I feel suspended between my past and present as I stare back into James’s dark brown eyes. They’re nearly the color of midnight, shaded with worry and blazing with panic. But for a glimpse, they’re not brown at all. No, they’re the deep blue of Jerry’s eyes.
It’s his voice that I hear ringing in my ears. What the hell happened? Say something!
We were in this exact hospital, two floors up, still in the delivery room, when I received the news about my baby. Jerry was demanding answers, desperate for facts, the same way James is now.
“Bella, I need to see Mason. I need my son,” James repeats, his eyebrows furrowing as I continue to gape.
I need my son. Hadn’t I said the exact same thing to Jerry that night? I need my son. Except Miles was gone and I never had the chance to meet him. Not really. I gave birth to a stillborn baby boy that had my nose and Jerry’s chin and we never even heard him cry.
Around me, everything spins. Sounds are muffled, colors blur into each other. I know I need to tell James about Mason. About how he had a seizure and was rushed into another room. About the tests the doctors are running. But I can barely breathe as my past pulls me backward and my concern for Mason rips me wide open.
I suck in an inhale and it’s like breaking the surface of the ocean after waiting too long to come up for air. James’s voice rattles my brain and the scurrying of nurses in the hallway resumes. My hands visibly shake as I wrap them around James’s forearms. His hands still grip my upper arms, squeezing.
“He had a seizure,” I manage to say.
“Fuck!” James erupts, releasing me and turning away. “Fuck. Where is he?” He turns back sharply, his eyes wild and unfocused. “Bella! I’m dying here. I know he’s not your kid, but please, tell me what you know,” he demands.
I know he’s not your kid.
He’s right, of course. Mason isn’t my son. But from the second he sank into my embrace, his body burning with fever, his words incoherent, all I could think about was Miles.
I shrink into myself at the anger in James’s voice. It magnifies moments and memories I’ve tried so hard to forget. Jerry’s anger, the way he snapped at me. His disappointment. The way he looked at me like I failed him. Like I failed Miles.
A sob bubbles up from my throat and I smack a hand over my mouth.
James looks truly stricken.
I close my eyes and force myself to say the words. “He had a seizure. They took him to another room to run some tests. The doctor should be here any—”
“Mr. Ryan?” Dr. Leeds enters the room.
James turns toward the doctor as I press back against the wall. I wish it would swallow me up, make me invisible, and take me away from this wretched place where my greatest sorrow lies.
Dr. Leeds speaks with James but I can’t hear the words. I can’t hear anything except the frantic beating of my heart, the anger in Jerry’s tone, the sounds of my wailing when I learned the truth.
No heartbeat. Stillborn.
“Bella.” James touches my arm.
I blink slowly as Jerry disappears and James comes back into focus. He frowns at me, his mouth thinning. “You can leave. I’ve got it from here.”
I nod but his words rip scabs off my still healing wounds. I failed Mason. I failed Miles. I failed Jerry and James and myself. Again.
“Milly’ll want to see you,” James adds in a low voice.
But I know he doesn’t mean it. He just wants me out of here. Gone. Because I brought his son to the hospital, swore he was okay, and then watched as his little body shook in a series of convulsions and his eyes rolled back in his head.
“You can go now,” he says again.
I shake off his touch and gather my belongings. “You’ll call when—”
“Yeah,” James says, sitting down in a chair and pulling out his phone. His gaze darts up to mine for a flicker before he starts tapping on his phone. “I’ll check in with you in a bit.”
“Okay.” My voice is small and thin. Fragile. Like those shavings of wood, reeds, that I used to need for my saxophone. I always thought I’d have a child who flourished in music. The way my dad did.
When I don’t move, James raises his head again and lifts his eyebrows.
Right. I’m dismissed. I avert my gaze and leave the hospital room with my head down, my shoulders rounded, and the feeling of failure heavy in my chest.
The whole way home, I can’t shake the old inadequacies that surfaced tonight. James snapped at me the same way Jerry used to. The feel of the hospital, all loss and grief, rolled through me the way it did three years ago. But worse than that is the way my heart broke all over again.
Whatever progress I’ve made the past few years, the past few months, evaporates in an instant. I send Dr. Carlisle a message.
I was fooling myself in thinking I’d ever belong to a family again. My family is ruined. Gone. And I’m the only one to blame.
Mason returns from the hospital two days later. He’s a little paler, a little weaker, but his spirits are high. His fever broke nearly as quickly as it had spiked and with his febrile virus and seizure behind him, the doctor released him.
Physically, Mason is fine. But the emotional and mental anguish the Ryan family suffered as a result makes it clear they are still gripped by grief from Layla’s passing.
“I’m off.” James gives a nod on his way to the front door, his hockey bag slung over his shoulder.
“Have a good game.” I lift a hand in farewell, glancing surreptitiously at Milly and Mason.
Both kids stare after their father, waiting for him to kiss them goodbye or tell a silly joke the way he usually does. But the door closes firmly behind him and I catch the confusion on Mason’s face, the disappointment in Milly’s eyes.
Knowing firsthand just how much a health scare, any scare, can eat up all the progress a person has made in the wake of tragedy, my heart goes out to James. But the twins are my priority and their father’s checked-out mental state and clouded-over eyes frustrate me. On top of that, his shortness with me, his snapping at me, aches more than I’d like to admit.
“Come on, guys. Want to go to the park? We can shoot hoops before supper,” I say with more enthusiasm than I feel.
Mason yawns and Milly gives me a look of disbelief. Right, that was way too ambitious. Mason is still recovering. Aren’t we all?
“Or,” I stall, wracking my brain for a bright idea. Luckily, one springs to mind and I snap my fingers. “I got it! Let’s make s’mores.”
At this, both kids perk up. “S’mores?” Milly asks, letting the question dangle.
“Yes, ma’am. You’ve got a firepit, right?”
“Out back,” Mason confirms.
“And we have all the ingredients,” I hurry on.
“We do?” Mason asks.
I roll my eyes. “As if I’d not be prepared for s’mores. Don’t insult me, Mase.”
Milly snickers. I move to the kitchen and gather up the necessary ingredients. “Now you guys bundle up warm and I’ll get the fire going. And then, dessert before supper.”
The twins grin, their eyes twinkling. A surge of excitement runs through me as well. Not that this is walking on the wild side but it’s definitely breaking the rules I try to stick to. “Sometimes, rules are meant to be broken,” I continue. “Tonight, we’re going to throw caution to the wind and have some fun.”
“Okay!” Milly cries out, racing to the front closet for her winter gear. Mason follows, shooting me a grateful grin.
Once the fire is going and the twins are bundled up, we trek outside and sit around the firepit. I pass out sticks and we place marshmallows on the ends, leaning over the fire. The flames flicker and dance, casting the twins’ faces in rosy glows and shadows.
“This is fun,” Mason says after a beat.
“And it’s a school night,” Milly adds.
They look at each other and laugh, their faces giving away the innocence of their ages, the delight they’re experiencing.
“You sure Dad won’t mind?” Milly asks after a moment.
Even though I’m not sure how James will react, I know that I’ll deal with him if he’s angry. Something tells me he won’t be. Right now, the twins need something fun, something to distract their concerns away from their father’s worried expressions and stretches of silence. “Nah, he’ll be okay,” I say gently. Removing the marshmallow, I press it between two graham crackers, already coated with chocolate. Then, I pass the s’more to Mason and make one out of his marshmallow for Milly. When we all have a s’more, we tap them over the fire in cheers and take a big bite.
“Oh my God,” I groan, the melty marshmallow fluff sticking to my lip. “This is good.”
“So good,” Milly adds.
“Remember that time we went camping?” Mason asks his sister.
She nods, her face beaming. “Mommy stepped through a log.”
“Fire ants!” Mason exclaims, his laughter bubbling up. “It was the worst,” he says to me.
“Mommy’s leg was burning.”
“And she had little red dots everywhere,” Milly says, demonstrating by poking all over her leg.
I wrinkle my nose. “Oh man, that sounds brutal. Did you guys keep camping?”
Mason nods. “Oh yeah, Daddy fixed Mommy up and we made a campfire.”
“And s’mores,” Milly adds.
“We told scary, spooky stories,” Mason recalls.
“Daddy’s was the scariest,” Milly tells me. “It had a dragon in it.”
I grin. “That sounds like a fun trip.”
The twins nod again, old memories filtering through their eyes as they stare at the campfire.
“Did you ever go camping?” Mason asks me.
I shake my head, not telling him I’d rather get a root canal than go camping. “I’m more of a city girl.”
“I like shopping, too,” Milly says, as if that sums it up.
I laugh and nod. “What’s your favorite camping memory?”
“Stargazing,” Milly says without hesitation.
“See there?” Mason points to the sky, dragging his finger in a line. “That’s the Big Dipper.”
I squint and look up, trying to follow his movements. Slowly, the shape he’s tracing appears and I exclaim, “I see it!”
“Pretty cool, huh?” Milly asks me, popping another marshmallow on the end of her stick.
“Super cool,” I agree, listening as Mason points out additional constellations.
Sitting under the stars, eating s’mores with Milly and Mason makes my chest ache. While I revel in the time I share with them, their happy expressions and wistful memories dip my personal loss in heartache.
As November 8 nears, so does the restlessness coursing through my limbs. I push myself to run every morning before the sun rises until my body edges on total collapse. While Milly and Mason ease a lot of my pain, they also cause me to confront it head-on.
On the morning that Miles would have turned three, I wake up earlier than usual, a dull throb in my temples, an itchiness in my palms, a restless energy that won’t subside.
I step out into the chill of a Boston autumn morning and run too many miles to count. Slowly, the sun peeks through the clouds and the neighborhood stretches awake, but in my mind, there’s only room for darkness. I’m back before the twins wake, preparing their breakfast when James enters the kitchen.
He glances at me warily, as if surprised to find me in his home, his kitchen. Things have been strained since Mason’s hospital stay and while I tried in the immediate aftermath to make things right, I gave up when I was met with silence and indifference.
Today, of all days, I don’t have it in me to put myself out there. Not when my heart feels so tender, my emotions so raw and close to the surface. Today, I feel like one of the burnt orange leaves curling in the street—fragile, thin, and dying inside.
I butter Mason’s toast and don’t even look up when James clears his throat.
“Good morning, Bella,” he says, stepping around me to pour a cup of coffee.
“Morning,” I manage to reply, snapping the lid back on the butter.
He fixes his coffee and I hear the spoon clink against the side of the mug. I feel his gaze on my back, settled right between my shoulder blades.
A heavy sigh falls from his mouth. I cut Milly’s toast into four squares.
“How are you doing?” James’s voice is gruff, still layered with sleep.
“Fine. You?” My voice is controlled, direct. My fingers tremble and I feel brittle, weak enough to shatter right here. Swells of grief rise in my chest and I glance at the clock.
How is it only 7:38 a.m.? How am I supposed to endure this day? Survive it?
But I have. I’ve already done it several times. All I’ve learned is the people who say time heals all wounds are liars. Because how the hell can a mother ever move on from this type of devastation?
“What are your plans today?” James asks, shifting closer.
I feel the heat of his body at my back, not quite touching, but near enough that I could sink into his warmth if I let myself. I don’t. The last thing I need right now is kindness. Because kindness will shatter me and I don’t want to shatter before 9 a.m. when I have a job to do. When I have a memory to honor.
“Going to run some errands,” I say noncommittally, mentally running through the list of items I need to buy. “I told the twins we’d do a craft this afternoon.”
“A craft,” he murmurs, neither a statement nor a question.
I don’t say anything else. Instead, I give a jerky nod and leave the kitchen to wake the twins up for school. Right before I exit, I turn to look at James.
He’s staring directly at me. His eyes are turbulent, churning with emotions that I both recognize and despise. Heartache, loneliness, grief…pity? His expression is severe, his lips thin. I can tell he wants to make things right between us but today isn’t the day for that.
I sever our connection by taking the stairs, calling out for Milly and Mason as I go.
I focus on the routine, on the things I have to do. I force myself to move forward, to put one foot in front of the other. I smile when Milly wishes me good morning; I help Mason style his hair. But the entire time, breathing feels like having a knife plunged in my chest. Every single thing about today hurts.
The text messages from my family, the calls I ignore from Colton and Selina, checking in on me.
The lack of a message from Jerry acknowledging the loss of our son.
On days like today, even the best of intentions, the thoughtfulness of loved ones, the comfort my parents and big brother offer, burns me from the inside out. Kindness aches just as deeply as indifference.
Milly squeezes me extra tight before she bounds down the steps for breakfast. Three years ago, her mom was diagnosed with cancer the same week that I lost Miles. Maybe she remembers that time, maybe she feels the hopelessness in the impending winter.
Or maybe she saw my face and sensed that I needed a hug.
Whatever the reason, I decide that the three of us will make memory wreaths today. To honor. To remember. To accept. And maybe, to begin to heal.