Page 61 of The Man Next Door
When I’m finally released from the stand, I exhale a breath of relief. My job here is done.
The proceedings rest for the day following my testimony. I follow George out of the courtroom, more than ready to exit the building and forget all about today. He stops to chat with an elderly man, one of his past clients. I stand by, not sure if I should just wave goodbye and move along, or if I should wait for him. What is the protocol here? My breath hitches when someone jerks my arm. I turn around to find Colette, looking frantic.
“How can you do this to us?” she scoffs. “I invited you into myhome.”
My heart catches in my throat. “I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I’m just doing my job.”
“Your job?!” she snaps. “You’re taking a girl away from her family is what you’re doing.”
“I’m doing what’s best for Madison,” I argue. “She’ll still be with family.”
At this, Colette becomes even more enraged. “You don’t have kids, do you? If you did, you wouldn’t be doing this.”
No, I don’t.
“What’s going on here?” George breaks in, grabs my arm and pulls me away from Colette.
My pulse is still racing when we reach the parking lot. He asks if I’m okay, and I tell him I am, that I’ve done this many times before.
But the truth is, I’m not.
I toss and turn that night, thinking about Colette. My sleep comes in fits and starts, and I dream about Madison.
She cries. And I cry.
I wake up in tears, wishing Noah were by my side.
* * *
We don’t remember days,we remember moments.
I read that somewhere once, on one of those inspirational plaques people hang on their walls. For the life of me, I can’t remember where or when it was, but the quote has stayed with me ever since.
The moments I remember are often the most bittersweet. One such memory was Christmas Eve. I was fifteen and three quarters. I’d come to think of my age in quarters, eagerly awaiting my sixteenth birthday, when I would be old enough to make my own decisions, to get my driver’s license, to be with Gavin.
I’d made Gavin a few presents, and I was bursting with excitement. I’d taken much care in wrapping them just so, and couldn’t wait to see his expression when he opened them.
Restless, I stared at our pitiful artificial Christmas tree, haphazardly decorated with cheap ornaments. I waited until my dad was laughing and fully engrossed in a rerun episode ofSeinfeldto sneak out.
I was all smiles, arms full of gifts when Gavin opened his back door.
“Wow… are those all for me?”
“Of course.”
He welcomed me in with a big grin. He was in his usual outfit of sweats and a plain white t-shirt. I quickly shed my jacket and boots, and followed him down the hall to the kitchen.
He opened the refrigerator door. “You want a hot chocolate or cider, or egg nog?”
My eyes grew wide. “You have egg nog?”
He smiled. “I take it that’s your choice?”
“Hell, yeah. I asked my dad to buy some but he never did.” I stepped into the living room, and placed the gifts under his tree, an addition to the three wrapped boxes already there. Gavin’s tree was a real pine with twinkling white lights and wooden ornaments, beautiful in their craftsmanship.
“Coming right up,” he called out. “How ‘bout a dash of nutmeg on top?”
“Sure.” I held an ornament in my hand, a toy soldier, and studied it closely. “These ornaments are really nice. Are they antiques?” I knew they were certainly not cheapies from the dollar store like ours were.
