Page 37 of Forever Christmas
Dad smirks. “She’ll survive. Mom’s going to drive her to her hotel to change while Alaina stays.”
“I’m going above and beyond on this one,”Mom says. “But Alaina’s brother will be here any minute, so she won’t be alone for long.”
We head down the hall. Each step is torture, a full-blown headache blooming behind my eyes. Mom hugs us and turns into the waiting room. I don’t look inside to see what havoc I’ve wrought. Dad and I continue on to the elevator.
Only when we’re back in the car do I relax a little. I spread out some of thepaper towels just in case.
Dad pulls out of the parking lot. “Not used to donuts in the morning?” he asks, but I can tell that is not the question. He suspects.
“It was a terrible idea,” I say.
“It was a delicious idea,” he counters.
The pause after this is long, but he doesn’t press.
I’m torn. I’ve gotten away with it this morning. But if I’m this sick again tomorrow, or even later today,they will figure it out.
I don’t know why I’m so afraid to tell them. I should be celebrating this little life, not hiding it.
But it’s a common feeling. Women who get pregnant again after losing a baby often don’t tell anybody the news until they have to.
Today it’s perfectly clear to me why. When only we know about the baby, it’s so much simpler. There are no tragic phone calls to make, noFacebook statuses to write. No sad faces looking at you. No terrible clichés repeated.
It’s just you. You and your pain, your emptiness, your loss.
For some reason it feels like that will be easier.
But I have a feeling that this isn’t true at all.
It’s all hard. All horrible.
There is no good answer for any of this. Instead of the warm joy of anticipation, I live with the cold breath offear.
