Chapter Seventeen
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
F or a moment my mind refuses to accept the truth. I simply stare at the stain. Then my ribs fuse and I can’t breathe. I drop to my knees and bury my head in my hands. Beside me, Rudy barks and wedges his nose into my crossed arms. But I have nothing to give him right now. I’m empty.
After ten minutes of grief-stricken paralysis, I leap to my feet, yanking the sheets from the bed. Tears stream down my face and I unleash loud, ugly wails. Beads of perspiration gather at my hairline. I wad the sheets and stuff them into a laundry basket. With the basket on my hip, I yank open the bedroom curtain. A Christmas morning as perfect as a Norman Rockwell painting greets me. But I cannot appreciate the day’s beauty. My soul is as hollow and barren as my womb.
I move through Christmas Day as if I’m anesthetized. Emma and Trevor are fascinated with my new puppy, and the three provide loads of entertainment for my siblings. But I watch vacantly, impervious to joy or laughter or even good food. Catherine takes a bite-sized portion from each dish on the table, while the others eat ravenously. I pick at my food indifferently.
The loss of my phantom child resurrects the memory of my mother’s death, and I grieve anew for her. For the third time today, I’ve locked myself into the upstairs bathroom. I’m hunched over the sink splashing cold water on my face, telling myself I’ll be okay.
I wanted that baby. I was sure I was pregnant. And my mother…she should be here, damn it. She, who always loved the holidays, deserved one more Christmas.
Last year we celebrated as usual, ignorant of the fate awaiting us in the New Year. Had I known it would be her last Christmas, I’d have given her something special, something that would have touched her heart. Instead, I bought her a panini grill from Williams-Sonoma. Even so, her face lit up with joy, as if it were the very gift she’d been hoping for. She pulled me into her arms that morning and whispered, “You make me merry, dear daughter.”
Every unshed tear in my chest suddenly breaks anchor. I slide to the bathroom floor, sobbing. I need my mother’s love so badly today. I’d tell her about the grandbaby I’d hoped to give her. She’d soothe me, and assure me there would be another sky.
“Brett,” Joad calls. He raps on the door. “Hey, Brett. You in there?”
I lift my head and take in a breath. “Umm-hmm.”
“There’s a phone call for you.”
I rise from the cold tile and blow my nose, wondering who’s calling. Carrie and I chatted for twenty minutes last night. It’s probably Brad, calling yet again to check on me, and to apologize once more for his “lecherous” behavior. I open the bathroom door and trudge down the hallway. Trevor meets me halfway up the stairs and hands me the phone.
“Hello,” I say, patting the top of my nephew’s head before he skips back down the stairs.
“Brett?” an unfamiliar voice asks.
“Yes.”
Silence fills the air, and I wonder if I’ve lost the call.
“Hello?” I ask again.
Finally he speaks, his voice raw with emotion. “This is John Manson.”