I Said Yes: My Story of Heartbreak, Redemption, and True Love (8 page)

“Everything happens for a reason.”

“Ricky’s in a better place.”

“Now he’s your guardian angel.”

“You’re so young, you’ll find another man before you know it.”

I was mad that those who knew these ten people only from a distance could go home and resume their normal lives and nothing would change. Oh, I was sure they’d be sad. But they wouldn’t nurse wounds that would never completely heal. I watched Mrs. Hendrick walk over to Ricky’s photo, sobbing as she reached her trembling arms around the wooden frame, holding on for dear life. My heart tore in two, watching the outpouring of grief of a mother who had just lost her only son.

The next day, my eyes slowly opened as the light of dawn peeked through the window. For a split second I forgot where I was. Then I remembered. I was alone. Ricky was gone, never coming back. I would wake up every morning like this, without him. The only way to describe the emptiness was that I felt I was drowning in a pit. I sobbed into the pillow, so hard I could barely catch my breath. All I could think about was his absence and what that meant. Ricky wouldn’t call anymore. He wouldn’t be there to tell me he loved me and that I mattered. The dream we had of being together forever, of creating a life of our own, was over. My anchor, my life. Gone.

This was when I really did want to die. A part of me genuinely believed I would be next. It wasn’t theatrics, but a simple, matter-of-fact resignation. There was no way that God would take Ricky away just to leave me on earth by myself. I remember sharing this with my mom, who stayed with me for a few days after the crash. She got so angry whenever I’d mention wanting to die. “Emily, stop. Stop the nonsense. Don’t say those things,” she’d plead with me. Mom tried her best to comfort me, not
saying much with words but a lot with her presence. I leaned on her so much during that time. While there wasn’t anything she could say or do to bring Ricky back, which was all I wanted, she was there. And to me, that meant the world. There’s nothing like having your mama around when your world collapses.

Dad, too, came up but just for the day of the funeral. He had to head back home. Key West was celebrating Fantasy Fest, the Mardi Gras of Florida, and they had company scheduled to come to town. On Friday, two days after the funeral, I lay in bed back in my apartment that had been relatively empty since I had moved to Charlotte. Mom slept in the other bedroom. A wave of nausea suddenly hit me and I stumbled my way into the bathroom, saying hello (and good-bye) to the chicken dinner my mother had forced me to eat the night before.

As I reeled in dizziness and plopped down on the floor next to the toilet after there was absolutely nothing remaining in my stomach, it dawned on me that I hadn’t had a period in a while. My brain spun.
Could it be? Maybe my body is just reacting from the stress.
Maybe this. Maybe that. I tried to rationalize away the obvious. Then, in a split-second mental shift, I remembered that the Hendricks had asked me to come over in an hour or so; Ricky’s ashes were going to be delivered.

It felt like a sucker punch. Just when you think you’ve accepted a painful reality—after hearing the initial bad news, after sitting at a funeral, after waking up alone, after your mind focuses attention elsewhere—something else happens, another painful reminder that the one you love is gone. This reminded me of my trip to Starbucks the day before. As I waited for my coffee, I caught a glimpse of the daily paper on a stand next to a decorative barrel of coffee. The crash was on the front
page. Pictures. In the brief glance I stole, I couldn’t see details of the charred wreckage, but I saw trees. Lots of them. The photo was filled with trees colored by autumn, bursts of gold, spice, and burgundy. And then I saw it. Smack in the middle of the beautiful foliage, a depression. Downed trees. Mangled rubble. Twisted metal.

Staring at the photo of the crash, I felt physical pain throughout my body, as though a hundred knives were stabbing me repeatedly. It was the first and only time I had seen a picture of the crash. And it prompted me to think about what had happened the second the plane plowed into the side of the mountain. Was Ricky in pain? Did he know what was coming? Was he scared? I stood in a trance, staring blindly at the barista who held my coffee in her hand, nodding at me to take it. But all I could do was stand there and think about Ricky. And as I numbly walked out of Starbucks, without the latte I had already paid for, I realized I was only torturing myself thinking about those morbid details. I had to believe that God took Ricky immediately. That upon impact, God took him home, that Ricky’s physical body instantaneously turned into ashes. Back to its beginnings.

That morning I told Mrs. Hendrick I’d stop over later. Besides the fact I didn’t feel well, I was hurt. The other day I’d asked her for a bit of Ricky’s ashes, just enough to fill a locket for a necklace. She’d said no. The answer crushed me, especially because it took so much courage to even ask. I’m sure she had her reasons, but whatever they were, it still made me feel rejected, less than.

Mom wasn’t awake yet, so I tiptoed my way out of my apartment and headed to the local drugstore for a pregnancy test.
When I came back, she was making some coffee or something. She offered a warm smile and said, “Good morning, Emily.” I sped past her toward the bathroom. Sensing I probably needed some space, my mother let me be.

For a long time I sat holding the shopping bag to my chest, entertaining a barrage of wild thoughts. Of fear, worry, concern.

I’m only eighteen.

I can’t have a baby.

I can’t deal with this right now.

I can’t do this by myself.

Being a teen mom wasn’t part of the plan.

As I ripped open the package and held the test in my hand, another thought cast an even bigger shadow.
What if I’m not pregnant?
That thought terrified me the most.

I waited a long two minutes for the results, breathing through the rising panic in my chest. I wanted a baby. I knew it right then. No doubt about it. A child was something to look forward to, a gift from Ricky, a piece of him that would be mine. I stared into the tiny window of that five-inch piece of plastic, the dye slowly taking shape. When the positive sign appeared fully, I felt the greatest delight. I was in fact having a baby.

Unfortunately, my elation didn’t last long. I started wrestling with the fear of it being a false positive. Maybe it was a bad test. Maybe I didn’t follow the directions correctly. Maybe I left it out too soon or read the sign wrong. Feeling overwhelmed, I knew it was time to get Mom. When I told her the news after I quietly stepped out of the bathroom, she stood silent with her mouth open.

“Oh my,” Mom finally said, bewildered. And then a smile curled on her face as she reached out and drew me into her arms.

Hesitant to accept what was good news, I quickly interrupted our moment of happy. “But, uh, I don’t know. Maybe the test is wrong or something.” As always, I needed proof. I needed to be sure, absolutely-without-a-shadow-of-a-doubt sure.

“Why don’t we see a doctor, Emily?” Mom suggested. “So you can know for sure.”

I called my doctor, who also happened to be the Hendricks’ family doctor, to see if he could squeeze me in sometime that day. Sensing alarm in my voice, he told me to come right away. “Go through the back door,” he suggested, respecting my privacy and not wanting to cause an unnecessary scene.

Less than an hour later, after receiving a warm greeting from the doctor and waiting in a nondescript exam room for a nurse to draw some blood, I sat in the doctor’s personal office, waiting. Waiting for results. Waiting for my future.

And then, as the doctor took a seat in front of me, came the three best words I’d heard that week: “Yup, you’re pregnant!”

Elation. That’s all I can say. Absolute elation. Though I’d been steeped in tears all week, feeling tears of joy drench my cheeks was almost like a release. Hope had finally shed a glimpse of light. Mom tightly clutched my hand as tears welled up in her eyes. “I’m so happy for you,” she whispered.

It was evening by the time I got to the Hendricks’. I still had a sour taste in my mouth from being denied a pinch of Ricky’s remains. But I had to let it go. Besides, I had news to share. Good news.

I stood in their majestic foyer that night, staring into the eyes of the man and woman who had created and were now grieving their beautiful son, my beloved. My heart ached for them as I wondered how they would receive what I was about to say.

“Everyone keeps telling me that I wasn’t on that plane for a reason I’ll probably never know,” I began in a trembling voice.

Mrs. Hendrick nodded and immediately dived in. “That’s right, Emily, you won’t ever know.”

“But, the truth is, I think I do.” I paused, biting back tears, not knowing quite what to say next. “If I was on that plane, twelve people would have died.” They looked confused so I quickly stammered, “I’m . . . I’m pregnant.”

Mr. Hendrick started sobbing. His wife did too. I felt relieved, the news welcomed. We enjoyed a respite from the darkness that night, celebrating with smiles and hugs. They knew how worried I was, being a mom for the first time and so young. They were generous in helping me out financially from that point, which I’m so very grateful for.

I didn’t stay long that night. I was exhausted and still reeling from the intense bout of morning sickness. I just wanted to go home, crawl into bed, and sleep. Without tossing and turning. Without waking up in a cold sweat wondering where Ricky was. I wanted to sleep resting in the joy of a life that was beginning to form in my belly, a life created by Ricky and me.

Sometime that weekend, Mom and I headed back to Florida. I only planned to stay for a week. At this point, my parents had sold their house on Sunset Key and taken up residence in downtown Old Town Key West. They lived in a timeless Victorian with sea-green shutters alongside other charming gingerbread-looking homes and only a block away from Duvall Street, the heartbeat of the city with its eclectic string of bars, restaurants, and shops.

I spent most of the week in bed except for frequent trips to the bathroom. I had severe bouts of morning sickness that lasted well into the afternoons. Though I didn’t partake in any
of the parties, I could hear it all through my open window—the laughter, the dance music and Caribbean jams, the hum of the trolley passing through at all hours. It felt strange being back in the same place where I met Ricky. So much had changed. My mind started playing tricks on me, probably given the amount of time I spent lying around, trying to sleep. I reverted to thinking that my relationship with Ricky didn’t matter. That it was casual, meaningless. That I had made up our connection, our love, our promises.

And it didn’t help one night, while I was getting some ginger ale and crackers from the kitchen, to be greeted by beer bottles and broken bead necklaces and some costumes I’d rather have not seen. It seemed that everyone was carrying on and having a good time. Nobody was hurting like I was. Nobody was grieving like I was. I felt if my parents truly loved me, they’d feel some of the pain I was in. Yes, they would take time to reach out and make an effort to empathize. I know Mom did her best. She was the only friend I had to lean on for support. My life was Ricky, and outside of him all I had was my mother. She made sure I was taken care of and as comfortable as I could be, even though I felt as though I was drowning in sadness, not knowing how to come up for air.

I knew I needed to refocus. To shift my perspective. To think about the baby that was beginning to form inside of me. I needed to stay strong, healthy, alive. The baby was my lifeline to Ricky. And though I knew having a child wouldn’t replace his love or the person that he was, a baby would be an extension of him. Perhaps our child would share Ricky’s smile. Or his twinkling eyes. Or his charm. Or the way he was so compassionate to others. Thinking of these things tempered some of my misery. It was comforting.

Feeling hopeful, I finally fell soundly asleep for the first time in two weeks. I was fired up to leave Key West and return to Charlotte to build what would be a new normal, a new life for me and one lucky little baby boy or girl.

five

T
here is not a parking lot in Charlotte I have not thrown up in. My morning sickness was awful and lasted for most of those glorious (insert sarcastic eye roll) nine months. But aside from puking, being aware that there was a little creature growing inside of me, an extension of the love of my life, was nothing short of awe-inspiring.

Mom came into town every now and then, and I can’t tell you how much I looked forward to her visits, when we’d make pit stops in baby stores, oohing and ahhing at tiny onesies, cuddly blankets, and plush toys. Both pretty confident the baby was a boy, we even bought a blue Christmas ornament for the little guy. Though Mom and I had always been pretty tight, the baby brought us even closer.

Though I was back in the condo where Ricky and I had lived prior to the accident, I’d hang out with Ricky’s parents every now and then. Mrs. Hendrick and I often reminisced about our Hawaii trip, retelling the same fun memories we made and shared only a short time before.

Though I understand there’s a difference between losing a son and losing the love of your life, we were both treading the
rough waters of grief. At the same time, however, I was careful not to give the Hendricks reason to worry about me.

When you go through something traumatic, there are good days and bad days. Some days you wake up and it takes every bit of strength, courage, and will to simply get out of bed and brush your teeth. Other days, armed with what I can only describe as divine, supernatural power, you feel positive, hopeful. You think,
Okay, I can make it. I can do this. Today is going to be a good day
. If the Hendricks looked like they were having one of those good days when I wasn’t, I made sure not to dampen their mood. The last thing I wanted them to do was worry about how I was doing, particularly since I was carrying their grandchild.