Sometime, Somewhere

by Kalyn Fogarty

  “I’m just frustrated,” I admit. “I hate seeing what Wren’s cancer is doing to Jimmy.” I rub my cheeks with my hands, hating the hot tears I feel trailing down my face. “I want so badly to chance things. It’s terrible, but I wish Wren would die. Then Jimmy could be free. He deserves a happy life. Not this one.” I swallow back the lump in my throat. I despise crying, always have.

  James reaches out and pulls me into a hug, and I sob into his chest. It’s been so long since I’ve cried in someone’s arms. It’s nice to share the pain.

  “It’s okay,” he whispers into my hair.

  Wet sobs escape my throat. I let it all out, all the pent-up rage and sadness. A lifetime of sorrow releases all at once.

  Twinkle, twinkle, lit-tle star . . .

  Startled, we look for the source of the sound. The mobile, hanging above the empty crib, is spinning. All the tiny, silver animals are dancing to the familiar lullaby.

  James brushes a soft kiss on my cheek. “Told you so.”

  I don’t respond, but I let him keep holding me. The mobile sings in the background.

  “Wren?” Jimmy cracks the door to the nursery. The music must have called him. James and I freeze. We know he can’t see us, but it feels like he’s caught us in a forbidden embrace.

  42

  Wren

  Age 35

  November 2006

  The dog keeps barking. I’m standing in a foot of snow in front of my parents’ house. The snow is past my knees and still coming down hard. I’m wearing one of those fur hats, the type Elmer Fudd wore, but nothing else. I’m naked. Snowflakes flutter around me. I stretch out my hand and open it to catch one, but none land in my palm.

  The stupid dog won’t shut up. I’m freezing and want to go back inside, but the dog blocks the door. It’s staring at me with its dark eyes fixed on my throat, and I’m afraid it will pounce on me if I move. I wave my arms over my head, and it finally stops barking. It growls. This is worse. Now there’s just this deep sound coming from the back of its throat, a warning noise.

  I need to get into the house. It’s so cold, and I will freeze to death if I stay here. I’m too cold even for the snow to want to land on me.

  “Help,” I whisper. I want to yell, but my lips are frozen, and my tongue is swollen in my mouth.

  The dog stops growling. It tilts its head.

  “Good dog,” I murmur, teeth chattering. “Good dog.” I lower myself into a crouch, bringing myself down to the dog’s level.

  But I’m mistaken. This isn’t a dog. It’s a wolf. I’m not sure how I thought it was a dog. It’s huge, bigger than I am.

  Losing my balance, I fall back into a drift. The coldness takes my breath away. The flakes fall on me now and cover me with a layer of snow. I’m being buried alive. Stuck. Can’t get up.

  The wolf is suddenly on top of me, eyes on my throat . . .

  “Wren,” Jimmy says, breaking the silence of the darkness. He shakes my shoulder lightly. “Wake up.” His voice is more forceful this time.

  “No.” I’m awake, no longer buried in the snow. There’s no wolf standing over my body, only Jimmy staring down at me.

  “You’re having a bad dream,” he whispers, rubbing my bicep with his hand. I wonder if he can feel me shaking. I’m freezing.

  “The wolf . . .” I mumble, the air around me thick and oppressive. “Snow. So much snow. And blood . . .” As I snapped from sleeping to wakefulness, the sensation of bleeding followed me. At first it was a slow oozing, but it quickly felt like it was gushing from my body.

  I’m weak. I suppose I’m awake now, but the dream followed.

  “I don’t feel very good,” I mutter. I barely finish the sentence before I throw up over the side of the bed. Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I lay back on the pillow, my head heavy and filled with marbles. “Oh god, I’m sorry,” I say, and dry-heave again.

  Jimmy is up and around to my side of the bed before I can sit up. He flicks on my beside lamp, casting the room in a dim yellow glow. He rubs his hand in circles on my lower back like I’m a little kid with the flu.

  If only it were the flu, and these were fever dreams. Jimmy places his cool palm across my forehead, and I lean into it. I wiggle toward the edge of the bed and feel it. The insides of my thighs are wet and sticky and hot.

  “No,” I murmur. “No, no, no,” I repeat over and over, like it might change something. Jimmy lifts the comforter away but covers me up before I can see what lies beneath. I don’t need to. His face tells me everything.

  “It’s okay, lay still. I’m going to call the ambulance,” he says, his voice calm.

  I know I shouldn’t look, but I have never had very good self-control. Raising the blanket a few inches is enough. A red stain spreads beneath me on our white sheets. I lay immobile as the life drains from me. It resembles a massacre in the snow, the last image in my dream.

  ***

  Closing my eyes, I succumb to the tragedy diffusing around me.

  It hasn’t always been tragic. For a few months I’ve lived in a happy dream, the type you never want to wake up from. I should’ve known better than to trust my luck.

  We found out in August. It was a complete surprise—albeit a happy one—and god knows we needed a happy surprise. Jimmy drove me to my three-month oncology checkup, and we braced ourselves for the worst. I was in remission, but we hesitated to rejoice in the reprieve, since it had always been fleeting at best. Every day I felt stronger, almost able to hope it was here to stay this time. I felt well enough to rejoin a gym and began taking weekly yoga classes. I tumbled for the first time in years.

  The doctor asks about my appetite at every visit, and usually I have the same answer. But lately I’d noticed a change, and I was hesitant to blame it on remission. I’ve always been a light eater. When I was younger, it was because I was constantly dieting; later, because cancer sucked the joy from food. But these days I was ravenous. Usually when I’m PMS-ing, I crave chocolate and sweets. Now I wanted salt. Chips, salsa, pretzels. I ate all the savory foods I could find and didn’t gain an ounce, much to my delight.

  When I relayed all this to my doctor, she asked the most obvious question: “When was your last period?”

  It all became clear at once. I didn’t need the test to tell me I was pregnant. I didn’t need the ultrasound to prove a life was growing inside me—even though it was really cool to see. As soon as the doctor asked, I knew. I only wonder how I didn’t know sooner.

  Jimmy was ecstatic and worried in equal parts. I’d have expected nothing less. He worries if I take too long running errands on my own. He’s my protector. Now we’d added another variable to the mix, and I feared his anxiety might be unbearable for us both. The baby we’d wanted for so long was here—an actual miracle—and he was helpless to me protect me from it any more than he could protect me from the cancer.

  The doctor said I shouldn’t have any trouble with the pregnancy as long as I stayed healthy. Easier said than done, but I was game for the challenge. I followed the rules of pregnancy to a tee, my own personal commandments. For forty minutes each day, I partook in mostly low-impact walking and strength-training exercises. I continued my yoga to promote my inner peace and increase my core strength. I consumed six small meals a day, a balance of protein and healthy fats and carbs. Somehow I curbed my desire to pour salt on everything and added folic acid and iron to my diet, even though it made me nauseous. Subsequently, I eliminated caffeine, drank more milk, and stopped eating sushi and soft cheeses. I was determined to have a healthy pregnancy for both the baby’s sake and Jimmy’s. And my own, of course.

  Jimmy was my sentinel. My pregnancy was his charge. He did all the housework, even the grocery shopping and laundry—both of which he hates. He made dinner and wouldn’t let me so much as lift a garbage bag to bring to the curb. Scared I’d break, he wrapped me in a protective cocoon of comfort.

  We did everything right. We’d wanted this baby so bad and for so long. I’m a thirty-five
-year-old cancer survivor. I thought I could survive anything. I’m not sure I can survive this wolf at my door.

  ***

  I thought the day I was diagnosed with cancer was the worst day of my life. I was wrong.

  It’s not fair. Haven’t I had more than my fair share of hardships and disappointments? It was nearly impossible to get pregnant. I thought conception was the major hurdle. Once we got our positive pregnancy test, I thought, we’d be in the clear. Now we’ve had a miscarriage. My brain can’t wrap itself around the fact that she’s already gone when it was so hard to get her in the first place.

  Jimmy doesn’t deserve this life of pain I’ve forced on him. I’ve been nothing but disappointment and devastation. When he said I do, I doubt he imagined that our vow of for better or worse, in sickness and in health would be so literal. This is way more of the bad stuff than he bargained for, and I know he’s too good of a man to ever walk away.

  The ambulance arrived at one a.m., and it was all over by two. Really, it was over while I dreamed of snow and wolves. The first responders insisted on taking me to the hospital to be examined, since I’d lost a significant amount of blood. I allowed them to help me to the bus and strap me in for the ride, docile as a child. There wasn’t anything left to fight for. They put the sirens on, but we weren’t in any real hurry. My baby was already gone.

  They admitted me to ensure I didn’t need further help passing the fetus. At this point in the conversation, I zoned out and let Jimmy take over. I didn’t want to hear words like D and C and spontaneous abortion. Instead, I turned my head to face the wall and turned my back on the pain. Jimmy lay beside me for a bit, leaving only when he thought I was asleep. Since I knew he’d never get up if I was awake, I faked it so my faithful husband could get up and have a moment in private to compose himself.

  The door cracks open and I pretend to sleep. Two sets of footsteps quietly cross the linoleum floor. One is Jimmy’s; I can tell by the soft tread of his step, his walk as familiar to me as my own breathing. He stands by the side of the bed and takes my limp hand in his.

  He squeezes. “Wren,” he whispers. Another squeeze. “Wake up, baby,” he says. I slowly open my eyes, feign a yawn. I’m an expert faux sleeper. I’ve spent so much time in hospital rooms in my adult life that it’s a skill I’ve mastered. Nurses tend to leave you alone if your eyes are closed.

  The second set of footsteps belongs to the doctor who treated me. Dr. Speiro stands on Jimmy’s left, smiling at me as if she’s waiting for me to speak. I have nothing to say. Nothing I say can bring my baby back.

  They wait, watching me expectantly.

  I sigh as my social instincts take over. “Morning,” I muster, sound much more cheerful than I feel. In truth, I feel deflated. In a way, I am. I’m suddenly missing a huge piece of myself. I lost it. Carried it wrong. Mis-carried it.

  “Wren, Dr. Speiro and I have been talking about what to do next,” Jimmy says. The doctor nods and smiles at me. I’d like to slap it off her face.

  “Mrs. Knight, I know you’ve experienced a tragedy, but we need to discuss how to move forward from here as soon as you’re ready,” she says, echoing Jimmy.

  They don’t say the word, but it’s heavy in the air, the elephant in the room. The same one that’s lived in my house since my diagnosis.

  “What are you talking about?” I ask, playing dumb—another useful skill I’ve acquired during my time in and out of treatments. This one tends to infuriate Jimmy. “This had nothing to do with my cancer. You said so last night.”

  Jimmy and the doctor exchange a look.

  “What?” I demand. I hate that they had this conversation without me. I know Jimmy’s stance on the issue, but this doctor knows nothing about me. She hasn’t been with me the past five years, fighting my battle. She has no idea how important this baby is to me. To us.

  “Wren,” Jimmy murmurs. He says it like a plea. Wren, please listen to me. Wren, please be reasonable. Wren . . .

  “No,” I say. “I don’t want to talk about this now.” I pull my hand from his grasp, and he recoils. “After what I’ve been through tonight, can we at least wait to talk about this tomorrow?”

  The doctor bites her lip, weighing whether she should speak up or stay silent. In my experience, most doctors can’t resist throwing in their two cents in regard to my health.

  “Karen, I understand that last night was terrible. It’s going to hurt for a long time,” she says. I know she’s trying to be sympathetic, but her tone pisses me off. No shit it’s going to hurt. “But I want you to consider having the hysterectomy while you’re here in the hospital.”

  The word triggers me. Hysterectomy. I hate it. I hate this doctor.

  “This miscarriage is going to be tough on your health,” she continues, as if I hadn’t already thought of this. Doesn’t she know I’ve been obsessing over the effect this will have on my body and my soul? She doesn’t notice my scowl, even though the look I give her could kill. “I spoke with your current ob-gyn, and she said your remission has been tenuous. We don’t want any setbacks.”

  I almost laugh. They don’t get it. These doctors think my cancer coming back is the worst thing that could happen to me, but they’re off the mark. This is the worst thing. Not having a baby is the worst thing. The threat of cancer doesn’t compare to the loss I have just suffered. If they think taking away my chances at another baby is going to save me, they’re dead wrong.

  “Jimmy?” I say, looking to him to be my voice. Hot tears are streaming down my face. I search his eyes and realize he doesn’t understand either. “I can’t,” I whisper. I beg.

  He looks at me and shakes his head. “I’m sorry.” He looks away. “I think it’s the best thing. We can’t risk this happening again.”

  “Of what happening again?” I demand, finding my voice and finding myself full of anger. “Of getting pregnant again? I hope for that, Jimmy. I hope like hell I get pregnant again,” I say, but he refuses to meet me gaze. “Are you afraid of the cancer coming back? Because as far as I can tell, there’s no real rhyme or reason for that happening. It could happen at any time.” I turn my attention to the doctor. “Tell him! Tell him it’s not the baby that causes cancer,” I yell at her, sniffing back tears.

  “We just want what’s best for you,” she says. “Let me leave you alone with your husband to discuss this.” She lays a hand on Jimmy’s shoulder for a second before backing out of the room.

  “How could you?” I hiss, ready to scratch his eyes out, punch him in the face. I want to scream at him until there’s nothing left inside me.

  “Wren, we’re only talking,” he answers, sitting in the guest seat. His shoulders are hunched, and he looks like a man defeated. His hair is a mess, even worse than normal. The bags under his eyes make me think he hasn’t been sleeping well. I’m sure he’s stayed up all night, diligently watching over me. Taking care of me leaves him no time to take care of himself.

  “I can’t do it anymore,” he whispers. He shakes his head, his eyes pooling with tears. “I worry about you all the time. Every second of every day, I’m worrying. I worried when you were sick. I worried when you were in remission. I worried when you were pregnant, and now I’m worried about it all coming back.” Dropping his head into his hands, he sobs quietly into his chest, the weight of it all crashing down on him.

  All this time he has worried about breaking me, and in the end, he’s the one who broke.

  “I didn’t ask you to worry about me,” I say, too harshly. “I want you to live your life with me. I don’t want you to spend it trying to keep me safe all the time.”

  “Then have the hysterectomy, please,” he begs, not lifting his head from his hands.

  “I can’t,” I answer, shrugging. He asks me out of love for me, but I’m too selfish.

  “Then I’m having a vasectomy,” he says, finally meeting my gaze, giving me one more chance to make the right decision.

  My head spins. Hysterectomy, vasectomy, miscarriage
. It’s all too much. These are words I never envisioned surrounding my journey to motherhood. Jimmy’s never mentioned a vasectomy before, and I wonder who put this idea into his head. Dr. Speiro, no doubt. I hate her even more. A vasectomy wouldn’t protect me from cancer, but it sure as hell would prevent our next pregnancy.

  “I’m going to do whatever it takes to protect you,” he says, resolved.

  “If you do this, Jimmy, I will leave you,” I say. I don’t know I mean it until the words leave my mouth. Not that they’re out there, I wish I could take them back. As much as I love him and hate to hurt him, I know I can’t stay with him if he makes the unilateral decision to end our chances. This is our future. Our baby. If he takes it away from me, I’ll take the thing from him that will hurt the most. Me.

  Still, I wish I hadn’t said it out loud. Now he has one more thing to worry about.

  43

  Karen

  After

  November 2006

  I spend an awful lot of time in the hospital for a dead person. The lucky dead people get picked up, packed away, and buried in a few hours. It takes a day or two at most. Then there’s me. I’ve been dead for years and still get dragged to the hospital every few months. I wish there was a customer service representative I could complain to about the injustice of this, but purgatory isn’t big on keeping the patrons happy.

  For years I’ve kept up a running internal monologue featuring a whole lot of bitching and moaning. Since I haven’t made much noise until recently, my objections have piled onto each other and filled me with equal amounts despair and rage. Anger at my failed suicide and fury at Wren’s selfishness have consumed me. I’d have been hard-pressed to name even one thing redeemable about this afterlife before James came along. Although annoying, he’s growing on me. Like a fungus, but not an altogether bad fungus. James is my mushroom.

  Lately, I’ve found myself complaining less. I’m even less irritated by Wren’s reckless disregard for her charmed life. Lost in this newfound almost-happiness, I totally miss the event that will no doubt change the fate of the couple I’ve been haunting. One minute I’m lying next to James in companionable silence, tucked safely away in our quiet nursery; the next we are jolted from our reverie by the sound of Wren moaning in paid, followed by the angry sirens screeching to a halt in front of our little yellow house.