“And I wasn’t there,” I continue. “I had gone on some work trip to Boston, but I turned right back around as soon as I landed. By the time I got to the hospital, they’d already taken the baby away.”
Teeny turns her face and wipes her thumb across her cheek. She clears her throat before saying, “I can’t believe she went through that.”
I nod. “So I understand why she’s never gotten over it, but…I don’t know what more to do. I feel so fucking helpless.”
“Have you thought about talking to someone?”
“Me?” I ask in answer. “What? Like a therapist?”
“Yeah,” she answers.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I mean, Kendall sees one?—”
“She does?”
“Once a week,” I tell her. “On Saturday mornings. I don’t know if it’s even helping.”
“If Kendall’s doing it, maybe you should too.”
“But I’m not—I’m not really grieving. Not like her. And I don’t think I’m depressed or anything.”
“But maybe it’ll help you understand Kendall a little better,” she points out. “You want to help her in some way. This could answer some questions you have.”
I always assumed therapy was to talk about your problems and to sift through all the tricky emotions we deal with on a daily basis. I never thought to use it to learn how to cope with other people’s emotions. To help understand your loved ones better when words aren’t working anymore.
“They do that? Like, in therapy?”
She shrugs. “It doesn’t hurt to try.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Kendall
THEN
Hospitals are deceptively aseptic.The linoleum floors and fluorescent lights give that sterile effect they’re going for, but it’s a ruse. A lie. Hospitals contain the sickest of the sick. People who are infirm and vulnerable. Some might think because it’s a hospital and the supply of disinfectant and bleach is endless, they could practically eat off the floors, but that’s not true. It can’t be. Not when lurgy and death has the tendency to linger like smoke crawling around sharp corners.
“I’m going to do a quick check.”
I nod, blankly staring past the nurse’s shoulder. She lowers the sheets, dipping her gloved hand past the mesh underwear I’m wearing. I’m assuming she’s checking for bleeding or any signs of infection, whatever it is nurses do for moms after they give birth.
But the fact of the matter is that I’m not a mom. Moms have children, or at leastachild. They birth babies that live longer than a few hours. They get to nurse them and change their diaper. I haven’t done any of those things.
“Your meal tray is here,” the nurse tells me. I think her name is Cindy. Or Sandy. I’m not sure. I don’t really remember. “Do you want me to leave it on your table?”
I shake my head.
“I’ll leave it by the sink then.” She reaches beyond the railing for my call remote. It’s attached to a thick cord and there’s a large red button on it with a silhouette of a nurse. She places it by my hand, patting it as a reminder that I can call for her anytime I need. I vaguely remember her walking out of the room.
My hospital gown feels rough against my skin. It’s been washed and dried and starched too many times. The blankets feel just as rough, making the bed feel uncomfortable and stiff. I’m wearing a sanitary pad. A common post-birth necessity and another detail I vaguely remember the doctor explaining to me. There’s no baby, but I’ll still experience some bleeding. And cramping. All of which I feel right now. A gush of blood between my legs. A twinge in my lower abdomen.
But I don’t feel the baby.
Those flutters and waves and ripples are all gone. And I’m empty. Completely hollow.
The door handle clicks open. My eyes sweep across the room before finding Sylvia gingerly walking through the door. She went back to my apartment in the morning to get some clothes after I ruined the ones I wore here. They’re at the bottom of the trash bin now, a lump of loss and guilt tossed in there with the hopes that I can somehow move on from this. She has a tote bag dangling from her fingers with what she brought. Except that’s not all she brought back with her. She also brought James.
“Hey,” Sylvia calls gently.
