Kate
When the warmth of the sun cascading through my bedroom window wakes me up—not that I slept more than an hour or two—I clutch Jackson’s pillow and inhale his scent faintly embedded in the soft fabric.
Keeping my eyes closed, it’s easier to pretend he’s next to me.
He’s here. Life is normal. And in a second, he’s going to be laughing with one or both of our kids, hauling them into bed for a snuggle before he starts his day.
Today there are no kids in this bed, either, which feels like both a blessing and a curse.
Clearly they’ve gotten into a routine with Beryl; I can hear their muffled voices echoing from the kitchen.
I’d love nothing more than to hold my babies close, but I’m also an emotional wreck, and they don’t deserve to deal with that.
They need me to be strong and stable, especially when their dad isn’t.
My eyes flicker open to confirm what I already know, and I toss his pillow aside with an angry huff.
The soreness I’ve become accustomed to radiates through the marrow of my bones when I pull myself from bed, and this morning it’s accompanied by a hollow pang in my gut.
Even sixteen years ago, when the simple sight of Jackson in the kitchen each morning set butterflies free in my chest, I wasn’t nervous to see him.
Knowing I’ll see him in mere hours, and he won’t truly see me, makes me want to vomit.
Hiding out at home instead of being in the hospital to support my husband isn’t an option, though, so I wearily trudge to the bathroom.
And then I see something that makes me actually vomit.
Blood.
On my thighs.
Infecting the delicate threading of my pajama pants.
On the toilet paper.
In the toilet bowl.
I swallow down the foul taste in my mouth, clutching my heart and my stomach because I don’t know which hurts more, and I stumble into the shower fully clothed.
The water—cold at first, then scalding—is barely noticeable on my body, numbed by anguish.
I crumple to a fetal position, shower water soaking my clothes and washing over my face.
I don’t need to be told what this is. My soul knows.
I choke on a silent scream and the burning saliva I can’t seem to swallow no matter how often I try. Panic rises like a hot air balloon in my chest, swelling and heating until I can’t breathe around it.
Make it stop. Make the pain stop.
The hot water pooled around my body makes my skin itch, and I shakily sit up so I can rake my nails over my torso.
The tile’s warm and slippery against my back.
Wrapped in my own embrace, I tilt my head forward to let water and tears fall in heavy droplets across my lap.
My bones are heavy, my head filled with fog, and my heart battered.
Pink-hued water swirls around the drain, taking with it what little hope I had for a return to normal.
Jackson could regain his memory the second I walked into the room today, and nothing would ever be normal, regardless.
When the water runs cold, the tap unable to be turned any hotter, I force myself to stand and peel the drenched, bloodstained clothes from my wet, shivering, weak body.
Clean myself up. Dab concealer over the redness on my nose and ringed around my eyes, swipe waterproof mascara over my lashes, and tousle my hair with enough product to hold a soft wave.
Dressed in Jackson’s well-worn jeans and a ranch T-shirt, I dig up the heaviest-duty pad I have.
Naturally, it’s left over from when Rhett was born.
Drunk from exhaustion and the amount of tears shed in the shower, I laugh.
The full-body, clutch-my-stomach type. By myself in the bathroom, I giggle uncontrollably about a pad purchased for postpartum being the thing I’m reaching for in this horrific moment.
Life is so fucked up. Fucked up and unfair.
I’ve never asked for much. All I want is a quiet life with my family.
I want to decorate cookies with my kids, wrap myself around my husband at night, enjoy summer days down by the river with my best friends, and spend winters curled up next to the fireplace with a good book.
I want us to be happy and healthy and all together. Apparently, that’s too much to ask for.
Before I step into the quiet kitchen, I exhale and slap on the final necessity—the fakest smile I’ve ever worn. A mask for the pain I’m overwhelmed by.
“Morning, honey,” Beryl says without looking up from the batter she’s making in a giant ceramic mixing bowl.
I head straight for Rhett, who’s intently focused on a teetering block tower in the middle of the kitchen floor.
Bending over, I cup his head in my hands, breathe in the preschooler wet-dog-esque smell of his messy hair, and place a firm kiss on the very top.
He’s so perfect. Both of our kids are. Jackson and I have lain awake at night gushing about the incredible humans we made.
This baby…would they have been quiet and imaginative like their brother? Or extroverted and fearless like their sister? Would he or she have had Jackson’s rich coffee eyes? Or his quick smile?
All the questions I’ll never have answers to, and a grief that has to exist quietly, tucked in the crevices around the massive weight of Jackson’s accident.
Nobody knew this baby existed except Jackson and me.
I had my chance to tell everyone, to celebrate, and now it doesn’t make sense to drag the entire family farther down.
I opt for coffee for the first time in weeks—I have an uneasy feeling that I won’t be averse to the taste anymore. While I pour the steaming dark liquid into a mug, a single tear slips down my cheek. I hurriedly wipe it away before turning around from the coffee machine.
I must look rough, because Beryl drops what she’s doing the instant she gets a good look at my face. “Oh, Kate. Oh. You should be back in bed.”
I shake my head. It’ll only make the pain worse.
She lowers her voice, glancing quickly over at Rhett. “Your eyes are bloodshot and you look like you haven’t slept in days.”
“I haven’t slept in days. Fitting I look that way. I’ll be okay once I properly wake up.” To my horror, my mask smiles happily at her.
She tilts her head, seeing through my bullshit. “Kate…it’s okay not to be okay, especially with everything going on. You can lean on us while you take some time.”
“I know.” I stir and stir and stir a spoonful of sugar into my cup.
I do know. I could collapse into Beryl, and she’d carry my pain without question.
I could ask Cecily to drive to the hospital today, and she’d reschedule her doctor’s appointment in a heartbeat.
Hell, I could call Denny’s wife, Blair, and ask her for a sleeping pill prescription and to confirm that this miscarriage is, in fact, a miscarriage, and she’d have me in her office in less than half an hour.
I have people. And I’m so grateful for them. The way they love my kids like their own, handle everything in my house so I don’t need to stress for a single second, and wait patiently for me to ask them for help.
I have people. But the one person I want to have is in a hospital bed hours away.
“I really need to see Jackson today.”
She nods, eyes glassy as she looks me over. “Understood.”
Once I’ve finished my coffee, I refresh my makeup, load my purse with jumbo pads, and sync the filthiest smutty audiobook I can find to my car.
By the time I’m leaving, there’s a sensation of barbed wire wrapped around my uterus, tugging and twisting deep in my core.
Sharp and hot and tight, pain radiates up my back and down my thighs.
With enough painkillers, it becomes a dull, grinding ache.
Just enough that I can’t forget about the loss… Not that I could, anyway.
Despite the queasy unrest and all-over tension, I drive the three hours to the hospital alone, because even if I’m a complete stranger to him, Jackson Wells is still my person. Forever. And I need him.