Page 27 of Restored By the Mountain Man
Honestly, I’m so damn tired of fighting against the thick, dark stream of sludge every day, I’m suddenly desperate to talk to her about it.
“Every day, since my decision cost both of their lives,” I begin.
“Ezra,” she breathes out.
I shake my head. “Let me get this out,” I plead. At her nod, I continue. “Sleep was never respite. It was where I laid my body and mind at the altar of penance. I’d wake and find ways to continue punishing my body. I didn’t want to be questioned or fixed. So, I avoided everyone.”
“That’s why they call you Ghost,” she concludes.
“Yes,” I confirm. After a few moments of silence, I whisper, “She asked me to promise her. If something went wrong with the delivery, to choose her. Our little Rosie,” I choke. “But how wasI supposed to be that little girl’s father when choosing her meant killing her mother?”
Tears falls that I angrily swipe away, shaking my head. “That selfish thought took them both from this world. They should be here, living, thriving. Not me,” I spit.
Zoe quickly gets up on her knees and plasters her body against my side, taking my face in her hands–the second person today to do this.
“Listen to me, Ezra Hunter.” She waits till I lift my head, her beautiful face blurring from my tears. “Tom’s car accident was no one’s fault. I could easily spiral into thinking how the only reason he was on that road, on that street, at that exact moment was because my bratty ass was on my period and I wanted a pistachio cronut from my favorite bakery. Should I blame myself for his death?”
“That’s not the same thing, Zoe,” I bite.
Her face gets close to mine. “It is,” she whispers. “You are not God, Ezra. You may look like a mountain God, but sorry. Newsflash, you’re not.”
She’s says that ridiculous statement with such sincerity, I almost laugh which is unimaginable in this moment.
“Preeclampsia is tricky as fuck and too many women have experienced this during labor.” At my shock of her knowing, she shrugs. “I told ya. I was given information.” Her thumbs brush tears that fall and I find that I can’t even be mad at whoever told her.
“Even healthy young woman can die during childbirth. And your little Rosie wasn’t ready to come into the world. It was too early. The risk was there no matter what you chose. I am so sorry you all had to go through that and more so, I’m sorry you convinced yourself you deserved to carry this guilt for three long years.”
“It felt like tonight, she told me goodbye,” I whisper, my voice raspy as I choke back more tears.
“Tom came to me four months ago and said goodbye,” she whispers, getting choked up herself. “I wasn’t ready to accept it mentally but my body literally exhaled. Unconsciously, the healing began.”
“We met ten years ago. Married her two years later,” I quietly tell our story. “We waited but eventually, Liz wanted to start trying.”
Seamlessly, Zoe adjusts us as I keep talking. I recline more against the pillows she adjusts and she then curls herself in my arms. As natural as breathing. Unconsciously, I run my fingertips up and down her arm, keeping our faces close, voices intimate.
“It wasn’t easy. She miscarried for a few years. The recovery from each time, emotionally, was so damn heartbreaking. I tried to be what she needed every time. Make her believe she was not failing us. At all.” Clearing my throat from it closing, I continue. “When she got pregnant with Rosie and made it well into her second trimester, we were over the moon.”
Zoe gently caresses my face with the back of her hand.
“But doctors told us,” I look her in the eye. “We knew the potential risks. But Liz was determined to manifest Rosie into existence.”
Closing my eyes, I remember how tiny Rosie was at seven months. Two months too early. She didn’t look real. Especially since she was lifeless. Unmoving.
“Hey,” Zoe cups my wet cheek. “It’s okay to let it out, Ezra. Avoiding the pain doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. It’s just there, waiting to be faced.”
Gathering myself again, I exhale, leaning my forehead against hers. “How long were you with Tom?”
She smiles. “Since high school. Classic tale of high school sweethearts who actually made it past college.” She runs her fingers over my shirt aimlessly. “His parents don’t want me to let go.”
Pulling my face back so I can see her clearly, I ask, “How so?”
Sighing, she looks up. I wipe at her wet cheeks. “They call all the time. When I was in Portland, they stopped by unexpectedly multiple times a week. They always had a box of his stuff to give me. They wanted to spend all day at the table, reminiscing about him.” She shakes her head. “I moved back in with my parents after since I couldn’t be in his and my apartment without him. Sometimes,” she pauses.
When she doesn’t continue, I lay my hand on her cheek. “Sometimes?” I prompt her to continue.
“I wonder if I got back to living too quickly? Should I be deep in it still?”
“Hey,” I call till she gives me her eyes. “That’s their voices in your head, not yours. And just because you’re thriving, laughing, loving those around you, doesn’t mean you’re entirely over it or healed. I’ve seen the mask fall when no one’s around. You just carry it better than I do,” I grin.
