Page 55 of The Christmas Keepsake
“See? Everything is perfect. Life is perfect,” he whispered.
I hadn’t realized that he’d walked up behind me and overheard. He waved me over to come sit with him on the bed.
I did. I curled up into the crook of his arm, my safe place, but no one had relieved my fear. Deep down, I knew something was off. The next morning, I quietlyslipped out of bed and headed to my doctor’s office anyway. Nervous mom or not, I needed confirmation. I needed more than words. I wanted to hear my baby’s heartbeat. I wanted proof.
The examination room was cold as I sat there in a paper gown, all alone. Wasn’t the purpose of marriage that you never had to go through the hard things alone anymore?
Doctor Weston humored me by seeing me first thing. The amusement in his eyes slowly faded like falling stars, and my heart dropped into the pit of my stomach.
I wasn’t a nervous new mom. My instinct was right. After hearing the news, I returned to my new husband and, as an actor, I put on the biggest performance of my life. Part of me liked the denial. When I was playing the part, I didn’t have to accept reality. I preferred the fantasy world, the lie over the truth.
The following day, when the honeymoon was over, I pretended to sleep for the entire drive back to the tiny house behind the theater. Then, as soon as we got home, I burst into sobs. While we were away, Mickey had arranged for our friends and family to create a small nursery for our baby. The one we’d lost.
The one I’d lost.
The grief process is so strange. It evolves at the same time that it lessens. Or, truly, it never becomes smaller, it just goes into hibernation, ready to wake up at the least-expected, least-opportune time.
We were a new couple, and I hadn’t learned to lean on Mickey as a husband yet. I hadn’t learned that life and grief were so much easier when shared. While my parents and I had a great relationship, it wasn’t one where Idivulged all the details of my life. My mother being there for me when I came home from New York pregnant was really the first and only time that had ever happened.
So I did what felt natural to me. I pushed Mickey away. I told him that I’d lost our baby and that we should file an annulment. I’d assumed that’s what he would want, given the situation, and I wouldn’t hear any different.
I didn’t tell Mickey that I still needed to go through the painful delivery. It was horrible enough that I would have to experience this. Mickey shouldn’t be haunted by this moment as well.
I was so foolish. As I lay in the hospital bed, ready to have what’s called a still birth delivery, fear consumed me. I was so alone, and I didn’t know what to do. Should I call my mother? I’d lied and told her the delivery was scheduled for the next day because I knew she’d be there for me, but I somehow thought it would be better to do this on my own. I remember sweating and crying, trembling and wishing I was anywhere but there.
Then the door to my hospital room opened and Mickey walked in. I wondered if I was hallucinating. If so, I didn’t care. I just wanted him by my side.
“Shh-shh.” He climbed into the bed beside me and curled his arm about my shoulders, pressing his lips to my temple. Then he grabbed my hand. “Squeeze it. I’ve got you, Nannie.”
He didn’t tell me everything would be okay, because it wouldn’t. Not for a while. He didn’t say much at all. Instead he cried with me. He was strong and allowed me to be weak. He absorbed at least half the pain because it suddenly got easier as I pushed a baby into the world.
The day after I was discharged from the hospital, weheld a service, just for myself, Mickey, and my parents. Then we buried him.
“Let’s go home,” Mickey said once the burial was complete.
“My home is with my parents,” I told him, pushing him away. Or trying to.
He held my hand, refusing to let go. “We’ve done this already, Nannie. And, if I’m being honest, I’m sick of you pushing me away. I made a promise to you and I meant it. If you didn’t mean it, if you want to take it back, tell me now. Otherwise, let’s go home.”
Tears washed my cheeks. As I hugged my arms around myself, I realized I was tired of holding my own self. Being my own support system. My instinct was to continue pushing him away, but I was tired. And Mickey made me feel… something.
He gestured to the small grave behind me.
I didn’t follow his gaze. I couldn’t. I just wanted to walk away and find a quiet place to dissolve. Disappear.
“If you leave, it’s your choice. I’m not going to block your path. What I will do this time, however, is tell you that I want you to stay. I’m not going to throw you over my shoulder and demand that you come home with me. That’s not who I am, and I’ll never be that guy.”
We stared at one another, a battle of wills between two grieving people who were sad and confused.
I knew my parents were watching and all the ghosts, if ghosts exist, in that graveyard.
I stomped my foot and growled, feeling like a wounded animal. Then I collapsed, but he didn’t let me hit the ground.
“Stubborn woman. You’re determined to make me aliar, aren’t you?” he whispered, sweeping me up into his arms. “I said I wouldn’t throw you over my shoulder, but here I am, practically doing just that.”
Looking up into his face, I laughed quietly, which felt like some sort of madness. No one laughs at their child’s funeral. Or in the midst of a potential breakup.
“Happy?” he asked, carrying me back to his truck and placing me in the passenger seat as I continued to clutch the plastic rattle, even though my hope was gone. Now instead of hope, it felt like all I had left to prove was that my baby was real. He had existed, and he was mine.
