Sure that I will talk myself into an even darker place if I let my mind travel along this line of thinking, I pull up the contacts on my phone and dial Beckham before I can change my mind. I’m running low on faith right now and if there is anyone I know with faith to spare, it’s my best friend and brother-in-law.
The phone rings four times and I’m afraid it’s going to kick me into his voicemail before he finally answers. “Hey, Gray. What’s up?”
“Do you have a minute?” I manage. “Is now a good time?”
“Whoa—is everything alright? You sound a little…” His voice trails off and I reach up to grab a fistful of hair, needing something to remind me that this nightmare is real, that this is my life, that there is no escaping the truth.
“We lost the baby, Beck,” I mutter, just loud enough to be heard. “This morning…Avery miscarried.”
“Oh, no. Grayson—man, I’m so sorry.” A beat of silence passes between us. “How is she?”
I huff out a breath in an attempt to blow out the knot in my throat. It doesn’t help. “She’s in pain. And she’s so upset, she can’t even…she won’t look at me. I don’t…Beck, tell me how? How could God do this? Why would He allow this much pain and suffering? Why? It’s Avery, for crying out loud! She’s perfect—she’s…perfect.”
“Gray.” He pauses before he continues. “You know it doesn’t work like that. Avery is amazing, but she’s not exempt from the darkness that fills the world. Bad things happen to good people and that’s not a reflection of God or who He is—it’s just the reality of the world.”
“We didn’t ask for this,” I bite, his words stirring my fury. “We didn’t ask Him to give us a baby, He just did. So why, why would He then take it away!?”
“Man, I wish I knew. I wish I could explain—but you know as well as I do that we don’t always get to know why. We just have to trust Him.”
I choke out a humorless laugh. “I’m sure it’s not hard for you to imagine why that would be a bit of a challenge for me right now.”
“Yeah, I know. I don’t blame you, either. But you have to remember that God is good. He’s always good, no matter what. And He loves you—both of you. He may have allowed this to happen, but you can find peace in the knowledge that He hasn’t abandoned you. Not you or your child. It’s just like you said, He gave and He took—your baby is not forgotten.
“God is in control here, Gray. You might not be able to understand why, maybe not ever, but rest in the hope that is God. He’s right there with you, even if it doesn’t feel like it. God knows, better than anyone, what it’s like to lose a child. He understands your pain.”
The knot in my throat strikes again and wins, completely clogging my airway with a sob that I cannot escape. I called Beckham knowing I needed to hear exactly what he just told me, but hearing it doesn’t make any of this any easier.
“I’m not trying to feed you Christian garble, I hope you know that. You’re my brother, and I love you, and I’m so sorry for your loss. I know it hurts and I know it’s hard. I wish this was easier to understand, but something tells me that having the answers wouldn’t lessen the pain, either.”
It takes me a few minutes to get ahold of myself. Beckham stays on the line, not saying anything. I know that if he was here, he’d sit up with me for as long as I needed—and he’ll do the same now. I don’t wish to keep him, though. When I find my voice, I ask that he makes sure that Addie waits for Avery to call. I know that when the two of them speak, Avery’s heart will break in a whole new way, as she’ll feel the pain of her other half, too. It’s how they work. Beckham understands this as well as I do and promises me that he’ll do his best to convince Addie to give Avery time.
When we’ve said our goodbyes, I go to check on Avery. She sitting up, staring at my feet as I approach.
“Everybody knows now?” she mumbles, her voice husky with sleep and sadness.
“Everybody knows now,” I reply, reaching out to touch her cheek. She turns her face away from me, tucking her chin against her shoulder.
“Will you go to the store? I need a heating pad or something for my back.”
“Yeah,” I answer, trying not to read too much into her reluctance to let me touch her. “Do you need anything else?”
“No.”
“Try and eat while I’m gone, okay?” I kiss the top of her head before she curls back up on her side. I can’t say for sure whether or not she heard me, but she makes no attempt to reach for the half a sandwich I’ve laid aside for her.
I don’t press, willing to give her a little more time.
Time.
I wonder how much time will pass before this doesn’t hurt so damn much.
I close my eyes while I let the sound of my cello wash over me. I hardly notice the ebb and flow of my body’s movements as I dance my bow across the strings. Bach, cello solo no. 6 in D Major is the composition that seems to lift my spirit just a little higher in this moment. Over the last couple of weeks, it’s almost the only thing I’ll play as I try and memorize every note. The act of memorization helps me to think about something else—even if only for a while.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been playing. Most of the day, maybe? The clock is the last thing on my mind on days like this one. Sunrise to sunset, that’s all I’m concerned about—keeping myself together from sunrise to sunset. Some days are easier than others. Today is an other day.
I skipped class again. I can’t bring myself to feel guilty about it because I’m already filled to the brim with guilt. I have no more room to worry about the repercussions of my daily decisions. So I skipped two classes this week, it’s not really the end of the world. It means nothing in comparison to the choices I made that—
I play a wrong note, and then another and another as my mind begins to spiral out of my control. I stop, dropping my hands as I drag in a deep breath, wondering just when I grew short of it. As I concentrate on my breathing, I will myself not to cry. I must be able to go one day without crying, right? Is there a reason why that day can’t be today?
Tomorrow marks four weeks—four weeks since all my fears came true. I knew it, I knew it from the moment I saw that positive pregnancy test. I predicted that I’d be a horrible mother and nature proved me right. I couldn’t even keep my baby alive through the first trimester. I’ve been told every which way that miscarriages are very common and that I did nothing wrong—but that doesn’t make sense. Not when there’s so much evidence against me.
For three weeks, I was in denial. I was praying and hoping that I wasn’t with child. For three weeks, I was on the pill, knowing that it was a possibility that there was a baby growing inside of me. For three weeks, I was telling my body no instead of embracing my precious, little yes. Then, of course, for the next several weeks, I was a mess with worry. What kind of havoc did I wreak on my baby as I let my mind effect my body? I had one job—one job! I was to love my child by taking care of myself and I didn’t. At least, not well enough.
I draw in another deep breath when Grayson walks in, making my best effort to swallow my tears. I barely look at him as I get up and begin putting away my cello. I know he hates it, hates the way I avoid looking into his eyes, but I can’t stand to see his sorrow knowing that I’m the one to blame. I can’t even begin to figure out how to make it up to him—how to apologize to him or even how to let him love me when I know that I don’t deserve it. His kindness and his attentiveness makes me want to scream sometimes! It should be me begging for his forgiveness and striving to ease his pain, but I can’t. Our loss is like a double edged sword, piercing me straight through. I bleed both guilt and sadness.
Sunrise to sunset, that’s all I’m concerned about—keeping myself together from sunrise to sunset.
“Hey,” Grayson mutters in greeting.
“Hi,” I reply as I seal my cello case closed.
“Did you go to class today?” he asks, no doubt taking in my attire and guessing the answer before I speak it.
“No.”
“Do you need me to get you anything?”
I peek over at him from beneath my eyelashes and shake my head. He nods once before disappearing into our bedroom. A tear escapes, racing down my cheek. I want to run to him, I want to throw my arms around him, I want to hold him and absorb his strength, his faith, and his love. I want to feel his lips on my face and his breath in my ear as he promises that everything is going to be okay. Instead, I watch him go, my entire being aching as it’s denied what it craves.
It’s my fault. The reason why he doesn’t come in and kiss me before he does anything else; the reason why he hasn’t touched me in weeks; the reason why we hardly speak, it’s because of me. I lost his baby. Grayson was scared, but he never once had any doubt that we could do this. He wanted our baby and was prepared to do anything for us. Then I lost what was his—I failed them both.
I know that he loves me. I know that he wants to take care of me. He’s done so much to prove that. He makes sure that I talk to Addie every day. I know he talks to her too, when I’m not around. I’m sure he checks up on me, using my other half in an attempt to bridge the gap between us. I’m also sure he’s disappointed by all that I don’t say—all the things I don’t have the strength to give voice to; not even to my sister.
Two weeks ago, he asked my parents to come. He didn’t even tell me. He knew, in spite of my stubbornness, that I needed my mom. Of course he was right, because my husband knows me. I spent most of my weekend cuddled in my mom’s arms, crying. If not with her, then with my dad. It was so hard to see them go. It was so much easier to surrender to their affection than to let myself grieve with my husband. In their arms, it was like I was simply a woman struggling to wrap my head around the title of mother being stripped away from me. With Grayson…
Last week, he insisted that I go to his counseling session with him. Listening to him talk about his loss was excruciating. I know he was being honest, in hopes that I would open up too, but how could I? I had no words to give after listening to him explain what I stole from him. I know he doesn’t see it the way I do, I know he doesn’t blame me, but it’s only because he doesn’t understand. He’s frustrated with God and he doesn’t blame me one bit, but he should.
I’ve questioned God so many times over the last several weeks. I wonder why He didn’t protect my baby? Why He didn’t protect me? Why He didn’t forgive my doubts and let my child live? Grayson’s words, the morning after we found out we were pregnant, I can never forget them. He told me that we weren’t in control—that God apparently thought that we could handle a child. Obviously, that wasn’t the case at all. It was more like a test—a test that I failed miserably. I can’t help but question if He’ll ever trust me with a child again? What happens if He doesn’t? Just the thought that this could happen again—
“I’m going on a run.”
My head snaps up at the sound of his voice. My chest aches at the sight of his tennis shoes. I ran while I was pregnant. I haven’t run since. Maybe I shouldn’t have run then. I know the doctor said I could but—what if she was wrong?
“Avery…” Grayson starts to make his way toward me but I stand, backing away from the instrument that keeps me sane and the man I miss more than anything in this world. I can see his grief in his tired eyes. I can see how he wishes to comfort me and share in my grief. He doesn’t understand that I can’t allow either of us to believe that our pain is the same. He can’t be held liable for the life that’s been lost, so how could he possibly understand how sorry I am?
“I’ll start dinner,” I manage to spit out. “It’ll be done when you get back.”
I can feel his eyes on me as I stare at his feet. I know that if I looked up, if I looked into my favorite pair of brilliant green eyes, I would crumble and lose every ounce of will power I have to stay away from him. I can’t accept his affection or his sympathy. Not now. I don’t deserve it and I—
“I love you,” he says before he heads for the door.
The second I’m alone, I let myself cry.
Maybe tomorrow will be the day I can keep my tears at bay.
I sleep like shit and wake up to two things I’m growing tired of—morning wood and cold sheets in the space beside me. It’s been almost a month since I’ve had sex. For a man who waited over a year to be with the woman he loves, a month doesn’t sound so bad. For a man who hasn’t gone longer than two days without being inside of his woman since the day we said I do, a month feels pretty close to a year. Not to mention, with all my built up frustration, I could seriously use a release. That being said, I’d wait a month more if I could go back to the days when I’d wake up with Avery beside me. I’d wait for as long as she asked me to if she’d only let me hold her. I miss the feel of her little body cuddled up with mine. I miss the feel of her heartbeat, the heat of her blush, and the kiss of her breath.
I sigh, scrubbing my hands over my face as I clear my mind and wait for my dick to go limp. While my blood begins to rush elsewhere, I listen to the sounds that pulled me from sleep. She’s playing again. Regardless of the fact that my wife will hardly speak to me, I know her heart. I know the extent of her pain by the intensity of her playing. I’ve never heard her practice as much as she has over the last four weeks. I never thought I’d get jealous of her cello, but I won’t deny that I am.
I wish she would pour her heart out to me that way; that she would be honest with me about what’s going on in her head. I wish that she would surrender her grief to me—not a damn inanimate object that can’t even begin to understand her loss the way that I can. And her hands…
“Shit,” I grumble as I sit up. The thought of her hands playing with me instead of her instrument eradicate my efforts to get rid of my erection and I have to start all over.
I don’t know how much more of this I can take. It’s not just the sexual frustration, it’s being on the outside looking in. I feel locked out of my own marriage and I want back in. I’ve been going to see my counselor more regularly lately. It’s helping me, having that outlet and encouragement to keep going, to grasp onto my faith, and to remember that everyone grieves differently. Nevertheless, while time is known to heal the wound caused by death, I’m afraid the passage of time in conjunction with the space Avery and I have let come between us will only create a more devastating loss.
I cannot lose her. Not like this.
Nothing—absolutely nothing—would help me to survive that.
As I get up and get dressed, I make the decision that today is the day—the day I break down the wall that has been erected between us. I just can’t take it anymore. I need my wife and I know that she needs me too. I promised her that we would get through this together, and I won’t allow either of us to break that promise.
I pause just before crossing the threshold into the next room, leaning against the doorframe as I take in the sight of my beautiful, bashful, broken bride. She committed the piece she’s playing to memory and as she moves with every phrase, she keeps her eyes sealed shut. Her hair is piled on top of her head in a thick, messy knot; a few strands have come loose and frame her gorgeous face.
Right now, as she lets the music consume her, I see the ounce of peace that she has found. Yet, I can also see that it is not enough. The joy that I’ve seen in her performance is not burning as bright as I know that it can. While I continue to watch her, I pray for help. I know that Avery and I will both always question why God decided to take our baby, but I’ve also come to appreciate that there is always hope. There is hope in the fact that life does go on. My life with Avery will go on and that is a blessing beyond compare.
Avery is my blessing.
When she’s finished playing, she lets her arms fall to her sides, as if she’s exhausted all of her energy for the day. It takes her a moment to open her eyes, but when she does, she looks right at me. My heart skips a beat as our gazes lock.
God, I love her so much.
“You sound amazing,” I say sincerely.
“Tha
nk you.” As she speaks, she pulls her eyes away from mine. Our disconnect urges me away from the place where I lean and I make my way towards her. When I’ve closed the distance between us, I gently take hold of her cello and pull it from between her legs, setting it down in its open case. She looks at me with confusion when I take her bow and place it behind me on the coffee table before I kneel down in front of her.
“Talk to me, Shorty,” I plead. I know that I sound desperate, but I don’t care. “I need you to talk to me. I need you to tell me what’s going on in your head—in your heart.” I lift my hand to touch her cheek and she turns away from me. “Avery…”
“I’m just—I’m just sad. I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“Oh, sweetheart, say anything!” I reach for her again, this time with both hands, and turn her face towards mine. I watch as her eyes fill with tears and I’m overwhelmed by my desire to kiss her. It takes every ounce of strength I have to stop myself from pushing her too far. I suck in a deep breath instead, desperately waiting for her next words.
“No, Grayson,” she chokes, pulling my hands away from her.
“You can’t do this. You can’t shut me out like this. It’s not fair,” I insist, rising to my feet.
“Fair,” she coughs out the word as if it’s the most disgusting thing she’s ever tasted. “No. It isn’t, is it?” She stands to her feet and starts to walk around me but I block her path.
“Avery,” I bite, my patience waning. “I’m trying to talk to you—don’t walk away from me.”
“I can’t talk to you. Don’t you understand?”
I shake my head as I answer her. “No. You choose not to talk to me. I can’t take it anymore. I can’t take your cold shoulder—I can’t go another day without you looking at me. Dammit, Avery,” I reach for her chin, lifting her face so that I can see into her eyes. “Look at me!”
She does as I ask before she jerks away from my touch. I don’t know whether to feel startled, irritated, or hopeful that I see anger in her eyes. Then she takes off her shirt and throws it on the ground and I know this is not what I intended.
The O'Conners: A Made for Love Novella Page 10