He walks into the room, expecting to see his wife with that “glow” as she neatly organized the new room, painted yellow for neutrality. He expected to hug her tightly, the little bean between them a loving blockade to closeness. He expected a normal night, teaming with bashful smiles, handfuls of laughs, and a long kiss goodnight. He expected much.
But a life was misplaced that day.
She is sitting in a stiff lump, the silky yellow blanket they picked out at Kids-R-Us that past Sunday taut around her shoulders as she heaves silent tears.
For a moment his mind lingers on the worst. He realizes the reality of the situation at first glance, but immediately dismisses it and covers it up with other issues: she heard bad news from her mother or maybe she hurt herself or maybe she is just being emotional. Either way, he collapses at her side, cooing her name.
“Pam, Pam!”
There is a pause and a rush of tears, harder and ravenous now.
“Pam, please, what happened?”
Her fingers find his and she pulls herself in his direction, crumbling in his lap. Her face is buried in his chest, his shirt and tie becoming tear-stained by the second. Her legs curl against her body and fingers are limb in his palms. He presses his lips into her hair and makes a “shhhhhhh” sound. It doesn’t work.
“Pam, honey. What is going on?” he whispers as calmly as possible. His heart is racing laps in his chest. He is sure she can feel it.
“It’s gone,” she mumbles, a new wave of tears crashing against her cheeks, pouring off of her face, dripping into his fingers. He feels tears, now, too, but holds them back. He can’t do this, not now. He has to stay together – one of them must.
“Honey, what is?” He knows the answer. Why did he even ask? He knows it will just cause her more pain.
She takes a hurried inhalation and breathes, “Our baby.”
He feels as if he has been hit by a yellow school bus – the one his child would have used – and the tears hastily pour. He pulls her as close as humanly possible, his face pressed into her soft hair as she shudders in the silence with her.
They sit for several hours, their fingers intertwined; her head nestled into his shoulder, their eyes teary. The silence is engulfing and louder than any words they could possibly fathom. Neither of them knows what to say. And how should they, anyway? This is not something they have been taught to cope with – to understand.
They feel broken.
Not like a toy. No, not that kind of broken. Not rusty and tarnishing or misused, but misplaced. Well, actually, they do feel misused. But that’s another subject.
They feel broken like a fistful of daisies crushed into a dust on the playground by a little boy who was angry because his lunch was stolen. They feel broken like an ancestral glass vase that shatters on a hardwood floor as a teenager yelps I didn’t mean it oh no I swear I didn’t! They feel broken like a gorgeous red Mustang that has been smattered against an old oak as it was driven home too late from a party. They feel broken to the ninth power.
They feel so broken, in fact, that there isn’t any use explaining it anymore.
Author's Chapter Notes:
Things like this happen. And no matter how hard it was for me to write, it is not unrealistic. I almost couldn't post it - I couldn't bring myself to show this side of things. I'm a pragmatic person, and maybe there are others who feel the same way. This is what could happen, under the worst circumstances.
Chapter End Notes:
If there have been any upsets, I am very sorry. I myself am upset and I really regret even writing it because it is so horrible. But once again, it could happen.
Dwangie is the author of 25 other stories.
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