by K. L. Kreig
They nod in unison. While their will is no match for their mother’s, and they lost this particular battle, they still make a production of it to get their point across. They each find the smallest piece of broccoli available and shove it into their mouths. After holding their noses as they chew, they wash down the remnants with swallows of milk.
It’s amazing what three-year-olds already know.
“Muy buena.” Carmen dismisses them after she checks they’ve actually swallowed, and they scramble off of their chairs like their behinds are on fire. “Hey, hey, hey, no running in the house!” To me, she adds, “Sorry. I swear they’re the devil’s spawn wearing pretty blue dresses.”
“They’re kids being kids. No need to be sorry.”
I place my hands over my belly, excitement running through me at the thought of my own child running around and me yelling at her to stop. At just over three months along, my pants are starting to get snug, and my morning sickness is waning. The minute we passed that twelve-week mark, I relaxed considerably. And at our last visit, while the doctor told me the baby is a tad smaller than she would like, everything seems to be on track.
“You say that now.” She reaches for another biscuit. “But once they break that antique crystal vase, you’ll be sorry.”
“I don’t have an antique crystal vase.”
“Whatever, Laurel.” She waves the biscuit around. Ribbons of crumbs fall to the table. “Let me be dramatic, okay?”
“Drama has always been your forte.”
“I know.” She takes a bite of bread, followed by a healthy swallow of Chardonnay. “What happened there?” Carmen asks me, pointing to the bruise on my forearm.
“I don’t know.” I shrug. I’ve always bruised easily but it seems worse since I’ve gotten pregnant.
“You done with that, or should I leave it?” Roth stands and gestures to the one remaining biscuit.
Carmen’s chewing slows. She stares at that basket longingly. I get it. They are delicious. Roth is a fabulous cook and has mastered Southern biscuit making, for sure. He even took a class from a local expert. My biscuits are door stops by comparison. “Yes, I’m done,” Carmen finally answers. When Roth reaches for the basket, though, Carmen stops him with a “No!” and snatches it away. Her face becomes almost feral.
“Whoa there, Nelly.” Roth chuckles. “Have you been getting enough sleep, Carmen?”
“No judgment, Keswick,” she snaps. “Three-year-olds are hard work. You wouldn’t, ah…happen to have any of that homemade strawberry jam left, though, would you?”
“Anything for you,” he replies on a wink.
“I’ll get it,” Manny interjects. “Anything else you need while I’m up, carino?”
From the other room we hear one of the girls scream at the other to “give it back” and Carmen replies snidely, “A bourbon, neat?”
Manny cocks his head, as in “Are you serious?” Carmen cocks hers right back, as in “Damn straight.”
“I’m driving home,” he announces.
“And I will let you, dulzura.”
“You sure you don’t need a room instead?” Roth jibes. “We have two extras, all ready to go.”
“The girls get up at five thirty,” Carmen tells him, straight-faced.
“Manny, you’re driving.”
We all laugh at Roth’s response as he starts to clear the table. I jump up to help.
“Stop. Go sit down.” He nods to the couch in the living room.
“No. I can help.”
Ever since I found out I’m pregnant, Roth has been overly worried. Almost annoyingly so. He won’t let me lift so much as a salad bowl without assistance. I understand this has been hard for him too, though. The last eighteen months have been a roller coaster.
When everything was said and done with our ovulation stimulation and subsequent insemination, we ended up getting four quality embryos, which we froze. We debated for a long time about whether to implant one or two embryos. There was a large part of me that wanted to have twins, so they could experience the same connection that Esther and I did, but twins weren’t guaranteed, of course. A pregnancy wasn’t guaranteed period, even if we transferred two. In the end, we decided to do what was best for both me and the baby. We opted for a single embryo transfer.
And it didn’t take.
We were devastated. I have to be honest; I was terrified to try again. What if the next didn’t take either? What if none of the four did? Was there something more wrong with me that they didn’t find?
But Roth told me we hadn’t come this far to give up, so we tried again.
And the second one…
She is already amazing, though I haven’t met her yet.
We are finally, finally going to grow our family. I can’t wait.
I grab the salad and the macaroni bowls and carry them to the counter, ignoring Roth’s side-eye.
“I said, go sit down.”
He snatches the salad bowl and places it in the sink.
“And I said I’m fi—”
The macaroni bowl I still have in my other hand crashes to the floor and shatters into a hundred pieces, as a white-hot pain rips through my abdomen. I double over in agony. It takes my very breath away.
Oh. No.
“What’s wrong?” Roth leans over me in a panic. Carmen dashes to my side. Both are holding on to me to keep me from falling to the ground.
But I am holding on to my belly.
To my baby girl.
“Something,” I gasp through waves of anguish that are grueling to ride. “Is…” Oh God. What is happening? Another swell brings me to my knees. “Wrong.”
“Call 9-1-1,” Carmen yells. Her fingers dig into my elbow, my shoulder. The bite pales in comparison.
“No, I’ll take her,” Roth cries.
“Call…Dr.…Covington,” I pant.
Another surge hits me.
Wetness coats my inner thighs.
I look down.
It’s red.
Nooo. Please. Nooo.
“I’ll get the car,” Manny cries.
“Hurry,” Roth replies frantically.
“It will be okay, chica,” Carmen tells me. She’s trying to reassure me. She is as terrified as I am.
They chatter back and forth but their depth is off. Their tone is muted. They are miles away. They are out of reach.
I am loaded into the car.
Roth holds my hand. He talks to me. The drive is torture. I cry.
It won’t be okay.
Blood pools in my seat.
It won’t be okay.
We arrive at the ER. They lay me on a stretcher. They roll me into a room. They check my vital signs and scan my belly. Their eyes are grim.
I won’t be okay.
They can’t help me.
No one can help me.
She’s supposed to be okay.
Why isn’t she okay?
Then I am leveled by a single soul-sucking, dream-killing spasm that would bring me to my knees if I were standing.
I scream through the pain.
Roth is beside himself.
I beg them to save her.
Please save her.
Take me.
Save her.
I fight to stay conscious, but I lose the battle. Darkness envelops me. It’s a blessing. It’s a curse. I sink into obscurity, and my last conscious thought is I know…I just know…
When I wake, my daughter won’t be with me anymore.
I won’t be okay…
“Take care of her for me, Esther,” I choke out.
Then my world goes black.
19
Gravity
Laurel
One Year Earlier
August 12, 7:33 p.m.
* * *
“Want some popcorn?” Roth asks, already assuming the answer is a given.
I don’t. My stomach is sour, and I feel like an alien invaded my body in the middle of the night. I am off, though I don’t know how
exactly. But Roth loves popcorn and peanut M&Ms during Tuesday movie nights, so, “Sure. I’d love some.”
I listen to the kernels pop in the microwave, one after the other. Pop. Pop. Pop. My mouth waters, only not in an I can’t wait to have some kinda way. I need to lie down.
Bowls clang in the kitchen as Roth gets our treats and drinks ready. I want to crawl out of my skin and leave it behind. I can’t even describe why.
“You okay?” Roth asks, taking a seat next to me on the couch. His brows are sewn together in concern. I can’t add one more burden to his broad shoulders. I’ve given him so many already.
“Yes,” I reply, taking the bowl he’s prepared specifically for me. Snagging a single seed of popcorn, I pop it in my mouth and chew slowly, trying not to vomit.
I am tired. So very tired since I lost…don’t think about it, Laurel. Don’t think, period.
Halfway through Lady Bird I fall asleep, waking when Roth carries me to bed. He crawls in beside me and is softly snoring in record time. But as exhausted as I am, sleep eludes me. I take two of the sleeping pills I was prescribed a few months ago and eventually they do their job.
I wake up the next morning in a fog. It’s a school day. I’m dragging. I can barely make it through my morning routine.
“How are you feeling this morning?” Roth pours me a to-go cup of coffee, watching me closely.
“Exhausted. I don’t know why. I slept so much last night.”
“Your coloring looks off.”
“Does it?” I pinch my cheeks. They’re warm.
“You should call in sick.”
“I can’t. The school year just started, Roth. Plus, today is yoga day and the kids are excited to learn down dog.”
“Someone else can’t teach them down dog?” His tenor is as tight as his clenched jaw.
“Roth.”
He sighs, then hands me my insulated mug of life. “I’m worried about you, Laurel. You haven’t been yourself since…lately.”
Since I lost the baby, is what he means. And I would agree with him. I’ve been sick. Depressed. I’ve not been myself; I know. But it will get easier. It will. I simply need to shake this…whatever this is.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine, Laurel. Last month you had bronchitis. The month before that a cold. The month before that another quote unquote respiratory infection. You’ve lost ten pounds.” Twelve. “Something is not right.”
“It’s fine.” I sit heavily on the kitchen stool. I could go back to bed and sleep for a month. “Dr. Covington said my body has just been through a lot. It needs time to heal.”
“It’s been more than nine months, Laurel. And you’ve been sick practically that entire time. You had to go the ER last month you were so sick.”
“My immunity is down. That’s all.”
I feel as if I’m slogging through soup. Every day it gets thicker and harder to wade through. I’m over it. I want to be me again.
“It’s more.” Roth grips the counter behind him. His elbows splay to the sides, stretching his fancy olive linen button-down. He is incredibly handsome today. He’s always handsome.
“I’ll call in if you play hooky with me?” I tease, tucking a finger in between two buttonholes over his six-pack abs. I’m not sure I’m up for it, but I could give it a go.
His lip ticks up. Barely. Yes, I am changing the subject, Mr. Keswick. “As much as I would love to, I can’t. I have a big meeting with Pat Anderson today to pitch our national marketing campaign.”
“Well, that’s a darn shame. It could have been fun.”
“Laurel.” He grips my shoulders with serious intent, but his hold is gentle. “I think you need to go back to the doctor.”
“What am I going to say?” That I am in mourning? The mind does terrible things to the body when it’s under stress. It’s a scientific fact. That’s all this is. I push myself up from the stool. My bones hurt. “Trust me.”
Roth hangs his head. His line turned on him. “I’m worried.”
I throw my arms around his neck and squeeze him until I can’t breathe. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine. I will eat better. I will rest more. I’ll take more vitamins and drink protein shakes. I’ll do sit-ups and meditate, and I’ll get better so…”
So, we can try for a baby again.
I don’t say it.
We don’t talk about it. Not since my miscarriage. And it’s not because Roth doesn’t want to. He begs me to talk about it. It’s the elephant in the room. But I can’t, because I feel like such a failure. I can’t give him what he wants…what I want.
Just as there was no explanation for my infertility, Dr. Covington told me there was no explanation for my miscarriage.
“It happens,” she said, clasping my hand in empathy. “There is no reason you can’t try again in three months, Laurel.”
Isn’t there, though?
What if I can’t get pregnant again?
What if I can’t carry a baby to term?
What if I am defective?
What if I’m forever defective?
What if this tears Roth and me apart?
He says it won’t, that it hasn’t, but how can I not doubt myself? He wants a child as much as I do. What if I can’t give him that?
And honestly, I think that’s what’s been eating at me for the last several months. Yes, I have felt awful. Yes, I have been sick a lot, but it’s these thoughts of inadequacy that are the real culprit. They keep me up at night, the gravity of what-ifs holding me down.
That’s why I’m so tired. I’m sure of it.
That’s all it is.
“I’m going to be late,” I whisper, reluctantly stepping out of his arms. “I was going to try to hit a yoga class on the way home.”
He purses his lips but doesn’t comment. It’s okay, I can read him like the front page of the Nashville Business Journal. He thinks I should rest.
“Want to make homemade pizza tonight?” I ask him, slinging my purse over my shoulder. I hold in a wince.
“Sure. We haven’t done that in a while.”
“Will you pick up cheese and crust mix from the store?”
“Of course. Anything else?”
“Maybe some craft beer?” I wink. We both know what craft beer does to me with its high alcohol content.
He smirks and picks up his keys off the counter. “Sounds like a Tuesday with possibilities.”
“It will be.” I promise in as sultry a tone as I can muster. I press my mouth firmly to his. “Thank you. It will get better, you’ll see.”
“I just want you to be healthy, Laurel. That’s all.”
I miss you too, my love. So much.
“You’ll see. I’ll kick this bug’s ass and then we can go camping like we’ve talked about. Maybe for Labor Day?”
“Really?” That perks him up. I feel more energized already.
“Yeah. And maybe I’ll let you catch more fish than me this time.”
Roth closes the front door behind us. Meringue perches herself in the kitchen windowsill. She watches us leave every morning. She’s in the same spot waiting for us when we return.
“Oh, this time I will best you on my cunning and my fish prowess.”
“Your fish prowess?”
“I’ve been studying up on lures and bait and fishing techniques.” Roth grips my elbow to help me down the two front stairs. I fell three months ago. He can’t let it go.
“You have not.”
“I have,” he replies excitedly. “There’s this thing called a casting spoon and it wobbles to attract fish. There’s a skill to fishing. Did you know that?”
My God…he’s telling the truth. I want to laugh but he’s so serious right now I can’t. I guess he does want to “best me” at fishing. It’s the one thing I can still hold over his head.
“Yes,” I answer lightly as we get to my car. I gaze up at him, arching my hand over my eyes to block the sun. “It’s called patience.”
He leans into me
and I think he’s going to kiss me, but he doesn’t. “Patience pitted against skill. We’ll see who comes out on top.”
I will. “You’re on.”
Now he kisses me, and I let my hand wander down south of his belt. The neighbors could be watching for all I care. I haven’t been this turned on in weeks. My fingers graze the length of him. He groans. He’s thick and pulsing. Maybe it’s not too late to call in a sub. We can do down dog tomorrow. I could have him back in the house and naked in under sixty seconds.
Sadly, he halts my advances.
“Tonight,” he mumbles against my wet mouth.
“Nooo…” I groan. I try to palm him, but he steps back, leaving me wanting.
“Hold that thought.” He opens my car door and ushers me inside. He’s flush. I’m panting. Brigette Parker, our seventy-six-year-old next-door neighbor we take to the pharmacy when her daughter doesn’t show up, is watching us with a grin. I wave. She wiggles her fingers back. She saw our little show. I think she liked it.
And like that, the gravitational pull that’s held me flat to the wall eases, and I can breathe a full breath for the first time in months.
“I love you today, mi amado,” I tell him.
His eyes warm. It still amazes me that I can do that. “And I will love you tomorrow, my beloved. Have a good day.”
“Knock ’em dead at your meeting,” I call after him.
He spins and he smiles and everything that was wrong with the world is right again.
As I back out of the driveway, I decide I need to get whatever this is under control. I want to go camping. I want to stay awake past nine. I want to smile and mean it. And I think maybe, just maybe, I want to try for another baby.
So, I dial my primary doctor’s number and make an appointment for day after tomorrow.
20
Autumn Leaves
Laurel
Present
June 15, 11:15 a.m.
* * *
I’ve been in love twice in my life, or so I thought. Well, three times if you count the one-sided love affair I had with Justin Timberlake when I was thirteen.