Page 58 of The Photograph

After I set the empty glass on the coffee table, she holds my hand between hers.

“I opened the door to the paramedics before they broke it down because I know your sister’s not here. What happened, little dove?”

Too exhausted to put my guards up, I let her nurturing gaze comfort me.

“Cara’s somewhere in Asia for work and … and … I’ve lost my baby and had some … complications.”

Her lips pinch then her expression softens as tears flow down my cheeks.

She taps on the back of my hand. “You’re going to be just fine, my dove. Just fine.”

Gertie settles on the couch beside me and opens her arms. I bury my face in her neck and cry while she strokes my hair. She holds me tight until I fall asleep cuddled against her.

The next day, daylight filtering through the window and a stabbing ache low in my stomach wake me up. I groan as I swing my legs to sit up. After a couple of deep breaths, I stand up carefully and trudge to my bedroom.

Wincing at the smell that assaults my nose, I grip the doorjamb, amble on shaking legs to the window and twist the wand to open the blinds. When I wheel around, I gasp and clutch my throat. There’s dried blood everywhere, splattered on the bed, staining the hardwood floor. My nightstand lamp lays shattered on the floor next to the book I haven’t read. I perch at the foot of the bed, in the middle of the carnage of my life, and weep.

****

Two weeks later, nestled in the wide armchair in our small study lounge room, I set my cup of tea on the side table beside me and smile when tiny Gertie bosses around the crew of three big muscly guys delivering my new bed.

When one of them rolls his eyes at something she says, I giggle as she winks at me.

Not once has Gertie probed or questioned me about the pregnancy. She visits every day, and often brings food with her. Tasty, delicious food from Poland, her birth country.

During our many conversations, I learn that she’s been widowed for seventeen years, has three adult children who rarely visit, and is lonely and lovely.

I’ve thanked her several times for taking care of me. The day I apologized and confessed my terrible judgement of her as a nosy meddler, she threw her head back in laughter and nearly fell off the stool in the kitchen—maybe because of the two glasses of Drambuie she had—then she held my face between her wrinkly hands and smacked a loud kiss somewhere between my hairline and the bridge of my nose.

“Oh, but I am, my dove, I am. I’m also a mother without her children and you’re a child without a mother.”

****

Seated in the middle of my bed, in my pjs on and clutching my cell, I shuffle to rest my back on the headboard. I plump a fat pillow before placing it between me and the too hard wood panel, and dial Emma’s number. She picks up on the second ring.

“Hey, babe. So sorry. I got your missed call. I’m drowning in exams, and I’m dead on my feet.” After a tired chuckle, she says. “So, on a scale of one to ten, how much do you miss me?”

“One hundred,” I reply with a smile.

After a couple of seconds, maybe less, Em sighs. “Babe, what’s wrong?”

How does she do that?

“Talk to me, Ael.”

So, I do. I stumble through being blindsided and hurt while feeling dirty and utterly stupid when I signed that evil contract. And I tell her how terrified I was when my baby died.

Emma gasps. “My God, Ael … this … this motherfucker … this… My God, Ael, I’m so sorry. Okay, let me book a flight—”

“No. Em, no. You have exams—”

“But—”

“Em, please. Don’t. Gertie’s here with me, and I’m fine.” When my best friend protests, I clutch my cell tighter and lean into it. “Em, don’t come back. Please. I wouldn’t be able to bear the thought that you put your life on hold for me. Please, Em. For me.”Please.

When she sighs, I swipe a tear off. “Okay, babe, all right, but you call me if you need me. Call me anyway and I’ll call you. Often. Deal?”

I nod through my tears and put a smile in my voice. “Thank you, my darling. I will.”

---