And Time Stood Still by Grace Bitzes Thomas

I stand at the sink and look out over the bay window in the kitchen. The world feels silent today. It’s moving, but in slow motion. The sun is peeking out over the top of a grassy hill. The hill I had imagined he would have played on. The hill feels haunted, though it did nothing wrong.There are no lights on in this big expanse of a house, no noise either. I know it will be awhile before there is noise. I try not to think about it.

I go to make coffee. Maybe she’ll drink coffee today. I’m hopeful enough to make it, but not optimistic enough to think she’ll actually drink it. I feel like I should check on her. She didn’t come to bed last night. In all honesty though, she didn’t come the night before, or the night before that.

I put the coffee on, yet the normalcy of it doesn’t fit into the current situation. I walk down the hallway, out of the kitchen, through the living room. I cannot bear to look in the corner. The gifts that were once a blessing are now a hard reminder of reality.

I stumble over the dog as I try to walk down the hallway to the bedrooms. I apologize to him. The grey light casts an ugly, heavy glow over the dark hardwood. The weight of the glow is hard to hold. I understand why she hasn’t gotten up in days. The world feels heavy, like a big wool coat.

She’s sobbing again. I can hear her from a couple doors down. My vision feels blurred and out of focus. I walk past the bathroom, past the guest bedroom, past my home office. The sobbing is getting louder and louder. I stop outside at the door of a randomly placed coat closet. I want to see her. I can’t bring myself to walk in. I feel stuck, as if I’ve stepped in honey. But if she can bear to be in that room, then I must be able to as well. I take a step and I see the familiar sight of the nursery. I step into the door frame. I gasp for air, like someone just punched me in the stomach. It’s a blow to know what this room could have been.

She’s sobbing still. I can’t bring myself to walk in. Her long blonde hair is spread out on the white carpet. She’s sopping up her tears with a plush blue baby blanket, a stuffed giraffe swaddled poorly in her arms. I think about the conversations we had in here, conversations about a future that would never be a reality. At least not with that baby. Our baby. We talked about pre-school and little league. We discussed whether we’d let him play football, if he’d be a writer or a scientist. We daydreamed about him going to an Ivy League school, but always settled on the fact that we didn’t even care if he went to college, as long as he was healthy and could be self-sufficient. We had sat here so many nights, sipping tea, saying things like, “I bet he’ll look like you. I bet he’ll have your eyes.” The light blue hues make this room feel heavy too, like being underwater. I’m drowning; I’m sure she must feel that way too. While I can’t stand this feeling, I think it makes her feel better, to feel pressed for air.

She rolls over so that she’s facing me, but I’m invisible to her right now. Her face is tear-stained and swollen, yet somehow, I still see her beauty. She has bags around her eyes, but they’re still electric blue, the same ones I’ve always gotten lost in. Her dyed blonde hair sprawled around her. I always thought it was like a halo around her head, glowing and golden. Her wedding ring, which used to be my grandmother’s, is still on her thin, delicate hand. The woman I love, the woman I married, is still there. The doctors told me to let her grieve. It’s been a month since it happened, but I haven’t talked to her in seven days. Though, I’m grieving right now as well. I’ve never been good at expressing emotions. I like to hold it all back. I’m not good with disappointment, but I wanted that baby too.

The first time I met her, she told me she wanted four kids. I smiled and agreed. I didn’t know how many I wanted, but I knew that however many she wanted was good enough for me. A few months after we got married, we found out she couldn’t actually conceive a baby. Anovulation, I think they called it. The diagnosis hadn’t changed how much she wanted children, but we both knew it would be an uphill battle. Every other attempt had ended in false positives. This one had felt different. This time, the positive was real. It just didn’t end that way. I didn’t think it would end here. We had been so optimistic.

Though I would kill to hold her in my arms right now, she didn’t want to be touched. If this was a normal day, we would be cuddled in a blanket on our couch sipping coffee. Oh right, the coffee. I turn to go to it.

“Adam.” I swivel slowly, so I don’t scare her.

“Yes?”

“What day is today?”

“It’s, um . . . September 21st.” She’s staring at the wall, but I know she can hear me.

“What day of the week?” her voice is so quiet; I struggle to hear her, but the house is silent. It doesn’t matter.

“It’s a Saturday, love,” I respond.

“Ok.” She pauses, seeming unsure of what she’s saying, of what she’ll say next. “I’m going to work on Monday.”

I’m so surprised by her words. I step into the nursery.

“Kate. You don’t have to do that, you just lost a baby,” My voice cracks. “Why are you doing this?”

“When you were at work a couple of days ago, I saw my paycheck on the kitchen table. I know I’m not getting one this month.”

“No one’s going to think less of you if you miss a month of work. You’re grieving.”

“But I will. I’ll think less of me.”

It’s like I got punched in the stomach again. I think so highly of her. She doesn’t think highly of herself. It makes sense. She wanted it so bad. She wanted the baby; she wanted to be a mom. I would never blame this on her. Like the doctors said, these things just happen, and sometimes, there is nothing you can do. I know she blames herself.

“It’s ok, if you can’t do it.”

“No, it’s not. I need to do something. I need to have purpose.” Tears are starting to form in her eyes. “I’ve wanted to be a mother since I was a little girl. Not just a romanticized idea of it, either. I wanted diapers and spit-up as much as I wanted smiles and tiny fingers. I’ve really, really wanted a baby, for so long. I’m tired of feeling useless. I’m tired of feeling like a failure. I want to do something. I’m tired of this constant heartbreak. If I can’t have a baby, then I need to work. I need to go back to work. It’s the one thing a woman’s supposed to naturally be able to do. You know?”

I stare at her. I wonder how long she’s felt useless. I wonder how long she’s felt like she doesn’t have a purpose. I know I can try to convince her to stay home, to grieve. But I know this grieving is older than this. All those false positives led her to this grief. There are no words I can say, nothing I can do to make her feel the opposite of how she feels now. This isn’t about me. This is about her, and that’s how I want it.

“Okay, how can I help you?”

“Will you bring me the sonogram from the kitchen?”

I don’t want to. In fact, out of everything I have ever done for her, this feels the most difficult. But if the woman who just lost a pregnancy wants to look at a picture of her baby, who am I to deny her?

“Yeah . . .” I walk out.

My head is fuzzy, my stomach uneasy. I don’t want to do this. I feel sick.

Before this morning, I hadn’t even looked at the kitchen, I hadn’t wanted to see the sonogram accidentally. I walk past the dog. I pause to scratch his head. I’m stalling. He gets distracted by a squirrel and runs toward the sliding glass door. I walk into the kitchen. I look at the refrigerator: a picture of our niece, a shopping list, a congratulatory card, a picture of us at our wedding, a sonogram.

“I have it,” I say, standing in the doorway.

“Can I have it, please?”

I step through the door. It still hurts to even step in. I walk toward her. I try not to look at the details. I try not to look at the rocking chair, the crib, the various baby toys, all waiting for a baby who will never come home. I sit down next to her. I hand her the sonogram. I feel hot tears; the most vulnerable, raw tears I have ever cried, fall down my face as I stare at the image of a baby, a baby I held for a second, but even in my arms, he had been lifeless.

“Oh Adam.” She looks at me and wraps me under the blanket, her arm over me. She had always been good at hugs, at showing affection.

“It will be okay.”

She is also crying now.

I cannot stop the sobs. “It won’t.”

“It will be.” Tears run down her face, quickly. “He really did have your nose.”

“No, he had yours. I’d rather think he had yours.”

“Okay.” She seemed more content.

“Okay.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

I looked into her bright blue eyes, and for a second, that was all I needed.