James raises a hand and drops his gun.
A shot goes off in the dark and something warm blooms across me.
It's not me, though, that has just taken a bullet through the chest.
James.
My James.
He's been shot.
Chapter Twenty
The trip to Montana was blurry eyed and Red Bull fueled. It was loud music keeping us awake and our eyes on the prize.
Cherish.
Finding her. Bringing her home.
Finally closing the chapter of our lives that took up more space than it should.
When we get to town Jonah and I stop and assess the plan, our route. We get some food, and buy a few ski masks, and get ready to crawl on our hands and knees into the compound. We park the car and hike in a little ways so as not to draw attention to ourselves.
Jonah is my backup, and with swift movements, we make it inside the compound. The property is large, but we've memorized the hand-drawn map from Grace and find our way to the kitchen. We don't see anyone, or hear anyone, and thank God for that. But as I walk through the back door, into the place Cherish supposedly lives, a sense of dread washes over me. It's all too good to be true.
The first thing I think when I see her on her knees, head back, chin lifted, is that she’s praying. Which surprises me in and of itself. I stopped believing in the God of our childhood a long time ago. It's not that I don't believe in some higher power now... but it certainly isn't one carved from the cross our fathers wanted us to believe in.
No. If I believe in anything anymore, it isn't found on my knees with my eyes wide shut. No. What I believe transcends that small-minded idea of making women weak to feel powerful, it's more than judgment.
I believe in grace and I believe in forgiveness and, most of all, I believe in the power of love.
So, when I see Cherish on her knees, for a split-second I wonder if she and I have lost our way on the long stretches of distance over the years. We've had a singular afternoon, a much-too-short night... What we need is a lifetime, a repeat of our childhood. We need never-ending lengths of time to learn about one another, to laugh and grow as one.
But the idea that she and I grew apart is fleeting because when she turns and sees me, I see she wasn't praying to the God of our childhood at all—she was praying for a miracle.
Cherish is in pain. Her beautiful face is written in it. Her hands shake, she clutches her stomach.
She calls for me and I come to her. I will always come to her.
With her in my arms, I leave the kitchen, hearing her plea for a hospital, understanding the urgency in her voice.
But before I can get her anywhere, we see police vehicles surrounding the premises, Jonah is in the distance with his arms behind his back. And I drop my gun, needing the officers to understand that I’m on their side. The lights are blindingly bright, but before I can shield my eyes, a shot fills the night.
And everything changes. The burn of the bullet is hot and cold at the same time. It sears into the right side of my chest, and I fall to my knees, gripping Cherish in my arms, and I find myself kneeling the same way she was only minutes ago.
Now I’m the one praying for a miracle.
"James," she sobs, "James," she cries. Her hands are on my face, and then she reaches for my hand, pressing it to her belly as blood pours from my body. "Don't let go. Don't give up. Feel this, it's your child. I'm carrying your baby, James, and you need to hang on. For us." She clutches my face again, staring into my eyes, as my world goes black. "No," she cries, as more bullets are shot around us, as I fall to the ground, and she hovers over me, her own body seizing as she cries out—because she is carrying her own pain.
On the ground, the night goes dark and Cherish looks into my eyes, wracked with sobs, ripping at my shirt. Begging me to hold on.
Hold on.
Hold on.
God only knows what I'd be without you.
Chapter Twenty-One
In the hospital bed, I wake with a start. Screaming before my eyes adjust to the light in the room.
"James?" I scream. I clutch the bed sheets. Blood on his shirt. A hole in his chest. His eyes closing. Being pulled away.
Kicking and screaming as my body contracted.
Body.
Contracting.
I press my hand to my belly.
Is my baby still with us?
I shake, terrified. Alone. Screaming for a nurse. "Help me. Help," I call. An IV is in my arm, I am attached to all sorts of machines.
"It's okay," a soothing voice tells me. But they don't understand. Nothing is okay.
"Where is James? I need to see him." I try to get out of the bed, but the nurse is at my side, pressing a hand on my arm, trying to settle me. But she doesn't understand. This can't be settled with a whisper, with a calming tone—I need James. James alone.
"I understand," the nurse says. Her nametag reads Betty but her name means nothing to me right now.