Free Love Kills by Edna Buchanan

to try to sort it out.”
    â€œWhat will you do?” she demanded. “How will you live?”
    â€œI don’t know, exactly.”
    â€œYou’ve ruined your life! Your youth, your education, your future! It’s ruined. You’ve flushed it all down the drain!”
    She began to weep. Then she grimaced and gently touched my face. “You didn’t use sun protection either!” she cried accusingly. “First you ruin your skin, then your entire life.”
    She teetered dramatically across my small living room on her stilettos, flung herself onto my couch, and pounded the pillows hysterically.
    Billy Boots watched in horror, poised for flight, back arched, hair standing on end.
    Bitsy rolled over and exposed her belly, totally vulnerable, as if to say, Kill me now. I shared both their reactions.
    â€œHow can you embarrass me this way?” she shrieked.
    â€œThat’s it, isn’t it? It’s all about you.”
    She turned off the tears, sat up abruptly, and snatched her cell phone. Was she dialing 911? Turning me over to the police?
    â€œWho are you calling?”
    â€œRussell, he’s waiting,” she whimpered. She hiccuped and blew her nose. “I have to let him know I’m not coming. That I have a family emergency and can’t leave.”
    The horror was all mine. She plans to stay?
    â€œNo, no, no! Don’t let me spoil your evening or his. It’s not fair. Don’t do that! And I don’t want to argue, Mom. I’m not up to it.” I collapsed into my favorite armchair, suddenly exhausted. “I’ve had some other bad news. And I need some sleep. I have to work in the morning.”
    She cut off her cell call before it connected. “Are you all right?” For the first time, she showed concern rather than anger. “You can’t keep that job, Britt,” she added. “It’s too dangerous for a woman in your condition.”
    â€œBelieve it or not, Mom, cops, firefighters, soldiers, and astronauts all have babies. I even know some reporters who are mothers.”
    â€œHow can you do this to me?” she whimpered.
    I gave her a quick hug, stopped arguing, and began to get ready for bed, hoping it would convince her to go meet her date. She soon wiped her eyes, repaired her makeup, and recombed her little-Dutch-girl haircut.
    â€œWe need to talk more about this, Britt,” she said, before leaving.
    â€œMom?” I said, as she reached the door.
    She turned and gazed at me in my baggy pajamas—actually an old large Miami Dolphins T-shirt over a loose drawstring bottom—then closed her eyes for a moment, as though the sight was too much to bear.
    â€œYou can forget the form-fitting sheath with my name on it.”
    Even she had to smile, if only for a moment.
    Â 
    Restless after she left, I remembered the box of McDonald’s things in the bottom of my hall closet. I suddenly wanted to hold something that had belonged to him. They were mostly books, a few novels, an autobiography of Chuck Yeager. At the bottom was his Miami High School yearbook.
    I thumbed through the pages, eager to see how McDonald looked as a teenager. Here was something to show our child someday.
    His youthful clear-eyed look and familiar smile took my breath away. Friends, fellow students, and teachers had signed the book, but there was only one notation on the page with his high school picture. The writing was graceful, legible, in blue ink. Always in my heart, Love, Kathy.
    The signature was followed by the outline of a tiny heart pierced by an arrow.
    I swallowed and stared at it for a long time.
    Her photo was on another page. Blonder and sweet-faced, with eyes full of fun, she was somebody I probably would have liked had I known her back then. No hint in that tender young face of the strong woman she would become, wearing a badge and a gun.
    Wait for me. Love, Ken, he had written.
    Turning the pages, I picked out their