Chapter 40
I don’t confront you. I think about it for a long time. For days, it’s all I can consider. You went into my phone. You blocked my best friend.
I ignore your calls—just checking in, how are you feeling? I observe you in the periphery while I eat my dinner, always takeout, always in the family room, in front of the television. In our bathroom mirror, it’s your reflection I look at, not mine. I know what you did.
But I decide not to confront you. I hold it, for now. Something for myself. Something to use when the time is right.
Then, suddenly, I am twelve weeks pregnant. That’s when the pain arrives.
I was twelve weeks pregnant.
There’s pain, and then there’s a clear liquid, a trickle, and I think that I’ve peed myself.
The humiliation, the ways my body has failed me—I almost laugh.
But the blood follows soon after, and it’s not funny at all.
The cramps that had been a minor annoyance all day suddenly scream at a much higher pitch, and their significance rings startlingly clear.
The bathroom, I think. I don’t know where else to go, what else to do.
But I can’t make it to the primary bath, doubled over and staggering, wetness running down my legs, so I duck into the bathroom that’s closer, the full bath on the second floor.
The kids’ bathroom is how you refer to it, which now seems thoughtless and cruel in addition to premature.
The pain is blinding, like a shot through my gut. It abates, and I can breathe for a few seconds. Then it’s back again. I sit on the toilet, and I listen to the blood pour from my body.
I know what’s happening, and it seems too late. I thought I was in the clear at this point. I’m so close to the second trimester.
The first few weeks after that positive test, I’m ashamed of how badly I wanted to feel these things—the pain in my stomach, the rush of blood. Natural and foretelling excuses to duck and run. I could get out of all of it without having to make a decision. But that didn’t happen.
Not until now, when it’s too late and my view has shifted.
That first flicker of love has only grown.
This baby, this bundle of cells, has been with me day in and day out.
It has become my ally, the size of a plum now.
And it always would be my ally, I thought.
It would grow until I could feel the fizz of its hiccups inside me, until its limbs jutted against my lungs and ribs, until it emerged and I could feel the softness of its skin.
Not just an ally, but a family. I am not my mother.
I could be different. I could protect it. From everything. From you.
But that’s not going to happen now, and it isn’t fair.
My phone is on the countertop next to me. It had been in the side pocket of my drawstring joggers, which are now soaked with blood and fluid, a crumpled heap on the floor. I can reach it.
But I don’t know who to call. My thoughts slog by, disjointed, confused.
For a second, I consider calling for an ambulance.
But I don’t think this is a medical emergency, so far from viability.
I consider calling my doctor, but I think the office closed at four.
I’d need the after-hours number, which was printed boldly on fluorescent-orange paper and handed to me at my last appointment.
I put that paper away somewhere. I can’t remember where.
I thought I wouldn’t need it for many months, not until my due date was near.
Suddenly, for the first time in weeks, I feel the need, again, for you.
In spite of everything you’ve done, I need you.
I want to be taken care of, like the day I found out I hadn’t made partner.
I want you to rush home, to place your hand on my back, to hug me and hold me and tell me everything will be okay. I don’t want to go through this alone.
It’s Pavlovian, the need for you. It’s how you’ve trained me.
You couldn’t have blocked Zoe on my phone. You love me more than anything in the world. You wouldn’t hurt me, would never hurt me.
I want so badly for these things to be true.
And I’m lying to myself. My vision is blurred by tears, but I brush them away, unlock the screen, and call you.
The rings trill. Another set of cramps grips me, and I fold over.
The call goes to voicemail. I try again.