A Beautiful, Terrible Thing

by Jen Waite

  “Oh, thank you, thank you so much,” I say gratefully, and pop the wheels of the stroller up over the ledge.

  “Oh my God, she’s beautiful. Look at those cheeks. Look at those eyes,” the woman exclaims. “Enjoy her,” she calls after me.

  When I near my apartment, my parents are lifting a chair into the U-Haul.

  “I think that’s it,” my dad tells my mom.

  “Did Marco help?” I ask as I approach them.

  “No. He’s sleeping,” my dad says briskly. “I’ll go get him. If you really want to say good-bye to him.”

  “Yes, Dad, please. I have to.”

  My dad runs back in the building, and I push Louisa to the end of the block. I need to do this alone. A few minutes go by and then I see Marco appear in the doorframe wearing a white T-shirt and gray sweatpants. He looks down to where Louisa and I are waiting and disappears back inside.

  “He went back in. The jerk went back in,” I hear my dad say to my mom.

  When he appears again, he is wearing a sweater, and he walks down the steps and moves toward us with his hands in his pockets. I stand very still. When he reaches us, he keeps his eyes on the sidewalk. He looks into the stroller. He pats Louisa once on the head. He does not look at me. He does not say a word. He turns around and starts to walk back.

  “Marco?” I say. I hate him. I hate him, and my heart is going to explode. I reach into my coat pocket and take out my engagement ring and wedding band. “I don’t want these,” I say.

  “I don’t want them either,” he says.

  “Take them. Take them,” I yell, and yank his hand out and shove the rings into his palm. He opens his palm and my rings fall to the sidewalk and clatter. My rings are on the dirty sidewalk. Every bone in my body resists bending down, showing any weakness, but I am on my knees now, on the sidewalk, panting and picking up my rings.

  I push Louisa back to the front of our old building where my mom is waiting. Marco watches passively from the building stoop.

  “Let’s go,” I tell my mom.

  “Jenny? Are you OK?” She looks at me in alarm.

  “He threw my rings, Mom,” I whisper, stricken. “He threw my rings on the ground. Please let’s just go.” But she is running back to the stoop now.

  “What is wrong with you?” she screams at Marco. She climbs the steps and gets right in his face. I have never heard this voice; it is the voice of a wild animal.

  Marco does not flinch. “I don’t need the rings,” he says flatly.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “I don’t know, Maggie. I don’t know.” He folds his arms across his chest casually.

  “Motherfucker.” My mom spits the word at him.

  “Mom, let’s go. He’s not worth it.” My voice comes in a desperate whinny. “I hate you,” I scream at Marco. My mom walks swiftly back to me and puts her arm around my shoulders. I lean half into her and half into the stroller and somehow we make it to the car.

  We click Louisa into the car seat base as my dad pulls up alongside us in the U-Haul.

  “Ready?” my dad asks through the window.

  “Yes,” I say shakily. I climb into the passenger seat, and my mom starts the car. There is a buzz and a chime, and, as I reach for my phone, I see my mom and dad also feeling for their cells.

  “Do you know what it’s like to say good-bye to your wife and baby and feel nothing?” the text reads. “Life is no longer worth living. I’m ending this now. Please tell Louisa that her father was very sick. I have left two letters in the apartment. One for Sebastian and one for Louisa. Please make sure they get them. I want you to know that I do love you so much, and I’m sorry I wasn’t stronger. Good-bye.”

  As I’m reading his words, my mom says, “I just got a text from Marco that says ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t stronger. I’m ending it now. Good-bye.’” I jump out of the car, but somehow my mom is already in front of me, heading me off. She catches me in her arms and holds me there. “No, Jenny, no, I can’t let you go back there.”

  “I have to stop him. I have to help him.”

  “Call 911. You can’t go back there, Jenny. Marco is not himself right now. He’s not stable.” Her voice is calm and steady. “Louisa needs you.” I hear Louisa screaming from the backseat.

  “Yes. OK. You’re right,” I say, already dialing 911. I tell the operator that my husband may be attempting suicide and give her our address. She sounds bored and says there’s an ambulance on the way. Please, please let me be in time, I pray. I hang up with 911 and dial Marco’s cell phone. It rings and rings. I imagine him in the apartment. He has a knife, and he is slicing into his wrists. Blood pours into the sink. He needs me, and I am not there. I shut my eyes tightly, paralyzed inside my body. I am failing him, and I am failing Louisa by not being able to save her father. I wait five minutes and dial again. This time a strange, deep voice answers. “Hello?” I say, confused and disoriented by the foreign voice on the other end.

  “Hello? This is a paramedic. Who is this?”

  “Oh my God. Oh my God. Is he OK? Please, is he OK?” is all I can get out. And then, “This is his wife. I called 911.”

  “Well,” the paramedic says sternly, “ma’am your husband was trying to kill himself. We found him with his head in the oven.” Oh my God. Oh my God.

  “He’s OK? But he’s OK?” My voice is so shrill that I worry he can’t make out what I am saying.

  “Yes. He’s OK. We’re loading him into the ambulance now. We’ll be taking him to the psych ward at Elmhurst Hospital Center. You can call there in a few hours to find out more information and if he was admitted or not.”

  “He’s OK,” I scream to my mom, even though she is right beside me.

  “Thank you,” I say to the paramedic. “Thank you so much.” I hang up.

  “Jenny. Jenny. Breathe. Jenny. You have to breathe,” my mom is yelling. She reaches over me and opens the glove compartment. She fishes out a bag and hands it to me. “Breathe,” she says again.

  As my mom pulls out into the street, rubbing my back with one hand and steering with the other, I bend over, my head between my knees, gulping air through a bag. He’s OK. He’s OK. He’s OK.

  —

  “THE heat is so much better in there. Always has been,” my mom says a few hours into the drive.

  “Heat?” I repeat.

  “Yes, the heat in Stella’s room. You and Louisa will stay in Stella’s room.”

  “OK.” I stare straight ahead at the endless highway. My eyes glaze and my mouth falls just the tiniest bit slack, but inside my brain is working out the most complicated equation. If I can just add everything up, if I can just lay out all the pieces in my mind, starting from January 20 up until this morning, then everything will make sense. Think. Think. You have to think about this very carefully, Jenny, if you want to figure it out.

  “Jen?” A voice nudges its way into my equation. No. No. No. I was so close to figuring everything out. Hold on, hold on to your thoughts.

  “Jenny?” That voice again. Dammit. So close. So close. January 20. Croatian. Psych ward. I almost had it figured out.

  “Jen.” My mom yells her way into my brain, and the intricate equation in my mind breaks into a million pieces.

  “Hmm?”

  “I asked if you wanted to stop at the rest stop a few times. I need you to stay with me, OK?” My mom places her hand over my hand.

  “Mmmm,” I hum back. The problem is that Marco had his head in the oven. That is the problem. And the solution is . . . oh no. “I almost figured it out,” I say softly.

  “Figured what out?” my mom asks.

  “Everything.” Everything, everything, everything.

  BEFORE

  “YOU lost a little more blood than we’d like, so we’re going to keep monitoring your blood pressure, OK?” The doctor peeled re
d gloves from her hands. “Nothing major but outside the normal range. I gave you a shot to help you clot, and we’re going to keep an eye on your blood pressure for the next couple of days just to be safe.”

  “Was that the shot directly into my butt?” I said, and tried to give a wry smile. I turned my head to look at Louisa. The nurse was taking her measurements on a table across the room.

  “That was the one. Fun, huh?” The doctor smiled.

  “I barely felt it,” I said. I wanted to ask some questions, but I felt too weak and closed my eyes instead.

  A nurse came over and said, “I’m going to press on your stomach. We want to get any clots and extra blood out, OK?” I nodded, and she placed two large hands on my stomach and pushed down hard. “Oooooh,” was the only noise I could make. I felt a river of blood come flowing out of me and then heard it splash on the floor.

  “OK, honey, so that was a lot that just came out. I’m going to take your blood pressure right now, OK?”

  I nodded again. “Marco,” I whispered, and held out my hand. He put his phone into his pocket and held my hand. “You’re fine, baby. This is all normal.”

  “Hmm,” the nurse said as the cuff loosened around my arm. “It’s a little low but not too bad. I’ll take it again in an hour. You should be fine to go into a recovery room. Hey, Dad”—the nurse looked to Marco—“do you two have a private recovery room?”

  Marco put away his phone again and looked at the nurse blankly.

  “We’re on the waiting list for a private room,” I said from the chair. “The front desk lady said all the private rooms were occupied when we were admitted but to check with her when we were actually going to our room for the night.”

  “I’ll go check,” Marco said quickly, and left the room.

  “What happens if there’s no private rooms?” I asked the nurse.

  “Then you share a room with someone else and Hubby gets to go home for the night,” she said with a small laugh. I felt the rest of the blood drain from my face.

  Marco walked back in the room, and the nurse and I looked at him expectantly. “She said there are still no private rooms tonight but there might be one tomorrow night.” He looked up from his phone. “Having a work crisis anyway, so I’ll just go straight to work after you and the baby get settled.”

  I tried to catch Marco’s eyes to show him that I needed him. “I really don’t want to be alone tonight,” I whispered.

  “I know, baby.” Marco took my hand. “But it’s just one night and then I’ll be with you guys tomorrow night.”

  The nurse brought a wheelchair into the room, and Marco and she lifted me into it. Another nurse placed a sleeping Louisa, wrapped up in a blanket like a tiny burrito, into my arms. Marco pushed me out of the room into the hallway. “Babe?” I said. “Can you get my parents from the waiting room?”

  I stared into the tiny red face while I waited for my parents and Marco. “Hello,” I said tentatively.

  “There they are! There they are!” I heard my mom’s excited voice drift down the hallway. I smiled as my parents approached and felt tears stream down my cheeks. “Meet Louisa Evelyn Medina,” I said proudly.

  “Louisa,” my mom echoed, and peered down at the sleeping baby in my arms. “Yes, she’s a Louisa,” she said, pulling out two tissues from her pocket, one for each of us.

  “How do you feel, Jenny?” my dad asked. “You look very pale.”

  “I’m OK.” I half smiled. “Just feel a little weak.” I looked down the hallway. “Wait, where’s Marco?”

  “He’s on a work call,” my mom said.

  “He said there’s some kind of emergency at work. He seemed pretty stressed out,” my dad added.

  Just then the nurse who pressed on my stomach came briskly around the corner. “There you are!” she called. “You come with me,” she said with her Jamaican lilt. “I just saw an empty private room, so we’re going to take it!” she said happily.

  I broke into a huge smile. “Really? Is that allowed?”

  “It is now,” she said, pushing me with determination toward the recovery wing.

  We passed Marco on the way, and I called to him, “She found us a private room! We’re going there now!” Marco cradled his phone into his neck and gave us two thumbs up as we hurried by.

  —

  A FEW hours later I sat with a lactation consultant and grimaced in pain as Louisa bobbed around and then latched on to my nipple. “Oh no, no,” the white-haired consultant clucked calmly, “that’s a cheap latch.” She unsuctioned Louisa gently with her finger. “Let’s try again. She’s got a really powerful suck. You want to get her used to a wide latch, otherwise you’ll be in a lot of pain later.” It was around 9:00 P.M., and I had been trying to get Louisa to eat for the past hour. My parents had gone home for the night, and Marco was in the hallway on the phone again.

  Marco ducked his head into the room. “Hey, babe, I have to run to the restaurant. We had two guys call out sick tonight. I’ll be quick. I just need to see what’s going on and help out during the rush. An hour, tops.” He smiled at the white-haired lady, and she smiled back.

  “OK, sure.” I tried to keep my voice steady. “Please hurry back.”

  As soon as the lactation consultant left, Louisa began to cry. Softly at first and then louder and louder. Her tinny wails filled the room and seemed to build with each cry. I heaved myself off the bed. I can do this, I told myself. I’m her mother; I can figure this out. I walked the ten steps from one side of the room to the other, bouncing her in my arms. I swayed her from side to side. I shhhh shhhh shhhhhhed over and over. I paced the room until I felt dizzy and had to sit down on the bed. I jiggled her in my arms on the bed. I looked at the clock. It was 11:00 P.M. Marco had been gone for two hours. I placed her crumpled face against my nipple, hoping she’d latch on. I took her out of the swaddle and wrapped her up again. Nothing worked. I felt an unfocused sense of panic coursing through my veins. Sweat trickled down my sides and thighs. She was never going to stop crying. I got back up and walked in tight circles around the room, my panic mounting with each wail. I glanced at the clock. Midnight. Finally, I picked up my phone from the side table.

  “FUCK YOU,” I shot off to Marco. I had never said or written those words to my husband, and I immediately felt a pang of regret.

  “I didn’t do anything wrong?!?” came Marco’s reply instantly.

  “Where are you? I can’t do this,” I wrote back, and then started to cry.

  “Still at work. Be there soon.”

  Finally, I pressed the call button. A nurse walked in a few minutes later. “What’s going on in here?” she said, taking in the scene with a sympathetic smile.

  “She’s been crying for hours. I’ve tried everything.”

  “Do you have a partner to help out tonight?” The nurse looked around the tiny room.

  “My husband should be back soon. He had to work.” My voice broke, and tears streamed down my face. “I just can’t make her stop crying. I don’t know what to do.”

  The nurse took over and swaddled Louisa so tightly in the blanket that I asked, “Are you sure she can breathe like that?” But it worked. Louisa gave one final cry and then, like magic, fell asleep immediately. Exhausted and grateful, I also closed my eyes and sank into the reclined chair.

  An hour later, I heard the door open and footsteps shuffle into the room. I waited for Marco to come to me, but he carefully navigated his way to the pullout couch, took off his shoes, and laid down.

  AFTER

  “YOU need to eat,” my mom says placing a bowl of soup in front of me. I nod but don’t have the strength to pick up the spoon. I stare down at Louisa, not really seeing her and try to force myself to have a maternal thought like, I have to keep going for her, or, She’s the reason for all of this, but instead all I can think is How can I go on without Marco? I feel like a chunk
of me was ripped out, like a very important part of my being was surgically removed. When I wake up now in the middle of the night to nurse Louisa, the dread that seems to have settled into my bones is my constant companion. I do not reach for Marco now. I don’t even have the thought Maybe it’s all a dream? anymore, tentatively opening my eyes and willing myself to wake up for real. The part of me that died on January 20, stays dead. The depression is heavy and all-consuming and I can’t fight it. I don’t even try. My Marco took up residency in every part of my body, from my scalp to my toes, settling into my pores, becoming a part of me, filling up all the holes and empty spaces and making me whole. Now I am empty. It’s not just that I feel empty. I am empty. My husband was a part of me, was as vital to me getting through the day as oxygen, and now that he’s gone, there is nothing, not even Louisa, that can fill that void.

  Every morning in the shower now, I sink to the floor and cry, a silent animal cry, my mouth gaping open and my body hunched forward and when a sound finally comes out, it does not sound human. This morning, through my wails, I heard footsteps thumping on the floor and a frantic yell, “Jen? Jenny? What happened? Where are you?” The shower curtain flew open and my mom was crouching down and wrapping her arms around me, her naked thirty-year-old daughter. She rocked me like a baby as the water soaked through her clothes. It is only in the shower, protected by the pounding water and thick steam, that I allow myself the thought that I know I can’t afford to have outside of the shower: Please let me die, over and over and over. I take at least two showers a day now, and ironically it’s the only time that I feel a little bit alive.

  My mom picks up the spoon and dips it into the warm carrot soup in front of me. She brings it through the air to my lips and I open my mouth. I don’t taste it but I swallow. Two, three bites and then I signal that I can’t take anymore.

  “Thank you,” I say with a smile.

  “You’re welcome,” my mom says and we are both satisfied with this small bit of nourishment.