Dad.

What have you done? What have you done?! I screeched and squealed and ranted until I collapsed on the floor. Dad told me to get a hold of myself. Mom mentioned this behavior wasn’t good for the baby.

“Screw you! This isn’t your baby! You willneverknow the love of this baby!”

“Jennifer, don’t be dramatic, you can’t raise a baby alone at seventeen,” Mom said.

I sniffed all my heartache and grief deep inside me and stood. I glared at my parents. “Watch me.”

My heart races. I flip past blank page after blank page. That can’t be the end. It just can’t. And then tucked near the back of the notebook is a final entry written the same month I was born.

Journal of Jennifer Brickell

August 2005

Dear D,

As I write this, we are getting quite the storm, the rain blows sideways. I used to hate storms but lately, they make me feel seen. They match my mood.

I miss you so much. So, so much since our last night together. I hold that night in my memories like a prayer and expect I will for years to come. I’ve turned that night over and over in mymind. The soft touch of your fingers. The feel of your lips on my skin. The tenderness you always regarded me with. I stare at your picture.

The picture of us, so carefree and young. So happy and in love. It makes me homesick, but not for the town or my home or family. It makes me homesick for you.

I want that picture more than anything. I want you more than anything. I wish we could be together. I wish you would come to me, join me and Delia.

I’ve never been so lonesome as I am right now. I am lost without you. Please, I beg you, come. Come be with me and Delia.

She looks just like you, to the point it’s painful to look at her sometimes. I named her after your grandmother. She is the only light in my life. This is hard. Too hard to do alone. I need you with me, with us. I never realized I could miss someone so much. Please, I will do anything, please come to me.

A sob rips through me. I’m named after his grandmother. Maybe his mother is still alive? Maybe I could find his family and get to know them? My mom’s written words are so full of sadness and despair and suddenly I’m angry at a father I never knew. For abandoning my mom. For giving in to fear. For not being there for us.

To get my feelings out, I pull out my own notebook and begin writing.

I used to feel shiny and magnetic. I miss the feeling. I want to radiate contentedness and sparkle. I used to.

I used to feel love and safety and now I feel like I’m hanging bya thread—untethered.

Inch worms hover in the air on invisible strings hanging suspended, twirling from branches in the shade and sun, doing what?

Waiting for what? What is their purpose?

Am I an inchworm? Just floating in the air waiting for a sign? Hoping and praying a passerby doesn’t disturb my thread and send me hurdling to the ground?

Am I a dash of complacency mixed with inaction, abandonment, and daddy issues? Is that really what I am?

I want to trade in my scowls and skepticism for smiles and carefree delight. I want to glitter again. I want Mom to come home and I want her to glitter again too.

I put my notebook on my nightstand. Self-heated eye masks are little luxuries. They also help with red-rimmed tearful eyes.