Second Chance Love

Chapter 1 

Olivia

Everything around me is moving like the beginning of the universe, spraying in all directions, objects moving in ways they shouldn’t be.

I’m in a pinball machine, battered, thrown around. I can’t tell the exact source of the snapping sounds. 

There are so many things it could be – the glass from the window, the thick tree branch breaking through it, the fractures in my ribs, the crunch of the metal, the engine sputtering, the pounding of the thunder in the distance.

I can feel the compression of the metal, glass, and wood into my body. The airbags punch my ribs like I'm in a prizefight. First, in slow motion and then fast-forward, like a special effect in an action movie.

I clutch at my stomach.

The asphalt isn’t supposed to be this close. I shouldn’t see the patterns of the rain on the street beneath the shattered windows. Humans aren’t supposed to be in cars this way.

The melted-plastic stench mixes with the smoke of the engine and the smell of blood.

I’m going to die. The thought is so quick that it begins and ends in time for the accident to already be finished. Oh. I lived.

But that’s an afterthought.

I hear the thin wail of sirens, but mixed in is another scream. “Mommy! Help!”

I look in the back, and, as if it’s a brand-new car, there's a child’s seat and children’s toys. But no child.

“I’m here! Mommy’s here!”

The sound of sirens wail like a screeching cat. The sound morphs into yelling, not from a baby but a man. His voice is filled with anger, too upset to speak rationally.

“What kind of life will our child have if she only sees her mother for a few hours a week? I had parents who were never around…?

“What kind of life will our baby have if I’m chained to a kitchen, laundry machine, and vacuum cleaner? Oh, I used to have a career, but you came along, and I wasn’t a person anymore.”

Paramedics come and tap on the window. Ethan, for some reason, is one of them. He reaches in, but he's gone in an instant, and I hear a different wail. A baby crying and fleeing from me.

“Don’t take her! I didn't get to see her!”

“You have to relax,” one of the emergency workers says. Their face is a blur, anonymous. “We’re going to save you.”

“No! Don’t save me! Bring her back! Save her!”

But there’s no point. She’s gone. And then I wake up.

My sheets are soaked with sweat. My eyes are raw from the tears that must have come overnight. I reach over and grab the glass of water on the nightstand. 

My voice is sore and raspy, I’m sure from trying to scream in my sleep. The neighbors have asked before if I’ve fallen asleep with the TV on, and I’ve been too embarrassed to tell them it was me.

I look up at the alarm. 5:47 a.m. The worst time in the middle of the night to wake up. Any earlier, I could go back to sleep. Any later, I’d have enough to get me through the day. But this is no-man’s land.

Much like the place I’ve been existing since the night of the miscarriage. It’s hard to know what to do after losing a child you never had without having memories to comfort you. After failing at the only job you had, to keep her safe in the shelter of your body. Instead, I became her tomb.

The gray light of dawn starts streaming through the blinds, and the brightness is too much for me. I open the nightstand drawer without moving, feeling around for the ibuprofen. My head is pounding. I find the bottle and shake it, relieved there are still pills left.

“Goddammit.”

I’m trembling so hard that I drop the bottle on the floor. I get out of bed unsteadily and lean over to get it, every motion feeling like another step of a marathon.

I bend over, and I flash to the position in the car, pinned in a slump in the seat. I kneel down to pick up the bottle, and I think of all the times I prayed afterward, hoping she would forgive me one day. 

I pick it up and stand, then put on my robe, remembering the days when putting on clothes was an accomplishment. I’m grateful I’m not in that place anymore. But I don’t know if I’ll ever be truly over it.

I stand out on the balcony, overlooking downtown Toronto. Historic brick buildings are nestled between soaring skyscrapers. It’s a long way from New Orleans, but after we lost the baby, I needed to get as far away as possible.

Breathing the crisp July air in Toronto, when the weather is perfect, I feel a sense of freedom. Even in January, I like it, except for the winter coats and boots.

Toronto has a similar feel to the Big Easy in some ways, with the multitude of cultures and mixing of old and new. It doesn’t hurt that everything here is written in French, too, and that Cajuns and Acadians are one and the same, at least in theory.

The array of structures of all styles, mixed with the gorgeous natural surroundings of Lake Ontario, always gives me inspiration in my work as an architect. Creating new buildings, I can imagine my way into being someplace else.

But the dark, painful, unbearable memories don’t go away, no matter how far I try to run.

Lately, I’ve been having these nightmares more often. After the first year had passed, they subsided a little, and I’d have them a few times a week instead of several times a night.

But for the last few months, they’ve haunted me, even though it’s been six years since it happened. I was just about to turn twenty-two then.

The nightmares ramp up on significant dates, I find. Like the day Ethan and I found out about the pregnancy, along with the day of the accident. The due date is the hardest, though. The day that should have been the happiest of our life.

I slipped out of the hospital afterward. I couldn’t face Ethan. I couldn’t bear to face myself, and I didn’t want to see the disappointment in his face. It was easier just to leave without looking back. We had graduated college, and I had moved back in with my parents, then got a job that would take me as far from Louisiana as possible.

I make a cup of coffee, then sit on the balcony for a little while longer before I have to start actually preparing for work.

I still get grounds mailed up from Café du Monde. I can’t leave all of New Orleans behind. And I’ve spent so many weekend mornings making beignets, practicing the techniques and right proportions, that I swear I can’t tell the difference.

My phone dings. Who would text me this early?

“Ahh! Emilia!” I shout to myself when I remember.

Emilia, my best friend, and Arthur, her longtime boyfriend, have been traveling with their television production company. We’ve always told each other to just text whenever, since neither of us ever knows which time zone the other is ever in. 

I’m out of the country as often as I’m in it, whether on a construction site or meeting with clients. I’m still adjusting to Eastern time after my trip to Singapore two weeks ago.

I quickly unlock the phone to see the message. The first message is a picture of a beautiful round-cut diamond ring, surrounded by smaller diamonds, on her long, dark fingers.

I find myself squealing, jumping up and down a little bit, then I remember that I have neighbors.

Congratulations to both of you! The ring is so beautiful! I write back with a string of emojis.

It’s August 12! she responds in seconds.

I look at my phone calendar just to make sure I’m not hallucinating. Yep. Three weeks from now.

I shake my head, laughing while I’m rolling my eyes. It’s just like Emilia to expect everyone to jump to get to New Orleans for her wedding in three weeks without any notice.

Please tell me you’ll come! I know it’s short notice, but I need you there. You’ll get the real version in the mail any day now. You won’t believe the venue.

She sends a screenshot of the invitation right after. Arthur Ingram and Emilia Laroux cordially invite you to celebrate their nuptials on Saturday, August 12, at the Woodland Inn in La Hache, Louisiana.

La Hache. Our old stomping grounds. We’d go sailing on double dates almost every weekend. A quick drive south of New Orleans, exploring the barrier islands, and heading out to the ocean on days with clear weather. Then, we’d camp in a cabin or stay in a little budget hotel. We were inseparable. Her and Arthur, and me and Ethan.

I freeze.

Ethan and Arthur became close friends on those trips, as close as me and Emilia. I’m invited, so I have no question that Ethan is, too.

Going back to New Orleans is hard enough with all of the painful memories of my life there. But facing the most painful memory of all, Ethan, might be too much.

Please say you’ll come, Liv! And that you’ll be a bridesmaid.

My fingers hover over the screen, feeling like the pointer of an Ouija board, hoping my fingers will decide so I don’t have to.

I’m not sure if I can make it. But I’ll let you know.

Just the thought of being back in New Orleans sends me into a panic. Can I really bring myself to actually return? I barely made it out alive the last time.