Losing Ruby
Copyright © 2020 Kelsa Dixon
All rights reserved
— • —
[Brody]
The call came late at night.
It was after ten o'clock when I placed the transfer paper to the side of Owen's chest.
The sketch laid out in front of me wasn't a memory of mine, yet I found it haunting. Perhaps because it reminded me of all the ones painted across the canvas of my own skin, and the anatomically correct heart with a chamber that burst into fragments, splattering into stars that would soon litter the chest of the man in front of me reminded me of the red ruby in the center of my chest. His was for a daughter born with only two chambers of her heart and had passed away within hours. Mine was for my sister—Ruby. The one that died in the seat next to me while I was behind the wheel.
As an artist, it was giving these memories permanence that helped me find value in the work I did; being able to freeze time for the people who wanted to turn a fleeting moment eternal.
A regular, Owen had his arms stained in as much heartache as I'd become accustomed to: a brother killed in Iraq; a grandmother with Alzheimer's; a mother in and out of rehab; and a father in and out of his life. Now he had a child he'd never watch grow into adulthood.
My chest constricted at the thought of the baby I'd never held—the one I'd lost.
I dismissed the thoughts and wheeled my stool to the bench. With the ink gun hovering above his sternum my phone rang out like a siren.
No one called. Not while I was working; not at this hour. A glimpse at my brother's name and dread surged through my veins on instinct. I hadn't spoken to him in over seven years. Not since her accident; not since I walked out and hadn't bothered looking back—I hadn't dared to look back.
The words came through the phone garbled and distant as I stumbled out the door with only a vague idea of what was happening—of where I was headed. Colors of the traffic lights and the oncoming cars—the ones braking in front of me, too—began to blur together until I made it to the parking lot across town. Only drawn to it because of the unholy tether that would keep me bound to it. Bound by the harrowing memories.
Sweat coated my palms as I sat, staring at the building in front of me. Looming, laughing, daunting. The autopilot I'd been on came to a screeching halt and every step forward became brutal and forced. The white fluorescent lights and sterile scent stung my senses. A wave of nausea hit me. This couldn't be happening. Not again. Not to this family.
But the people who filled the waiting room assured me it was all too real. Older men dressed in suits; coaches, donors, school board members from the college Luca attended—my father's colleagues—sat, bent over their knees; waiting. Heels tapped, palms shielded their faces or scrubbed together.
Younger guys, all Luca's age—his teammates—restlessly leaned against walls. They stood in groups, shuffling on their feet, their hands tucked behind their backs. But no one said a word. Hoods flipped up to hide the discomfort they were finding in their emotions. I was privy to the tactic—to the feelings. I watched as some crossed their arms, only to reconsider and stuff their fists into pockets. Nothing to do but try to buy time.
"Stratford," I said at the desk. "Christian Stratford. He was in a car accident." That was all that I could remember. They had been at a university fundraiser and their car wound up wrapped around a tree. There was a deer in the road; he hit the gas instead of the break. It didn't make sense and I hadn't thought to ask how someone who had made a living off split-second reactions could make that kind of mistake.
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Losing Ruby
ChickLit[Ongoing] It took one tragedy to tear them apart. Another tragedy to force them to face their issues. And the scare of a third to finally mend what was broken. Brody has never been able to forgive himself for the death of their sister six years ag...
