Page 127 of The Good Girl Effect
But even if that future never comes to fruition, I want to feel alive again.
A cold winter chill moves through the park, and I bundle my coat tighter around me. Christmas is only six days away, and I know I shouldn’t rush these things, but I want to spend it with the people I love.
I want to spend it withher.
My counselor, Paul, keeps reminding me that there is no end goal or finish line with these things. When I feel ready to talk to her, I should. But I’m not sure I’ll ever feel ready. The things I said to her were unfair. The way I treated her, as if she was in competition for my heart, was wrong.
I’m not the type of man to talk to a ghost or a placard in front of a park, so I definitely won’t be doing that, but if I were to say something to Emmaline, this is the place I’d do it. And maybe I’m here just to feel her presence.
And maybe if I was going to speak to her, I’d tell her that…I miss her. I miss our inside jokes and the way she made a cup of tea every single night at exactly 7:30. I miss her socks on the floor next to our bed. I miss her shortbread cookies and her smile.
Hell, maybe I’d even tell her about Camille and how much I think she’d like her. If they were friends, I think Camille would be the bossy one who would cause a scene in restaurants if the waiters were rude to Emmaline. I think they’d talk about Monet and Coldplay and how bad my singing is.
I’d tell her that Camille loves Bea, and I think Em would be grateful for that.
Never the jealous type, I think she’d adore Camille. She would be disappointed in me for treating her like I did, but she wouldn’t yell. That wasn’t Em’s style.
If Em were here and I could really talk to her, she’d tell me to stop focusing on the what-ifs and regrets. It doesn’t matter that there would be no Camille if Em hadn’t died. She’d tell me I worry too much or that I’m too sentimental.
I would tell her that I still love her. I think I always will because that’s what happens when someone dies. My love for her froze in that state forever, and I’ll never fall out of love with her because she was never around to let me.
But my heart isn’t frozen. It’s a living, beating organ with room for more.
I’d ask Em to wish me luck. Fuck, I might even ask her advice. How the hell am I going to make up six weeks of near silence to Camille?
She’d probably tell me to stop talking about it and go do it.
She would definitely wish me luck.
“Papa, my hands are cold!” Bea says as she comes running up to where I’m sitting alone. I take her tiny hands in mine and warm them by breathing on them.
“You have to keep your mittens on,” I reply gently.
Holding my daughter’s hands in mine, I stare down into her blue eyes, and for one beautiful moment, I see her mother. Not just in the shape and color but in the gentleness and warmth behind them.
A part of Em is still here.
Pulling my daughter toward me, I wrap her up in my arms and hug her tightly. Her tiny hands grip my coat as she burrows herself in my chest. For just a moment, I imagine I’m hugging Em.
“Papa,” she whispers.
“Yes?”
“Can we get hot chocolate?”
I smile with my chin resting on her head. “Yes, of course we can.”
Releasing her, I smile down at my daughter. But before standing, I reach into her pockets and slip her mittens on each of her cold hands.
“Keep these on, please.”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Did you like visiting your maman’s park?” Emotion makes my voice raspy, and it nearly breaks midsentence.
Bea seems to notice immediately and leans closer as if she is the one comforting me. “Oui, Papa.”
As we stand up, I take her hand, and we walk together toward the nearest café. Sometimes, it’s hard to move on and leave the mistakes I’ve made in the past. I worry that Bea will remember the damage I’ve done and the years I was too absent to show her my love.
