I stop, freezing in place, about three feet away from her.
“Mrs. Powell,” I say just above a whisper. My heart begins beating wildly in my chest. It’s the first time I’ve seen her since that awful night. This is Jackson’s mother.
“Are you Emanuel Allende?” she asks hesitantly.
I nod.
Her smile is shaky at first, until it grows and tears spill over onto her cheeks. Before I know what’s happening, she’s thrown her free arm around my shoulders, hugging me tightly.
I remain frozen, not knowing what to do. Lifting my gaze to the man who is with her, I see he has tears in his eyes as well as her gives me a cautious smile.
The baby in Mrs. Powell’s arms is what eventually forces her to pull back.
“I’m sorry,” she says, wiping her tears and trying to gather herself. “I didn’t mean to be a mess. I thought I got all of my tears out.” Releasing a small laugh, she takes the offered tissue from the man I suspect is her husband.
“What my wife means to say is thank you.”
Mrs. Powell nods her head vigorously, agreeing with her husband.
“This,” he says, taking the baby girl from his wife, “is our baby girl, Sabrina. She was only three weeks old when you pulled them both out. Now she’s almost ten months.”
I swallow the lump in my throat as I stare down at the little girl. I remember that night as if it just happened the day before. She was so tiny back then. She had no idea of the danger she was in. Just the terror she felt from her mom. Now, as her big, brown eyes look at me with curiosity, I find myself reaching for her.
“Can I?” I ask Mr. Powell.
He nods. “Of course.”
I take ahold of Sabrina, who willingly comes to me. “Hi,” I whisper.
She makes a sound, almost as if saying hi back. Her little hand reaches out and grabs my bottom lip. All three of us laugh.
“You’re a lot bigger now than when I first met you.” Staring at her, all of a sudden a sadness overcomes me. “She looks like him,” I blurt out. I vividly recall the picture from Jackson’s obituary. I still keep the newspaper cutout with the image in my locker.
A second later, I realize what I’ve just said and my gaze shoots over to her parents.
“I’m sorry.” I shake my head, trying to keep the tears from welling up in my eyes. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t save—”
“Don’t,” Mrs. Powell says forcefully. She moves to my side, placing a hand on my back and the other on her daughter’s. “Jackson was such a restless sleeper. That night he’d fallen asleep in bed with me, but somehow ended up in his closet. He did that often. I blamed myself for so long not realizing he had gone back to his room in the middle of the night. We’ve been through all of that.” She glances at her husband. “All of the would haves, should haves, and could haves. Michael blamed himself for not being there that night. For working. I blamed myself for not being able to get to Jackson. None of that is going to bring him back. The man who saved our Sabrina and me, doesn’t get to blame himself either.”
I really am at a loss for words. I can’t do anything but nod as Mr. Powell moves closer, and soon his arms are wrapped around my shoulders. Again, Sabrina only stands to be squeezed in between her parents and I for so long before she let it be known she is over all of it.
I hand the baby over to her mother as we laugh at her tiny squeals.
“Thank you.” Mrs. Powell looks up at her husband, then back to me. “We wanted to come sooner but …”
I shake my head. “Your timing is perfect.”
“Thank you doesn’t seem like enough for saving my wife and daughter … and for pulling Jackson out. We got to say good-bye to our little boy.” Mr. Powell takes something out of his pocket. It’s a charred baseball.
“Jackson had his first T-ball game a few days earlier. He wanted to be a baseball player when …” he pauses, his voice cracking, “when he grew up.” He extends his hand with the ball in it to me.
“We want you to have it,” Mrs. Powell finishes.
“I can’t.” I shake my head. “You should keep it.”
“We’d like for you to.”
My gaze rises from the ball to Mrs. Powell.
