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The doctor nods. “We’re going to have to induce labor and deliver the baby so that Mindi doesn’t become sick and go septic. I’m sorry for your loss.”
I look at Mindi, who is looking at the doctor with the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen. As much as I want to walk away right now, I can’t. So, I sigh and follow the bed down to surgery. They allow me to suit up and stay with Mindi as they administer drugs into her IV.
Within minutes, Mindi is in labor. Her body is straining, contorting in pain. I wince in sympathy—labor ain’t no fucking joke—and let her hold my hand as she bears down. Finally, the baby slips from her body, but there’s no cry, no joyous tears. The doctor hands the lifeless body to a nurse for cleanup and turns to Mindi and me.
“It’s a little girl,” she says quietly. “We’ll get her cleaned up then you can spend some time with her.”
The room is silent except for the noise the nurses make. Finally, they hand a tiny, swaddled bundle to Mindi, who clutches our baby to her chest with a wail of abject misery. Her tears fall again as she softly touches a finger to the soft, wax like cheek of my dead daughter.
Mindi kisses tiny fingers and rocks the baby back and forth. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she whispers over and over.
There are tears in my own eyes as I reach for the baby. Mindi lets me have her and watches as I look upon the face of a part of me I’ll never get to know. My heart cracks painfully and I almost drop to my knees.
A nurse comes back in and injects something into Mindi’s IV line. Within minutes, Mindi’s sleeping. It must have been a tranquilizer. I hold the baby for another hour before the doctor comes back in.
“We need to take her now,” she tells me gently. “What’s her name?”
A name, I muse. I don’t even know if Mind had thought of names. Then I decide I don’t care if she did. I’m naming this child. “Rose,” I say. “Rose Marie.” I remember my father telling me that was my grandmother’s name.
The doctor nods and takes Rose from me. Then they move Mindi back to a regular room, and I drop into a chair beside her bed. As mad and as hurt as I am, I can’t leave her right now.
She sleeps deeply, the sedative keeping her calm. Her face is almost the same color as the sheets surrounding her, and there are deep purple smudges under her eyes. I sit there for hours, crying for what might have been. When a nurse slips into the room, I ask her if Mindi will be okay.
She tells me yes, unless something unexpected happens. Mindi just needs to heal and rest and grieve now. I nod and watch as the nurse checks Mindi’s vitals then leaves the room. When Mindi begins to stir and I know she’ll be waking soon, I stand.
It’s time for me to leave. I can’t stay here anymore, and I don’t know if I can ever forgive her for this.
10
Mindi
Two weeks. That’s how long it’s been since my baby died.
It feels like both the snap of the fingers and a lifetime.
When I woke up in the hospital, I was alone. When I asked where Fist was, all I got was a canned response: someone will be notified when you can be discharged. So, I stayed there for three days by myself, taking the antibiotics and pain meds and antidepressants they pushed at me.
I was informed that Fist had named our daughter Rose Marie and hadnodded in dull acceptance. Fist never came to see me, he never called. When the nurse brought discharge papers in, Bear came in behind her. Fist had sent him to bring me back to the club. I was still weak, still healing, and shouldn’t be alone, I was told.
But I am. I am alone. I go every day to the family cemetery where Rose Marie is buried. There’s nothing as horrible as seeing that slash of fresh dirt mounded over my baby’s tiny casket. I haunt this room, not caring to be around anyone else. The only person who can share my grief is Fist, and he’s not come near me at all. He only speaks to me when he can’t avoid it, and he only comes into this room to shower or change clothes.
He hasn’t touched me, not even a hug of comfort, since I’ve been back.
I no longer feel anything. I’m numb. My life is meaningless. I hate that Fist is suffering, and I’m sorry that I’m the cause of that. There’s only one thing left to do, and that’s end it all. I’ll kill myself and put everyone out of their misery.
Now is the perfect time to do it. Fist was called out on a run. Sure, going on the run now is like the world’s worst timing, but maybe it’s for the best. Maybe I can go peacefully, slip away into nothingness, without him trying to interfere.
I run a tub full of water so hot, you can see steam curling toward the ceiling. As I stand in the bathroom door, I strip down to my underwear and purple cami—no need in ruining an entire outfit. I pick up the razor blade, noting how it glints in the light. I place it against my wrist, intent on cutting the left one, then the right, before stepping into the tub. Just as I make the first slice and see a well of red, Boone’s voice cracks like a whip behind me.
“Are you really gonna do it this way? Go out like this?”
The sound of his voice startles me and I drop the razor blade, watching as it bounces once. Then
I turn to face Fist’s father. I’m mortified at being caught, but that’s the only emotion I can feel.
“You’re stronger than this,” he continues in a softer tone. “You’re stronger than your sadness and fear. Remember, Mindi, that you’ve already survived so much already.”
I bite my lower lip. “I guess Fist told you about Tyler.”
