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“What can I do?” he asked.
“Just sit here with me and don’t push too hard. I have a lot to reconcile. A lot to figure out. Not so easy when I feel so lifeless.”
He did as I asked, not speaking too much. Kyle served meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Nothing too pungent or spicy. Simple and soft, easily digestible. I eyed him curiously over a forkful of fluffy potatoes.
With a noncommittal shrug, he said, “I have a little sister who was clearly an accident, because she’s nine years younger than me. I dealt with a pregnant mom with a sensitive stomach and a dad who couldn’t cook. Well, he’s pretty much in denial about that, but I can attest.” He chuckled.
“I haven’t met Shelley yet,” I reminded him. “We were all going to meet up at Little America in Flagstaff for the holiday lights covering the wooded property.”
“Yeah.” He gave me a solemn look.
“Yeah,” I agreed, thankful he didn’t point out the obvious reason why that idea was now shot to hell. I tried not to think of all that Dane would miss out on with his child, and vice versa. What I’d miss out on.
Damn those tears that wouldn’t leave me be.
“We can still get together with Shelley, though,” Kyle offered.
“Sure. Sometime.”
I wasn’t in any hurry to make plans—for anything. Luckily, I had eight months before I had to put thought and effort into converting one of the spare bedrooms into a nursery.
I only picked at my meal, taking a few bites to partially satisfy Kyle and my father. Then I claimed I was too exhausted for extensive company and my dad left. Kyle wouldn’t budge, of course. I sensed he had found a new duty in taking care of me in Dane’s stead. I was too wiped out physically and emotionally to battle Kyle on that front.
Returning to the sofa, I curled up again and was asleep minutes later.
* * *
The void inside me vanished the next morning.
Only to be replaced with the very real and finite fact that I was pregnant. My eyes flew open at the crack of dawn. I tossed off the blanket, leapt from the sofa, and raced across the stone floor to the bathroom. Where I promptly heaved the previous evening’s dinner. And then some.
As I huddled around the porcelain, afraid to move just yet, Kyle came in, dampened a washcloth, and handed it to me. I pressed it against my mouth for several seconds, finding relief from the chill of the material.
The numbness I felt because of losing Dane abated. I pulled away the cloth and stared up at Kyle. “Okay, now I feel pregnant.”
That sentiment triggered some sort of defense mechanism that made me even more powerfully aware of what it was I needed to protect—my child, who was also a part of Dane’s legacy.
I told Kyle, “I have to eat again.”
“I agree. It’s going to be hard to keep it down, though.”
“Then I just keep eating.” I’d need to go online and learn all about morning sickness.
In the meantime, I felt a curious survival instinct kick in. As much as I wanted to disappear into thin air because Dane was no longer with me, he was still a part of me—a living, breathing one. I owed it to the three of us to pull myself together. To find some strength to go on without Dane. To take care of his child no matter how devastated I was.
“How about scrambled eggs?” I suggested to Kyle. “No seasoning, superbland.”
“And more tea.”
“Yes, that might help.” Dr. Lindsey had told me that I’d have to find an OB-GYN soon and start on pre-natal vitamins and such. It was time I jumped on that.
The upside of my mental breakthrough was getting past that dazed and shredded state so I could focus on what I’d gained, rather than what I’d lost. The downside was that I was violently sick three days in a row. Queasy in the afternoons and well into the evenings.
“You’re really pale,” Kyle finally commented with notable concern. “Like this is getting worse, not better.”
“And I feel as though I’m marathon eating.”
“I think it’s time we seek professional help.”
