Possible trigger warning for grief, mention of the presumed death of a child, and memory of almost character-death.
Milan was busy with designers and models, bags, displays, clothing, people everywhere for the week. Lights, photographers, cameras- it was the same old thing as the others. February 22 through February 28th, then on to Paris for the last leg of her journey and the last part of her trip. Jada had planned her day trip out carefully, making plans to visit various tourist spots in Rome during the one day of fashion week her absence would have less of an impact. That was the name of the game when it came to secretive trips like this. No one knew about Hope, and that was her goal. After a year and a half- July 11, 2015.
The train ride Jada took from Milan to Rome was only about three hours; a little change, depending on a wide variety of factors. There were big names almost every day except for Wednesday- Prada was 6 to 7 on Thursday, Versace on Friday; Saturday, perhaps, but she was quite interested in the Blumarine show at 12:30. Sunday was starting off a bit slow, in her opinion- Simonetta Ravizza, Marni, Trussardi... but Sunday had Ferragamo at 4. Jada piled into the train at 6 in the morning, pulling into Rome a little after 9.
Three hours would be cutting it close; to make the show she had to leave by noon. There were travel times, from one piece of the trip puzzle to another. But three hours was nowhere near as much time as she needed. Three hours with her daughter for another year... It would never be enough time. How could it ever be enough time to mourn and grieve for another year? She couldn’t imagine. How long would it take to move past the wounds that stuck in her craw when she thought of it? Past the hurt and the lump in gut and throat?
A little over a year and a half, and it was nowhere near enough time for her to have moved past the knot of self-reproach and disgust that knotted and curled in her gut like something parasitic; an infection of self-hatred for something that wasn't her fault.
The Cimitero dei protestanti was a public cemetery, about 4 kilometers from the Termini. It was home to diplomats, sculptors, authors; those who were not Catholic, or who had not been baptised. It had lovely trees, a meadow, statues, history, stray cats. It was the perfect place for Hope to have been buried, a quiet place that Jada could imagine would have given her plenty of viewing pleasure. More than that it was old, and matters were handled with quiet and respect. It had been easy to hide the papers, to silence the obituary and the name. They had accommodated the needs of a young unwed woman who they assumed to be ashamed.
There were almost no clouds right now, a blessing in a moderately-sized package. There would hopefully be no later mess, no rain, no need for the umbrella that she had brought, just in case. It was 17 celsius, which was about 62 fahrenheit; not too terrible. It would have been almost an hour to walk from the station, but by bus it took only 15 minutes; it gave her time to pick up some flowers. A sunflower, with larkspur, blue hyacinth, and a single, sad pheasant's eye. She walked around the Porta San Paolo, sliding past the Piramide di Caio Cestio; Made her way closer, more and more slow the closer she got to her end target. Through the gates, down the paths, wandering under sunlight-speckled paths.
Hope C, read the tombstone, pure white marble gleaming in the morning light as Jada stood over it, flowers in her hands almost twisting with her anxious nerves. There was a bench settled across from the way, and angel statues, ferns, trees reaching towards the sky. Jada didn't take the bench, instead settling down next to the small headstone, not yet releasing the flowers to the small holder. “Hey baby girl.” her voice was loud in the relative silence. “I was nearby, so I had to come see you for a bit.”
Thick, dark hair, even when she was just born. Bright eyes. Pale, ruddy cheeks. Perfection. Jada had been too weak to hold her without help, fading in and out of it all, doctors speaking too fast and low for her to hear, the words blurring, the nurses murmuring back and forth as they tried to keep her drifting, fading attention. Cold, and hot, and a growing numbness… a failed phone call… One moment Hope was there; the next she was gone, and the only answers she could get were from nervous, shifting nurses who couldn’t bring themselves to meet her gaze.
There were no pictures of her with her child but for one, and it was hardly one that she could try and put on her mantle. Even if she hadn’t made the decision to hide Hope’s birth from the world, it was clear how close to death she had been, bloodless and pale against a sheet only barely whiter than she was, a hasty duvet thrown over her below the place where an unknown hand was helping Jada hold Hope to her chest. But Jada could pull it out now, and look at that small picture.
It was silly, perhaps, speaking to the emptiness like this. Coming here was some strange form of torture. Did all women who had lost a child grieve so haphazardly? Grief hits everyone differently, she could hear her shrink whisper, There is no right or wrong way to handle loss. But there were ways that felt wrong, and she closed her eyes. Some opinions said there were five stages to grief, but she hadn’t even truly touched the first. It was still numb, dull pain, tearing at her. She’d researched it- Jada researched everything. Only having known Hope for a few minutes did not invalidate months of loving her, wanting her.
She could remember waking, and asking for her baby. The way they had looked at each other, and started explaining that Jada had been unconscious for almost a week, that she had almost died, that… excuse after excuse, but no one had brought her Hope, and then they had told her. They hadn't even kept her body; they had thought Jada was going to die too, and…
She bore the loss alone. Giulia and Aidan had probably been too young to remember her pregnancy, and Amelie well-paid to forget it had ever happened. The bubble of pain was still fresh, the shattered keen still hovered at her lips. Jada was learning to smile again, but she still felt like a traitor. So many deep, heavy regrets.
Jada lay her head against the marble, feeling the faint cold invade the meat of her, a slow and hardly painful creep. The weather, reinforced by the early morning and the shade here, inched slowly over prickling flesh and then sank slowly deep, needles slowly piercing tender, soft flesh. Wings spread wide down the way, ferny feathers from fallen leaves drifting to the ground, and instead of speaking, she breathed into the silence, not looking at her daughter. She had come with time, and she wasted it now.
Hope wouldn’t mind, surely.
Jada spoke, a little; random ramblings about the life Hope had been denied. She spoke of Giulia and Aidan, spoke of family, and work. Yet all things were finite, and Jada had come for a purpose. She lifted her head from the stone, shifting to adjust her position, facing the headstone. Sunflower. Larkspur. Blue Hyacinth. Pheasant’s Eye. July’s birth flowers. Adoration. Loyalty. Sorrowful remembrance. Every stem settled with careful precision, laid out quietly. “I love you,” she told Hope softly, tracing her fingers over the headstone. “I’m sorry I can’t visit more. I’m sorry you aren’t home with me. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to hold you.” Jada sucked in a breath. Closed her eyes.
The air was starting to warm some more, but the chill was still seeping through, and in the distance she could hear more people coming into the cemetery. Jada shifted, checking her watch and blinking at the time revealed. Two and a half hours. She still had to get back to the station before the train took off again, had… Purple eyes closed, breathing out slowly. “I’ll stay longer next time I come, sweetheart. Mommy loves you. Always.”
Manicured fingers traced Hope’s name reverently, following along the lines of the flowery script, the chopped an shortened name. Her father’s name should have been there. Or at least a full and proper one, not this shortened, chopped title. Next time she was in Italy. She’d take an extra day. Spend it all with Hope, or remembering her. Maybe then she would be able to step around the feeling of wrong that came with the memory of how they had told her.
Pushing to her feet, Jada pressed a kiss to her fingers, and then the tombstone, brushing over the forming crevices in the pristine marble. She had said everything she could, but her lips still trembled with the urge to repeat it over and over again. I love you. I wish I had gotten to know you. Please forgive me for not being there for you.
“I will see you soon, babygirl.”
Please forgive me for not being able to bring myself to say goodbye.
She brushed her hands over her clothing until she looked pristine, and retraced her steps slowly towards the exit, leaving the flowers she had brought places carefully over the gravesite. Jada passed families walking the path, her head down to not meet any gazes. A little girl ran past her, wobbling in the unfamiliar way of a young child, and the father called after her. “Faith! Torna qui, tesoro.” the voice was vaguely, distantly familiar, but when she turned her head, the family had already passed out of sight.
The alarm on her phone beeped softly, a reminder that she had to leave, and Jada turned back to the exit, heels clicking against the ground as she exited back to the world. She would come back soon, but the when was a decision for another time.
Milan was busy with designers and models, bags, displays, clothing, people everywhere for the week. Lights, photographers, cameras- it was the same old thing as the others. February 22 through February 28th, then on to Paris for the last leg of her journey and the last part of her trip. Jada had planned her day trip out carefully, making plans to visit various tourist spots in Rome during the one day of fashion week her absence would have less of an impact. That was the name of the game when it came to secretive trips like this. No one knew about Hope, and that was her goal. After a year and a half- July 11, 2015.
The train ride Jada took from Milan to Rome was only about three hours; a little change, depending on a wide variety of factors. There were big names almost every day except for Wednesday- Prada was 6 to 7 on Thursday, Versace on Friday; Saturday, perhaps, but she was quite interested in the Blumarine show at 12:30. Sunday was starting off a bit slow, in her opinion- Simonetta Ravizza, Marni, Trussardi... but Sunday had Ferragamo at 4. Jada piled into the train at 6 in the morning, pulling into Rome a little after 9.
Three hours would be cutting it close; to make the show she had to leave by noon. There were travel times, from one piece of the trip puzzle to another. But three hours was nowhere near as much time as she needed. Three hours with her daughter for another year... It would never be enough time. How could it ever be enough time to mourn and grieve for another year? She couldn’t imagine. How long would it take to move past the wounds that stuck in her craw when she thought of it? Past the hurt and the lump in gut and throat?
A little over a year and a half, and it was nowhere near enough time for her to have moved past the knot of self-reproach and disgust that knotted and curled in her gut like something parasitic; an infection of self-hatred for something that wasn't her fault.
The Cimitero dei protestanti was a public cemetery, about 4 kilometers from the Termini. It was home to diplomats, sculptors, authors; those who were not Catholic, or who had not been baptised. It had lovely trees, a meadow, statues, history, stray cats. It was the perfect place for Hope to have been buried, a quiet place that Jada could imagine would have given her plenty of viewing pleasure. More than that it was old, and matters were handled with quiet and respect. It had been easy to hide the papers, to silence the obituary and the name. They had accommodated the needs of a young unwed woman who they assumed to be ashamed.
There were almost no clouds right now, a blessing in a moderately-sized package. There would hopefully be no later mess, no rain, no need for the umbrella that she had brought, just in case. It was 17 celsius, which was about 62 fahrenheit; not too terrible. It would have been almost an hour to walk from the station, but by bus it took only 15 minutes; it gave her time to pick up some flowers. A sunflower, with larkspur, blue hyacinth, and a single, sad pheasant's eye. She walked around the Porta San Paolo, sliding past the Piramide di Caio Cestio; Made her way closer, more and more slow the closer she got to her end target. Through the gates, down the paths, wandering under sunlight-speckled paths.
Hope C, read the tombstone, pure white marble gleaming in the morning light as Jada stood over it, flowers in her hands almost twisting with her anxious nerves. There was a bench settled across from the way, and angel statues, ferns, trees reaching towards the sky. Jada didn't take the bench, instead settling down next to the small headstone, not yet releasing the flowers to the small holder. “Hey baby girl.” her voice was loud in the relative silence. “I was nearby, so I had to come see you for a bit.”
Thick, dark hair, even when she was just born. Bright eyes. Pale, ruddy cheeks. Perfection. Jada had been too weak to hold her without help, fading in and out of it all, doctors speaking too fast and low for her to hear, the words blurring, the nurses murmuring back and forth as they tried to keep her drifting, fading attention. Cold, and hot, and a growing numbness… a failed phone call… One moment Hope was there; the next she was gone, and the only answers she could get were from nervous, shifting nurses who couldn’t bring themselves to meet her gaze.
There were no pictures of her with her child but for one, and it was hardly one that she could try and put on her mantle. Even if she hadn’t made the decision to hide Hope’s birth from the world, it was clear how close to death she had been, bloodless and pale against a sheet only barely whiter than she was, a hasty duvet thrown over her below the place where an unknown hand was helping Jada hold Hope to her chest. But Jada could pull it out now, and look at that small picture.
It was silly, perhaps, speaking to the emptiness like this. Coming here was some strange form of torture. Did all women who had lost a child grieve so haphazardly? Grief hits everyone differently, she could hear her shrink whisper, There is no right or wrong way to handle loss. But there were ways that felt wrong, and she closed her eyes. Some opinions said there were five stages to grief, but she hadn’t even truly touched the first. It was still numb, dull pain, tearing at her. She’d researched it- Jada researched everything. Only having known Hope for a few minutes did not invalidate months of loving her, wanting her.
She could remember waking, and asking for her baby. The way they had looked at each other, and started explaining that Jada had been unconscious for almost a week, that she had almost died, that… excuse after excuse, but no one had brought her Hope, and then they had told her. They hadn't even kept her body; they had thought Jada was going to die too, and…
She bore the loss alone. Giulia and Aidan had probably been too young to remember her pregnancy, and Amelie well-paid to forget it had ever happened. The bubble of pain was still fresh, the shattered keen still hovered at her lips. Jada was learning to smile again, but she still felt like a traitor. So many deep, heavy regrets.
Jada lay her head against the marble, feeling the faint cold invade the meat of her, a slow and hardly painful creep. The weather, reinforced by the early morning and the shade here, inched slowly over prickling flesh and then sank slowly deep, needles slowly piercing tender, soft flesh. Wings spread wide down the way, ferny feathers from fallen leaves drifting to the ground, and instead of speaking, she breathed into the silence, not looking at her daughter. She had come with time, and she wasted it now.
Hope wouldn’t mind, surely.
Jada spoke, a little; random ramblings about the life Hope had been denied. She spoke of Giulia and Aidan, spoke of family, and work. Yet all things were finite, and Jada had come for a purpose. She lifted her head from the stone, shifting to adjust her position, facing the headstone. Sunflower. Larkspur. Blue Hyacinth. Pheasant’s Eye. July’s birth flowers. Adoration. Loyalty. Sorrowful remembrance. Every stem settled with careful precision, laid out quietly. “I love you,” she told Hope softly, tracing her fingers over the headstone. “I’m sorry I can’t visit more. I’m sorry you aren’t home with me. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to hold you.” Jada sucked in a breath. Closed her eyes.
The air was starting to warm some more, but the chill was still seeping through, and in the distance she could hear more people coming into the cemetery. Jada shifted, checking her watch and blinking at the time revealed. Two and a half hours. She still had to get back to the station before the train took off again, had… Purple eyes closed, breathing out slowly. “I’ll stay longer next time I come, sweetheart. Mommy loves you. Always.”
Manicured fingers traced Hope’s name reverently, following along the lines of the flowery script, the chopped an shortened name. Her father’s name should have been there. Or at least a full and proper one, not this shortened, chopped title. Next time she was in Italy. She’d take an extra day. Spend it all with Hope, or remembering her. Maybe then she would be able to step around the feeling of wrong that came with the memory of how they had told her.
Pushing to her feet, Jada pressed a kiss to her fingers, and then the tombstone, brushing over the forming crevices in the pristine marble. She had said everything she could, but her lips still trembled with the urge to repeat it over and over again. I love you. I wish I had gotten to know you. Please forgive me for not being there for you.
“I will see you soon, babygirl.”
Please forgive me for not being able to bring myself to say goodbye.
She brushed her hands over her clothing until she looked pristine, and retraced her steps slowly towards the exit, leaving the flowers she had brought places carefully over the gravesite. Jada passed families walking the path, her head down to not meet any gazes. A little girl ran past her, wobbling in the unfamiliar way of a young child, and the father called after her. “Faith! Torna qui, tesoro.” the voice was vaguely, distantly familiar, but when she turned her head, the family had already passed out of sight.
The alarm on her phone beeped softly, a reminder that she had to leave, and Jada turned back to the exit, heels clicking against the ground as she exited back to the world. She would come back soon, but the when was a decision for another time.
