Where It All Began

by Lorana Hoopes

  The hospital loomed a giant steel beast as I pulled into the parking lot, and I dreaded entering. There were too many people, too many eyes. I counted the cracks in the sidewalk this time as I approached, fifty-four, and then the lines in the floor on the way to the training room, sixty-two. I was early enough today that a few tables were empty at the back. I slunk to the farthest one and tried my best to disappear.

  “Uh oh, was it a bad day?” Raquel slid in the chair beside me, looking immaculate as usual in her dress pants and Guess shirt.

  I stopped chewing my rapidly disappearing thumbnail long enough to nod. “I’ll tell you at lunch.” Nurse Hatchett entered the room and began her lecture on disposing of needles. I tried to focus on her words, but the image of the baby kept appearing in my mind.

  “Come on; it’s lunch.” Raquel nudged my arm, and the baby vanished for the moment. I followed her down the hall, my stomach churning at the thought of telling Raquel what was going on. Raquel had seemed so nonchalant about her abortion; she couldn’t have gone through anything like what I was facing.

  After standing in line for food, we headed to a far table. “You had the abortion, didn’t you?” Raquel asked as we sat down. My eyes widened, and my jaw dropped.

  “Is it obvious?” I whispered, glancing around to make sure no one overheard.

  Raquel’s smile was full of sympathy. “To me it is. You’ve been acting weird, so I figured you must have decided on abortion. You certainly don’t have that pregnancy glow about you, but aren’t you glad you have your life back?”

  I dropped my eyes to the Formica table top and shook my head. “It’s been horrible. The procedure was awful; there was so much pain afterwards; and . . .” – I raised my eyes to her – “I keep hearing a baby cry, but then there’s nothing there. But the dreams are the worst.”

  Raquel raised an eyebrow. “Dreams? What dreams?”

  “Dreams of the baby. He just stares at me and cries, and I reach for him, but I can’t ever touch him.”

  “Him?”

  I shrugged, pushing my food around on my plate. “I guess it’s a him; the baby has been in blue both times I saw him, so I’m assuming my baby would have been a boy. Did you never have dreams?” A vein of fear ignited and began to course through my body. What if there was something really wrong with me?

  Raquel shook her head slowly. “No, I never had dreams, and I never heard phantom crying. You probably have just been thinking about it too much. You need to let it go, and realize you have your life back now.”

  I nodded, but the words fell on loose sand and blew away. Maybe I was overreacting, but Raquel didn’t hear the cries; she didn’t see the baby. But she was right; I did need to get on with my life. I had made my choice, and even if I regretted it now, I could do nothing about it. The question was, how did I go on about my life when I was being haunted by my child?

  Raquel continued to pour affirming words into my head over the next week, and slowly they began to take root. The physical pain was all but gone, and the nights had been blissfully dream free, thanks to the alcohol coma I practically put myself in at night. I hadn’t seen Peter much, but I had even started thinking that maybe we could work it out, with time, so I was disappointed when his car wasn’t at the apartment when I arrived home that day.

  As I was locking the car, a small pink ball rolled up to my feet. I picked it up and looked up to see a little girl with brown braids staring back at me. She held her chubby hands out for the ball and smiled. Breath caught in my throat. I tried to smile back, but the grief gripped me and began its vice grip on my body again.

  A woman carrying a baby approached, “I’m so sorry. Karen, I told you to keep the ball in our yard.” As she was speaking, the baby cried, and a tiny hand waved. The dream came flooding back, and I fell to my knees. The pebbles in the asphalt bit into my skin, but I couldn’t move. The little girl took a step back, reaching for her mother’s hand. “Are you alright?” the woman asked and pulled her daughter close to her with her free hand.

  “I’m sorry.” My voice was quiet, choked with emotion. I rolled the ball to the girl, who scooped it up, and the trio turned quickly, leaving me on my knees in the parking lot. My body shook as the grief took hold once again. The darkness began to cloud my vision until a hand landed firmly on my shoulder. I forced my eyes upward. The same man from a few days before stood beside me, staring down with gentle brown eyes full of concern.

  “Can I be of assistance?” He extended his other caramel hand to help me up, and I accepted.

  “I’m sorry,” I said when I got to my feet. My knees still shook beneath my pants, and cold tendrils gripped my stomach. “Thank you.”

  “Can I walk you to your door?” Though I didn’t know him, his voice soothed my raw nerves like balm on a burn, and I nodded. I took his arm, grateful for the help, and pointed out my apartment.

  My hands were still shaking when we reached the door, and the keys tumbled out of my grip to the ground. He picked them up, holding them out to me. I shook my head and pointed to the middle silver key. Understanding my silent request, he inserted the correct key, turned the lock, and opened the door.

  “Will you be alright now?” he asked. I nodded, though his raised eyebrows told me he didn’t necessarily agree. “Okay, well my name is Henry. I live in 2B. If you ever need anything, you come knock, okay?”

  I grasped his hand and squeezed. “Thank you,” I whispered. He nodded, and after a final look, he turned away. I entered the apartment, shut the door behind me, and sank to the beige carpeted floor. How was I ever going to get over this? If just seeing a baby sent me into a tailspin; how was I ever going to continue to be a nurse?

  As if on cue, the phantom cries started again. I slammed my hands over my ears and rocked back and forth, willing the sound to go away, but instead the sound grew louder. My heart accelerated, and a weight fell on my chest. The air wouldn’t come; I clawed at my throat, but the darkness crowded in, pressing down like a vice until it won.

  “Sandra? Sandra?” A hand was shaking my shoulder. I snapped my eyes open, but there was no cry. There was only Peter staring at me with wide frightened eyes.

  “Are you okay?” Peter asked, “What happened?”

  “I’m not,” My head shook. “I am definitely not okay.”

  When Sorry Isn’t Enough

  I lay on the brown leather couch, staring at the ceiling. I didn’t want to be here, but I had agreed with Peter after the mini-breakdown that I needed to try something. His solution had been to introduce me to one of his doctor-friends, a psychologist named Dr. Munch. At 45, he was nearly twice my age, and not being a woman, I figured he would not understand my issue, but here I was lying on his leather couch anyway.

  “So why don’t you tell me what’s been happening?” he asked as he sat in a chair across from me and pulled out a notepad.

  “I lost my baby, and now he’s haunting me.” I glanced over, but he showed no reaction. His calm brown eyes returned my gaze.

  “Go on,” he said.

  “That’s it.” I wasn’t telling this man I had an abortion. “I hear phantom cries, but there’s no baby there, and sometimes I have dreams where I see the baby but can never touch him.” His pen began scratching on his paper, unnerving me. I wondered what he was writing. Was he writing that I was crazy?

  “It’s affecting my work and my relationship, and that’s why I’m here.” I took a deep breath, expecting some kernels of wisdom to flow out of his mouth and heal my pain, but he simply stared back at me.

  Unease set in and filtered through my body, “Don’t you have anything to say?”

  “That isn’t how it works,” he said and raised his eyebrows.

  “So what am I supposed to do? I can’t keep going on like this.” I crossed my arms over my chest.

  “Well, I don’t think you’ve told me everything, and that would be a start. I think you should also look into a support group, but I’ll give you some positive mantra exercises, and I�
��ll see you again when you’re ready to be honest.” He stood and walked to his desk.

  Heat and anger flared within, and I shot up. “That’s it? That’s all you can do for me?”

  “It takes time to heal.” He held out a piece of paper. I snatched it and still shaking, stomped out of the door. The slamming door brought a small semblance of satisfaction. Peter jumped, and his eyes widened. He opened his mouth to speak, but quickly closed it. Instead he stood and took a tentative step to me.

  “All done?”

  I glared at him and shoved the paper in his hand. “That was a waste of time.” Pushing past him, I flung the outer door open. Behind me, a sigh, but then footsteps.

  The car ride home was quiet, uncomfortable. As soon as Peter parked, I opened the door and hurried into the apartment, making a beeline for the bedroom.

  My hands were still shaking as I locked the bedroom door and as I opened the nightstand drawer. The bottle smiled at me from its snug bed, and I jerked the lid off, downing a large swig. A knock on the bedroom door caused me to jump, spilling just a little of the clear liquid. I cursed at the wasting of the liquid courage.

  “Sandra? Are you okay in there?”

  I rolled my eyes and shook my head. “I’m fine. Just leave me alone for now.” Silence descended, and then his footsteps receded. I tilted the bottle again and hugged my knees to my chest. The fire spread from my throat to my toes. After recapping the bottle, I placed it back in the nightstand and curled into a ball. Maybe I could just drink the pain away.

  When the alarm went off the next morning, I sighed before turning off the buzzer. As soon as I was sitting, I opened the drawer to upend the bottle. It was going too quickly. I knew I was probably drinking too much, but I told myself I could give it up when the pain went away, when the dreams stopped. I put the bottle away and threw on some clothes for work.

  As I drove home that evening, I hoped Peter wouldn’t be there. I was so tired of the tense evenings. I just wanted him to be gone or for things to be the way they had. The decision seemed to change from moment to moment, but the former seemed much more likely than the latter. I sighed as I pulled in next to Peter’s car; another tense night loomed ahead of me. Grabbing my purse, I locked the car and stepped to the door. The key had just touched the golden lock when the door swung open, and a beautiful woman I didn’t know met my stare.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” – she raised a perfectly manicured chocolate brown hand to her smooth throat – “You scared me.” Her white dress shone against her darker skin, and her hair was long and smooth, straightened.

  The keys clenched in my hands, turning my knuckles white, and I narrowed my eyes. “I’m sorry, but who are you?”

  Peter appeared then behind the woman’s shoulder. His eyes darted between the woman and me. “This is Sheila. She’s an associate at the hospital. We were studying for exams.” His words tumbled out in a stream, and I ground my teeth together.

  “Nice to meet you, Sheila,” I pasted a smile on my face and stuck out a hand, which Sheila cautiously shook back. “Now, if you’re done studying, I’d like to spend the evening with my boyfriend.”

  Sheila’s eyes flashed, hardening at the implication. “Of course, I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said to Peter, laying a hand on his chest. Then she glided past me, sashaying her hips as she left and leaving a floral scent in her wake.

  I stepped over the threshold and slammed the door behind me. Ice flooded my body, and my nostrils flared. “Are you cheating on me?”

  Peter crossed his arms across his chest and leaned back. “Nice to see you too; no, I am not cheating on you. She really was here to study with me, but could you blame me? You can’t even look at me, much less let me touch you.”

  My jaw dropped as heat flared all over my body. “Are you kidding me? You forced me to kill our child. You have no idea of the guilt that I face every day. The thought of you touching me just brings back the memory, and what if we got pregnant again? Would you encourage me to have another abortion?”

  He threw his hands in the air. “That’s not fair.”

  “Fair?” I screamed, my voice rising in pitch. “Was it fair that you made me go to the clinic alone? Was it fair that I had our child cut out of me or that I’m haunted by dreams of him?”

  Shock colored his face, and he crumpled to the floor, bringing a shaking hand to his mouth. “It was a boy?”

  The rage fizzled at his reaction, but I still couldn’t cross to him. Instead, I crossed my arms. “I think so. Every time I see him in my dreams, he’s wearing blue.”

  His hand ran across his face, and when he turned his face up at me again, his eyes were hollow. “We would have had a son?”

  My eyes narrowed. “Are you saying it would have been okay if it were our daughter?”

  He blinked, caught off guard by the question. “What? No, I guess, I just . . . What did we do?” He dropped his head in his hands, and compassion flowed over me. Maybe he was finally feeling a small portion of what I had been battling.

  I crossed and sat down beside him. “We did the unthinkable.” I rubbed my arms, but I had no more words. He didn’t either. After a moment, he reached for my hand and squeezed it. I leaned into him, hoping that this time it would be different, that this time maybe the nausea wouldn’t rear its ugly head, that maybe we could move on, but as soon as his arm went around me, the familiar churning began. I swallowed the sensation as long as I could, but as the turmoil grew, the need to detach myself won out. “I need to change clothes.” I stood and rushed into the bedroom.

  As soon as I closed the bedroom door, I leaned my head against it and swallowed repeatedly. The sickness began to subside as I breathed evenly. Pushing myself off the door, I crossed to the nightstand and uncapped the bottle. A sip of the fiery nectar sated the nausea. Another cooled it completely. A third created the welcoming fog, and the sensation slowly faded away. I smiled. That wasn’t too bad; I just needed a few sips, and, surely with time, it will get easier.

  After changing into comfy clothes, I rejoined Peter in the living room. He smiled and opened his arm to cuddle on the couch. Forcing a smile in return, I swallowed and sat down beside him. He pulled me close, wrapping his arm around my shoulder. The alcohol helped me relax for a while, but when Peter’s hand caressed my shoulder, the nausea ignited, and when he cupped my chin to kiss me, it enflamed. Putting my hands on his chest, I pushed back with tears in my eyes. “I’m sorry,” I said and hurried back into the safety of the bedroom. As I crawled under the covers and curled into a ball, the flame sputtered and died out. A solitary tear rolled down my cheek.

  Sometime later a knock sounded at the door. “Sandra? Can I come in?” I crawled out of bed and opened the door for him. Shoulders slumped, Peter stood on the other side. He flashed a weak smile. “I can’t do this anymore, Sandra.” My eyes blurred with tears, but I nodded. I knew he was right. It had been weeks, and I still couldn’t forgive him or myself. I stared down at my hands and then up at him.

  “Where will you go?” As much as I hated him for pressuring me into the abortion, a part of me still loved him.

  “Liam’s offered to let me move in with him for a while until I decide.” He scratched his fingernail against his pants as if scraping off a crumb. When he met my eyes, tears glistened in his as well, “I wish it could have been different,” he whispered.

  I bit the inside of my lip to stop the flow of tears. “Me too.” He reached out and squeezed my hand, and then he brushed past me and walked to the bedroom. I decided to give him some space and wandered into the hallway and then into the guest room. The canvases I had painted before the procedure silently accused me of never coming back to them. I’d had no desire to paint; I didn’t even now, so I packed up the paints, put the canvases and easel back in the closet, and shut the door.

  After leaving the guest room, I wandered into the kitchen to busy myself with the dishes. The sound of Peter packing in the bedroom reached my ears, and I sighed as the melancholy filled
me. I had been so sure that Peter and I would marry; we had always been so good together. The memory of the first day we met popped into my mind.

  We had been waiting for the same drink at a local coffee shop, and when the barista called the order we both reached for the cup. “Sorry,” our voices said in unison. He let go, giving me the first drink, which I took to a nearby table. A few minutes later he sat down beside me. “Can I join you?” His smile had caused my heart to stutter, and I had nodded. As we drank our coffees, we discovered we were working at the same hospital. Peter was interning to be a resident, and I was just starting the nursing program. It had been love at first sight for both of us. We exchanged numbers and went out the very next night. We’d been almost inseparable since then, until now.

  I guess there are some things you can’t get through together. I washed the lipstick off the last glass, and ire flared briefly again. It wasn’t my shade, but what did it matter? He was free to date Sheila or whomever he pleased now. After placing the dishes in the blue rack to dry and wiping my hands on the checkered towels, I wandered back to the bedroom to check on Peter.

  He stood in the closet doorway, surveying the holdings. At the sound of my footsteps, he turned to face me, the Hockey jersey I had given him last Christmas in his hands. Defeat weighed down his shoulders. He folded the jersey and placed it on top of his other clothes in his large black suitcase. After zipping it up, he turned downhearted eyes on me. “I’m really sorry,” he sighed, “If I had known, I would never have pressed for an abortion. Maybe we could have done it, found the time, I mean, to raise a baby.”