“Dad, I’m going to Dud’s!�




A grunt, footsteps, and a door slam.




She licked her chapped lips, tasting the desire to run after her son, biting her tongue to halt the bitter flow of words with which she longed to shower her husband. He was already gone. They were both already gone.




Staring out the frosted window at her son’s retreating back (as she had come to do so often), she enveloped her senses in the sun’s comforting radiance. It softly splashed her cheeks, dappling her face with a cinnamon blush, and then soothingly caressed her skin, embracing her being with tendrils of tingling warmth. Then it smiled at the bulge of her belly, tickling the little girl nestled inside. She imagined a giggle. Wrapped in the evanescent arms of lonely love, she relaxed and breathed.




Breathing, releasing her heart from the daily reminders of a fraying relationship—it kept her sane. The sun whispered from her mind the dry conversation over breakfast.




“A lot to do today, eh Bridget?�




“Of course.�




A pause.




“Preparations coming along alright?�




“Yes. Quite well, actually, all things considered.�




An odd phrase, particularly when nothing out of the ordinary had happened. But they both understood. Another uncomfortable silence.




“Piers goes back to school next week.�




“Indeed.�




She sounded terse and irritated. She tried to mend it—“We should start buying his supplies soon�—and instead plunged into quicksand.




“Let him buy his own supplies. He’s sixteen, for Pete’s sakes!�




A sigh. “I understand that, Hugh, but he needs someone to teach him responsibility—�




“—which is why he should do something on his own for a change!�




“We can’t just let him run off and do whatever he wants!�




“Why not? That’s what he’s done all summer—�




“Exactly! And what good has it done him? He comes home with bruises from bullying the other children…�




“He’s learning to be a man, Bridget. It’s all part of the process—�




“AND THAT MAKES IT RIGHT, DOES IT?� She exhaled deeply, tossed her untouched napkin on the table, and hurried out of the room.




That had been breakfast. He also called once from the office to exchange the expected formalities. The conversation had flowed like a trite script—perfect to a ‘t’ and teeth-grindingly forced.




It made her sick to think about it.




She shifted as clouds yanked the sun from her. Her grey eyes, bloodshot, gazed wearily at her from the glass. Is this what I look like? Her hair hung in a tangled knot at her neck—she had not bothered to brush it that morning. Is this what I’ve been reduced to? Her once-freckled face had grown pallid, despite the time she spent at the window.




Loneliness doesn’t become you. Petunia had said that to her once.




She talked often with Petunia, appropriately praising the woman’s blonde lump of a son and harshly haranguing the nephew. Petunia would appropriately blush and click her tongue, though not without a flicker of regret behind her eyes. Then they would both appropriately turn the subject to her own family, and when that was exhausted, appropriately discuss the safest topic available (the weather, in most cases).




They never ventured past the surface, into the trials and troubles of each other’s lives, the internal struggles of the soul—except for that one comment. They had been chatting about their families.




“How’s Hugh?�




A sigh. “Doing alright, I suppose.�




A piercing stare. “You know, Bridget, loneliness doesn’t become you.� Then a change of subject. She knew Petunia understood.




Loneliness doesn’t become you. Does loneliness become anyone? She mused over the idea, but was interrupted by a sudden movement from outside. A small boy whom she didn’t recognize had just plopped onto their driveway next to the car and promptly commenced a wailing cry, like a trapped banshee.




Interested at once, and glad of an excuse to escape the taunting clutches of her house, she roused herself and made her way to the front door where she abruptly halted and gasped.




A scrawny teenager about her son’s age who had been shuffling along the street had already noticed the small boy. Ruffling his black hair, he cautiously advanced, and they exchanged a few rudimentary words (interposed with the boy’s sniffling and whimpering). He donned a mien of abject pity and concern and approached the car.




It’s him! That nephew of Petunia’s! She glanced at her hand, which had inadvertently clutched the doorknob. Her common sense urged her to wrench the door open and confront the Potter boy before he could do any damage, but her fingers were strangely paralyzed.




He’s from St. Brutus’…he’ll harm the boy!




The logic was irrefutable, but something unexplainable stayed her hand. She contented herself with observation.




During her brief debate, Potter had lowered himself to the concrete and slid underneath the car. The child watched apprehensively, his watery blue eyes a mixture of worry, curiosity, and awe.




She inwardly prayed. Please don’t let him harm the car. Please don’t let him hurt the boy.




She knew Hugh would berate her if so much as a scratch appeared on their vehicle. He would traipse around the subject for a bit, while administering a dose of the silent treatment. Then he would broach the subject cautiously (“Now, I don’t know what happened, but…�), she would be forced into a confession (“It was the Potter boy…I wanted to stop him, but I just couldn’t!�), they would row horribly (“Piers could have taken care of it, but no, that’s bullying!�), and she would retreat from the room (“WHY CAN’T YOU UNDERSTAND?�). Just like clockwork. One, two, three. Lather, rinse, repeat.





Just like everything we do nowadays...




Pathetic. She shuddered and pointedly fixed her stare on Potter’s jeans (several sizes too large) which were now inching out from under the car. Soon, his battered t-shirt (hanging off his frame) emerged, then his head, and finally his arms. In his hand was a small rolling toy, possibly a monkey, whose sudden appearance sent the small child into gales of laughter and raucous shrieks of joy accompanied by gleeful claps.




Potter dusted off his clothes and straightened his glasses before kneeling down to return the toy to the boy with a broad grin. The boy’s eyes glowed, and Potter barely had time to pat him on the head before he scampered off down the sidewalk. Shaking his head with a chuckle, the teenager glanced around then continued on his stroll down the street.




As she studied his diminishing figure, her eyes wandered to the clouds where a few rays of light had penetrated the greyness and now bathed the street in a magical halo. She breathed deeply and somehow felt lighter, as if weights had fallen from her shoulders. The shafts of sunlight captured her gaze as her mind flickered through ephemeral thoughts.




Potter? But how? Why? Isn’t he a bad kid? Her brain snatched at a particular thought. Maybe he’s not so bad at heart. Maybe he can be saved. Maybe anyone can be saved. Maybe—No. Off-limits.




She attempted to scrutinize the details of distant houses now touched by glimmers of light, but her mind returned to the questions that had once haunted her.




Could Piers ever be kind like that?




Could Hugh?




Will my girl be like that?




What will my girl be like?




Could I teach her to be like Potter?




She closed her eyes and squared her shoulders.




I’ll try.




She felt a light tap on her stomach. Startled, she glanced down at her belly and gently rubbed the spot where the baby had kicked. Meanwhile the sun had broken free of the last wisps of cloud and was now shining its dazzling countenance upon her unborn child.




Her little girl kicked again.




She smiled, her cheeks flushed in the golden glow. “Hope,� she whispered. “My little Hope.�




Hope kicked a third time.




And Bridget Polkiss laughed.













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