Bring Me Back

by Micalea Smeltzer

  I finish up and put the cap on the end. I wash my hands and Ben knocks on the door. “Come on, Blaire. Let me in.”

  I unlock the door and open it, so Ben practically falls inside. I shake my head at him. “What does it say?” he asks.

  “I don’t know.” I hop up on the counter and he stands in front of me. “It takes a few minutes.” I purposely covered the screen on it with the directions so neither of us can peek.

  Ben places his hands on either side of my thighs and leans forward, nuzzling his head into my neck. His stubble scrapes my skin, but I don’t mind. He presses a kiss to my neck and pulls away. “But you’ve never been late before, right?”

  “No—” I shake my head “—I haven’t. But it doesn’t mean this isn’t a fluke.”

  “Do you think that night…in the family room on the pillows?” he asks, putting his hand on my stomach like he truly believes a baby is hiding in there.

  “I don’t know, maybe.” I nervously bite my lip.

  I know there’s no way it happened that night, but there’s no point in trying to explain my period to Ben. He might practically be a doctor but he’s still a guy and there’s no point wasting my breath trying to explain how a period works. Unless you have one you don’t understand.

  “How much longer?” he asks.

  I glance at my phone. “Two minutes.”

  He groans. “I never knew minutes were so long.”

  “Me either,” I agree.

  We both grow quiet, waiting. Hoping. Possibly even praying.

  Ben looks at me and I stare right back. We both take a breath and I knock away the papers so I can pick up the stick.

  “No peeking,” he warns.

  I hold it out so we can both see.

  I squint, but the gesture doesn’t change the outcome.

  It’s negative.

  I feel crushed. Devastated. Like I was handed a gift and then someone said, “Oh yeah, sorry, this isn’t for you. I need that back.”

  “Blaire—”

  His words come too late. I break down, a sob shaking my whole body.

  “Blaire, I’m sorry.” He wraps me into his warm, strong, capable arms. He kisses the top of my head. “We’ll try again. We knew it probably wouldn’t happen the first time anyway.”

  I try to tell him that I know, but I can’t seem to speak around my tears. I cry into his shirt, smearing mascara all over the blue cotton. I don’t even know why I’m so sad. I was more reserved about this than Ben. More time is a good thing, but it doesn’t feel that way. Suddenly, I feel fearful that it’s never going to happen. What if there’s something wrong with me? Or him? Or both of us?

  “Hey, hey, none of that.” Ben forces me back and takes my face between his hands. “I know what you’re thinking and there’s nothing wrong. These things take time.”

  I nod, but more tears come. “I really thought I was pregnant,” I confess on a hiccupping cry.

  Ben pushes my hair away from my face. “I know, baby, I know. It’s okay, though. We’ll try again; that’s the best part, right?” he tries to joke, but I don’t feel like laughing. Or smiling.

  I stare down at the white stick lying on the bathroom counter. I feel like it’s a bright neon light glaring at me, crying: You’re not pregnant. You’re a failure.

  Ben wipes my tears off of my cheeks. He looks pained, and I feel bad. I’m completely breaking down and he’s trying to remain strong, even when he’s as bummed as I am. I lean forward, pressing my head into his solid chest, and hold on to the sides of his shirt. I’m not crying anymore, but I need to hold onto him a moment longer.

  His arms wrap around me fully and he rests his chin on the top of my head. Neither of us says a word. We don’t need to.

  Eventually, I pull away and lift my head to kiss him quickly.

  “It’s going to happen,” he says with so much hope.

  I hop off the counter and grab the pregnancy test to toss it, and the box, in the trashcan. It feels symbolic somehow.

  “It will, Blaire.” He comes up behind me and hugs my back to his chest. “I know you’re still thinking all kinds of negative things, but it was only the first month.”

  I know that our chances of getting pregnant are good, but I can’t shake this ominous cloud that seems to be forming above my head.

  “It will,” I echo his words, but not with nearly as much conviction.

  A week later I find myself standing on a podium in the dress shop for my final fitting. Casey and Ben’s mom are joining me. I wish my own mom was here for this moment, but at least she’ll be coming to the wedding next month.

  February twentieth.

  “That dress is so beautiful on you,” Loraine says, dabbing at her eyes.

  “I can’t believe you’re getting married,” Casey adds. “Who let us become adults?”

  I turn, admiring the dress in the mirror. It’s gorgeous—everything I ever imagined for my wedding dress. The top comes up high, with thin tank-top straps, but the dress is fitted all over with a small train. The dress is covered in lace detailing and the back boasts a million tiny white buttons—okay, so not a million, but a lot.

  “I don’t know,” I speak to Casey, “it’s pretty weird.”

  I haven’t told her that Ben and I are trying to have a baby. We haven’t told his mom, either. I think we both would rather surprise everyone if it happens. When. When it happens. I’m doing my best to think positive.

  “Hold still,” the seamstress admonishes me.

  “Sorry.” I’m careful not to move.

  She finishes marking the places that need adjusting and then I change out of the dress and back into my regular clothes.

  When I walk back into the main room, Casey is frowning at her phone.

  “Ugh, I just got a work email, I have to go.” She hugs me. “I’ll talk to you later. Bye.” She waves at Loraine as she passes.

  I pick up my purse and Loraine waits for me by the door.

  We step out into the cold winter air. We’d had a mild winter, until the last week or so when Jack Frost decided we needed arctic temperatures.

  Loraine loops her arm through mine and we walk down the street.

  “Would you want to get lunch?” she asks, nodding at a small bistro-type place across the street.

  “Sure.” I shrug. “That’d be nice.”

  We cross the street into the restaurant. It’s bigger than it looks from the outside—the interior expanding back instead of out. I’ve never been to this restaurant, but I’ve heard good things. I remember Chloe saying something about it. The walls are painted a dark shade of blue, and you’d think that would make the space seem too dark, but somehow it works. The floors are a dark wood and all the tables and chairs are in a similar color. There are splashes of golden yellow in paintings and vases used as decorations.

  We’re seated almost immediately and handed menus in the same deep blue as the walls with the name of the restaurant spelled out on the front in a gold cursive.

  “Fancy,” Loraine comments with a smile, looking around.

  “It is,” I agree, perusing the menu. Luckily, it doesn’t appear to be outlandishly expensive.

  Our waiter comes by for our drink order. I ask for water and Loraine requests a red wine.

  I pick the dish I want—some fancy pasta that I have no hope of ever pronouncing—and set my menu aside.

  “Thank you so much for being here today,” I tell Loraine. “It means a lot since my mom can’t be here.” My throat grows tight. I always imagined sharing these kinds of moments with my mom, but I know my parents are much happier in Florida.

  “Of course, sweetie.” Loraine pats my hand where it rests on the table. “I love you like a daughter—and soon you’ll be a permanent part of the family.”

  I smile. “It’s a bit surreal.”

  “More like, it’s about time.” She snorts. “I’ve been waiting for you guys to get married since the first time Ben brought you home to meet me.”

  “R
eally?” My heart warms. I hear so many horror stories about mother-in-laws not getting along with their daughter-in-laws. I’ve never had any animosity with Loraine, but me being—well, me—I’m always a bit nervous around her.

  “Really.” She nods. “I know most mothers would probably be the complete opposite—not wanting to see their baby boy grow up and move on, but when I saw the way he was with you, I knew he’d found his other half, and I’ve been so incredibly thankful for that. I just want him to be happy and you make him happy.”

  Tears pool in my eyes. I dam them back. I do not want to cry in the middle of a crowded restaurant. “He makes me happy too,” I tell her.

  “I know.” She smiles. “And Blaire?” She waits for me to nod. “Happiness is the number one thing we should strive to have in life. Not money. Not houses or expensive cars. Happiness is true wealth.”

  I absorb her words. They hold so much truth. I understand that nothing means anything if you’re miserable.

  The waiter appears at our table with my water and Loraine’s wine and takes our order before disappearing again.

  Loraine taps her red painted nails against her wine glass. “It’s funny,” she begins, staring down into her glass like it holds all the answers in the world, “how one minute you’re young with little children and then you blink and they’re grown. I always thought people were dumb for saying that—I mean, you have a child and they’re with you for the first eighteen or so years of their life, but they’re right. They’re gone in an instant.”

  “Loraine—” I reach for her hand.

  She shakes her head and sniffles. “I’m not sad—okay, maybe a little. I’m just telling you this because I assume you and Ben are going to have kids one day and…” She looks off to the side for a moment. “Things were bad between my husband and I, more times than not, and sometimes I look back and I feel like that overshadowed moments I should’ve been sharing with my kids. Not that I think you and Ben would be like us,” she hastens to add, “but work, and stress, can make you forget to stop and appreciate the little things. And trust me, when you get to be my age it’s the little things you remember the most.” A smile touches her lips. “Like this one day, the boys knew I had a rough day at work so while I was showering they made me dinner. It was only cereal, but they’d even gotten a flower from the yard and put it in a vase on the table.” She shakes her head. “And it’s one of my favorite memories of them now.”

  I smile. “That’s sweet. You raised good boys, Loraine.”

  She nods and tears pool into her eyes. “I did, didn’t I?” One tear falls to her cheek, and she wipes it away. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this, but I guess with the wedding coming up I’ve been thinking about my own and the years that followed.”

  I get up from my seat and move around the table to hug her.

  Loraine is a good woman. She’s always been kind to me, and I know she’s been an amazing mother to Ben and his brother. But I also know from Ben that his father wasn’t always the best. He never hit her—as far as Ben knows—but he was verbally abusive and he says it was hard to watch his mom go through that. I think both boys were relieved when their parents finally split up.

  Loraine hugs me back, and I feel her tears dampen my shirt.

  When I pull away, she laughs and dabs at her face with her napkin. “Here I was telling you how happy I am about the wedding, and now I’m crying.”

  “It’s okay,” I assure her. “Thank you for sharing that with me.”

  She nods and takes a sip of her wine. “No more tears, I promise.” She crosses her hands and lays them on the table. “Tell me what you have in the works for your business.”

  I immediately launch into the details on a big account I recently landed, planning a five-year anniversary party for a local business. I’m sure Loraine is bored by my details on colors, arrangements, food, and other things, but she doesn’t show it. She listens intently and lets me drone on as our food arrives.

  Finally, embarrassed, I begin to quiet. “I’m sorry,” I tell her, swirling my pasta around the fork, “I’m rambling.”

  “Ah, no, I find it fascinating,” she says. “I never had your kind of drive. I find it remarkable.”

  I smile. “Thanks.”

  We finish eating and say our goodbyes. I head home and Ben’s already gone for work.

  I open the front door and Winnie comes running toward me. When she sees it’s me, not Ben, she immediately turns tail and runs the other way.

  I shake my head and drop my keys on the entry table along with my bag.

  I kick off my shoes in a haphazard pile. I’ll put them away later.

  I grab a bottle of water and head into my office to work. I crank up the music—I hate the silence—and go through my emails. I reply back, answering questions, and booking dates. I still can’t believe how fast my business is growing. Maybe in a year or two I’ll be able to run my business out of a building and not our house.

  I open the side drawer of my desk and rummage through it for a new pack of sticky notes. I smile when I find a paper crane hidden among my junk drawer.

  I pull it out, forgetting my search for the moment.

  I unfold the note and find Ben’s boyish handwriting scrawled across the paper.

  “In order to be happy oneself it is necessary to make at least one other person happy.” –Theodor Reik

  These words couldn’t be truer. Your happiness is mine. I want to make you smile every day.

  —Ben

  “You already do,” I whisper, and I am, in fact, smiling. I fold the paper back into the shape of the crane and set it on the side of my desk to add to the growing pile of others. There’s nearly a thousand of them already—I’m missing about fifty, though, plus the days that are left. Ben says he’s written them, and they’re hidden, waiting to be found. I don’t make a habit of searching them out every day. I like being surprised. Sometimes I go days without finding one, and other times I find three in a day. Lately, he’s getting better at hiding them from me, and that’s okay; I always seem to find them when I need them most.

  I finish what I’m doing and make a few phone calls. Before I even consider moving my business into a building I should probably hire an assistant. I could use one now so that I don’t have to spend so much time answering emails and phone calls. It would be nice to focus solely on the planning part. I’ll have to talk to Ben about it and see what he thinks. He might be a doctor, not a business owner, but I find his advice invaluable.

  I shut down my computer and leave my office.

  Hours have passed, and I should eat dinner, but I’m not very hungry after having such a big lunch. A little dessert for dinner never hurt anyone, right? Definitely not. I pile two scoops of chocolate ice cream into a bowl, add chocolate syrup, and chocolate chips. I really like chocolate.

  I sit on the couch to eat it and watch TV.

  When I’ve licked every drop of ice cream from my spoon and there’s none left in the bowl, I wash it out and head upstairs to shower.

  When I get in bed it’s a little after nine and I have to laugh to myself. I’ve turned into my mother—although, she usually goes to bed by eight. Regardless, I’ve officially reached the level of adult-adult where you never go out anymore and you’re asleep before ten. It’s kind of pathetic, but it’s the circle of life.

  I fall asleep clutching my pillow, and sometime in the night I feel Ben climb into bed and slip his arms around my body.

  I smile even in my sleep.

  I wake up to the smell and sound of bacon cooking.

  I sit up and rub my eyes, blinking at the clock. Lit up in green the numbers flash 7:10. The bed is empty beside me—no surprise there.

  I slip out of bed and shuffle my feet into a pair of slippers. I’m always cold when I wake up so I grab my sweatshirt from the chair and tug it on before I pad downstairs.

  I round the corner to find Ben standing at the stove with his back to me.

  He’s shirtless
and the muscles in his back flex as he moves. He hasn’t heard me yet, and he’s intent on what he’s doing—popping a piece of bread in the toaster.

  I finally decide to make my presence known. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

  He looks at me over his shoulder with an impish smile. “I didn’t eat before I went to bed, so I’m hungry. I’ll catch a nap later.”

  “Why didn’t you eat?” I frown and step up beside him.

  “I was too tired.” He yawns.

  “Here, let me make breakfast.”

  He shakes his head. “No, let’s do it together.”

  Ben always prefers for us to do this kind of stuff together, and I find it to be sweet and endearing.

  “Okay.” I nod.

  He lets me take over with the eggs and he adds more bacon to the other pan.

  We work side by side in companionable silence.

  One of the best pieces of advice my mom gave me was when she said, “Find a man that even in silence you’re comfortable with. That’s a telling factor, B. If someone makes you nervous to the point that you have to chatter endlessly, then they’re not the person for you. You need to be able to communicate without saying a word.”

  As if to demonstrate this, Ben turns away from the stove to grab a plate. He hands it to me to put the finished eggs on.

  He finishes the bacon and I begin to put together our plates. I add the eggs and toast—buttering the toast, of course.

  Ben adds a pile of bacon to each of our plates. He doesn’t indulge in it often, but when he does, he has it in excess.

  We sit at the kitchen table and Winnie comes out of nowhere to jump on the table beside Ben. Neither of us wastes our breath scolding her to get off. She never listens and only turns her nose up at us when we do.

  “How did yesterday go?” Ben asks, chewing on a piece of bacon.

  “The dress is perfect,” I tell him. “They’re making a few alterations, but it’s almost ready.”