Impulses (83 page)

“And you know that I am going to have to go back home today to check everything.” I feel a sudden gush of alarm at her words, she’s leaving me? Why is everyone leaving me? I don’t want to be alone. I peer up at her through my lashes.

“Hey, it’s okay, sweetie,” she quickly placates me. “Hayden will look after you, you know you’re safe with him,” she tucks my three-day’s worth of matted hair behind my ear. “If you need me, he will ring me, or you can. And you know I will be back here like a bat out of Hell.”

I offer a tight-lipped conceding grin.

Green eyes flared, she lowers her head, continuing to search my face until I indicate my compliance. “Okay?”

I nod, and she snakes her arm around my neck. My flaccid body falls against her, resting my head on her chest as she holds me safely under the crook of her arm.

A loud knock on the door anchors us back to reality.

“That’s Hayden’s Mom. I’ll be right back.” She removes her arm from around my shoulders, and I grudgingly straighten myself up.

“Jess,” she abruptly turns on her heel and stares at me contentedly from the doorway of the room. I lick my lips. “Thank you, for everything.”

She rewards me with a heartfelt, unreserved smile. “I have been telling you for years, Sammy; I will always be here for you, no matter what.” And she resumes leaving the room to answer the door.

Jessie vacated the apartment about an hour ago, leaving me in the care of Hayden’s mother, Dana, who looks immaculate as usual. Apart of me feels grateful that I have people around me that care and want to help, the other half of me is vexed by the mere concept that I have to be under constant supervision because of any harmful tendencies they believe that I may have.

Dana sits on the edge of the bed with her back facing the footboard, a mug of coffee between her hands. She takes a sip, and rests it atop of her knee.

“Samantha. I like to believe that you feel you can be honest and open with me. I know we have only been in each other’s company once, but you are engaged to my son. You are my future daughter-in-law. I look upon you as my daughter; I will offer support and help like any mother would.”

Outstretching her arm, she places a friendly hand on my forearm. I peep down to see the contact, before raising my head to meet her gaze. Hayden has her eyes. I idly marvel over whose eyes Rose would have been gifted with, Hayden’s or mine.

“Talk to me, sweetheart.”

Trying to push back the tears, I sniff and shut my eyes. But they overfill my boundaries, and spill down my cheeks. I feel my lip tremble as I push passed my fears and voice them.

“I feel like I am going through this all on my own.”

Dana inches her way closer to me, “How do you mean, Samantha?” she probes, setting her mug on the bedside.

“Hayden is being so strong. It feels as though he don’t care, because if he truly did care, then he would be sat here crying from sunrise to sunset, just like I have.” I knit my fingers together and rest them in my lap. “I’m too scared to go to the bathroom, because every time I see––” my voice breaks. “I am reminded of what I have lost…what we have lost.”

She spreads her arms wide like the wings of a Guardian Angel and swallows me in her motherly embrace. Securing her arms around me, she grants me my essential needs to inevitability grieve freely while she smoothes her hand over my hair, and rubs the length of my spine with the other.

I wail in the crook of her neck.

“Sweetheart, I am going to tell you something that only a handful of people know,” she purrs.

I pull away, and gaze at her expectantly, my sobs waning.

She sheaths her teeth with her lips before letting them roll free. “Before Hayden was conceived, I had suffered a miscarriage.”

My eyes widen soberly.

“I was nowhere near as far along as you were. I was about eleven weeks gone. And I was in the exact same position that you’re in now. It felt as if I was the only one that was going through it. The mother is the one that suffers the physical pain, but to share the emotional pain…” she trails off, her eyes moistening as she gazes distantly at the flower pattern on the comforter. “Leonard was just like Hayden. He wanted to be strong, to get me through it because if he showed any form of anguish, he believed that it would add additional guilt onto what I was already experiencing.”

“I don’t understand,” I wince.

She smiles sadly. “Sincerely, Samantha, do you blame yourself?”

“Yes.”

“In certain instances, Samantha, men can be confusing creatures. Many feel that if they freely show their emotions, their hurt, that we as woman will perceive their grief as a form of posting blame. We already feel guilty enough because we feel as though we failed, and if my son is anything like his father, he doesn’t want to create an even bigger chasm between you, just in case you think him grieving, is him silently blaming you… if that makes a modicum of sense.”

I sit immobilized, taking in every word that Dana is entrusting me with. And from somewhere that holds an immense form of understanding, I can grasp that concept entirely, and it makes me understand Hayden’s reluctance more so.

“But surely, in me knowing that he can’t bring himself to go through it because of that assumption, it would make me feel worse anyway?”

She laces her hand in mine, “And that is why you need to let him know that it is okay for him to let go and succumb to it. I’m not going to lie to you, Samantha. It nearly broke me and Leonard, because we didn’t go through it together. A tragedy like this can pull you closer and make you stronger, or force you further and further apart. You want proof that he cares?” I regard her dubiously. “What about the vest?”

“What vest?” this is news. We agreed not to buy anything until we knew for definite what the sex was.

The mattress shifts as she pushes herself up and steps towards the dresser. Sinking down to a crouching position, she pulls open the bottom draw and removes a flat box. Shutting the draw, she returns to her seat on the edge of the mattress and hands it to me.

With the weightless package on my thighs, I warily remove the lid and unfold the white tissue paper.

“Oh, my, God; I had no idea. When did he do this?” I unfold the tiny, soft, pink bodysuit. ‘Daddy’s little’ is printed above a blossoming red rose.

Daddy’s little, Rose.

“Not last weekend, the weekend before.”

I clutch the material to my chest, holding it as if it is the most precious thing in the world…it is the most precious thing in my world. I close my eyes and rock myself back-and-forth, consumed by a moment of silence.

“Dana? When does it stop hurting?” I choke on my words, my vision blurring the presence of the only woman who can possibly understand me.

She leans forward, tucking a tendril of hair behind my ear. Her soft, warm hand lingers to caress my cheek. She inclines her head and furrows her brow thoughtfully.

“Oh, Samantha,” she whispers and shakes her head penitently while pressing her lips together, her own dark eyes welling-up. “It doesn’t ever stop. You learn to live with the pain and with the hole in your heart. They say time is a healer, but it’s not. We never heal…we adapt.”

It is 5:00 p.m. when Dana leaves me to my own devices, imploring me once again to contact her if I am ever in need of motherly advice or help, before she left. I have had Jessie do and say the exact same sentiment over the years. It’s different having someone else offer the same, knowing that they care about me and my well-being. I suppose if you have never really experienced it in your youth, it takes time to adjust to when you’re an adult.

Holding my lavender robe around my body tightly, I stroll across the length of Hayden’s front room and press ‘play’ on his music center by the expanse window. Oh, Hayden…even though he has his iPod, he still owns a three-disk changing CD player. I wouldn’t be surprised if I stumbled upon some vinyl records somewhere around here. I chuckle softly at my idle thought.

Gazing broodingly out of the window, I glance to the East and see San Francisco Bay and the Bay Bridge. I feel like a giant peeking down at sandcastles when I observe the smaller surrounding buildings, albeit there aren’t many neighboring us. I can fathom now why Hayden finds so much solace when he drowns himself in this spectacular view.

The sun bows in the sky, coating everything in fiery reds and orange tones. It’s beautiful and matches my mood as blood red veiny-streaks burn through; red––the color of danger, passion, anger and bloodshed.

I am briefly pulled away from my musing as the hiss of the speaker’s ebb and Hayden’s Motown classics reverberate around the apartment.

I turn the volume up on the center before turning on my heel and taking two steps away from the skylight view. I step down off the platform and stroll back into the bedroom.

Hayden’s dresser digs painfully into my shoulder blades as I lean against it, overlooking the unkempt bed. However, I am thankful for the distraction upon my physical body.

As I gaze forlorn upon the flat open box in the middle of the bed, I overlap my arms over my chest and rub my biceps carefully as if to warm the inner chills which peak inside my body. After a beat, I heave myself away from the cool wooden surface and meander toward the bedside, where the pink material spilling out of its confines, teases me with a fallacious hope.

Placing a satin clad knee upon the mattress, I recover the tiny bodysuit. Raising it up in the dimming light, I imagine our red-haired daughter giggling and gurgling as she studies our changing facial expressions, or her hand clutching at our little finger as she drifted off to sleep while we soothingly sway her tiny body.

Why? Why was she taken from us? I scream inwardly, demanding an answer. Dammit, this isn’t fair. I didn’t even hold her. Parents are supposed to die before their children.

With grief melding with a sudden surge of fury, I snatch the small bottle of pills off the bedside and stalk into the en-suite, clutching the cloth and the tablets to my chest tightly.

The tiling is so cold beneath my feet, I feel as if I am stood on ice. I flex my toes painfully against the surface as I stand at the overlarge vanity mirror solemnly watching my reflection. My eyes are open, yet it’s not me staring back. The person looking back is a complete stranger. Her hair practically black with grease and sticking to her scalp, her eyes are dark, puffy and the whites are bloodshot. Her face is gaunt, her lips pale, dried and cracked.

She looks like death. She looks like she has been through Hell and back, and even more now than at any point in her life, she looks like she has lost any form of hope.

Sniffling, I reluctantly place the vest on the white vanity unit that holds the washbasin. I press down and twist the white lid of the bottle, tipping the contents out into the palm of my hand. I feel like I am in a dream, totally disconnected from my life, not knowing if I am here actually doing this. Am I still in bed after crying myself to sleep again and just dreaming that I am doing this? It’s a very unnerving sensation, not knowing if you are consciously in control of you actions. All I know, is I want and need to be with my daughter.

There must be about twenty small, white, round pills in my hand.

Will that be enough?

Pulling my gaze from my hand, I study the woman in the mirror once more. Can I do this? My grandmother’s words haunt me; everything happens for a reason, lovely. But why this…I don’t understand. Why? I did everything that I needed to, and nothing that I shouldn’t.

A Religious Ed topic fills my head unexpectedly about the soul going to Hell. I can’t live with this pain in my heart, this hole in my body. But if I do this, you still won’t get to be with her, Samantha, my subconscious adds to my contemplation.

“Argh!” I scream as loud as I can. Spinning around, I launch my fistful of tablets across the room allowing them to ricochet against the walls and tinkling as the fall to the floor like a carpenter dropping his nails.

I seize the soft, pink material and hold it securely against my heart. Succumbing to my tears of anger or grief I don’t know, but I wail irrepressibly as I sink to the flooring, my back resting against the glass shower cubicle, my knees pulled in, hoping and praying that the more insignificant I get, the lesser the pain will become.

“Sam?” I hear Hayden’s voice but I cannot bring myself to look up at him as concern punctures its way through his tone. “Oh, beautiful…” he breathes and is instantly kneeling beside me, pulling me into his warmth as he wraps me up in his protective, consolable embrace.

“Samantha––” he pulls away and holds me at arm’s length. His hands wiping away my tears, as he searches my eyes and length of my body. “Please, tell me you haven’t taken anything, or hurt yourself.”

I remain silent.

“Samantha!” he shouts and I shake my head while concentrating on any words I need to speak. “Oh, thank God for that.” He pulls me back into his arms, and with his chin resting on my head, he sways us restfully on the tiled flooring. “I couldn’t bear to lose you, too.”

“I can’t suffer this pain anymore, Hayden. I feel like a hole has been shot through the middle of my heart; I can’t breathe.”

“Samantha, I can’t keep doing this…” he mutters.

I pull away from his encasement and gaze at him on tenterhooks. He licks his lips, a V forms in between his dark eyebrows as he stares at the pink material I hold against my body. As he lifts his head to meet my tired gaze, twin tears spill down his face, before dropping into his lap. “I can’t keep being strong anymore.”

“Oh, Hayden––” finally, I whisper. I twist and rest on my hip. Releasing the cloth into my lap, I frame his face between my hands. “I don’t want you to be strong. I need to know how you feel, because at the moment, I feel like I am the only one going through this.”

His tears flow unrestrained as he shakes his head dismissively. “I don’t deserve to grieve.”

“What?” I chide, and I feel the creases of my perplexity deepen along my brow.

“I didn’t go through the morning sickness, I didn’t experience the mood swings…” his voice is clear and terse. He sags and sighs before continuing, his voice lowers as he gives himself up to his broken-hearted and anguished bearing. “I didn’t even feel her kick. All I felt was the overpowering need to protect this tiny person with my life, but I couldn’t even do that.”