“You can see her in January.”
Then I added:
“And Beverly?”
“Yes?”
“You’ll hold her when I hand her to you.”
Silence.
Then:
“That’s fair.”
By February, Roland and I had begun rebuilding our marriage.
Not in our old Smyrna house.
He sold it.
We bought a smaller place in Decatur.
Three bedrooms.
A backyard.
A fig tree.
I chose the paint colors.
Some days were still difficult.
Sometimes I looked at Roland and remembered the man who took my keys and said, “Please don’t make this difficult.”
Other days, I saw the man sitting on the nursery floor at three in the morning, singing badly so I could sleep.
We started counseling together every other Thursday.
Roland continued drawing his family.
A few weeks ago, he showed me the newest picture.
A long table.
Pendant lights above it.
Everyone around it.
Roland.
Me.
Wren in a high chair.
My father.
Raymond.
Gregory.
Faye.
Derek.
Aunt Paula.
Even Beverly.
And at the head of the table was an empty chair.
A small rose rested on the seat.
“Who is that for?”
“Your mom,” Roland said. “Celeste. Wren is named after her.”
He looked at the empty chair.
