Needing 13 - Johnny Kavanagh

I HAD A SON...HIS NAME WAS AIDEN.

TARA

Joey: I need you.

Me: What's wrong?

As I read the message, my phone began vibrating with my brother's name flashing on the screen.

"Tell me," I said, my voice barely above a whisper as I excused myself from Gregory. I stepped outside to take the call."

"Mam's lost the baby," Joey muttered, his voice breaking slightly. "Dad just phoned. They're in St. Finbarr's in the city. See you there?"

Mam's lost the baby.

Mam's lost the baby.

Mam's lost the baby.

"Tara, are you there?"

"Yeah... sure." The words felt dry and brittle on my tongue, like sand. "See you there." I ended the call, my fingers trembling slightly as I put the phone away.

"Everything okay?"

Turning around, I saw Gregory looking at me with a blend of worry and curiosity. 

"I need to go to the hospital. St. Finbarr's," I mumbled. "Mind coming with me?"

"Sure," he replied, his serious tone devoid of the humor or playfulness he usually carried. We walked together in silence to my bike, the rain coming down in relentless sheets. I fumbled with my helmet, my hands slightly unsteady as I put it on.

"I know we're going to the hospital," Gregory said as he climbed onto the back of the bike, his voice laced with a faint smile, "but don't take the opportunity to check ourselves in, okay?"

I managed a weak laugh as I started the bike, the rumble of the engine momentarily drowning out the messed up thoughts my mind. I realized that spending time with Gregory had been unexpectedly grounding. I understood why my sister felt safe with him; I felt it too.

On our earlier outing, or date as he had humorously called it, I'd listened to him recount his life story. The more he talked, the more I realized how similar we were.

I could see right through Gibsie.

I saw him.

I saw the real Gerard Gibson.

I saw the seven-year-old boy trapped in the body of a seventeen-year-old.

Just as I saw a five-year-old girl trapped in the eighteen-year-old's body every morning when I looked in the mirror.

It didn't take long for us to reach the hospital. The cold, sterile atmosphere of the place hit me as I swung my leg off the bike and landed on the pavement. Gregory followed closely, his expression mirroring my own unease.

I dashed through the sliding glass doors of the hospital, the harsh fluorescent lights glaring down on us as we entered. My heart raced, thudding loudly in my chest, as I approached the reception desk.

"Marie Lynch," I said urgently to the receptionist. "Admitted on Friday. Miscarriage or whatever."

The receptionist's fingers flew over the keys as she searched for the information. Her eyes briefly flicked up to meet mine, filled with a mix of professional detachment and sympathy. "Room 103. Down the hall," she said, her voice steady but kind.

I nodded quickly, mumbling a hasty thank you before bolting down the hallway. The white walls seemed to stretch endlessly, each step echoing in the corridor. My mind was a whirlpool of memories, the suffocating weight of past traumas crashing over me like a relentless tide.