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“Mr. Masterson,” she says, “this has nothing to do with money.”
Brandi sits up. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m so sorry, but there’s no fetal heartbeat.”
My wife shakes her head. “But the baby—”
“Is dead.”
21
BRANDI
Nausea clawsat me and my stomach churns. A drum, loud and chaotic, bangs in my head. My chest is tight, too tight, and every part of me screams.
I try and form words but can’t.
The doctor’s talking, Travis is answering and I… I’m lost, being sucked down some kind of vortex.
The utter loss, the chasm of sorrow and pain is unexpected. Yes, I wanted the baby because it’s something I can call mine, something that’s part of me and Travis. The idea of what could be is compelling, a siren song that I’d give anything to have.
I’m aware that miscarriage is common in the first three months.
I know that miscarriage is normal.
I know that things happen.
But we’re out of that danger zone.
I’m over three months along.
I’m supposed to be safe.
And no matter what the cold facts of science say, this is a baby. My baby. Our baby.
One I failed.
One I killed.
My body killed our baby.
I knew I was losing weight from the stress.
I should have done more.
Guilt crushes me down and I can’t get air into my lungs. There are strange sounds in the air and with horror I realize they’re from me.
He pulls me into his arms. He whispers words as he holds me close, wraps me in warmth and the steady beat of life I don’t deserve to have near me. A beat I crave and need more than the air that will keep me alive.
Travis.
“Breathe, baby. Breathe.”
He’s rubbing my back, holding on to me as I fall apart.
I hold on to those words as the jagged bite of pain slowly numbs. The words swirl around me, occupying the space above and below me, but I’m not absorbing them.
Our next steps.
