Chapter 60

60

Your mother fractured her leg in three different places sometime during the fall and hopefully lost consciousness before she landed face down in a pile of brush and stone.

I stood frozen as she fell in slow motion, powerless, all my movements including my breath were miles away from my body. It felt like the space between death and rebirth. It could have been an eternity before I was finally able to panic.

As soon as I regained control I climbed down to get her and could see from a good bit of distance that she was bleeding from somewhere, anywhere, everywhere. I couldn’t seem to reason, my mind was everywhere and nowhere all at once. She was bleeding; you were inside of her. I knew better than to move her, but I couldn’t have left the two of you lying there in that brush, bleeding, slowly and painfully dying. So I lifted her without turning her over. I couldn’t look at her face. I found myself too…

She was heavy. Dead weight. Pregnancy. Maybe I caused another fracture trying to lift her. Maybe she’ll walk with a limp for the rest of her life because I had such a hard time with her body, but who would I be to just leave you both there alone while I went for help?

They say I can’t blame myself. Who the fuck are they?

It took exactly forty-three minutes to get the two of you back to the house and safely onto the couch. I knew enough to check her pulse, and doing so forced me to look at your mother’s face for the first time.

She was cut. She would bruise. But I knew she would be ok. There was a small bit of blood on the corner of her mouth, which I wiped off with my shirt. I’m still wearing that shirt as I write this to you now.

I brushed back her hair, smoothed her face, and paused just long enough to kiss her. Then I went to the phone and called the paramedics.

In ten minutes they’d arrived, in another ten they were rolling her to the emergency room. I was told to stay behind, to fill out forms, to file reports, to try and stay calm. I was buried beneath all their red tape while your mother was being operated on by some doctor I didn’t know.

I’ve never liked hospitals, but then again, who does? But I have my reasons rooted outside of the realms of sickness and sterility.

But I was forced to sit idly in a secluded waiting area while your mother was in operation. As the time ticked by slowly I read every newspaper, penciled in every crossword and paced the length of the hallway, all two-hundred and sixty seven steps, until I tread a tiled trail from one end to the other.

The doctor pushed open the doors at around dusk, although there was really no way to know what time of day it actually was. There were no windows and I hadn’t seen a clock in hours, but it felt like dusk. The time felt like something was ending and that night was slowly creeping in.

His name, I think, was Thompson. Dr. Thompson, I think. He is a tall man with a dark complexion, wears glasses and has a deep soothing tone in his voice. Introductions aside, I can’t seem to hear him correctly. It’s as if a record is skipping through a tin can. He mouths details about the procedure, your mother’s injuries, complications that arose. “She had some internal bleeding, but she should be ok,” I manage to decipher, shaking my head to tune in as he tells me about you.

“I am afraid, Richard, that we couldn’t save the baby.”

I didn’t think I had heard him correctly, so I continued to say nothing.

“I’m sorry.”

Nothing.

He extends his hand like a lifeline, and as his words begin to resonate within me, I grab at his wrist eagerly like I am the one falling off the trail I’ve worn into the tile.

Still holding firm I explain to him that there must be some sort of mistake. He explains to me that no mistake could have been made. I ask him to check again. He tells me there is no need. I offer the realization that Jamie and I had never known the sex of the baby. He offers me this:

“She would have been a girl.”

I stare down at the pace marks on the tile worn away from many, many feet before me. I look up to the doctor’s shoes, still covered in sterile blue socks. The hall feels so much longer now, but much more narrow, like a rubber band that is close to snapping between here and reality.

I let go of his hand. “She would have been beautiful. She was all I ever wanted.”

As I write this, I sit at your mother’s bedside, waiting. I’m waiting for this night to be over, waiting for the dawn to begin. I’m waiting to see the color of your eyes, waiting for you to lose your teeth. I’m waiting for your hair to grow, blonde and then brunette. I’m waiting for a night to show you the stars, fall asleep under them, and then dream. I’m waiting for the first time you realize, that you’re old enough, and don’t need me. I’m waiting for your first boyfriend. I’m waiting for him to break your heart. I’m waiting for you to come home from college and surprise me, as I sit writing in the den. I’m waiting, for you, to walk down the stairs, and into my arms, where I will lead you down the isle. I am waiting for that phone call, telling me that I have a grandson.

Yet, as I sit, as I sit here waiting for you, I am also dreading an arrival.

Soon the time will arrive when your mother will wake. She’ll be groggy, medicated, and confused, but the first thing she’ll ask me about, is you.

And no matter how much I’ll want to tell her what I’m waiting for, no matter how close all those things might have been, eventually the time will arrive when I’ll have to explain that our unborn daughter is never coming home again.