“I can imagine.” Her mother covered Laura’s hand with her own. “I keep praying. That’s all I can do.”
Laura thought for a while. “Bella Joy invited me to see Wicked tomorrow in the city.”
“You should go.” Her mom’s tone was laced with sympathy.
“Really?” She pictured a day in the city, the brilliance of the show, and the fun she always had when she hung out with Bella Joy.
“Sitting here can’t be helping much.” Her mom tilted her face, her eyes hopeful. “A diversion might give you some perspective. Clear your head so you can get through the weekend.”
Laura was quiet, considering the possibility. She had to admit, the idea sounded appealing. She hated being the victim, the jilted bride. “Maybe you’re right.” She sat straighter. A person could only stay sad for so long. This was Brad’s doing, not hers. If his actions were going to result in a cancelled wedding, in a called-off marriage, then at least she could go to Times Square with Bella Joy and have fun for a night.
“I was thinking.” Her mom kept her hand over Laura’s in a way that seemed to give them both strength. “I know you’re worried about the wedding, but … well, Brad’s not saying he’s changed his mind. He wants to have things in order first.”
“I understand.” Laura waffled back and forth between hoping nothing more than for Brad to come home and for the wedding to go on as planned, and being angry at him for waiting until now to handle this. Tonight she leaned more toward anger. “I keep picturing him spending this weekend with her.” She met her mother’s gaze straight on. “Why a whole weekend? Wouldn’t it be enough to find her and tell her he was sorry?”
Her mom didn’t look away. “The more I think about what’s happening, what Brad’s doing, the less I feel it’s about this old girlfriend of his.”
“What then?”
Her mom tilted her head, her eyes softer than before. “The baby.” She breathed in deeply and folded her arms. “I’ve done some research online, about Post Abortion Syndrome. Brad and this woman made a choice that ended the life of a child.” Her mother’s eyes welled up. “Have you thought about that? About what Brad might be feeling?”
“Some.” Laura felt her heart sink. “Maybe not to that extent.”
“When you have a minute, look it up this weekend. Read about what people go through after having an abortion.” Her mom looked intent. “Some people who’ve taken part in an abortion have trouble committing to another person until they find healing. Even if years or decades go by.” She bit her lip. “I really think, Laura … Brad needs to do this. He should’ve done it sooner, but he would’ve been wrong to marry you without going back. The situation is that serious.”
She held her arms out and hugged Laura for a long time. When she pulled back, she had tears on her cheeks. “I know this is hard for you. For all of us. But maybe it’s the only way.”
Laura nodded and thanked her mom. After she was gone, she took her laptop from the dresser beside her bed and ran a Google search on Post Abortion Syndrome. A website called It’s a Life showed up in the first few options. Laura scanned the top of the page to a section called Depression and Guilt. She began to read. Many people who suffer from Post Abortion Syndrome deny ever having an abortion until years later. Only then do they begin to wonder — was it a boy? Was it a girl? How old would he or she be today? The questions come in a rush for some people — especially men.
The words surrounded Laura’s heart and opened her eyes in a way she hadn’t felt before. Was that what Brad was going through? Some sort of post abortion syndrome where he was being overcome by questions about the baby? Laura tried to imagine what it might be like, knowing that a baby had died because of a decision she’d made. The reality came over her in full vivid force, and she imagined the child. A nine-year-old by now.
She returned to the website and kept reading. Another section was titled Forgiveness — a Gift Worth Giving. Laura felt her fingers shake as she scrolled down the page. There are two stages to healing and forgiveness after an abortion. First, you must admit what you’ve done to your child and the person you conceived the child with — even if you were coaxed or led into the abortion and convinced it was the right thing to do. Still you must admit the action, and then you must seek forgiveness if you are ever to have healing.
Laura closed her eyes and imagined Brad, the love of her life. She pictured him finding Emma and having this sort of intimate conversation. Talking about the baby they’d lost, and finding forgiveness together. How could they experience that much closeness and not fall in love again? But after having an abortion together, how could they not have this weekend? Her mother was right. Brad would never be whole without this time.
She brushed away her fears and kept reading. Forgiveness from each other isn’t always possible. People move on, and in many cases a feeling of disdain or embarrassment remains for the person you shared the abortion with. Either way — whether you can find forgiveness with that person or not, you can forgive yourself. This is only the beginning of healing from Post Abortion Syndrome. True healing only happens with God’s forgiveness. Admit this wrong to Him, and allow Him to extend mercy to you. You will find unbelievable freedom as you allow Christ to forgive you. He died for this very reason, and He loves you enough to heal your pain. He doesn’t want His people burdened by guilt and regret. Especially in this.
She closed her computer, turned off the light, and lay there in the dark, staring at her ceiling. Disdain? Was that how Brad felt about Emma? Laura didn’t think so, not based on the way he talked about her. Pity might’ve been a better word. She thought about Brad, the guy she knew and loved. His firstborn child was dead. There was no other way to understand the situation. A sorrow overwhelmed her, and she closed her eyes. For the first time since she’d heard the news, she grieved the loss of Brad’s child, grieved like she hadn’t expected she ever would.
If by some miracle Brad was able to walk away from Emma after finding her, if he returned to Laura and the two of them decided to marry, then one day down the road they might have children. And those children would never know a boy or girl who would’ve been their half-sibling. A part of their family. Laura rolled onto her side and felt the loss a fraction of the way Brad must be feeling it.
Perhaps thinking about marriage had led him to think about having children, and that, in turn, led him to thoughts of his child with Emma. The baby who would always be his first. Maybe now — for whatever reason — he was finally taking ownership for his role in her abortion. Finally seeking forgiveness, the way he tried to explain it to Laura in Central Park. Brad and Emma had been childhood friends, and even if they had barely known each other, he couldn’t dismiss the harm he’d caused her. The words from the website came back to her. Forgiveness with the person who shared in your abortion … is only the beginning. In that sense, Laura finally understood why Brad had to find Emma and apologize.
Because for him, he couldn’t find healing with God until he did.
Twenty-Two
EMMA FINISHED HER PAPERWORK EARLY, REFUSING to think about the reality of what lay ahead in a few hours. When she’d completed the forms for every one of her students and submitted the package to her principal by email, she took a shower, dressed in shorts and a long-sleeve V-neck T-shirt. She didn’t bother with her hair or makeup. Whatever happened with Brad, he wasn’t here to fall in love again. That much had washed up on the shore of her heart overnight.
Yes, he had something to say. Emma willed herself to understand that, to keep her expectations low. She didn’t have to know how he’d fallen in love or why he’d gotten engaged. The fact remained. He was here for a weekend, and then he was returning to New York and getting married. She found the path between the two beach houses at the end of her street and crossed the bluff to the cement wall on the other side. She was early, so she sat on the sand facing the water. Waiting.
What had Brad said about his trip? God alone had brought him here, right? Yes, that was
it. God alone. She let her head fall gently back against the cement wall. So Brad Cutler had kept his faith in God — after all they’d been through he still had that. Which meant what? That he’d found peace with the choice they’d made ten years ago? That he had pretended he was a nice Christian boy long after leaving her?
No matter how long Emma thought about God, she couldn’t think of a single reason why He’d want anything to do with either of them. Not after what they’d done. If there even was a God. Emma thought about Kristin Palazzo. She’d gotten a call from Kristin’s mother that morning midway through her paperwork. No changes. The sweet, vibrant teenager was still on life support, still being given almost no hope from her doctors.
Emma squinted at the sunlight reflecting off the water. God … if You’re there, I’m sure You’re angry with me. I don’t blame You. But in case You’re listening, please be with Kristin. Please let her live … the way her mom and her church friends are praying for her. I’m not sure if You’re real or if You can hear this. But if You can, I need to ask. I deserve nothing. But Kristin … Kristin deserves to live. Please.
Her prayer faded as easily as it had begun. She uttered the prayer only because Kristin would’ve wanted her to. Times like this Emma longed once again for her mother, for someone to sit across from her and hold her hands and help her understand why she should believe in anything other than what her eyes could see. Her mother had believed, certainly. Emma watched the waves roll in. Maybe the only thing standing between her and the faith of her mother was guilt. The shame and regret and guilt that were woven into the fabric of Emma’s very being.
She stood and stretched, brushing the sand from her legs. She’d brought a bag with water bottles, sunscreen, and a couple beach towels. For a long time she leaned against the cement wall, watching the surf, remembering. A few years ago one of her young students — Alan — took a shower before going to bed. Only instead of standing up, he laid down on the shower floor to rest a little. And with the warm water hitting his face, in almost no time he fell asleep. His body blocked the drain, and water flooded out onto the floor and into his upstairs bedroom. His mom didn’t notice the problem until water began pouring out of the light fixtures below. Screaming his name, she ran to him. “I thought he was dead,” she told Emma later. She pushed his bathroom door open and saw him lying on the floor of the shower. One last time she shouted his name. This time the boy blinked and woke up, completely fine. Sleepy and embarrassed, but alive. The next day at school a discouraged Alan told her all about it, and how worker guys were at the house fixing the damage.
“You ever wish you could go back and do a day over again?” he asked her.
She hesitated, and then smiled. “Yes, Alan. I think we’ve all wished that.”
A day to do over again. His question had stayed with her, haunted her since then. Especially as November 20th came and went. If ever there was a day she would do over again it was that terrible morning at the abortion clinic. A thousand times she’d played the scene again in her mind, and this time when the woman explained that she needed more money, Emma would’ve run from the building, run for her life and the life of her unborn child.
But do-overs didn’t happen except in her dreams.
Something caught her eye and she glanced over her shoulder to see Brad making his way along the path from Ocean Boulevard between the houses. He wore shorts and leather flip-flops, a white T-shirt and sunglasses. He hadn’t changed much, but he looked different, better somehow. He had a man’s build now, strong and filled out. That and the way he carried himself, with a confidence and dependability that hadn’t been there before.
He hesitated when he saw her, and his steps grew slower. She wondered whether he’d sit beside her and explain the real reason why he’d come or if he’d make small talk again the way he had yesterday. But as he reached her, he did neither. Instead he took a full breath and looked toward the surf. “Walk with me.” He turned to her. “Okay?”
No answer was needed. She fell in alongside him as easily as she had when she was a teenager. When she was a child, for that matter. They trudged through the sand to a spot closer to the water, where they left their sandals and Emma’s beach bag. Then they set off away from the pier, the same direction where they’d gone that summer. The private side of the shore.
“This was never our beach.” He kept his hands in the pockets of his khaki shorts, his pace relaxed. “Not until the end.”
His comment made her feel foolish, as if maybe she should’ve said something back then about avoiding Holden Beach. She lifted her chin, refusing to let herself feel guilty. “I always liked Wrightsville.”
“I know.” He was closer to the water, and he turned to her, slowing nearly to a stop. “It was my fault, Emma. I’m the one who chose Holden Beach.”
His comment caught her unaware. She didn’t expect for a minute that he was going to take blame for the two of them winding up here, on this secluded, romantic beach. But that’s what he was saying. They had come to Holden Beach by his choosing. And what if they hadn’t? She could’ve said something to stop him, right? She could’ve told him no, she wasn’t interested in an hour-long drive just to find a stretch of shoreline. Wrightsville was in Wilmington, minutes from their houses.
She stared at her sandy feet and for a while the two of them walked in somber silence.
“Remember Wrightsville?” Brad looked to the sky and the sun reflected against his Oakleys. A smile stretched across his face. “We were kids, a couple of fourth and fifth graders, but we’d ride our bikes on the loop over to Johnny Mercer’s pier. Our parents never cared as long as we were together.”
Emma felt her mood lighten at the memory. Brad’s tan legs pedaling as fast as he could ahead of her, a towel draped around his shoulders, backpack full of peanut butter sandwiches and a Frisbee. “Then in middle school. Remember that?”
Brad’s chuckle got lost on the sound of the surf. “What were there, ten of us? Twelve? All caught up on some volleyball kick?”
“Every day the whole month of July. We thought we were headed for the Olympics.”
“Me and Tommy Winters for sure.”
“You guys actually got in a fight that one time. Over whether a ball was in bounds or not.”
“Old Tommy Winters.” Brad stopped and faced the water. “Wonder what ever happened to him.”
“Tommy?” Emma stood beside him, but she kept her distance so there was no danger of their arms touching. “He’ll Facebook me every once in a while. Married with two little boys. Lives in Raleigh. Works for the county planning department.”
“Hmmm. Sounds like a good life.” Brad turned briefly to her, and even though his eyes weren’t visible through his sunglasses, he looked surprised. “You’re on Facebook?”
“Sometimes.” She crossed her arms in front of herself. The chill inside her had nothing to do with the temperature. “You?”
“I have a profile, but I’m never on it. Too busy.” He chuckled. “I’ll have to friend-request him.”
She was quiet for a moment, imagining how different this reunion could’ve been. If they’d made other choices a decade ago, they might’ve found each other through Facebook — the way lots of old friends did. And maybe they would’ve messaged each other for a season and met up again. Before the other girl came into his life. Maybe they would’ve even met here at Holden Beach, where an afternoon like this could’ve been warm with promise. Instead of cold from the reality of all they’d lost.
“Who else have you seen?” Brad started walking again, slower than before, still west away from the pier, away from the public. “Online, I mean.”
Emma kept even with his pace. “Sara Schumacher. She’s still in Wilmington. A pediatrician, now.”
“Sara?” Brad shook his head, in a way that said he wasn’t surprised. “She was smarter than every guy in our math class. I remember her saying she couldn’t wait for trigonometry.”
“That’s Sara.” Emma felt her guard slipping
. She hadn’t expected to enjoy herself this much. “Paul Bond is a coach at Wilmington High. Varsity football. And Max Maynard is on the school board.”
“Max? Mr. Party?” Brad’s brow lifted and again he glanced at her as he walked. “The guy couldn’t complete a sentence our senior year.”
“He was kicked out of prom for drinking. Remember?” Emma had the sudden urge to link arms with Brad, to walk with him along their beach the way they’d done that August. She chided herself. Be careful, Emma. Watch your heart.
“Someone told me he gave his life to God.” Brad’s tone softened. “That would do it, I guess.”
The chill was back. Emma ran her hands over her arms and kept them crossed. She felt eighteen again walking beside Brad Cutler. It took everything she had to remind herself that nothing was like it was back than. Absolutely nothing.
“All those people … you found them on Facebook?”
“Everyone’s on Facebook. Half the parents of the kids in my class friend-request me the first week of school.” Emma smiled. “It’s good, I guess. Gives people a way to stay in touch.”
“I guess.”
“Of course … then there’s your way.” Emma wore sunglasses too, so he couldn’t see the sudden way her eyes danced. But he could certainly hear the laughter in her voice. The sound caught even her off guard, like everything about the past hour. How long had it been since she and Brad had found anything to laugh about?
“My way?” He gave her an easy smile and again he stopped walking.
“Wait a decade and show up like a ghost at the end of the workday.”
For a few seconds she thought he was going to turn serious on her, say something about how he couldn’t post whatever he had to say on someone’s Facebook. “Yeah.” A gradual chuckle came from his throat, as if he wasn’t any more ready than she was to talk about the real reasons he was here. “I always had to be different.”
“Which was usually a good thing.” Emma remembered dozens of times when kids from their class took beer to the beach or drove out to the country to party. Brad didn’t drink. Not ever.