by Kennedy Ryan
Kai firms her chin, high color painting her tear-streaked cheeks.
“I do.” She says it like a vow, and her faith shines, a beam I grab hold of as darkness approaches.
Ms. James, Rhyson, and the nurse encircle the bed when Kai steps close to lay her hand on Zoe’s forehead. There’s no squeamishness, no revulsion or disgust on Kai’s face when she touches that most unappealing part of my baby girl. With face solemn, her hand steady, and her words sure, Kai whispers to Zoe of glory, of divinity and perfect peace. She tells her that the God who sent her with His hand is waiting for her return with arms wide open. Kai’s words breathe serenity, but when Zoe’s little chest rises and falls with a final gasp, my heart revolts and I shatter into infinite pieces. I will never be the same. I’ll never be smooth again. I’ll be cracked in all the places Zoe touched in the few hours I had with her. I’ll have to make myself all over with ragged bits of soul and flesh and heart, and as Kai whispers the last words to send Zoe on her way, all I can do is weep and wail and wish I was going, too.
41
Grip
“I don’t want so much misery.”
– Walking Around, Pablo Neruda
GRIP
The line from Neruda’s poem Walking Around is a daily refrain. I wake up with it threading my thoughts like a needle, beaming through my windows with the morning sun. It has been nearly two weeks since Zoe came and went, and the grief is unrelenting, a deluge of despair. It’s the rainy season, a monsoon that never lets up. Like drenched clothes, I’m heavy and dripping everywhere I go.
But at least I go.
Not much, not many places, but I’ve left the house. Bristol can’t. She won’t, and she won’t see anyone. She’s turned away Kai, Jimmi, my mother, calls from Charm. No one has gotten through, and everyone’s worried about her . . . about us.
And they should be.
I keep telling myself this is to be expected, but it freezes my blood when I look into Bristol’s eyes that have always shone with vibrancy and spirit and find them lifeless.
I prop the door to our bedroom open with my back, balancing a tray in my hands. I can’t remember the last time I saw Bristol eat. Knowing she loves this lemon coconut French toast from a place up the street, I grabbed an order of it, hoping I can tempt her to at least try. I set the tray down on the bench at the foot of our bed and settle beside her with my back against the headboard. I placed the huge bouquet of flowers Mrs. O’Malley sent beside the bed, but even that hasn’t coaxed a response from her.
We didn’t tell many people what we were dealing with during Bristol’s pregnancy, but we released a statement later. The pregnancy was common knowledge. We walked red carpets together, were photographed out walking, living. People assumed everything was normal, which at the time, was simpler for us. Now nothing is simple, and awkward questions about how we’re doing with our newborn will only make recovering harder. So, everyone knows what happened, but no one can really know what we’re going through.
I bend to the pillow where her head rests and push the tumble of hair back from her face, surprised to find her eyes wide open and tearless, staring vacantly as she lies on her side.
“Hey babe.” I touch her chin, waiting for her eyes to meet mine. “I brought you some breakfast.”
She shakes her head, her eyes drifting away from my face again.
“Not hungry.” She rolls over, giving me her back and huddling under the comforter.
“You should eat.”
“Said I’m not hungry.” She pulls the pillow over her head. “Could you close the blinds on your way out?”
I stuff my frustration and general rage at the world down another inch. I’m afraid of what else is down there, buried beneath the thin flooring of my civility. It feels like some wild animal will leap out roaring and clawing and baring its teeth when I least expect it. There’s a pack of feral beasts caged in my belly, in my chest, and I’m not sure how much longer they’ll stay stuffed away before they come out raging.
“I’m not closing the blinds, Bris. Some sun would do you good. It’s spring.”
Her head makes a slow rotation until she’s looking at me over her shoulder.
“It’s spring?” Her eyes spark with the first emotion I’ve seen since the hospital. “Well whoop dee fucking doo, Grip. Now all’s right with the world because it’s spring. Who do I look like? Fucking Mary Poppins?”
I wanted emotions, yeah, but not the bitchy ones.
“Okay, Bris,” I say as patiently as I can. “I’m hurting too, but—”
“Are you?” The naked misery in her eyes breaks my heart in places I assumed were already broken. “Yet you somehow manage to go for long walks and zip to grab breakfast and eat food? And tolerate light?”
“I won’t let this happen, Bristol,” I say. “You know I won’t. It’s been ten days and—”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” She snaps to a sitting position, the T-shirt she slept in bunching up with the covers, her hair tangled and matted and disorderly. “Has it been ten days already? Am I late? Was I supposed to be all better by now?”
“I get it. The only thing that drags me out of bed every morning is you.” I lean over to cup her cheek. “I love you too much to let this go on. Ten days is no time in the grand scheme of things, but you can’t not eat.”
I lean closer, catching a whiff of my T-shirt she’s wearing, which could probably launder itself by now.
“Damn, babe.” I screw my nose up, hoping she’ll allow me to tease her some. “You can’t not bathe for ten days either.”
Her lips don’t twitch. Her eyes don’t glimmer with humor or interest or life. She just stares at me unblinkingly.
“I can’t do this, Grip,” she whispers, her anger fading as quickly as it came. She presses her cheek deeper into my palm. “You keep thinking I can do this, that I’m stronger than I am, but . . .”
She shakes her head, helplessness loosening a tear from her lashes and spilling it over her cheek.
“I’m not strong enough either, baby.” I dip to press my forehead to hers. “Not by myself, but remember what I promised you?”
“What?” she asks.
She doesn’t remember? I console myself with the reminder that she was exhausted and on drugs before her C-section, but my heart still winces that she doesn’t remember what I promised.
“I said—”
“That you would love me for the rest of your life,” she whispers, eyes closed. “And that you believed we could survive anything together.”
There’s my girl. Hope flares in this dark room that is our life right now. It’s the smallest thing, her remembering those moments, our hardest, but it’s the only thing I have.
“Yeah, that’s it. The only way we get through this is together.” This one thing encourages me to broach a topic I know we need to address. “I, uh . . . was talking to Dr. Wagner.”
Her eyes narrow.
“I just had the checkup and was okay,” she says, slowing her words as if she needs to process them. “I’m not due back until my six-week appointment.”
“I know.” I nod my agreement. “But I called her office and we talked—”
“About me?” Her words come fast and outraged. “Without me?”
“Bris, just listen.” I sigh, dreading this. “She thinks you should reconsider the prescription she suggested.”
“For the milk?”
Dr. Wagner mentioned a prescription that would expedite the milk drying up, but Bristol refused. I wish she would take it. Nature is cruel, preparing Bristol’s body to nurse and nurture even though her arms are empty. It’s a constant reminder of what we’ve lost burgeoning in her body.
“No, not those.” I clear my throat unnecessarily. “The, um . . . the antidepressant.”
“I don’t want that.” Bristol tosses the comforter back, throwing her legs over the side with more energy than I’ve seen. It’s a shame the only thing that seems to enliven her is anger. “It hasn’t even been two wee
ks.”
“True, but not only do you have the . . . grief,” I say, the word getting snagged in my throat. “But all the hormonal changes that come with having a baby, too. When Dr. Wagner heard you weren’t eating and were sleeping all day—”
“And she ‘heard’ this during your secret conversation about me behind my back, right?” Bristol stands and faces me, arms folded under her breasts.
“I’m not going to watch you get worse. Don’t ask me not to help, Bris.”
“You can’t fix this. Pills won’t fix this.”
“Neither will not eating or lying in bed all day with the curtains closed.” My voice comes out sharper than I intended, but those are the words I meant to say, ones I’m not taking back. I notice for the first time that she’s wearing my Dave Chappelle T-shirt, HABITUAL LINE STEPPER. I can’t help but think about that night, years ago, when she wore it while we ate on the roof, before we made love. My eyes wander over the long legs and tangled hair. Even grimy, bitchy, depressed, and despondent, she’s the only woman I want.
“Is that why you want to fix me, Grip?” she asks, scorn curling her lip as she watches me watch her. “You wanna fuck? Is that what this is about? Popping some pills in me so I’ll be in the mood to suck your dick again?”
“Dammit, Bris!” The words combust in my mouth, and I roll off the bed to face her, a king-size sea of rumpled, unwashed sheets separating us, a chasm of shared pain somehow keeping us apart. “How could you . . . why would you say that to me? You know it’s not true. Are you trying to push me away?”
“If that’s what it takes for you to stop poking and prodding and trying to medicate me out of this, then yeah, I’ll push you away.”
She drops her head forward, the mass of dark waves obscuring her face and rioting past slumped shoulders.
“You can’t fix this,” she moans, twisting her head from side to side and cradling her waist with folded arms. “None of that will bring her back. You can’t bring her back.”
I can’t stay away from her. I never could, and her pain, her tears draw me, the same way her vitality and her beauty always have. There is nothing about her that repels me, even when she tries her best to push me away. I step close, cautiously slipping my arms around her, resting my hands at the small of her back. She’s stiff, resistant to any comfort I offer, but after a few moments of stroking her back, she goes limp against my chest, almost pliant. This is the closest we’ve been since Zoe died, and I don’t want to shatter it by bringing up the meds, or the support group or the grief counseling—all things Dr. Wagner says will help us—but I can’t let this go on. It’s not good for either of us.
The ringing phone in my pocket intrudes on the words I need to say. Bristol stiffens and pulls away, the guard dropping back into place over her expression. She retrieves it from my pocket, studies the screen, and hands it to me.
“You should take it,” she says hastily, grabbing the excuse to get out of this conversation. “It’s Charm. Your book is due soon.”
“It can wait. We need to finish this.”
“Let’s make a deal.” She forces a smile that she probably thinks fools me. “You answer the phone, I’ll go shower. How’s that?”
Does she honestly think she can fool me? Hold me off? Shut me out? No way in hell I waited eight years for her only to settle for some imitation of intimacy, some facsimile of the woman I know she should be.
“I’ll take her call,” I say, pressing accept. “But you better be in the shower when I’m done.”
Her smile looks awkward, like her mouth forgot how to do it, but she takes a few steps toward the bathroom. I feel a momentary sense of accomplishment. She’s out of bed, headed toward the shower, but I know the real problems won’t wash away. The anguish Bristol’s waking up with every day is subterranean, deep below the surface. It’s infected the very core of who she is. I can say that for sure because mine goes just as deep.
42
Bristol
The darkness is heavy. It’s tangible, like a weighted blanket trapping me beneath my stale sheets. It’s a living darkness, thick with blood, wet with tears. Deep, so very deep. It’s a ravine, and I’m at the very bottom. It’s toxic, and I breathe great lungfuls of it, like a miner in a cave with no light, no air. Every morning I promise myself I’ll do better. I’ll get better. I’ll eat. I’ll shower. I’ll be kinder to my husband. I won’t take this pain out on him. As soon as my mind surfaces from fitful sleep, though, I hear Zoe’s heartbeat again, trapped in her chest like infant fists banging against the fragile cage of her ribs, longing to be free.
Thump, thump, thump.
A drum in the thicket of dense forest, her heartbeat reaches my ears, drawing me—an auditory illusion, I know, but it’s the only real thing I can find in the dark to hold on to. I run toward it, desperate to see her, to hold her one more time. Branches bite my face, rocks shred my feet as I follow the sound of that heartbeat, the drum in the jungle. I stumble and fall face first into an empty clearing. It’s deserted, desolate, and every morning, bamboozled by that sound, I pull the covers over my head again.
Even my body plays tricks on me. It betrays me. My breasts surge with life, engorged and ready to feed, but it’s a joke in bad taste because no one eats from me. I’m unessential. No one needs me to survive, and what I need, I can’t find.
My body is a haunted house. Those who lived here are dead and gone, and my soul is riddled with ghosts. Phantoms travel the halls, walk the rooms, raising the hairs on my body, but when I look, there’s no one there.
As I face myself in the bathroom mirror, I feel guilty about the things I said to Grip. I’m aching with the memory of what we should have, but lost. When I meet my reflection, I see a shell of myself, a husk of who I used to be. Living with this dense darkness, this haunted house, this abandoned womb, I don’t think I can be that girl again.
43
Grip
“Okay, I’m actually done with the first draft.” I sit on the unmade bed and press the phone to my ear while I talk to Charm. “I finished all but one before Zoe . . .”
I was going to say before Zoe came, but all Charm or anyone who knows our situation would hear is before Zoe died. I let the words dissolve in my mouth. That’s what she is to others: an epitaph with no dashes, not a year she was born and a year she passed away, but a solitary day, mere hours.
“Okay,” Charm says, that hesitation in her voice like everyone else’s, like she’s not sure it’s safe to talk to me yet. “Look, Grip, we can delay this again if we need to.”
“No, it’s fine. Your production team has been really patient, and I appreciate that.” I glance at the stack of printed pages splayed on the bed. “All the poems are finished. I was just doing a final read-through.”
“If you’re sure,” Charm says, a bit of relief in her voice. “That’s great. Just email it.”
“Cool.”
Silence pools on the line, and I’m not sure if she has more to say or if she’s waiting for me to go.
“Um, how’s Bristol?” Charm asks. “I called her, but it went to voicemail. I haven’t heard back, but I figure she’ll call when she’s ready. I don’t want to bother her.”
I didn’t want to bother her either, the first day, the second, the third . . . but we’re at day ten, and I think it’s time someone bothered her and shook her out of this. I’m probably the only one who can reach her, but who’s gonna reach me? I run a hand over my head. I need a haircut, a shave. Have I showered today? Have I eaten? I’m as bad off as Bristol is, but afraid to express it, to let her know. This kind of grief, it’s impossible to bear, but this, what Bristol is allowing, what she’s doing to herself—it’s unsustainable. I love her too much to let it go on.
“Grip?” Charm prompts. “Bristol? How is she?”
“Oh, well, not great.” A heavy sigh falls between us over the phone. “I mean, we’re not great, but I guess that’s to be expected. We’ll get through it, but it’ll take time.”
&n
bsp; And I’m not sure how.
“I’ve known Bristol a long time,” Charm says. “Longer than you have, actually, and I’ve never seen her the way she is with you. She’s almost unrecognizable, honestly. As long as I’ve known her, she was great at putting up walls, keeping people out, but she doesn’t have that defense with you. Just don’t give up on her.”
I let her words wash over me, cleanse my discouragement away, and renew my commitment to reaching my wife.
“Giving up on Bristol is not an option,” I say, swallowing my doubts. “But thanks for the encouragement.”
“And how are you holding up?” she asks, her voice a little lighter. “Who’s going to take care of you?”
“Bristol will,” I reply. “We take care of each other.”
My response comes before I even have time to think about it. I wondered who would reach me if I’m occupied with reaching Bristol, who would take care of me if I’m taking care of her, but that’s the answer: we take care of each other. We always have, and if we meant our vows, we always will.
“Charm, I need to go.” I consider the closed bathroom door. I don’t hear water running or any movement.
“Of course. I’ll be on the lookout for your email. This book is going to be amazing, Grip.”
I don’t give a damn and don’t even bother responding, just hang up. Charm will cut me some slack for my rudeness. Being around people is hard because there are all these rules, all these things you have to do, and the only thing I want to do right now is hurt, hurt and hold my girl and heal.
When I enter the bathroom, the shower’s not running and there’s no steam fogging the mirror. Bristol’s on the floor, her long legs stretched out flat along the tiles, her back to the tub. She cups her breasts where two huge wet spots show through the T-shirt. Her head is bowed and tears run unchecked down her face. I rush over to squat beside her.