In the Echo of this Ghost Town

by CL Walters

  I draw my phone from my pocket to check the time again and think about calling my mom. I wish she were here with me. The doors open with a hissing sound of the hydraulics. I straighten, and my heart seizes when Bella’s mom walks out.

  She doesn’t see me at first. Dazed and pale.

  “Minny,” I say and catch her eyes.

  She does a double take of me. “Oh my god, Griffin. They rushed her back.”

  “Back where?”

  “Surgery. Oh my god.” She grabs a hold of me, the strong smell of old cigarettes clinging to her, and she squeezes me as she cries.

  I’m okay to be a wall for the moment, a foundation to hold her up, but my heart races. “Why?”

  She can’t put words together yet.

  CeCe comes around the corner at the sound of her mom’s voice. She hustles through the wide hallway and wraps her tiny arms around her mother’s waist. Minny lets go of me, reaches down, and lifts CeCe into her arms, cooing as she walks away.

  I’m left near the door, unsure, feeling useless and powerless. “What’s happening?” My throat tightens. It’s bad. “Is Bella okay?”

  Minny, CeCe in her arms, turns and looks at me, and I have never felt so separate from something that directly impacts me. From the end of the alcove she says, “I don’t know. She started bleeding. And contractions. And it just got worse and worse. Then Bell’s blood pressure was dropping.” She stops and shakes her head. Her breath gets caught on the inside of her lungs a moment, but she gathers it to get her tears under control. “They took her to surgery.” She opens her mouth to say more, then closes it; she can’t seem to speak around the tears anymore. She shakes her head.

  “What is it?” I ask even though every part of me doesn’t want to ask it. I know that whatever is on the other side of the question isn’t good. I reach back for the wall behind me, palm flat against the smooth surface, for support.

  She shakes her head. “They couldn’t find the baby’s heartbeat.” She squeezes CeCe tighter and walks away, leaving me alone in the hallway near the emergency room door.

  I drop into a crouch and shove my hands into my hair. My eyes scan the speckles in the linoleum of the floor as if there might be an answer to whatever is happening in the key of the pattern there. With a shaky breath and shaking hands, I call my mom.

  “Mom.”

  “Hey.” She sounds happy.

  Tears leak from my eyes. “I’m at the hospital. It’s Bella and the baby. Are you here?”

  “No. Home. Shit. I’m on my way. What happened?” I can hear her moving, thumps and creaks against the housing of the phone.

  “Mom… they can’t find the baby’s heartbeat.” My throat closes around the last word and tears flow more freely. I can’t even swipe them from my eyes.

  “Griffin. Oh my god. I’ll be there.”

  “Emergency.”

  She cuts the line.

  I sit on the floor, outside those giant doors curled into myself. My butt on the cold floor, my knees drawn up to my chest, my arms crossed tightly over the top of them. I’ve dried my face, but I feel the tears cutting up the back of my throat.

  I don’t know how long I sit there. I’m a statue.

  Ten seconds.

  Ten days.

  Time isn’t working. I’m frozen. Numb.

  I see feet move past me. Wheelchairs. Gurneys. There are faces and voices, words that are presumably clear and understandable, but I’m not holding onto details. Rather, I’m detached from reality. I lay my head on my arms, resting on my knees.

  Waiting.

  “Griffin?” My mom’s voice.

  I look up. She’s crouched in front of me, her hands on my arms. Then she’s drawing me against her, her arms around me. She becomes the wall I need. My hands cling to her, and I let the tears come because I’m afraid. I’m so goddamn afraid. “They can’t find the heartbeat,” I repeat over and over through my tears. My mom—the wall— is replaced by Phoenix. Then Tanner. They’re both dressed in work clothes. They take up sentry duty around me.

  Ten thousand million hours later. Or maybe it’s an hour—I can’t tell—the door opens again. Someone dressed in scrubs emerges from the giant doors.

  I scramble off the floor. It’s the billionth time I’ve done this, hopeful for news.

  The doctor—like everyone before her—glances at me but her eyes bounce away. She isn’t looking for me. I follow her to see who she’s looking for as she moves deeper into the waiting room. When the doctor stops in front of Minny, I hustle across the room.

  “…she’s not lucid right now and might be in recovery for a while. She lost a lot of blood, but we were able to stabilize her. She’s been admitted. I’ll send someone back when they move her to her room so you can be with her.”

  Tears stream down Bella’s mom’s face.

  “And the baby?” I ask.

  The doctor looks at me, then at Bella’s mom who nods. The doctor shakes her head. “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry for what?” I ask, thinking perhaps she’s referring to Bella.

  Someone pulls at my sleeve, but I yank away.

  “Sorry for what? What about the baby?” I ask.

  “We did everything we could, but this happens sometimes.”

  “What happens?” I ask again.

  “A placental abruption. The baby didn’t make it. I’m sorry.”

  I back away from the doctor and shake my head. “I want to see Bella,” I say, because the doctor is lying. And if I just see Bella, she’ll be able to show me that everything is okay.

  I bump into someone and turn. It’s Phoenix. I turn the other direction, and Tanner flanks my other side. Their faces are drawn and worried. Mom’s crying just a step behind them, her hand covering her mouth, a tissue exploding from under her hand. “They won’t let me see Bella and my baby,” I tell them.

  Phoenix puts a hand on my shoulder. “Let’s sit for a minute.”

  I shake him off. “I don’t want to fucking sit. I want to fucking see Bella and the baby.”

  “Griff,” Tanner says, and his eyes fill. “Griffin.” He plucks at the sleeve of my t-shirt.

  “Get the fuck off me,” I yell. People around me jump, and the security guard walks into the room. Phoenix holds out his hand. I feel like punching Tanner when he steps closer. I shake my head. “She fucking made it!” My eyes are filled with tears, and I can’t see. I swipe at them with my fingertips so I can see Tanner to hit him.

  He steps closer and this time wraps his arms around me, tight. “Griffin. I’m so sorry.”

  “Fuck you,” I sob, but there isn’t any fight in my words or my body now. I bury my face in his shoulder and cling to him, my hands grasping onto the back of his shirt. He holds me up because I feel like I might fall. “She’s not gone.”

  “I’m sorry. So sorry,” he repeats. “I’ve got you.”

  I push him away. “No. No. No.” I back away, shaking my head, then turn, escaping them. Voices call after me as I disappear through the sliding doors out into the sparkling golden sunlight. I rush through the parking lot and into my car. Then I drive. Away. Tears stream down my face with my heart coming out of my mouth.

  2

  Car slides over pavement like lightning in the sky.

  Flashes of concrete spaces ruled by abstract thought: move forward and away.

  Don’t ponder. Deny. Deny. Deny.

  Move away.

  It’s not real. Deny. Deny.

  The black road stretches and disappears around the bend.

  The tires rumble against the asphalt, a welcome white noise.

  The car is warm.

  I feel tired.

  Move forward and away.

  Deny.

  Alone.

  Breath catches on hooks in my lungs. I can’t get it moving again.

  Breathe.

  I can’t deny it, so I say out loud: “This isn’t real.” My voice is a stranger’s.

  I swipe at the tears in my eyes, so I can see the r
oad.

  Unhook another breath. Breathe.

  I can’t focus. I hurtle through space and time in my metal spaceship as the real world blurs around me. I swipe moisture from my eyes to stay clear.

  Where am I? There’s nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide from–

  “This isn’t happening.” Shake my head. Try to deny.

  I can’t unhook another breath, and panic finds a place to sit inside me; I’m possessed.

  “This isn’t-” I start to yell it, but it catches on the hooks, remains suspended and swinging like slaughtered meat. Can’t deny it. Can’t.

  A brain voice talks to me (it has my mother’s voice): It is real. It is. There’s no denying it. This is happening.

  I hit the steering wheel with my hand. The car shakes, veers, reorients, rocking back into its lane.

  My voice bellows rage, my spaceship has become a cave; I can’t get away from myself.

  Squeeze the steering wheel until my hands lose feeling.

  Spit sharp shards from my eyes, slicing feelings and shredding coherence. Swipe the glass on my cheeks with frustrated sounds.

  Drive.

  A glance in the rearview mirror. The road is empty behind me, but–

  If I just turn around and go back, maybe–

  If I can just–

  –fix this. The doctor was wrong. There’s been a mistake. I can fix this.

  Fix it.

  Fix it!

  Breath catches on the hooks.

  I can’t breathe. Oh my god. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.

  Stop.

  Find your breath. “This is real.”

  Stop.

  I park the vehicle and bust out of the metal prison, sucking breaths. Hands to knees, I think I might be sick. Only air moves through my mouth. Tears through my eyes.

  Then I run.

  Run.

  Feet pounding the ground, reverberating through my body, so I can feel the pain of something tangible.

  Run.

  Feel.

  Run.

  Feel.

  When I finally stop running, I’m at the edge of the ghost town at The Bend. The abandoned buildings stretch out like shadows as darkness chases the sun. My lungs stretch for breath, aching with the exertion, but it’s a physical pain preferable to the emotional pain moving through me. I shuffle through the street, hands on my head, walking without direction. I stop at the saloon and climb the steps to look inside. Even though it’s getting dark, I can still make out the emptiness within, the forgotten place, and discarded things, waiting for someone who will never come to claim them.

  I turn away and sit down, my back to the saloon’s wall as if I’m waiting for the owner to open so I can get the first drink.

  The ghost town’s shadows stretch around me. It’s cold now, since the light has faded, and I shiver, but I don’t get up to go.

  I’m alone.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket. I leave it and wrap my arms around my middle, holding my insides in and fold over.

  I’m not sure why I drove here. The emotions crashing about inside me seemed to make the choice. The denial, the bargaining, and the anger.

  I watch the sun sink and the inky shadows deepen, reaching toward me like fingers. I wonder if maybe they’ll snatch my soul. “You should take me instead,” I yell out into the night. You should take me instead echoes back.

  “Why?” I ask to no one.

  “Why?” I ask a little louder.

  “Why?” I yell and the question echoes back at me, Why?

  Maybe I’m hoping for an answer, but there isn’t one. Only the question bouncing around in the shadows around me.

  My phone chirps again. I let it.

  My throat is raw from yelling and crying.

  My baby died.

  My baby died.

  My baby died.

  I test the words in my head, first, then say them to the darkness. “My baby died.”

  I hadn’t wanted her at first. I remember feeling sorry for myself because I was just nineteen. Too young to be a dad. I’m too young to be a dad with a daughter who died.

  My phone vibrates again. I ignore it.

  I keep replaying the scene at the hospital. The doctor’s words. Bella’s mom. Her sister and aunt. Phoenix and Tanner—my brothers—trying to support me. My mom. It makes my stomach ache, rolling it all around in my head, trying to make sense of what has happened.

  I don’t want it to be real.

  “My daughter died.” I yell it out. The words bounce back. My daughter died.

  Being here—alone—seemed right, a private place to be in pain, but now that I’m here, I’m feeling the depth of the shadows. I’ve been here before, in the shadows. I’ve remained in them most of my life, safe but stuck.

  My phone rings again.

  This time I look at it and see all the notifications: Mom, Phoenix, Tanner, Max, Josh, Cal, Danny. My dad.

  I can choose to stay here—alone—in the dark, shadowy ghost town of my own making. Stuck, like in my dreams. Or I can choose to face the pain. With those I love to help me. A choice. I stand up and look around and walk back the way I came, leaving the dark ghost town behind.

  When I finally make it home, I climb the steps and the door opens, yellow light from inside, bursting out.

  “Oh, Griffin.” My mom’s arms are around me.

  I bury my face in her shoulder, but instead of crying, I just cling to her like a child needing her comfort.

  She makes sounds and constructs words, though they aren’t hitting the mark. It’s her arms and her presence that are. She draws me into the house.

  I stall. It’s full.

  Mom. Phoenix. Dad. Tanner. Cal. Max.

  “You’re here,” I tell them all, but my gaze stops at Max.

  Max takes the steps to close the distance between us and takes my hand in hers. “I came as soon as I heard.” She wraps me in her arms. “I’m so sorry, Griffin.”

  I lean forward and rest my forehead against her shoulder. “She died,” I whisper.

  Max cries with me.

  There is comfort in being in the light with people who chase shadows. I’m not used to allowing in the light, but Max has taught me how. I must extend trust. These candles warm me. My mom and Phoenix. Tanner. Cal and Max.

  Then my dad draws me into his arms. “I’m here, son,” he says as he cries with me.

  I let him. Content to cling to the strength of others because I don’t have any myself.

  Time has stopped.

  I exist.

  There must be sleep. I wake in my bed, Max curled around me.

  Phoenix has coffee made by the time I wander into the kitchen. He sets a cup on the counter, so I don’t have to move any more than necessary.

  He and Mom drive me to the hospital to visit Bella.

  I find my way through the maze of hallways to the door with the number Bella’s mom gave me.

  I knock on the wall to the side of the door. I can’t see inside the room, a rose-colored curtain pulled to offer privacy to the patient.

  “Come in.” Bella’s voice is reed thin.

  Uncomfortable, I slip through the opening near the wall, trying not to disrupt the curtain.

  Bella, sallow and broken, is curled in the hospital bed. A white blanket covers her to her shoulders. She’s wearing a blue hospital gown with strange green shapes, IV needle tubing attached to her somewhere, monitor of some sort keeping track of her pulse. When she sees me, she bursts into tears, and covers her face with her hands.

  I fight tears and make my way to the empty chair at her bedside. When I sit, I put my hands in my lap, afraid to touch her, unsure of the right thing to do is.

  She holds out a hand to me.

  I take hers. Her skin is cool and dry.

  “I’m so sorry,” she says through her tears.

  “Me, too,” I tell her.

  She shakes her head. “No. I mean. I must have done something wrong.” Her throat closes around the words. />
  I shake my head and squeeze her hand. “No. No. Bella. Don’t. You aren’t to blame.”

  She continues to cry. I hold her hand, my thumb moving over her skin, offering comfort I don’t feel but wanting to offer something anyway.

  “I keep thinking if I’d just done something different,” she says. “Then I feel guilty because I hadn’t wanted her at first.” She sobs each word, her body shaking with the effort.

  I shake my head again, but I don’t offer words to combat her thinking. I’ve been there in other situations, including this one. If only I’d worn a condom. If only I’d said “no” instead of going through with it. And that thinking spirals into more if onlys and tangential what ifs. Our baby wouldn’t have been. We wouldn’t be going through this now. It’s a slippery slope, I think, and one that doesn’t take us anywhere good. “Don’t. Okay. It isn’t your fault.”

  We sit together in silence, her hand in mine.

  I’m not sure how long, but it’s long enough for Bella’s crying to subside.

  “Can we name her?” she asks. Her voice lacks substance and echoes exactly how I feel.

  My eyes fly from our joined hands to her tear-streaked face. I nod, unable to form words.

  “I’ve been calling her April.”

  “That’s pretty,” I tell her. It makes me think of flowers and springtime.

  “It means ‘to open,’” she tells me. “I looked it up.”

  I open my mouth to tell her that’s the perfect name for our girl, but my throat closes around the words, so I just nod again and allow the tears that are gut punching me to flow.

  Bella squeezes my hand this time, offering comfort.

  We sit together until Bella finally sleeps.

  I leave when her mom arrives.

  1

  I tighten the black tie. It’s stark against the white shirt. These meaningless details attach themselves to the underside of my skin, as if hanging onto them will make all the rest of what’s happened hurt less. They don’t, but then at least I can think about those things rather than the fact we’re having a funeral service for my daughter today.

  “You want to wear it or take it?” Max asks, holding up the black suit jacket I bought. She arrived this morning to help, early enough to crawl into my twin bed with me and offer me the comfort of her presence.