Forever (This #5) (45 page)

I nudge him. “See you tomorrow.”

“You betcha.”

Sam follows behind him. “See you tomorrow. The house looks gorgeous.”

“Yep. Thank you for your help. You’re such a better decorator than me.”

“Nah.”

We hug, and I watch as she enters their minivan. “Love you. Y’all be careful.”

“Love you. We will.”

I close the door. Bradley has picked Emmaline up from the couch and is carrying her to her bed. “Aw, she fell out fast.”

“Those beautiful hazel eyes with gold specks like her momma’s were rolling to the back of her little head. She refused to shut those lids until Sam and Joe walked out of this house with Hannah.” He kisses my forehead. “Let’s get these babies put to bed so I can admire how gorgeous your body is.”

I blush. “I’ll be in a few minutes.”

Gracie and Gabe have already brushed their teeth and put their pajamas on. When they were babies, they co-slept with each other, and it’s been darn near impossible to get them to sleep apart. When we built this house a few years ago, we made sure it was large enough to accommodate lots of babies, which is good since we’re at four. I think we’re finally done, though. Four blessings: two girls, a boy, and another little guy on the way. But we knew we could make two rooms each for Gracie and Gabe, and we’d still find them in the same room the next morning, so we made one large room with pocket doors as a partition instead of a wall. It means I can read to them both in the same room at night. They can fall asleep in the same room, play in the same room, but they each get their own space and privacy when they need it.

“You two ready for me to read to you before you fall asleep?”

Their lids are so heavy, I am not sure they’ll make it past the first page. I started reading them my favorite children’s book when I was pregnant, and I’ve read it to them every night of their life before they fall asleep. Because life is too short, and I never want a day to pass where they don’t hear the words in it. Everything in life is temporary. The trials and tribulations don’t matter in the end. The most important thing is family and having someone to tell you, “
I’ll love you forever
.”

Growing up, for every year I can remember, I spent my summers in the small town of Graniteville, South Carolina. Population 2615 as of the 2010 Census. Home of the now non-existent, Graniteville Company. There’s no mistaking the industrialism of this town. The only difference between now and fifteen years ago as I walk down the street to the creek is that when I was younger you could smell the pollution coming from the mills a mile away.

Now it’s more like a scene from the pages of
The Lorax
. There were never any truffala trees in Graniteville that I know of, but if there had been, it sure looks like they were all used up long ago. It’s become a ghost town. The mills have all closed. The parking lots that were once alive with life and purpose are overgrown and cracking. The small shopping center next to the railroad tracks that run through the town center has nearly all but been abandoned. I glance around realizing that even the majority of the houses in our neighborhood, once considered the nicer mill homes, have become run down.

The biggest news coming from Graniteville is no longer about how it’s the industry leader in textiles. It’s about the train wreck that happened in January, 2005. I had just turned twenty-three two months prior, and I was in my second year of medical school. A month after my birthday, my papa was sick and nearly passed away due to complications associated with his diabetes.

After everything we’d just been through, it wasn’t bad enough that my family watched the town we loved become even more dilapidated. We lost several friends, and others have suffered irreversible illnesses because of the chlorine leak triggered from the derailment. It happened right in the middle of the town, and in front of our church, St. Paul’s Episcopal. It nearly fell apart from the chemical damage. I swear, I thought this ordeal would destroy my grandparents, who had to watch every material thing they loved literally become tarnished.

Even though the house seemed far away, if it hadn’t been for the creek separating the land, we could have easily walked to the crash site from our house. We were the lucky ones, though. The house wasn’t damaged. We didn’t get sick. We survived.

I didn’t feel like I could leave to go to a war-torn country without coming back here first. I need to be in this place in case I never get the chance to come back again. I need to sit on Papa’s lap one more time. I need to strum my fingers across that tattered wallpaper, have one more home-cooked meal from my Memaw, and run down that big hill. I need to feel that rush of adrenaline. I need to skip stones in this creek.

I find the large rock that has always doubled as a bench and sit down. Visions of him come flooding into my mind. I wonder what he’d look like now? I wonder if he’d still love me? I reach down and pick up a stone, rubbing it like it’s a magic bottle and a genie is suddenly going to grant me three wishes. Oh, what I’d give to just have three wishes. But there are no genies, and there’s no way, it seems, to regain what I’ve lost.

This town, this creek might not be much to many people, but it built me. This little body of water was my solace, my comfort when I thought I couldn’t go on another day. Well, the creek and him. He was my saving grace, and even though I lost him, when I’m here, I feel our intense connection. I clench my eyes closed as I recall our first kiss here. The images of falling in love for the first time play like a movie in my mind. I gave him all of my heart. At least, what was left of it. Despite everything around me being tarnished, this creek, my memories, are the only things that seemed to have made it out unscathed. This place is where I became the confident woman I am today. This is home.

“Alex! Hurry up. We’ve got to get on the road.”

“Coming,” I answer even though it wasn’t a question. My mom hates being late. I do, too, but packing for this summer for my grandparents has been more difficult than usual. Maybe it’s because I know that I won’t get the chance to come back home if I forget something. I toss the last few things I know I just can’t live without into my duffle bag, throw the strap of it across my chest, and then put my backpack on. “I’m ready,” I announce as I walk back into the living room.