Page 32 of Even After This
I pitch the phone on top of my belongings and grip the bar again. At the exact moment I think I will double over, I see a shadow.
Someone is here.
Shoot. Someone is here.
“Hey there.” A palm puts gentle pressure on the center of my back. “Meredith, it’s Harlan.” He covers my hand on the rail with his.
No. Not him. Not now.
“I ... I ... I...” My quivering voice sounds like that of a child.
The hand on my back steadies me. “It’s okay.” He stands perpendicular to me, his face a few inches from mine. “Don’t talk.”
I try to control my twitching body as my eyes dart around the area.
“No one’s coming back here,” his deep voice soothes. “You’re okay. Just breathe.”
In spite of my best efforts, I cry out. Grief’s agony sears through me with relentless force, and I release a curse through my sobs.
Harlan says nothing, his hand stroking my back. His presence gives me a temporary reprieve, and my breathing, though still choppy, isn’t as strained.
“Meredith, do you think you can walk a couple of steps and rest on the bench back here?”
Without making eye contact, I nod once. Maybe if I sit down, he’ll leave.
He grabs my purse, his hand on my back guides me, and I lean my weight into his side. When we take a seat, he faces me, places a protective arm around the back of the bench, and rubs his thumb on my shoulder.
My broken inhales struggle to grant passage to the calming oxygen. I’m so mortified. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“You aren’t the one who should apologize. Take adeep breathfor me. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. I just want to sit with you, if that’s okay.”
On my next inhale, I whimper.
Waves. Unrelenting waves of mourning.
I think I’m okay, then I can almost make out Clayton’s laughter. I think I’m okay, then I picture Chloe’s silly walk. I think I’m okay, then I remember Steve’s last words to me.
Unforgiving waves of agony threaten to drown me.
After several more minutes, Harlan squeezes my shoulder. “Meredith, what can I do for you?”
“There’s”—I clear my throat—“water in my purse.” My limp hand casts a half-hearted gesture to my bag.
Harlan releases his secure grip on me, and I regret asking him to move. My body shakes in his absence.
He bends to retrieve my purse, returns to me, and rummages through the contents. When he finds the water, he twists open the cap and hands me the bottle.
My unsteady hands grasp the container.
I gather some courage to glance up at him. What I find surprises me.
I thought he would appear uncomfortable at the very least and fearful at the very worst. But the man returning my gaze can only be described as concerned. His compassionate eyes match his calm demeanor.
It’s surprising. Maybe comforting. But also confusing.
Why is he still here?
When I think I can form words again, I pull in a breath and exhale. “I’m sorry. The bad grief isn’t as frequent now. At home, I’m usually alone and no one else has to deal with it. I’m just”—I pick at the edge of the bottle label with my fingernail—“sorry.”
