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He placed both palms on the door and, leaning into it, ground his forehead hard against the wood, never in his life having felt so useless. Miscarriage. He’d heard the word, knew what it meant, but had never realized that it entailed that much blood, or caused this much despair. He felt pointless, superfluous, and helpless. The laws of nature had emasculated him.
He stood outside the bathroom door for what seemed forever. Several times he knocked, asked how she was doing, asked if there was something he could do. She replied in monosyllabic mumbles that told him nothing.
The toilet flushed numerous times. Water ran in the sink. Eventually he heard the shower. Shortly after it stopped running, she opened the door. She was wrapped in a towel. His eyes moved over her from the top of her wet hair to her toes and back up, stopping on her eyes, red-rimmed and tearful.
“Is it hopeless?”
She nodded.
He assimilated that, marveled at the anguish it caused him. “D
oes it hurt?”
“A little. Like really bad cramps.”
“Um-hmm,” he said, as though he had any idea what menstrual cramps felt like.
“I need something to put on.”
He looked beyond her. Her tracksuit was in a sodden heap on the floor of the shower. “I’ll find something.”
“Do you think Mrs. Miller has some pads?”
Pads? His mind scrambled. Pads. Right. Ask him about Tiger Balm or jock itch remedies and he was conversant. Athlete’s foot? On it. But he’d never even walked down the feminine hygiene aisle of a supermarket. Not on purpose anyway. He’d never bought a product for a girlfriend, wife, daughter. His knowledge of such things was limited to the box of tampons his mother had kept beneath the bathroom sink. He knew they were necessary, but that’s all.
“I’ll be right back.”
He didn’t even think about the lights he was turning on as he went banging through the house, bumping into walls, flinging open doors he’d left closed the last few days. In the Millers’ bedroom he opened the closet they shared. Coach’s clothes hung on one side, Ellie’s on the other, shoes lined up neatly beneath.
He yanked a robe off a hanger, then began rifling bureau drawers until he found her underwear. Not the skimpier, lacier kind he’d seen Laura in, but what he came up with would do.
Pads. Wouldn’t Ellie be past menopause? Hell if he knew. He searched their bathroom but didn’t find any personal products in any of the cabinets. The guest bath? Ellie had nieces who came to visit occasionally. Maybe…
In the guest bath closet he found extra toilet tissue, toothpaste and soap, disposable razors, even cellophane-wrapped toothbrushes. Pads and tampons. Thank God for Ellie. He grabbed the box of pads.
Laura was sitting on the lid of the toilet, hugging her waistline, staring into near space, rocking back and forth. He set the items on the counter, then crouched in front of her. She was still wrapped in the towel. He saw the goose bumps on her bare arms and legs. “I’m sorry I took so long.”
“You didn’t. It’s all right.”
“You’re cold.” He placed the thick robe around her shoulders. “Put your arms in.” He guided her arms into the sleeves, then pulled the robe together over her chest, towel and all.
“Thank you.”
“What else can I do?”
“Nothing.”
He remained squatted down in front of her, staring into her face. “Are you sure…Maybe…” She shook her head, cutting him off, severing his hope.
Fresh tears spilled over her eyelids and rolled down her cheeks. “There was a lot. Too much for it to be a false alarm.”
“You should go to the hospital. Call your doctor at least.”
“In a day or so, I’ll go to the doctor. I know they have to make sure that it all came out.” She swallowed hard, he thought probably to hold back sobs. “I’ll be okay. I have to get through this part. It’s not pleasant, but…” She swiped at the tears on her cheeks. “This happens all the time. One out of every ten pregnancies. Something like that.”
But it doesn’t happen to you. And not to me. This was a sorrow they shared. He touched her cheek, but she yanked her head back and stood up. “I need privacy now.”
“Can’t I—”
