Time Stamps

by K. L. Kreig

  “And I would never say it.” He looks me up and down, head to toe. “What I am saying, though, is that Laurel would hate this.”

  This.

  He doesn’t need to expand.

  I know how I look. My hair desperately needs a cut. I’m now sporting a beard, but it is not trimmed and tight. It is shaggy and unruly. My shirt hangs from my thin shoulders and I’m not gonna lie…my shorts are held up by a belt that needs another hole punched in it. Hell, some may even compare me to a homeless man who was lured out from under the Jefferson Street Bridge by the Bridge Ministry for a hot meal. The heavy trials of life are carved into the sharp edges of my face. You can tell I’ve been through shit and that I’ve let it best me.

  I’m not proud. In fact, I am ashamed of how far I’ve let myself slide.

  Biting the inside of my cheek, I swing my gaze to the kitchen. Carmen is watching, listening. Worry lines frame her compressed lips. The girls have long gone outside where the party is being held. Through the window I watch them laugh and sprint around the yard, playing tag with several other girls. They are so full of life and wonder. So carefree. They remind me of all I will miss.

  “Duly noted.”

  “Beer?”

  I don’t want one, but I also don’t want any more shit. “Sure.”

  We mosey to the kitchen where Carmen kisses me on the cheek, whispering, “It’s nice to see you,” before handing me a Corona. I stare at it and am yanked back to the night Laurel and I sat under the stars in Moab, drinking by the light of the campfire. My chest feels heavy.

  “How are you?” I ask her, taking a deep swig from my bottle. It’s bitter and it hangs out on my tongue too long.

  “Oh…you know.”

  I know.

  Do I ever.

  An unexpected pang of guilt hits me suddenly and harshly. I have spent very little time with Manny and Carmen in the last several months. To be honest, it’s hard to be around them. I have so many memories intertwined with the four of us, it’s impossible to separate the two. But I know they are grieving also.

  “Anything I can help with?”

  “Absolutely not. You go enjoy yourself.” She pats me on the forearm. Dismissed.

  All I can give her is a wry smile. We both know I won’t be enjoying anything. But hey, I’m here and at least that’s one step more than I took yesterday or the day before it.

  “Roth,” Carmen calls after me when I’ve started walking away.

  “Yeah?”

  “Uh, can I talk to you about something first?” She sucks on her top lip and bounces from one foot to another. Carmen is always a force to be reckoned with, and this nervousness is so unlike her that I get an incredibly uneasy feeling.

  “Sure.”

  “I don’t really know how to start this.”

  “Just say it,” I nudge, wondering what in the hell has her so outside herself.

  She picks up a bag of chips and moves it two inches, setting it down again.

  “Carmen, spit it out.”

  “Laurel wanted me to carry your baby,” she blurts.

  What. The. Actual. Fuck?

  “What?”

  “Laurel wanted me to carry your baby,” she repeats, as if I didn’t hear her clearly the first time. I did. I just don’t understand it.

  I am stunned. Bowled over from left field. Completely blindsided.

  “Say something.”

  Say something? What the fuck do I say to that?

  “When she got home after your trip to MD Anderson…after her…” She stops and swallows. “She asked me if I would be willing to be a surrogate.”

  My body takes over, my head vehemently shaking long before I spit, “No.”

  I am trembling, almost uncontrollably. Laurel had this conversation with Carmen but not with me? I don’t believe it.

  “Roth.”

  “No,” I spew venomously.

  “It’s what she wanted.”

  “It’s what she wanted? What about me, Carmen? What about what I wanted? What I want? I want my wife, dammit! I want her to carry our child, to be a mother, to grow old with me, but what I want doesn’t matter now, does it?”

  I want to destroy things. Anything. Everything.

  “Roth,” she pleads.

  “Not another word, Carmen.” I hang my head and breathe long, slow breaths, anger building at an astonishing rate.

  “Just think—”

  “Not. Another. Word,” I grit through clenched teeth.

  I should have left then. If my brain wasn’t scrambled from this bizarre, wholly unexpected conversation I would have. Instead, I make a beeline for the patio door. There are a few other parents there, mostly paired in the couples I know them to be. I can’t even conjure up a pang that should be there because…

  I am numb.

  What Carmen said has deafened me like a ten-decibel alarm.

  “Laurel wanted me to carry your baby.”

  I can’t even wrap my head around that.

  Manny is lounging in a lawn chair, beer in hand. He’s chatting with a woman whom I’ve not seen before. She is by herself.

  “Hey,” he says, nodding at the empty seat beside her.

  I take it but not before sliding my chair over a good two feet. If she thinks I’m rude, so be it.

  “Roth, this is Sarah.”

  “Sarah.” I give her a stiff nod and sit down, trying to clear these muddled shades of red clouding my vision. How dare Carmen spring this on me now, here.

  “Hello.” Her eyes dart shyly to the ground, then back to mine, and the warning bell peals.

  “Sarah just moved into the neighborhood. Her and her daughter, Meghan,” Manny tells me.

  That’s it.

  I’m done.

  Maybe this is a setup. Maybe it’s entirely innocent. Maybe her husband was accidentally left off the introductory checklist. Regardless, I don’t intend to sit here and make idle chitchat with Sarah about how my wife died from cancer at the young of thirty-eight or how Carmen just offered to be a surrogate or how I feel accomplished if I can manage to put on fresh underwear daily.

  I am halfway out of my seat when Lucia comes barreling toward me. “Uncle Roth,” she squeals. She jumps into my arms and I end up falling back into the chair with her in my lap.

  “What, beauty?” I choke out. She throws her arms around me and I bury my head next to hers, hanging on to this little girl with every shred of sanity I have left. It’s a thin, thin line, believe me. Almost anything could snap it in two.

  “You’re not leaving, are you?”

  I am. I can’t stay. How can I explain this swirling sphere of agony I have become to a six-year-old?

  “Of course not,” I lie.

  “I missed you,” she says against the shell of my ear.

  “I’ve missed you too, nugget.” I have ignored my sweet, innocent goddaughters in favor of self-pity. I don’t deserve their adoration.

  She hangs on for a minute, her grip on me tightening. Then she says, “Auntie Laurel came to visit me last night,” so quietly it takes a moment to register. My eyes instantly burn, and I struggle to hold my shit together.

  “Did she?”

  She yanks herself back so she can look into my watery eyes. “Yeah,” she tells me excitedly. “She wished me happy birthday. She wanted to be here.”

  I can’t speak. She didn’t do anything of the sort. Only, how can I break Lucia’s spirit the way mine is broken? If she believes this happened, as painful as it is to hear, I need to listen. I owe her that much.

  “And she told me…” Lucia’s gaze darts all around us. She leans in closer, dropping her voice to a hush. “She told me to tell you something.”

  In an instant, it’s as if someone has unplugged me from an outlet that’s been keeping me alive for the past year. Every ounce of energy is gone. I feel dusty and barren. And even this six-year-old is intuitive enough to know I’m a hairsbreadth away from crumbling into a pile of ash right here.

  “Do y
ou want to hear?”

  I don’t believe Laurel came to visit Lucia any more than I believe the Tooth Fairy put four quarters under my pillow when I lost a tooth. But I find myself waiting with bated breath anyway. Swallowing past a ball of emotion, I try to paste on a smile, but it’s weak and shaky at best.

  Lucia leans forward to cup her hands around my ear.

  When I reflect back on this moment in the years to come, the one that ultimately put my future squarely back into focus, what I will remember is a six-year-old’s selflessness, where I had none. She is also grieving Laurel’s death, but her faith is what carried me beyond what is to what could be.

  It is because of Lucia that I have my Esther.

  And I will never forget it.

  “Almost there,” the doctor in white scrubs coaches. She is so calm. How can she be so damn calm?

  “Ahhhhhhhhh,” Carmen screams. And I mean screams. It’s so much worse than on TV or in the movies. It is a bloodcurdling, horror film, I-am-coming-after-you-with-a-sharp-knife-when-this-is-over howl of pure, unadulterated agony.

  Good God Almighty.

  I can’t believe the human race has survived this.

  “You’re doing great, babe,” Manny encourages, brushing a sweat-stuck strand of hair away from her brow. She releases her death grip on the bedsheet and throws her hand in the air, where she clasps it with Manny’s. All twenty-seven bones may be crushed under her vise before this is over. If he’s in pain, he’s containing it remarkably well. Without a doubt, he knows better than to say anything.

  While I’m out of the melee, standing in a corner to give Carmen her privacy, it’s strange to be in this room witnessing the buzz of a private, yet remarkably beautiful occasion. I belong, but I don’t. I was invited, yet I’m an interloper, a voyeur.

  In my dreams, this happens under far different circumstances. Only this is not a dream. This is truly happening. Without my wife.

  The longing I still have for Laurel hasn’t abated, not an ounce. I physically ache without her some days. Today is one of those days. But what has changed is that it’s far easier now to let the good memories in…and to allow them to linger. It’s not enough, it could never be enough, but it’s what I have. I told my mother the other day that it was like opening a window in a stuffy house, allowing fresh air to push out the mustiness. I realized that I control that window and I’m getting better at using it. I have it open a lot.

  “One more big push, Carmen. One more.”

  Manny’s eyes dart up, connecting with mine. This is it, they say. My heart races, beating wildly against the walls of my chest.

  This is it.

  I am terrified. I am exhilarated. Mostly I’m terrified.

  I’ve waffled on this life-altering decision so many times. The responsibility of it is enormous. Daunting. But Lucia’s words, they haunted me day and night for weeks and months on end. Then one day, nineteen months after Laurel’s death, I received another sign…and then the pieces started falling into place from there.

  Walking through the door, I throw my car keys on the counter. Meringue swims around my ankles, purring, probably hungry. “Me too,” I tell her. I reach down to give her a scratch and she meows at me and takes off. She’s not been the same since Laurel’s death. I can relate.

  Flipping on the kitchen light, I throw the mail on the counter. I pour a scoop of cat food into Meringue’s bowl and check the fridge for leftovers.

  A dried piece of pepperoni pizza and two slices of American cheese.

  A grilled cheese sandwich it is, then.

  Minutes later, my buttered bread is sizzling when I notice the return address on one of the envelopes. I push the other mail aside, tear open the end, and stare at it for long minutes. So long I burn my grilled cheese and set off the fire alarm. So long I miss dinner altogether.

  Dear Mrs. Keswick,

  This is to inform you that your embryos will be sent to us for long-term storage from The Center for Reproductive Health in Nashville, TN. Before we take your samples, we need to get the storage length and payment information from you. I have enclosed a form you may fill out and return to us at your earliest convenience. If you have questions, please contact us at the below number.

  Thank you,

  Cryoton Labs

  Eventually, I set the letter aside on the kitchen counter, appetite gone, and go to bed. I don’t sleep a wink. Next day is a repeat. And the day after that. And the day after that. I do this same thing week after week. The letter never moves. All the while, Carmen’s offer and Lucia’s “dream” plague me even more relentlessly than they did before.

  As if all of these aren’t enough signs from Laurel, I stumbled across one more. The final push I guess I needed.

  “Where did you find this?” Carmen asks, looking up from the letter to me. Her face is wet. Her bottom lip is quivering.

  “In the back of her nightstand drawer. I was searching for the thermometer, actually.” I hadn’t been in Laurel’s drawer since the last days before she died. I haven’t been through any of her things, for that matter.

  She passes it to Manny for him to read. I watch him, choking back waterworks of my own when I see two droplets fall from his eyes to the paper.

  “Did Lucia ever tell you about her dream?” I ask them.

  “What dream?” Carmen replies.

  “About Laurel.”

  “What?” Guess that’s a no. “Did she tell you?” Manny turns to his wife. She shakes her head. “When was this?”

  “The day of their sixth birthday party.”

  “She dreamt about Laurel?” Carmen asks me. I nod. “What was the dream about?”

  I tell the long and short of what I thought was the imagination only a child could conjure. Now, I’m wondering if it didn’t actually happen. I think it might have. “And then she cupped her hands over my ear and told me to remember Esther.”

  “Remember Esther?” they both reply in unison. Again, I nod. Their eyes immediately fall to the letter written in Laurel’s beautifully neat script.

  “I know. I can’t believe it myself. You know her sister, Esther, died when she was twelve years old, right?”

  “Yes,” Carmen answers solemnly. She’s dumbfounded by this unbelievable story, same as I still am.

  “Laurel and I had talked about Esther a lot, of course. And I thought maybe the girls had overheard us or you two talking about her. That’s how I thought Lucia knew the name. But that dream and now this. I know Laurel wrote this before we lost…” The words stick in my throat. It’s still hard to say. “Before we lost the baby. But it all feels too coincidental. Laurel wanted this. She…” I can’t believe I’m about to say this. “She still does.”

  Their attention goes back to the letter. They reread it. Having memorized each and every word, I mentally follow along.

  Hey you,

  Yes you, in there, my firstborn child. I am feeling many, many things as I write this letter to you. Gratitude. Joy. Anticipation. Impatience. Trepidation. It’s surreal and scary and exciting. You have no idea how long I have waited for you or how very much you are wanted. There were so many times along the way that I didn’t think you were possible. We went through so much to get to this day, your daddy and me. Every step and every tear have been more than worth it. And here you are, growing inside of me. You’re a miracle, mi amada…my beloved.

  Though there have been so many ups and downs where you are concerned, I knew from an early age that I wanted to be a mother. When I was seven, I got a Baby Alive for Christmas. She would wet her diaper when you fed her a bottle. I loved that doll. I named her Betty Wetty. I know, it’s lacking in imagination, but that was never my strong suit. I carried Betty Wetty everywhere I went. She slept on my pillow with me at night. I pushed her in a plastic stroller around the yard. She sat with me at the dinner table. She played with me in the bathtub. I even put her in my backpack when I went to school. And of course, I would feed and change her. I nurtured and cared for Betty Wetty as if she wer
e real. And it only reaffirmed my calling to be a mother.

  But several years later my sister died in a tragic accident. Esther, she was more than just my sister, baby girl. She was my twin. She was my best friend, my coconspirator. She was a part of me as much as I was of her. When we went to bed at night, I’d tell her she was my heart, and she’d tell me I was her soul. This was figurative of course, but when she died, it felt literal. It’s as if my heart stopped beating.

  Esther was luminous. That is the best way I can describe her. She loved bubble gum and could do a mean Hula-Hoop. She mastered riding a bike months before I could, but she never made fun of me. She brought home stray animals every week, I swear. Animals were her Betty Wetty. She was double-jointed and could turn her elbow almost 360 degrees. I thought it was as cool as it was disgusting. Esther ate it up when everyone cringed. She once snuck one of our mother’s cigarettes and we smoked it in our treehouse. We were both sick as dogs and got grounded for a month. I wish you could have met her, my sweet girl. You would have adored her as much I did.

  I mourned the loss of my sister deeply, but her death had a far more profound effect on my mother. I watched grief eat her alive. It changed who she was as a person and as a mother. She became cynical and cold and completely withdrew from life. And it was then I swore I wouldn’t bear the same pain she did. I threw Betty Wetty in the trash and didn’t give her a second thought.

  But then I met your daddy, and he gave me back the faith that I had lost and helped me dust off the dream of you that I had shelved. Your daddy is extraordinary, mi amada. I love him in ways I didn’t think possible. He is the most wonderful human being I know. I could gush on and on, using dozens more adjectives, but you will soon find out for yourself how amazing he is, and I want you to experience that gift of discovering it for yourself.

  We love you so much already. It’s hard to explain how much, really. My mother used to tell me that it’s impossible to fathom how much you can love another person until you have your own child. At the time, I didn’t understand what she meant.