Page 2 of Conception
At the same time, it’s the fact they’re all here that makes me want to stay that much more. Because even though I made countless mistakes as a parent, my sons make up the other half of my world, and life without them wouldn’t have been worth living. I wasn’t always the father I should have been, and though I’ve spent the last five years making up for it, it hasn’t been enough. I’m not sure it ever will be.
Branson, the headstrong chip off the old man’s block who was always there, yet for some reason, I couldn’t see the man he’s become even though he’s exactly like me—for better or worse. From the day he was born, I loved him more than life itself. They say you don’t know love until you meet your firstborn, and it’s true. I knew I loved Amelia. I hadn’t known how much more my heart would expand until the first time I heard Branson cry. I spent my life molding him into the man I wanted him to be. Who I thought he should be. Never once did I realize how hard I was pushing—or that some part of me was trying to make up for the fact that he didn’t have my name. Far too late, I learned what it’d done to him, and to this day, I don’t know if I’ve forgiven myself. I haven’t had enough time.
Knox, my namesake and the son I lost for nearly a decade because of my own foolishness and pride. I don’t know if I’ve ever hurt Amelia the way I did when I pushed our son away, and I haven’t had the time to make it up to her. To him. He’s back in my life, as my son, because he found what I did: the love of a good woman. I haven’t had enough time.
And my youngest boy, Cohen, the one son I didn’t seem to screw up, though I’m pretty sure I can thank my wife for that. I’d nearly ruined two sons. She wasn’t letting me ruin her baby boy. I certainly haven’t had enough time with him.
Through it all, she’s stood by side. She’s been my rock, my lifeline, my everything even when I was too stubborn to see it. I haven’t had enough time.
I haven’t had the time to make amends. I need more time. I need more…
I love my boys. But as darkness envelopes me, it’s Amelia I see.
Always.
Only ever Amelia.
It’s true that Amelia and I didn’t always have it easy. In fact, I fucked up royally along the way. But now that death seems to be knocking on my door, I see beyond all my regrets, and not a single dreadful memory lingers. Because while those moments mattered and helped shape who I’ve become today, those aren’t the memories that give me the desire to live. Instead, flashing before my eyes are a lifetime’s worth of memories of my wife, my sons, and my entire family who’s loved me through it all.
I can die a blessed and happy man.
Just not today.
Summer 1980
A FEROCIOUS BURST OF LIGHTNINGflashes across the ominous Tennessee sky. Thick, swirling clouds blacken to the point it could be the middle of the night instead of early afternoon. I brace myself for the impending crash that’s never far off from Mother Nature’s incandescent bolts of fury. I squeeze my eyes shut, practice my breathing, and count slowly, waiting for the explosion.
It wasn’t always like this. I didn’t always have this fear. When I was a little girl, before I learned the terror thunderstorms could bring, my meteorologist dad made it a game. He taught me to see the beauty in lightning, enjoy the crescendo of thunder. I can’t begin to count how many nights I spent drifting off to sleep to the lullaby of raindrops. The louder, the better.
The nights with the thunderstorms became my favorite moments with Dad. We’d sit out on the covered porch, with me on his lap in his favorite old rocking chair. On occasion, Mom would grab her camera and it became a family affair. After each luminous streak across the sky, he’d tell me to hold my breath and count, just waiting for the beautiful melody thunderstorms designed.
Bonding over storms brought us together.
The same thing tore us apart.
The answering rumble comes on the count of seven, informing me that the storm is approaching. Rather than sit on the side of the road, I need to carry on and get to the lake house before the worst of it arrives. Yet I find it hard to move.
Clammy fingers clutch the steering wheel. I press my forehead to the leather, appreciating the coolness and forcing myself to take deep breaths, keeping the panic at bay.
This too shall pass.
I can practically hear my grandmother’s old adage of a promise, feel the way her soft hand rubbed my back after we left the cemetery. Part of me hated that she felt the need to provide comfort when she’d just buried her son. The other part of me? The daddy’s little girl? I reveled in my need for it.
Brilliant gold flashes flood my vision, barely muted by closed eyes.
Once again, I count.
One…two…three…
BOOM!
The sound is so close, so powerful, that I jump with a shriek, my head jerking up and my eyes popping open. I try to catch my breath when I realize that the sound wasn’t from thunder, but from a man standing at my driver’s-side window.
A fresh wave of terror chills me to the bone.
He’s yelling at me through the window, but with the wind howling and the rain pounding, I can’t hear him through the glass. I could—and probably should—gather my courage, turn the car back on, and put pedal to the metal, but the threat of hydroplaning is enough to give me pause.
At the same time, I’m reminded of the serial killer, that Bundy guy, who wreaked havoc on young, single woman driving alone, and I’m torn.
