After the Storm

by Faith Andrews

  Before I can run it through my mind one more time (this is like the millionth), a horn startles me out of my obsessing. “It’s show time,” I tell myself. A little premature for dinner with friends, but a girl can dream, can’t she?

  “Shit, did you guys rob the place? There’s enough alcohol here to inebriate a barn full of Clydesdales.” Blaze neighs from his recliner as Sloane and I set up a makeshift bar on his kitchen counter.

  “Taking care of you drove me to drink. I’ll be polishing off this and this tonight, so hands off.” Sloane holds a bottle of whipped cream flavored vodka in one hand and coffee Patron in the other.

  “And that means I’ll be holding your hair back,” I scold. She scowls when I pull the Patron from her and claim it as mine.

  “Yeah, yeah, anyway . . . what time is Noah getting here? I’m starved.” Sloane winks at me as she asks Blaze. Nice and subtle, and harmless too, but it still gets my nerves all up and about again.

  “He texted that he was running a little late. Another client on his ass. I feel so bad about all of this. I owe him big time.”

  Instead of feeling sorry for him the way I do, Sloane jumps down his throat—playfully, of course. “You owe all of us big time, my dear. That one fuck up has us all putting in overtime.”

  “Wow, babe. Thanks for making me feel like shit. You’re such a sweetheart.”

  “And you’re a pain in the ass, but I love ya anyway.”

  I pop my eyes open. Babe? Love ya? That’s new. I didn’t know they were getting that cozy. I open a bag of pretzels and empty them into a bowl Sloane pulled from one of the cabinets, trying not to pay too much attention to the friendly banter going on between her and Blaze. It would be nice to even have something casual and fun with the opposite sex. I smile on the outside, wincing inwardly with jealousy. Where are you, Noah? I’m feeling a little like the third wheel right now.

  I pull my phone from my bag to distract myself, tapping the Facebook app and mindlessly scrolling my newsfeed. Facebook is no Pinterest, but it does the trick without making me look rude. I come across a picture of an old colleague and her new puppy, a friend I made at the gym checking in at kickboxing, an ad for some online dress site that I’ve been meaning to click on, and then—

  “No! No! No! Mother fucking no!” The phone drops from my shaking hands, bouncing off the granite countertop to land on the floor. Thank God for my shatterproof case or the screen would be in pieces, but I couldn’t care less about my phone right now. My heart. My poor fucking heart just shattered all over again.

  “What? What’s the matter?” Sloane is at my side, concerned and frightened by my outburst.

  “I have to go. I need to leave. I can’t be here.” My vision blurs, but it’s still ingrained with what I just saw posted on that evil social media site meant to rub shit just like this in the face of people just like me.

  “Hey, hey. Calm down.” Sloane snakes her arm around me, patting my shoulder. “What’s going on? Talk to me.”

  I don’t know how to vocalize these words. I can’t speak them. It would mean I’ve acknowledged it, made it true, put it out there for the universe to possess. Tears burn the backs of my eyes, my nostrils flare with heat. “Pour me a shot! Please, Sloane. Please make me forget. I cannot think about this tonight. Or ever. This is so not fair.” I want to stomp my feet and throw punches at something, anything to relieve this hurt in my heart, but that won’t help. I need to be numb instead. “Make it go away,” I cry, the tears breaking through and streaming down my face.

  I hear Sloane mumble something to Blaze who then hobbles his way into his bedroom and closes the door.

  “Talk to me, babes. Please. You’re scaring me.” Sloane pours the Patron into a pair of shot glasses—one for me, one for her.

  We swallow it down in one fast gulp and then the waterworks flow without any surrender in sight. I choke back sobs, tinged with a taste of the coffee liquor, taking a breath before I unleash what has me so panic-stricken. “He’s having a baby. Kurt and his girlfriend of less than a year announced on Facebook that she’s due in March. It’s a girl. He always wanted a little girl. A little girl that I couldn’t give him. And now—he gets to be a father. He gets to hold that baby and call her his. With her. Not me. Because I’m broken and I couldn’t give him the one thing that would have made him stay.

  “Sloane, this is so unfair. I never thought I could hurt this way again, but this—this is cruelty at its finest. This is—oh, Sloane.” I moan into my best friend’s neck, her embrace is the only thing keeping me on two feet. I want to give in to the weakness invading my body. I want to collapse, roll up in a ball and disappear.

  I almost allow my limbs to take control. I ready myself for the impact of hitting the floor, but as I’m about to submit to the overwhelming pain, the front door swings open with a cheerful, deep, “I’m here!”

  Noah’s here.

  Perfect. Noah’s fucking here and I’m a goddamn mess.

  “My life is a mess! A horrible, unfair, nightmare of a mess. What did I do to deserve this? What did we do to deserve this, Kurt? This is not how it was supposed to be.” Anger, fear, sadness, disappointment, failure—each emotion floods through me like a current of waves washing away any good feelings I have left. It makes no difference that we’re not alone. Dr. Goldberg sits across from us, witnessing me lose control as if it’s an ordinary reaction to the news she’s just given us. It probably is ordinary to her—fertility doctors do this for a living, every day. I’m not the first woman whose dreams have been shattered in this very seat. But none of that means a thing. This is me! This is my life! This is my dream and it’s crushed.

  Kurt tightens the grip around my hand, directing his question to Dr. Goldberg. “Are you sure there’s nothing more we can do? Is there some sort of miracle we can put our hope in? Trial drugs? Holistic treatments? Prayer?” He sounds as desperate as I feel, but before she can even answer him, I already know the answer. There is no hope. I can’t have kids. We tried for eighteen months with no results, not even one positive pregnancy test. When we finally turned to fertility, we put all our faith into IVF. I never created enough follicles to produce any viable eggs. This was the third attempt with every possible medication being injected into so many parts of my body I’d lost count. All that pain, all those prayers, all that hope—for nothing.

  “I can’t have a baby, Kurt. There are no more questions to ask. We’re done here!” I grab my purse and storm out the door, not even turning back to thank Dr. Goldberg for her help. She didn’t help. I know deep down that it’s not her fault, but that’s the funny thing about hope and trust. When you throw it all into one person, you start to believe in magic and miracles. She did everything required of her—probably more—but I’m still walking out of this office with an empty womb and a broken heart.

  I rush past the waiting room full of women who quite possibly might be getting their dreams granted today. I whiz by the receptionist’s desk, cursing her under my breath. When she called me morning after morning with negative, no-progress results, the hint of sympathy in her voice was so forced and clinical I wanted to shove the phone down her throat. Violent much? Maybe, but fuck it! I want to punch something, hurt someone, rip something apart! I can’t do the one thing a woman is made to do! I can’t create another life, a life I want so badly I’ve picked out names, purchased baby clothes, set aside a room in our apartment for him or her.

  Planning may have been presumptuous and stupid, but it was a way to cope. It worked for a little while, because I envisioned my baby in those clothes, in that room, with that name. New hope bloomed inside me each time I pictured her round face and blue eyes.

  Stupid fucking book! It’s all your fault.

  My mom had told me about a book she read. One of those quacky self-help books about visualizing your destiny or some crazy talk like that. A woman in one story had done exactly what Mom told me to do—plan for her unborn child—even though the likelihood of her conceiving was impossib
le. But guess what—Mary Rose Smith (names have been changed for privacy, yada yada yada) did, in fact, conceive. Twins! The fifth, and final round of IVF that she and her husband could afford without going broke, was a bust. She prayed, went to church and healing masses, ate things that sounded ungodly, and she used the power of visualization destiny. And. It. Worked.

  For her.

  Not for me.

  I’m a lost cause and I want to go home and wallow in my misery.

  “Babe, wait up!” Kurt calls from behind me.

  I don’t turn because I can’t look at him. Do you know what it feels like to fail someone else? It’s one thing to disappoint yourself, but to be responsible for someone else’s sadness and regret—how am I supposed to live with that? I’m not sure I can.

  “Please, Lo. Wait up. We can’t run away from this.” His voice breaks as he reaches for me and places his hands on my shoulders.

  The simple contact makes me crumble—literally. I break down, there on the sidewalk outside the clinic, falling to my knees as I sob into my hands. “I wanted this so badly. I wanted to be a mother. I’m so, so sorry I failed you, Kurt.”

  His arms cradle me, hugging me close to his chest. The beating of his heart thumps with rapid smacks against his body, telling a story his face won’t. “We’ll get through this. We’re still so young. Things can change. We can make alternative plans.” It’s what a loving spouse should say in a situation like this, even when they’re thinking, out of all the luck in the world. Face it—we all go there. We all think the worst when faced with the worst. It’s a knee jerk reaction; it’s human nature. We’re made to feel . . . honest, true, genuine emotions that cannot be controlled by reason. Even in my moment of weakness, I am certain that if it were the other way around and Kurt was the one with the fertility issue—I’d want to hate him for it. There’s a fucking truth for you. I said it. I know he’s thinking it. Deep down inside, even though he’s trying so hard to be supportive and compassionate—he hates me. So, how am I supposed to deal with that?

  “Just take me home.” It’s barely a whisper. I have no energy to speak, it’s all been wasted on tears. I can’t express the need to hole myself up in my bed and cry myself to sleep. He’ll see me as pathetic—well, more pathetic than he already sees me. A pitiful excuse for a woman who can’t give her husband a baby.

  “I love you, Lo. We’ll be okay.”

  I want to believe him; believe his love for me is strong enough to overcome this devastation; believe that I’m enough to make him happy; believe that we—I—will be okay and learn to live with this.

  But I don’t.

  I can’t imagine a day that I will ever be okay with not having a child of my own.

  “You’re going to the gym now?” Kurt shuffles into the bathroom with fuzzy-slippered feet, rubbing the sleep from his half-shut eyes. “What time is it?”

  “Five,” I answer, tying my hair into a high ponytail.

  He huffs, before plopping down on the toilet to watch me get ready. “Babe, you’re obsessed. Come back to bed. You don’t need to go every day.”

  At the same time, he’s right and wrong. Yes, this is an obsession—I need a new one to distract me from the old one. No, I can’t come back to bed because I do in fact need to go every day. I’d go three times a day if I had the time. Working my body so hard my muscles ache for days is in some strange way healing the broken muscle in my chest. I crave erasing my frustrations with a healthy dose of sweat induced cardio and a session on the punching bag. I need this. Plus, I’ve never looked better. If I can’t have kids, I might as well have a kick ass body to keep my husband happy.

  “I’ll be back by seven.” I kiss Kurt’s forehead, messing his hair between my fingers. “Be ready for me . . . Morning delight?”

  That gets him smiling, even if he’s still sleepy. “’Kay, be careful.”

  “Always. Love you.”

  “Me too.”

  I leave the apartment, jogging to my car with tears in my eyes. I haven’t looked at him—truly looked into the depth of my husband’s eyes—since that day two months ago. I can’t bring myself to because I don’t want to know what I’ll see when I do. He tells me he loves me and I think he does, but is he just trying to make me feel better? I’m bitter so he must be. He wanted this as much as I did. A little girl to call his own . . . we talked about it often. But not anymore. I can’t let him talk about it now, because there’s no use. The first time he mentioned adoption I clammed up so tight, I didn’t utter one word for three days. That was never part of my plan. Maybe one day I’ll cave, but that would mean I’ve accepted what I don’t want to believe is true. I’m not ready to think about that. I’m not ready to give up hope, even though I’ve been told it’s an impossibility.

  So I go on with my new routine—the strong and unscathed version of myself that I’ve been forced to portray. By myself. Not Kurt, not Sloane, not my parents, not anyone. They’re all here for me. They all want to help any way they can, but pretending to be okay with it is easier than breaking down every time someone asks me how I’m doing. It takes a lot of energy to pull off this alter ego, but as far as I can tell, it’s working.

  “I thought we’d stay in and watch the game! I’m tired, Lo. I’m not in the mood for clubbing after a long week at work.” Kurt’s reasons for not wanting to be dragged out to the bar scene at nine pm on a Friday night are valid, but I don’t care.

  I saunter to him, swaying my hips with extra umph. “Babe, I bought this new dress just for tonight. Come on! It’ll be fun! Sloane’s bringing that jerk. We can roll our eyes and make fun of him every time he says that stupid line from that movie . . . what was it again?” I trail off, turning for my jewelry box to search for a simple pair of earrings to match the light blue color of my dress.

  Kurt puffs up the pillow behind his head and makes the TV louder. “I’m not going. Sorry. Maybe tomorrow, but I’m shot. Give me a break for once.”

  Here we go. “Give you a break from what?”

  “From the constant on the go shit. I don’t know what’s happened to you, but this is not you. You’ve changed and I know why, but still, Lo, it’s hard to keep up with the multiple personalities of Willow Jones.”

  Maybe he’s right. I mean, I know he is. I have changed. I’ve morphed into a new Willow. A young, good-looking, well-groomed, in-shape wife with no kids holding us back from living it up. But his accusation about me being schizo is uncalled for. “Are you fucking serious?”

  “As a heart attack. I can’t pretend that I don’t think you’ve gone a little off the deep end. I know you’re hurting. I know this is hard for you—it is for me too—but you’re making it seem like it’s the end of the world.”

  That’s because it is. Combating the tears that are dying to break free, I take a breath and clench my fists before flinging them to my hips. “What would you like me to do?” I’m at a loss here. It seems I can’t make him happy, no matter how I act these days. He’s pissed when I’m sad, he’s uptight when I’m flirty and outgoing, and he doesn’t believe me when I’m happy.

  With a look of defeat, Kurt throws his arms up in the air and rises from the bed. “I don’t fucking know. I really don’t, but I just think—” He shakes his head and releases a long huff that turns into a grunt. “Fuck! I gotta get out of here. You go out with Sloane tonight. Have fun. I need to clear my head.”

  He pulls on a baseball cap and tucks his wallet into his back pocket. He’s gone so fast, a breeze picks up and wafts through my curled hair as he leaves.

  It’s not the first time he’s walked out on me. It probably won’t be the last, either. I’m fully aware that I’ve made living together insufferable. But I just don’t know how to cope with what I’m dealing with any other way than to pretend to be someone I’m not.

  As I stare at myself in the wardrobe mirror I see a stranger. She’s beautiful, impeccably put together, slim, defined, dressed to the nines. On the outside she’s perfect, but on the inside—she’
s so imperfect she struggles to get the necessary air into her lungs to breathe. Who are you? Why are you doing this to yourself? It’s okay to be you again, hurt and all. You can and will get through this.

  Wishing the internal angst away, I close my eyes and silently pray that I can reverse the damage I’ve done and accept the things I cannot change before I lose what I do have left.

  Nothing like being almost an hour late for the plans I made. It’s not exactly a big deal; they know how busy I’ve been, but it feels as if I’m standing Willow up. I don’t know why it worries me—it’s not even a real date or anything. Not even close. We’re just four friends hanging out together. Yup, that’s all it is.

  So why do I keep checking the freshness of my breath and the neatness of my hair? Because you’re looking to make an impression. All the signs are there; now it’s time to follow them.

  With one final check in my rearview mirror to make sure nothing gnarly is hanging out of my nose, I open the door of my car and head up Blaze’s walkway. I have the Starbucks gift cards and decorative travel mugs I bought for Willow and Sloane. Just one more token to show my appreciation for all they’ve had to put up with. Turning the unlocked knob with my free hand, I enter and announce, “I’m here!”

  Nothing.

  The house seems empty, but after a few seconds of silence I hear Willow crying. What’s going on? Is she hurt? I start for the kitchen, following the sounds of muffled moans and whispers, but Blaze—riding around in his new wheelchair—stops me from checking out the scene.