She was in labor for fourteen hours before the doctors decided to go in there and get Sophia out themselves. The labor wasn’t progressing, and they started talking about fetal distress and exhaustion. Everything happened so fast. But when she laid there, the surgical drape held up between the bottom and top halves of her like a curtain, it was just me and her, waiting anxiously to meet our daughter. We sat on the edge of fear, wondering if we’d be met with the same fate we met before until Sophia’s strong, angry cries granted us reassurance.
“God, I love you.” My chest heaves, heavy gasps filling the back seat. I don’t know if she heard me, but I say it because it’s true. It’s the most honest and unpretentious part of us right now because I love her. Things can change. We can grow old and wrinkly. Sophia can take off into the world on her own. To college, turning us into empty nesters. But I will still and always love her.
I kiss her scar. I kiss the corners first and then slowly along bumpy, uneven skin. I sigh against her, realizing I could do this forever. I could stare at her body, worship it for all it’s done for our family, and I would never grow tired of it. My fingers join my lips, running over the skin like I’m studying it. After so long,I want to memorize it and maybe even soothe away some of the scary memories it carries.
Kendall’s body freezes beneath me. She sits up, scooting back toward the inside of the car. It feels cold, the loss of her warmth against my lips. When I look at her, fear grips her entire body.
“What’s wrong? Did I do something?”
She shakes her head. “This is…I shouldn’t be doing this.Weshouldn’t be doing this.”
She starts to lower her dress and search for her underwear.
“Baby, what happened?”
“It’s nothing,” she says when everything about her body language suggests it’s something. Something snapped in her. A reminder. I wish I knew what it was so I could smother it, ease whatever worry is clouding her mind. If only she would talk to me.
She pushes past me. I watch her walk into the house, catching a glimpse of her lost underwear in the pocket on the door. I watch as she takes with her the hopefulness that lined my heart, leaving behind a hollow shell of doubt and regret.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Kendall
THEN
I’mon my second serving of Kix for dinner. Much like the dinner I had on Christmas. Only it was a soggy bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios, sliced bananas included. There’s an indent on my couch where I’ve officially staked permanent residence. Trash is strewn around me in a littered mess. It’s all joined by empty bowls of cereal that haven’t been rinsed off and placed in the dishwasher. I have a blanket that’s officially been assigned grief duty as it remains by my side. When I walk to the kitchen, it’s draped over me like a cape. When I go to the bathroom, it sits in a heap by the door until I do my business and swing it back over my shoulders.
The first week after winter break has come and gone, but I’ve remained at home. My doctor gave me an extra week off to recover, but I’m back to work on Monday morning. Until then, I have a few more days filled with wallowing, thriving in my self-masochistic habits like having cereal for three meals a day and watching sad movies about complicated relationships and shattered hearts. Kyle has stopped by a few times to pour himself his own serving of Kix and criticize my choice in entertainment while joining me on my couch. Sylvia has made multiple visitstoo, but for the most part, it’s just been me. Me, General Mills, and plenty of movies about loss and love.
I barely had the energy to talk to my mom. She called after her trip to check in and I feigned a stomach bug—shamelessly blaming the rampant flu season and my kids—and she urged me to hang up and get some rest. Physically, I feel better. I’m not bleeding as much, and the pain has subsided to a dull occasional ache. My energy has plummeted and my feet have been shuffling through thick mud, even in my small apartment, but that’s attributed more to my emotional state than anything else. But soon enough, it’ll be as if it never happened. Those kicks inside me will turn phantom. I’ll look down at my stomach only to see it in its pre-pregnant state. I’ll even forget about those wooden shards swept away and tossed into my trash bin. Just like James has been swept out of my life.
This all feels so silly, to mourn over something I didn’t even want in the first place. Something I never planned for but I was so ready to shape my life around. I got so caught up in a life I practically fabricated over a span of a few months. I was already picking out wallpaper and window treatments with James. I was rewriting my entire future, throwing away any and all plans I had for myself. So reckless andsilly. So why am I this sad? Why has my grief become this tangible thing, squished between my palms while I fold it into multiple layers of sorrow and pain? I should be over this by now. Or at least on some journey of healing where the light at the end of the tunnel doesn’t feel like a dark hole. That’s where I’m sitting. In complete darkness, all alone while clawing my fingers out through the other side. And a small part of me—the hopeful part—wishes it was James waiting for me, ready to catch me as I fall.
I’m sprinkling a spoonful of strawberry Nesquik into my cereal—a fresh, new ingredient to pull me out of the monotony—when I hear a knock on my door. Kyle said he’d be over to dropoff an extra bag of pizza rolls from his recent overindulgent trip to Costco. After watching me take out the trash in my bathrobe yesterday—when the mud I was trudging through was especially dense—I think he realized his usually composed, put-together neighbor had spiraled badly. My greasy hair and stained sweatpants didn’t really help my case either.
I leave my cereal behind on the kitchen counter and drag my feet to my door.
“Miss M,” Kyle greets me, sweaty bag of pizza rolls gripped in his hands. It looks like they’ve been slightly thawed, the condensation glistening into beads of cold water. I reach for it, transferring the frozen goods straight to the freezer to enjoy later. A break from cereal sounds kind of nice.
“Thank you.”
“Cereal for dinner again?” Kyle follows me inside, shutting the door gently behind him.
I shrug. “Nothing like ol’ reliable.”
“How about I take you out for dinner? My treat,” he offers. “I’ve been craving some paella.” The kindness in his voice creates an ache low in my chest, and I realize how lonely I feel. How I want to cling to him so I don’t have to be completely and utterly alone with my thoughts.
“What’s that?” I ask with intrigue.
“It’s a Spanish dish they serve in this giant fry pan,” he explains. “Amazing with margaritas.”
I offer a halfhearted chuckle. “I think I’m good with my cereal.”
He slides a step closer, urgency heavy in his tight grip as he reaches for my hands. “Kenny,” he says, eyes wide and pleading, my name spoken with such tenderness. “You cannot sit here in your sad little apartment eating cereal all day.”
“I don’t,” I argue weakly before I point out, “I’m going to work on Monday. And I took out the trash yesterday. You saw me.”
“But then you climb back under your blankets and pop in a sad romance movie until you start sobbing into your throw pillows.” He jerks a head toward my couch. Exhibit A: A rumpled throw blanket, the remote, and a few crumpled-up tissues strewn on the floor. The extra bowl with a silver spoon and crusted remnants of cereal—the contents of my breakfast from this morning—is nodding its figurative head, taking Kyle’s side.
