We’re both staring at each other, not blinking, not moving. Sabrina is the first to give in.
“Well, I’m sure another doctor won’t be able to take you for weeks.”
“Sounds perfect.”
She rolls her eyes and goes to grab her phone from its place on the floor.
“If you cracked my screen . . .” She examines it and starts typing away as soon as she sees it’s miraculously not broken. “I’ll set up the appointment.”
“No, Sabrina.” My words sound tired and a little exasperated. “I can take care of it.”
“Fine. Fine!” She throws her phone this time, on the couch where it’s safe from breaking. “You don’t need me? Fine.”
“Calm your liver. You want to be needed? Make me some food.”
“Oh, go fuck yourself,” she says, a laugh brewing toward the end of her reply.
“These days, it seems like that’d be the only way it’ll happen.”
I don’t mean to sound so down about it, especially with things being so strange between Gavin and me. I’m not wanting for anything with anyone other than him.
My ass hits the couch and my feet come to rest on my coffee table. Sabrina follows suit and sits close enough to place her head on my shoulder.
“Men look at you all the time. They’re interested.”
“Yeah, but they never speak to me.”
Wouldn’t know how to respond to them if they did, at this point.
Sabrina picks her head up and looks at me for a second before snuggling back into the crook of my neck.
“They don’t speak to you because you don’t look like you need them to. And if there’s anything I’ve learned about men, it’s that they don’t know what to do with someone who doesn’t need them.”
“Sure.”
We sit there in silence and, after a moment, I kind of chuckle to myself.
“What?” She adjusts herself against me, scooting her butt a little farther so she leans on me more.
“Weren’t we just arguing?”
Sabrina lets out a sigh between us.
“I think I’ve ruined you for men, shorty.”
My hand reaches for hers and she holds onto it, tightly at first.
“Yeah? How so?”
“Because I take your shit and I’m still around to love you afterward.”
“I take your shit, too,” I object, squeezing her hand.
She laughs and tucks our hands onto her lap.
“Why do you think I’m single?”
“Because the perfect man doesn’t exist?”
“Because I love you most,” she explains.
I shake my head.
“Impossible.”
Because if he wasn’t my life vest,
He was my anchor.
Day 350
“How are you feeling today, Ms. Milas?”
At the sound of my mother’s last name, I bristle. For all of my strong Irish genes, my mother insisted on giving me her name, considering my father hadn’t been the type of man to stick around.
I look up at the man in front of me. The same man who’d so callously delivered the worst news I’d ever received in my life and offered no comfort.
“Fine,” I whisper. My tongue runs over my bottom lip as he steps near me.
I shy away from his stethoscope and his cold hands. He smiles quickly, without emotion, and at such close proximity, his bowtie mocks me.
“Having any pain today?”
None that you’d understand.
I shake my head, my eyes shifting between his face and the floor.
“My understanding is that you’d like to get some testing done.”
My nod is decidedly more animated, eyes wide and focused on him.
“Well, Ms. Milas, you do realize that sometimes these things happen. There isn’t always a rhyme or reason.”
Here we go.
“I would like testing, regardless.”
He sits on a stool, opposite my position on this bed covered in paper.
“We typically leave testing for those who’ve experienced more than one miscarriage, as this could, again, just be a one-time thing. Sometimes there are issues with the fetus or with implantation. It really is impossible to tell until you try again.”
He sounds like he’s reading from a fucking book, all monotone and know-it-all.
“So,” I take a shaky breath, “you’re telling me I have to try to get pregnant again, and see if I miscarry again, just so you’ll take my concerns seriously?”
He clears his throat and crosses his leg, one over the other.
“We can run some bloodwork; see if anything is going on in that area.”
“Okay,” I tell him.
“Physically, are you feeling back to normal? There may still be some residual hormones and we’ll test again for that as well. Just to ensure your levels are dropping as they should. If you’re deciding you want to try again.”
I’m not sure what type of answer he wants from me. My body was over my pregnancy, sure.
But it was like people expected me to get over it as quickly as my body had.
Try again, he says. If you go through this heartbreaking experience again, then we’ll take you seriously.
My fury aches as it boils beneath the surface that I’m attempting to keep cool.
“I would like to see a different doctor,” I say, my voice clear and strong, that fury spurring me on. “I don’t know if it’s because you have a dick, or you are one, or you’ve just had one too many patients, but you’ve become numb to this entire experience. Please put in the lab work and hand me off to someone else.” He opens his mouth, eyes wide, but I hold my hand up. “We have nothing further to discuss, sir.”
He nods and, at the door, informs me that I can go to the lab downstairs at any time today to get my blood drawn. I say okay, pulling my sweater closer to my body. My teeth catch my bottom lip as I wonder if I went overboard; if I was too hard on the doctor.
When I glance up, I can see my reflection in the metal paper towel holder. No makeup, eyes tired; the person looking back at me is so bare.
There was a time when I wouldn’t even leave my house without at least mascara. And now I don’t bother. It’s a waste when all I’ve done is cry it away.
I reach for my phone to text Gavin, even though it’s late in Pakistan.
Me: They’re going to run tests.
I slide off the table and head out of the door, toward the lab.
I’m surprised when I’m signed in and waiting for my turn that he messages me back. I wonder what he’s doing awake.
Gavin: That’s good. So we can find out if everything’s okay.
In this waiting room, all alone, I smile for what feels like the first time in a long time.
We.
It’s all I’ve been wanting.
To feel like this isn’t just happening to me.
Me: What are you doing up so late?
He responds immediately.
Gavin: Out with some friends.
There’s a tightness in my chest. If he were here, he wouldn’t be out with friends. He’d be here with me, holding my hand because I hate needles . . .
Me: I wish you were here.
I don’t get a response before I’m called in. When the needle pricks the inside of my elbow, I squeeze my eyes shut.
I’ve never been a fan of pain, on any scale.
“Everything okay?” The phlebotomist asks, her efficient hands working quickly to remove and replace the vials.
“No,” I whisper.
She pauses.
“Do I need to stop?”
Her latex covered fingers press into my shoulder, as if she’s willing me to open my eyes and answer her.
“No,” I answer, my eyes now open. She offers a confused smile and my eyes have no tolerance for it, looking away.
The last time I’d come in here for bloodwork, I was with an ecstatic Sabrina. I was simply terrified and unsure.
I’d told Sabrina that I wanted to start going to my appointments without her. That I wanted to deal with things myself like an adult.
But there was nothing that would make me feel like Gavin shouldn’t be here. At every appointment, whether I was alone or with Sabrina, I could feel the weight of his absence. And it layered, brick by brick, until I was staring at the wall between he and I.
Once she’s finished, I rush out of there.
My phone shows a message from Sabrina.
Sabrina: How was your appointment?
I’m not going to share my small outburst with her. I don’t want to deal with her opinions about what’s best and how she chose him and . . . all this other bullshit.
Me: Fine. Got some bloodwork done.
She texts me a thumbs-up and I open the text thread between Gavin and me. No response.
It’s infuriating that he’s out with friends and I’m dealing with this alone.
Gavin isn’t here.
He will never know what walking into that building again feels like. How I could cry at just the sight of it. He won’t know the aches I still feel in my body, like some sort of phantom sensation that I’d once carried life.
He doesn’t know anything other than the good time he’s having.
And because my fury is boiling over again, I message him.
Me: You can’t even talk to me and make sure I’m okay because you’re out with your fucking friends.
I push my phone into my purse as I speed walk toward the T, regretting that I didn’t take Sabrina’s offer to use her car.
All the way home, my face is hidden by my scarf as I cry. The car isn’t as full on a weekday afternoon, but I don’t care as silent, hot tears slide down my face.
I was okay with being alone.
But I wasn’t okay with being without Gavin.
I glance at my phone in my purse and I see texts from him, but I ignore them, so sure they’re only saying that I piss him off, and I overreact, and I need to calm down.
I was drowning, and he wasn’t trying to save me.
All I could do was sink.
Once love is no longer patient,
And kind,
Why does it transform into
Something that looks
An awful lot like indifference?
Day 340
“Is there anything else we need to do?” Sabrina stands in front of me, speaking to the doctor as I pay them no mind.
They’ve pricked me, taken my blood, checked my heart, asked personal questions that Sabrina handled with ease, speaking about me as if I’m not even here.
“Her hormone levels are dropping pretty steadily. We’ll just need to keep an eye on that. Other than that, she can come in again in about two weeks and we can discuss anything else that comes up then. If there are any issues between now and then, feel free to call me.” He hands her his card and shakes her hand. I get a nod before he walks out of the room.
“Well, then—”
“I don’t want you to come with me to my appointments anymore,” I say, my tone bland and my eyes on the door still.
“Wh-why not?”
She’s standing in front of me like some sort of perfect business Barbie and it’s all too much.
“Because I said so!”
I slide off the bed, grab my slouchy bag from the chair near the door and walk out of the room.
“Denise! Denise,” she hisses, following me down the hall. I can hear her heels hit the carpet with soft little thuds.
Who wears heels to the fucking doctor?
Ridiculous. I’m being as ridiculous as Gavin says but . . . ask me if I give a shit.
“Thanks for everything but I need to do this alone.” She grabs my arm and I pull away, speed walking until I make it outside. It’s starting to get chilly, but my chunky sweater does enough to keep the cold away.
“Where is this coming from?”
“Don’t you have a life to get back to?” I whip around to face her.
Her patience is frustrating, even as she exudes calm and understanding now. This is not my Sabrina. My Sabrina tells me to shut the fuck up and shows up at my appointments any-fucking-way.
And while I sincerely don’t want her there anymore, I hate being coddled by the one person who’d never been known to coddle as much as a child.
“You’re saying hurtful things because you’re hurting. I get it.” She grabs me again. “But I’m fighting the urge to slap you, so give me some credit and slow the fuck down.”
When I hear that I’m pushing her to physical violence, I stop and snort before full-on laughing. I glance up at her look of astonishment and it fuels my laughter.
“You’re nuts,” she says as she watches me double over. “No, I’m sincerely concerned.”
When I stand, the tears in my eyes that started from my reaction to her anger have morphed into a whole other beast.
She’s wordless as she pulls me in and holds me tightly, right there in the parking garage.
I haven’t heard from Gavin in a few days and every time I attempt contact, we hit a point of animosity.
Loneliness frightens me. So, I choose it, not reaching out to him and not wanting Sabrina with me as often. If I take control, if I decide to be alone, maybe it’ll make it all less heartbreaking.
A car honks their horn, scaring us apart. I wipe at my face and Sabrina leads me toward her car.
“Let’s get you home.” For once, I don’t fight her suggestion.
Once I’m alone in the safety of my apartment, running my fingers over my notebooks, I try to make sense of my emotions.
But none of it connects in any sort of fashion; there’s no pattern to my behavior these days. I cry, I fight, I lash out and, on the off chance that I laugh, it isn’t for long.
I open one of my notebooks and run my fingers over the pages as I flip through them. They’re like little bookmarks, each stanza, reminding me of exactly where I was when I wrote them. Who I was. Who I loved.
Initially, the notebooks were full of such hope and love . . . excitement. But things shifted at one point and what was once such a vibrant yellow turned to dull green and sullen blue. The sunshine turned to clouds the more pages I flipped through.
My fingers reach for something else . . . for peace. For a different type of reminder of who I once was and the love I once had.
A reminder I hadn’t left for myself.
I bring my phone to my ear after touching his name on the screen.
“It’s your birthday,” he sings to me. “It’s your birthday.”
My eyes are so full of tears that are only a blink away from falling. He’d left this message two minutes after midnight. The first person to wish me a happy birthday.
“You’re probably asleep right now but happy birthday to you, Denise.” He says the last part in that tired singsong-y voice of his. “All right. Call me back. Bye.”
And then I play another. The one he left right before he got on the plane to Pakistan.
“Denise. Just calling so you can hear my voice. Let you know I’m about to board the plane. And to let you know that I’m going to miss you. A lot. I read your . . .” he sighs, “your letter.” Then he laughs. “I’ll text you when—”
The voicemail cuts off because the moment I saw that missed call, I called him right back.
And I think back on the letter he’d read and how many promises I’d made.
Promises that we could do this and that I would always be here for him . . . promises that made it okay to say goodbye to him like I was only saying “I’ll see you again soon.”
But those promises hadn’t been for him. They’d been for me.
It was time to start contemplating not breaking my back to keep them.
I make room for my grief,
While he makes room to leave me quietly.
But I can feel him slipping away,
As surely as I can feel my sadness taking his place beside me.
Day 335
I
’ve slept on my back for the past few weeks.
Sleeping in any other position hurt and so, I got used to it, training my body to do whatever I needed to comfort myself. Comfort wasn’t my friend these days, so I’d do anything for it; even change lifelong habits.
I used to sleep on my stomach. I also used to wonder how I’d sleep comfortably once my belly grew large enough to make that impossible.
Tears build in my eyes and slide down the sides of my face as I understand that I won’t have to worry about that anymore.
There’s no sound in my apartment. Only me and my stuttered breaths fill the quiet. Here and there, Carlos pads around the apartment, sniffing at my closed door and then back to his bed.
I’m unable to be anything to anyone right now.
Sabrina had to go to work today and while my bosses have been understanding, at some point, I will have to as well.
Sabrina’s handled most of my life, contacting my district manager, making appointments, screening calls, even taking Carlos out without prompting or complaint.
The only calls I take are Gavin’s. And those are happening less and less frequently.
So, I just lie here. And think about the last time I’d ever slept uncomfortably.
Growing up, Sabrina and I shared a bed with my mother. She was notorious for sleeping in, missing appointments, and forgetting that her children relied on her to survive.
When we’d wake up before her, Sabrina would tiptoe into the kitchen, figuring out what we could have for breakfast. If there wasn’t anything, Sabrina would go through her purse and walk us around the corner, coins jingling in her little fist, my hand in her free hand.
But there’d been times when we weren’t quiet enough. My mother would wake up and scream at us, telling us to shut the hell up and get back in bed with her.
So, we would be forced to lie there quietly as she slept off her late night.
I hear my front door open. Sabrina is quiet as she moves around. I hear Carlos walk over to her and she opens the front door again, to take him out I assume.
A few minutes later, she’s back. This time, she comes into my room. It’s gotten dark in my solace and I welcome it. Dried tears aren’t something I want her to see.
EVOL Page 10