by Roya Carmen
I wince as I hike up my nightgown and pull down my underwear, not wanting to look. My heart crumbles, drops like a heavy weight to the bottom of my stomach when I see the dark red stain. I crash to the linoleum floor and curl up in a fetal position and I fall into a fit of sobs. I could tell myself this isn’t happening — it’s just a little spotting, it can be common.
But deep inside, I know the truth. I don’t bother lying to myself. It feels like life has stripped me not only of this baby, but of my entire insides. It has held me up high to the light only to plunge me into darkness. It has left me in shatters, and I have no idea how I’ll manage to pick up the pieces. This hurts just as much as the first time I miscarried, when I lost the child Gabe and I so desperately wanted. I hadn’t realized how much this child meant to me. But now I know. I’ve always wanted another child. This child was wanted…was loved.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
My beautiful sweet angel.
It’s 4:22 AM when I call Gwen.
“Hello,” she mumbles. I’ve stopped crying but as soon as I hear her voice, I start sobbing again. “Gwen,” I say, my voice trembling. “I…I need you.”
“Mirella,” she says. Her voice is gentle when she asks, “What happened?”
“I think…I’m losing…the baby,” I tell her, the words stringed together by jagged breaths.
“Oh, Mirella,” she says. The emotion in her voice brings on more tears. “I’ll be right there.”
When she gets to me, she pulls me in her arms and holds me. I don’t want to let go. I don’t want her to say anything, to tell me we should go to the hospital, because I know that’s what she’ll say next. And I know it will be official when we get there. They’ll tell me Oliver is gone. I don’t want to go, but I know I need to.
Almost as if she can read my thoughts, she doesn’t mention doctors, emergency rooms or even Gabe or Weston.
“Come with me,” she says. “I’ll make you tea.”
I sit down at the kitchen table, wiping the tears with the heel of my hand. “Thank you.”
“Can I make you something to eat?”
“No,” I puff out. “I couldn’t eat a thing.”
We sit for a while and she lets me talk, listening quietly. I tell her how I’d imagined him, both as a small child and as a beautiful young man. I tell her about the nursery Weston had prepared; the soft greens and blues, the cute mobile, the starfish in the window and the giant stuffed green eel.
She wraps her hands around her delicate porcelain tea cup. “It looks like Weston was planning on turning him into a little fisherman,” she says with a hint of a smile.
“Of course, I never planned on living there. I hadn’t told Weston yet. But it doesn’t matter now. Everything has changed.”
“Would you like me to call Weston?” she offers. “Let him know what’s going on.”
I shake my head. “No, he’s actually in California on business. He could never make his way to me. I’ll get in touch when…”
When this is all over.
She stares at me for a beat or two, not saying a word. “We should really get you to a hospital,” she finally says, the words I’ve been dreading.
She winces as she adds, “I thought I’d call Gabe.”
I shake my head. “No, no, no. He doesn’t want to deal with this. I told you he told me this was my mess.”
She takes my hand in hers. “He’s your husband, Mirella. Of course, he’ll be here for you. And besides, you need someone to look after the girls.”
I rake my hand through my hair, not wanting to face him, not wanting him to see me like this; shattered, broken.
She stands up. “I’ll call him now, catch him before he goes off to work.”
Gabe holds me tight. “I’m so sorry, Ella,” he says, his voice soft. I bury my face in the soft worn leather of his jacket. I feel like a fragile wounded bird in his large arms. Gwen leaves us and goes upstairs.
I’m shocked he’s here. I don’t deserve him. I push him away. “Why are you here, Gabe?” I ask him. “This is not your problem. I don’t deserve your help.”
He tries to pull me back in, but I push him away again. “I can handle this myself,” I tell him. “You don’t need to be here.”
He pulls me in his strong arms and I finally relent. “Yes, I do,” he says, his soft words buried in my hair. He strokes my back, just as he did a long time ago, the first time I miscarried. And just like the first time, he doesn’t say a word, he simply holds me. My sobs are muffled against his chest. I want to tell him I’m sorry for everything I’ve put him through.
“I deserve this. This was never right.”
“Don’t say that,” he whispers. “You don’t know yet. Your baby could be fine.”
I shake my head. “He’s not.”
“He? It’s a boy?”
I nod, looking up at him. His familiar eyes bring me peace. Being in his arms, looking at his eyes, it’s like being home. He makes me feel warm, cared for, and safe. “Can you bring me to the hospital? I’m ready now.”
When we arrive at the emergency room, it’s pure chaos. We talk to a lady at the desk who seems completely overwhelmed. She scowls, her beady eyes peering at us as she takes our information. We explain the situation: we are here because of cramping and bleeding in the second trimester of pregnancy. I hope for some kindness, some iota of compassion, but there is none. Her thin-lipped scowl, long chin and large downturned nose make her look like a witch to me. She flips her dark hair over her shoulder as she taps away at her keyboard.
“Name of your doctor,” she asks.
I give her both Dr. Fisher’s name, and Dr. Noland’s name, my obstetrician. She scratches her chin with her blue tipped fingernail. “Okay, you’re all set. You may sit down and wait. It’ll be a little while.”
I fall into sobs as soon as I hit the chair. I can guarantee this woman has never been through this. If she had, she would have shown the slightest hint of humanity.
Gabe takes my hand in his. He’s like an angel, an angel I so easily let fly away when I should have been holding on for dear life. “I’m so sorry, Ella,” he says. “I know you probably don’t believe me. I never wanted this baby in our lives, it’s true. But I hate how this hurts you. I hate to see you like this.”
I turn from him and stand. My nose is all snotty. I am a blubbering mess. I go to the front desk and grab two tissues, not daring to look at the witch of a receptionist.
To my surprise, we are taken in fairly quickly. I’m brought to a small private room where I’m asked to change into a hospital gown. I’m then wheeled around by a myriad of faceless attendants in scrubs, left to wait for what seems like an eternity in the hall. Gabe is by my side, holding my hand as we wait for an ultrasound room. He shoots me a sweet smile once in a while. I know he’s trying to keep my mood up.
The ultrasound technician is a friendly, young freckled blonde in pink heart covered scrubs. She smiles thinly here and there as she takes ultrasounds; both external and internal. The expression on her face turns gradually more somber, like a sun setting behind the sea. The already dark room seems to gets darker. Although she doesn’t say a word, I know what she sees. She asks me again how far along I am. And she asks me about my prior ultrasound. I tell her everything was fine.
I’m brought to a small office, where I meet the doctor on call, a thin small balding man with kind eyes. His voice is soft and soothing when he tells me the pregnancy is no longer viable. The news doesn’t hit me too hard since I expected it. But my throat hurts and my eyes feel heavy as I struggle to hold in the tears. He addresses both Gabe and I, and tells us that although it is very uncommon for a miscarriage to occur at this stage, especially with a normal ultrasound, and without other complications such as placenta previa or premature rupture of the membranes, it nevertheless occurs in a very small percentage of pregnancies, most likely due to chromosomal defects.
“What did I do wrong?” I cry.
He assures me I did nothing wro
ng. “Sometimes these things cannot be explained,” he adds, not quite able to look at me.
I think about my plea to God. If I had been following the teachings of the Bible, I would have never been led into temptation, would never be in this situation. In my hour of desperation, I turned to God again and asked him to lead me to the right path. Perhaps this is a sign, I can’t help but wonder as I squeeze Gabe’s hand.
He shoots me a sweet smile.
Yes, I belong with my husband.
The doctor tells us they will perform a D and C — dilation and curettage — the term sounds so harsh to me. Gabe squeezes my hand tightly as I take in the news.
The doctor tells me it’s busy, but he promises they’ll try to get me in for the procedure as soon as possible the next day.
He goes through the info about the procedure quickly, tells me I will be going under a general anesthetic, checks my file and takes more notes about my history. I tell him I’ve had a general anesthetic before, and that I’ve had a D and C years ago. He tells me I might expect pain and cramping for a day or two.
“Many women do not experience too much pain,” he explains. “It all depends on the woman.” He tells me there will be bleeding for up to two weeks or so.
His gaze settles on Gabe as he adds. “And there should be no sexual intercourse for up to six weeks.”
Gabe looks down at the floor, looking ill-at-ease. I almost want to smile. We don’t bother telling the good doctor that we are separated, that this baby was another man’s. I’m sure he’s not here for an episode of The Young & the Restless.
Finally, just before he leaves us, he recommends trying again after three cycles. We don’t tell him we won’t be trying — there won’t be another baby.
I am wheeled around again, left to wait in yet another hall. Doctors, nurses and attendants zoom by, wheeling patients, and I wonder if it’s always this busy or if I just picked a really bad time to lose my baby. A friendly middle-aged nurse hooks me up to an IV bag. And we wait and wait.
I feel a little lightheaded as I’m wheeled into the operating room. A group of neatly scrubbed professionals surround me. I’m quickly introduced to the anesthesiologist, a tall gangly young man with cool glasses and a head of crazy curls. I hope he’s not too tired today. He holds my life in his hands.
As I count back from ten, the last thing I see before I drift off is my baby…a sweet brown haired boy.
Goodbye, Oliver....
When I wake, I’m greeted by a petite, red-haired woman. She has a sweet young face, but the crow’s feet at the edges of her eyes tell me she might be a little older than me. Her voice calms me as she tells me I did well. “Everything went fine,” she says. There are colorful tiny bears holding balloons printed all over her scrubs; they are just as sweet and friendly as she is. “Would you like a Popsicle?” she asks. And then she lets me pick a flavor. I pick banana — my favorite. This moment takes me back to when I had my tonsils out as a child, but back then it was Jell-O.
I wonder if the nurses in this department are required to wear cheery scrubs and hand out Popsicles. I’m surprised they don’t hand out colorful ‘Sorry You Lost Your Baby’ helium balloons.
I lay in the recovery room next to another woman who asks me about my baby. She seems young; she’s fair, with a thin build and a gorgeous mane of dark hair. She tells me this is her third miscarriage, and she goes on about her and her husband not being chromosomally compatible. I want to tell her she must be wrong. But then I think, perhaps that’s what happened with my baby. Maybe Weston and I were just not compatible.
Or maybe it just wasn’t meant to be because it wasn’t right.
When we finally make it back home, Gwen is having a late afternoon picnic in the backyard with the girls.
They run in the house and make a beeline for me. Both of them crush me with hugs.
Claire squeezes me tight. “Are you all better now?”
I had told them I had a belly ache and had to go to the hospital.
“All better now,” I say cheerfully, biting down the tears. I’m still so emotional.
Guilt consumes me as I feel relief wash over me. I don’t need to ever tell the girls about a new baby.
It’s all over now.
And Gabe and I and the girls can move on with our lives…hopefully.
The girls practically climb on their dad, showering him with kisses. “We missed you, Daddy,” Chloe tells him. “Can you stay? Is your friend doing better?”
Gabe cocks a brow. “Oh…yes, my friend is doing much better now. I can probably stay here for a while if…” he falters a bit, “if that’s okay with your mom.”
My heart feels a little heavy, and my eyes well up. He wants to move back in. After all we’ve been through, he’s willing to give us another chance. “You don’t have to. I’ll be fine. You’ve done so much already.”
His gaze is soft. “I want to, Ella. I want to be here for you.”
Butterflies skitter around my stomach, and I wonder where the hell they came from.
Gwen smiles at me. “Yeah, I don’t mind staying but Greg might be missing me a little.”
I smile, knowing exactly what she’s up to. “Sure, you go,” I tell her and I give her a squeeze. “Thanks so much.”
“No problem. Feel better.”
I look up at Gabe, not quite able to keep eye contact.
“I’ll call work,” he says. “I can take the rest of the week off.”
“No, you don’t have to do that.”
He trails his hand against my cheek. “I want to.”
He’s being so sweet.
My beautiful sweet angel.
Gabe and I argue about dinner. I insist I don’t mind whipping up something, but he tells me I should take it easy. He makes chili macaroni and steamed broccoli slathered in cheese. I’m pleasantly surprised.
He cleans up the kitchen after dinner, insisting I don’t lift a finger. I pace around the house, twiddling my thumbs.
“This isn’t better, Gabe,” I point out. “I’ve got nothing to do but think. I need to keep busy.”
He smiles and hands me the broom. “Don’t say I didn’t try.” He wipes the table. “Have you told Weston yet?” He asks the one question which has probably weighed the most on his mind.
“No,” I tell him as I drag the broom against the terra-cotta tiles of our kitchen. “I haven’t seen him in a few days. I mean, I haven’t seen him. He’s in California on business.”
He starts loading the dishwasher, putting in the dishes all wrong. I suck in a breath, willing myself to let it go.
“You should really tell him,” he says. “He should know.”
I sigh loudly. “I know.”
“Do you think he’ll be relieved?”
I shrug my shoulders and don’t say a word. I don’t tell him about Weston’s big plans — about the house not fifteen minutes away, the pink and blue rooms, the green and blue nursery. He doesn’t need to know this stuff. Gabe despises him as it is.
The truth is, Weston will be devastated.
This is the reason I can’t bring myself to call him.
After dinner, we watch Honey, I Shrunk the Kids — a family favorite. I’m so glad to have my family to lean on. The sorrow certainly hasn’t disappeared, but it has dissipated somehow, blending into this new happiness of having my family reunited.
The girls are happy to be tucked in by the both of us. Gabe gives them each an extra-long plane ride tonight, hauling them across the second floor, from room to room. The shrill giggles can probably be heard across the road. We promise them we’ll go to McDonalds and the park tomorrow. They’re both on cloud nine.
Simple pleasures.
I’m still not feeling quite right. It’s both emotional and physical. I’m still cramping and still so torn-up about Weston. I know I need to call him.
Once the girls are all cozy in their beds, Gabe asks me if he should go for the night. I tell him no.
“Stay.”
; I see his eyes light up. He wants to stay. “I’ll sleep on the couch downstairs.”
I smile at him. “Are you sure you’re okay down there?”
He smirks. “Big screen TV, beer in the fridge, comfy couch, what else could I ask for?”
I laugh. “Yes, you’ll be fine all right,” I tell him, closing the distance between us. “Thank you for all this. You didn’t have to be here.”
“I did,” he argues, his long fingers stroking my cheek. “You’re my wife.”
I look down, not quite able to face him. I don’t deserve him. “I’m sorry I hurt you.”
He swallows me up in a big bear hug. “Let’s forget about all that right now.”
He does go back to Bridget’s condo where he’s been staying, but only to get a few of his things. He tells me he just bought the complete The Sopranos series on DVD.
He puts his brown distressed leather jacket on — the one I got him a few years back. “Do you wanna watch it?”
I smile. “Why not? There’s nothing like a little mob violence and sex to get your mind off your problems, right?”
He smiles — a bright happy smile I haven’t seen in a while. “I’ll bring it. I’ve been watching the first few episodes, but I don’t mind watching them again.”
I want to ask him about her, about the two of them. I know she’s no longer with Weston. Is she at her loft too? But I know it’s none of my business. I know Gabe loves me. And he’s with me right now, and that’s all I care about.
The girls are both in bed, and I know this is my window of opportunity, the perfect time to call Weston. I check the clock on the oven. It’s 9:05 PM, so around seven o’clock in California.
With my heart in my throat, I pick up the phone and dial his number, my fingers shaking.
He picks up on the third ring. “Weston Hanson,” he says, his tone formal.
I swallow the lump in my throat. My voice cracks when I say, “Hi.”
His voice softens. “Is that you, Mirella?”
“Yes.” I say simply.
“I didn’t recognize the number,” he explains. “You sound different.”