CHAPTER 12 #2
The stress of pretending to forgive a man I wasn't sure I knew anymore.
I felt a cold, hard knot form in my chest.
He did this.
The thought was irrational. I knew it was medically tenuous. Stress contributes; it doesn't cause. Chromosomes are random.
But in that moment, lying on the exam table with my empty womb, logic didn't matter.
The causal chain felt iron-clad.
He cheated -> I broke -> The stress flooded my body -> The baby died.
It was a straight line. A vector of destruction that started in a hotel room in Braintree and ended here, in this room, with a dead screen.
"I see," I said.
Dr. Aris patted my hand. "Take the week off, Nora. Helen already cleared it. Go home. Rest. Grieve. Do you want me to call Declan?"
"No," I said instantly.
"Are you sure? You shouldn't drive."
"I'm fine," I said. I sat up. The room spun, then settled. "I just want to go home."
* * *
I drove home.
I shouldn't have. My hands were shaking so hard I could barely grip the wheel. My vision was blurry at the edges. But I couldn't stay in that building for another second.
I drove on autopilot. I navigated the rush hour traffic on 93 without seeing a single car. I was a missile seeking a target.
I pulled into the driveway of the rowhouse.
Declan’s truck was there. He was home.
I turned off the engine.
I sat there.
My hands were still gripping the wheel at ten and two. I looked at the house. The brick. The windows. The blue curtains in the kitchen.
It looked the same. It looked like a home.
But inside, I knew, it was just a container for lies.
I thought about the crib in the basement. The oak one he was sanding. The one he was making perfect for the "strong boy."
I thought about the way he had held my stomach last night. Goodnight, little guy.
I felt a surge of rage so pure it almost blinded me.
He had wanted this baby to fix us. He had wanted this baby to be the bridge. And now the bridge was gone, and we were standing on opposite sides of the canyon again.
And it was his fault.
I didn't care about chromosomes. I cared about the four months of torture he had put my body through. I cared about the cortisol. I cared about the nights I lay awake shaking.
You killed it, I thought. You and your 'lightness'. You wanted to float? Well, congratulations. The anchor is gone.
I sat in the car for twenty minutes. The sun started to go down, casting long, orange shadows across the hood.
Finally, I opened the door.
I walked up the steps. I unlocked the front door.
The house smelled of sawdust and lemon cleaner.
"Nora?"
Declan’s voice came from the living room. He sounded happy.
"You're home early! I was just about to start dinner. I was thinking tacos? I got those soft shells you like."
He walked into the hallway. He was wiping his hands on a rag. He had sawdust in his hair. He looked... hopeful.
He saw my face.
He stopped. The rag fell from his hand.
"Nora?" he said. His voice dropped. "What's wrong? What happened?"
I stood there in my coat. I felt heavy. I felt like I was carrying the weight of the entire world in my empty uterus.
I looked him in the eye.
"I lost the baby," I said.
The words were flat. Simple.
Declan didn't move. He stared at me. His mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out.
"What?" he whispered.
"I lost it," I said. "At work. In the bathroom."
His face collapsed. It was the same look he had when I confronted him about the affair—that total, structural failure of the features. The colour drained out of him. His eyes filled with instant, horrified tears.
"No," he said. "No. No, Nora."
"Yes," I said.
He rushed to me. He reached for me.
I let him. I didn't hug him back, but I didn't push him away. I was too tired to push.
He wrapped his arms around me. He pulled me into his chest. He was shaking.
"Oh my God," he sobbed into my hair. "Oh my God. I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry."
He held me like I was dying. He held me like I was the only thing keeping him upright.
We sank down onto the floor of the hallway. We didn't make it to the couch. We just collapsed right there on the runner rug.
He held me, rocking back and forth, crying. His grief was loud. It was messy. He was mourning the baby, yes. But I knew he was also mourning the redemption. He was mourning the safety net.
I sat there in his arms, dry-eyed. I stared at the wall.
"Did the doctor say why?" he choked out, pulling back to look at my face. "Was it... was it something...?"
I looked at him. I saw the terror in his eyes. He was terrified it was something he did. He was terrified that the universe was punishing him.
"She said these things happen," I said quietly.
He nodded, sniffing, wiping his eyes. "Okay. Okay. It happens. It's... it's biology."
"She said stress can be a contributing factor," I said.
I delivered the line perfectly. Calmly. Without inflection.
Declan froze.
He looked at me. His eyes widened. The tears stopped flowing, arrested by the shock.
Stress.
He knew what that meant. He knew who the source of the stress was.
He looked at me, searching for absolution. Searching for me to say, But not that kind of stress. Just work stress.
I didn't say it.
I just looked at him.
He pulled back. He sat on his heels, his hands on his knees. He looked sick.
"Nora," he whispered. "Do you think...?"
"I don't know," I said. "I just know what she said."
He put his head in his hands. He made a sound—a low, animal keen of pain.
"This is my fault," he said. His voice was muffled by his palms. "Oh God. This is my fault."
He waited.
He waited for me to say, No, it's not. Don't be silly. It's chromosomes. It's nature.
He waited for the wife to comfort the husband. He waited for the anchor to hold him steady.
I looked at the top of his head. I looked at the sawdust in his hair—the dust of the crib he would never finish.
I said nothing.
I let the silence fill the hallway. I let it pile up around us like snow.
I let him sit with it.
Yes, I thought. It is your fault.
I stood up. My legs were stiff.
"I'm going to bed," I said.
I walked up the stairs. I left him sitting on the floor of the hallway, alone with the ghost of our child and the weight of what he had done.