Page 6 of Saving Saul

She’s perfect.

“Well, hopefully, I’ll taste your cooking one day.”

She doesn’t respond to that comment. Instead she steers the conversation back to me. Okay, it’s your turn to tell me something else about you,” she urges her voice a gentle prod.

Do I dare?

“Well,” I begin, the weight of my past threading through my words, “I was once on a different kind of field—a rugby pitch in England.”

“Really? From scrums to soufflés?” she asks, her interest piqued.

“Yes, but after one wrong tackle, it was all over,” I admit, the memory sharp. “Cooking became my refuge. It’s rhythmic, therapeutic—a quieter pulse. It’s about sharing my heritage, one dish at a time.”

“Sounds like you found your way home,” she says softly. “When homesick for New Orleans, I cook my family’s gumbo recipe. It always makes me feel better.

“Home,” I repeat, the word settling in my chest. It’s more than a place. It’s a feeling I’m beginning to sense in this joyful girl on the other side of this wall.

Silence hums, filled with unspoken truths. Despite the barrier, I feel closer to her than I’ve been to anyone in years.

“Saul?”

“Still here,” I murmur.

“Good,” she whispers, and her words feel like a promise—fragile yet unbreakable.

Three hours,a few secrets, and many words later, I’m completely captivated by the pure sunshine on the other side of the wall. Hoping to see if she can connect with the broken pieces of me, I take a deep breath and draw from a place I don’t usually allow myself to go. The silence between us feels delicate, and I’m uncertain how to begin; I only know that I must.

"I was twelve when my whole world fell apart," I say, my voice low as I steady myself with each word. "My mom... she was everything to me. She was strong, beautiful, the type of person who could laugh even when things were tough. But she married the wrong man. My stepdad... he fooled everyone. He could flash a smile and make you believe he was the nicest guy in the world. But behind closed doors, he was a monster."

I pause, the memories clawing their way to the surface. It’s hard to speak the words and keep them from shaking.

"One night, I wasn’t home. I was staying at a friend’s house, trying to avoid the shouting and the tension. When I came back, she was gone. Just like that." My throat tightens, and my chest feels heavy like the air has been sucked out of the room. "He killed her, Tessa. And I wasn’t there to stop it. I keep thinking, if I’d stayed home, maybe... maybe she’d still be alive."

“Patrick, my stepfather, only got twenty years to life. I wanted the death penalty, but they said it was second-degree murder, a crime of passion. But I know better. There was no passion, just rage and control.”

“Anyway, he’s in prison now, and I swear I’ll use every resource I have to make sure he stays there for the rest of his life. I can’t trust the system to handle it on its own. He can never be free because I know he’ll hurt my grandmother for testifyingagainst him and essentially putting him away. He swore he would, as they finally took his sorry ass away in chains.”

My words sit between us, raw and jagged. For a moment, I can’t bring myself to say more. But then I hear her voice, soft and full of something I can’t quite name—compassion, maybe.

"Saul," she says, her voice shaking, "I can’t even begin to imagine what that must have been like for you. Losing her like that... in the way you did."

There’s a weight in her words, as if she knows the pain I’m talking about. I sit up straighter, waiting for her to say more, and she does.

Her voice filters through the wall, soft and trembling, carrying the kind of weight that settles deep in your chest. I stand and press my hand against the cold surface as if that could bring me closer to her and let me bear just a fraction of what she’s carrying.

"I lost my mom, too," she says, her words barely more than a whisper. The admission catches me off guard, striking like a dart straight at my chest. There’s a pause, and I can feel her hesitation, the kind of silence that promises something raw is about to follow.

"But it was… different." Her voice wavers, each word heavy with a pain she’s clearly carried for years. My fingers curl into a fist against the wall, my breath catching in my throat. I want to say something, anything, but I don’t dare interrupt.

"She disappeared when I was just two years old." The words hit me like a blow. Two years? My heart hurts as I picture a tiny, helpless version of Tessa, alone in a way no child should ever be. "My father says that one moment she was there, holding me in her arms, and the next… gone."

I lean closer as if I might catch something in her tone that would make this easier to hear, but there’s nothing—just her voice, heavy with an ache that could swallow us both whole.

"No note. No explanation. Nothing. Just... silence." She says it like a fact she’s tried to accept but never really could. The silence that follows stretches, thick and unbearable. I can hear the tremble in her breath, the way she’s trying to hold herself together.

"My daddy never talked about it," she continues, her words quick now, as if she’s trying to outrun the memories. "He said there were questions no one could answer, and digging for them would only cause more pain. He remarried and then just stopped mentioning her. Her mother, my grandmère—that’s my grandmother—she and I are close. She keeps the memory alive for me as much as possible. As for me? I don’t even remember her. Not her face, not her voice—nothing. And that’s a pain of its own, you know? How do you mourn someone you don’t even remember?

I close my eyes, trying to picture the life she’s describing. A little girl growing up without answers, with a void where her mother should have been. It makes my chest ache for her, the little girl she was, and the woman she’s become.

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