Epilogue: One Year Later
Clove
I’m sitting at my desk. Even though the air conditioning is on, I am so hot that sweat is pouring down my face.
“How’s my girl?”
Turner picks up Journey who has every toy pulled out of her toy box, scattered all over the floor in my office.
“She’s sweating her butt off, just like her mommy,” I say to him crankily.
“Hmm. Is someone irritable today?”
He walks over and places a kiss on my cheek.
“No.” I glare at him.
“Can I get you anything? I’m going to take Journey out to the cafeteria and get her something to eat.”
“No. I’m good. I may lay down for a bit, then,” I say, eyeing the leather couch in the corner. It’s screaming my name and the coolness of the leather would feel so good right now.
“Call me if you change your mind,” Turner calls as he walks out the door.
I stand and waddle my way to the couch, lying back on the cool interior.
I love this place and I am going to miss it. Once we got past the aftermath of my mother’s death, Trent’s sentencing, and several months of therapy, our lives are now full of promise and our dreams are coming true. Although our career paths have taken a huge turn for the better, I must say.
I couldn’t be more proud of my husband and the way he disposed of the twenty million dollar inheritance that was the cause of this hellish nightmare. As soon as he was released from the hospital after his kidnapping, the first thing he did was consult with an attorney in secret, who helped him take the whole sum and tie it up into a trust that even he cannot touch. The entire amount was designated to fund a shelter for victims of rape and domestic violence as well as their children.
The shelter has been our home away from home for the past three months. We provide both shelter and counseling, and when the ladies are ready to make the transition back into society, we are even able to offer them temporary housing. Thanks to an anonymous donor, who I have a feeling was my mother-in-law, we were able to buy a small apartment complex, where families can live for up to a year until they find permanent housing.
Volunteers from our community came out in abundance when the news broke of what we were doing. Thankfully, the press moved on from our personal lives onto what we were doing to try and make a difference to benefit others.
That took a huge load off of my back. Neither of us ever gave a statement to the press. My personal experience is my own and I will never share it with the world. Of course, that didn’t stop the press from coming up with their own stories. Ones I don’t want to think about.
I close my eyes and begin to drift to sleep, which is normal for me this time of day. My thoughts travel to Trent, which they sometimes do. I will never forgive him for his role in this; it’s impossible. I can, however, say that I am thankful to him. Because of him I can finally sleep at night, knowing Tina is dead and will never be able to hurt me or my family again.
I sometimes wonder how he was still only sentenced to ten to fifteen years even with the added murder charge. I asked my brother about it one day, and he just said ‘that’s the way it works.’ I know that is a crock of shit. He had something to do with it, and I damn well know it. Doesn’t matter anymore. The bitch is rotting in her grave, and as bitter as it may seem, she is exactly where she deserves to be.
Turner and I are closer than we were before all of this happened, if that is even remotely possible. We’ve opted out of going to counseling together. We both felt that we were stressed enough with our own inner demons, each of us knowing the other was struggling with things better left unsaid. It may not work for others, but it did for us. That is all that matters.
Melody continues to visit Trent once a month. He was sentenced to serve his time in Federal prison, in a location I don’t want to know about. Turner knows where he is, but I simply don’t care.
My stomach tightens.
“Oh, no.”
I open my eyes. Using the strength in my arms to push myself up, I make my way over to my desk where I sit back in the overstuffed chair and pick up my phone. With trembling and anxious hands, I slide the screen and hit the button that says ‘husband.’ My nose scrunches up as a sharp pain shoots down my back.
“You change your mind?” Turner laughs into the phone.
“I wish,” I try to laugh.
“You miss me then?”
Usually a remark like that would have me saying something smart-ass right back, but not this time.
“Clove?” he asks, now sounding worried.
I stand and a rush of the warm water leaks down my leg.
“It’s time,” I squeak out.
“Shit!”
I hear him hollering in the background for his mother. Sitting the phone on my desk, I place my hand on my stomach.
“This time daddy gets to see this,” I say to my round belly.
Ten minutes later, Turner bursts in the door just as another contraction grips me.
“You’re three weeks early. Are you sure?”
I give him a look as I grit my teeth against the pain.
“I’m very sure,” I say, pointing at the floor. “My water broke.”
************
“One more big push!” says Dr. Schneider.
My back seizes up as if my muscles are twisting from the inside out, and I scream as I push one last time. The pain is much more unbearable than I ever imagined it would be, and yet at the same time it is welcome as I listen to my son begin to cry and watch in amazement as his father cuts the cord.
He’s so tiny, so beautiful and so perfect. The doctor hands him off to the nurse and turns back to me, then back to the monitor where another contraction begins to climb. I feel it, the cramping beginning to start under my belly. Turner shifts to my head, the look in his eyes of gratitude and unconditional love.
“I see the head. Push, Clove,” the doctor says urgently.
I feel intense burning and stretching as the baby’s head pushes through.
My head falls back in a sigh of relief as I hear him cry. Turner kisses my cheek and wipes the sweat off of my forehead.
“I love you so much.”
“I love you, too.”
The nurse brings both of my twin sons wrapped up in blue blankets. They are so small, but the doctor reassures us they are perfectly healthy. I cradle them in my arms, looking from one to the other, studying their features as I go back and forth.
Call me crazy. But as I sit here in my room with my babies in my arms and my husband and daughter beside me, the one thing I will be eternally grateful for is that my twin sons are not identical.