Dust particles danced in afternoon sun, filtered through the windows of the apartment. They rotated and spun to an unheard song, then gathered, clinging to the photo in Amanda’s hand.
She blew them away, soft as a southern breeze. Slick fax paper captured the blurry image of the fetus, black-and-white swirls promising new life. She traced her fingertip over the curves. Followed the tiny length of legs and arms. Lingered over the head and heart.
A medical font pronounced the mother as Amanda Thompson, along with the date and baby’s measurements at ten weeks. Just before the wedding.
Two months had passed, and Amanda’s stomach could no longer be hidden under superstrength girdles. She’d never felt right about them anyway, for fear of squishing the baby.
Since Mark’s tenure ended last week, she didn’t have to worry anymore. No more false sunny appearances on Sunday mornings, doodling on her bulletin and counting the minutes until the charade was over.
James Montclair had the nerve to ask about her health on their last Sunday. Not caring who saw, she rubbed her midsection and grinned a Cheshire smile. “Just fine, Jimmy. Just fine.”
Amanda got up from the nappy apartment carpet and stepped carefully over her list of thank-you notes from the wedding. Piled all around her lay crystal bowls and heavy linens, priceless china and the few oddball gifts. A nacho warmer. A set of hand-knitted pot holders. A hideous clock with pigs cavorting on it. From Mark’s side, she had no doubt.
She changed the radio to something bouncier, to get in the mood for organization. Her decaf iced tea melted, so she dumped out the huge plastic glass and made a new one with fresh mint from her window box.
Settling herself back in the one circle she’d managed not to clutter, she picked up the picture again, postponing the tedious art of writing thank-you notes. Choosing instead to dream. Little One. Half-pint. Two Bits.
Not knowing the sex of the baby was killing her, but she and Mark would find out in a few more weeks. She’d go back to Dr. Hoffman’s office, lie down on that vinyl green “lounger,” and stick her feet in the freezing stirrups. She’d do it cheerfully, because she’d get to hear the baby. To see the baby.
At the first appointment, she’d felt so nervous she’d been afraid she might pass gas right there on the table. The thought gave her the giggles. Mark’s exasperated look couldn’t squelch her laughter, but the chill from the clear gel sobered her.
Lisa, the technician, a skinny girl with long permed hair and puffy bangs, seemed perfectly at ease poking around her most private areas.
Amanda kept her eyes glued to the screen, a small monitor to the side. She couldn’t really make out the lima bean shape but uh-huh’d knowingly as Lisa listed off her baby’s critical parts.
The heartbeat, big rhythmic booms, had been so strong it startled her, like heavy orange basketballs thumping in practice in a high-school gym. That sound, the hugeness of it, made it all real.
Amanda met Mark’s eyes as hers filled at the sound-the external proof of the internal. Her baby’s music.
Mark slid his gaze away and focused on the screen. Wordless. He hadn’t made the leap to expectant fatherhood yet, not quite in the way she’d hoped. But he would. He just needed more time. After all, they’d gone through so many changes already.
When the communications firm had cutbacks, she’d agreed to a part-time position to preserve her job. Now, with Mark out of work, the financial strain became evident in the hours he spent at the kitchen table, brooding over the bills and job listings in the paper. With the pregnancy and lack of money, their dancing dates had waned away. Even finding time for movie nights at home proved difficult, with Mark on the computer for hours. Polishing his résumé. Searching for opportunities.
But she knew, when Mark found another job, and especially when the baby came, things would get better. Easier.
Like they were before.
Amanda replaced the sonogram photos in her memento box, an old cardboard boot box she hoped to replace with something prettier. Pregnancy tests, doctor receipts and prenatal brochures spilled out. Her baby stack grew as fast as her stomach.
Digging through the pile, her hands found an oversize album easily. She’d bought the Beatrix Potter baby book at Hallmark. Fell in love with it at first sight. With no regrets, she handed over her Visa.
When she showed the treasure to Mark, proud of her purchase, he said it was too expensive. He obviously didn’t share her unbridled enthusiasm for whimsical flowers and little mice. Not to mention flagrant disregard for their strict financial plan.
“I’ve got no job, Mandy,” he’d reminded her. “We’re on a shoestring. This severance isn’t going to last forever.”
So, she hadn’t started using the album in case she had to return it. But the baby book had a spot ready for the sonogram photo, outlined with ivy petals and impish critters. She itched to go ahead and paste the picture in, but she was trying hard to be a good wife.
She’d wait until he forgot about the purchase, and do it later.
After all, how could she possibly return her baby’s first keepsake? She imagined looking through the album with her child, reminiscing about first teeth and birthday parties.
Besides, she didn’t have time to worry about it, not that she was much of a worrier-she had a hundred thank-yous to write.
The phone rang, she dug behind a pile to find the cordless.
“It’s me,” Mark said.
“How’s it going?” She loved when he called her during the day to check in. She never tired of hearing his voice. “Have you interviewed yet?”
“No. There’s about ten guys in the waiting area. They all look pretty much like me. Younger, though. More professional.”
“No such thing. You’ll be great. Call me when it’s over. Better yet,” she put a sexy spin in her tone, “come right home.”
“That, Mrs. Reynolds, is a promise.” They still got tickled calling each other Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds.
“Good luck.” Smiling, Amanda leaned to hang the phone up. A sharp pain hit her side, almost like a cramp from running.
Massaging the spot, she stood upright.
“Little one, we’ve overdone it, I think.” Thinking to lie down, she headed for the garage-sale couch in the living room. The cheap fabric covering she’d made already pulled away from the burnt orange velvet underneath. I should really sew that up. It won’t take but a minute, and I can sit down when I do it.
Changing direction, she headed for the laundry closet to get her sewing kit. But she didn’t make it down the hall. The pain returned, slicing through her entire abdomen like a scythe.
A sound, shrill-between a scream and a whisper-escaped her as she crumpled to her knees.
Oh no. Oh no-no-no. She held her stomach with her hands and prayed. Oh, God, please, no. The cramps hit harder, twisting her insides around. The pain skewered her, held her helpless. Oh, little one, little one. You’re okay. Please be okay. I need you to be all right. We’re all right.
Trying not to hyperventilate through the spasms, she crawled to the phone. She squeezed her thighs tight together and continued encouraging her unborn baby to hang on. She paused between shuffles to cry. To breathe.
The phone book weighed a thousand pounds as she tugged it off the counter, still on her knees. Where was the interview? Which office? Mark no longer had a cell phone. The church paid for their old account and apologetically confiscated Mark’s phone upon his “resignation.”
They hadn’t had the money yet to get another one.
She turned pages, her leg muscles shaking from the strain.
She had to control her breathing so she could talk. She misdialed once, then twice. Trying to calm herself, so they would understand her.
Please let them understand me.
A pinched voice piped through the phone. “Good morning, Davis Enterprise. How can I help you?”
“Mark Reynolds,” Amanda whispered. Then, with more strength, “On an interview this morning. The ad department.” She couldn’t help the sob that escaped. “I need Mark. Please get Mark.”
“One moment, please. I’ll put you through.”
The line clicked to hold, and Amanda listened to the Muzak. An instrumental of “Walking on Sunshine,” she guessed, while she waited for Mark, and her baby died inside her.
THE PAPER-COVERED pillow crinkled as Amanda turned her heavy head toward Mark. He entered the hospital room well, with the appropriate air of someone bringing both empathy and hope to a sad situation.
He does this so well. He would have made a good pastor.
As he stepped close to the bed, she saw he wasn’t as pulled together as she first thought. His green eyes now bloodshot, red around the edges, and glassy. He had that line on his forehead, that crease telling her he’d been worried or angry. Maybe both.
But he smiled at her, gentle and sad.
She hadn’t seen that smile before.
“Come here.” Her voice sounded thick to her own ears, like the walls of her throat caved in on themselves. Like her uterus had caved in on her baby.
Women had babies every day of the week. Carried them, strong bellies round and triumphant. Yet she had failed. Failed herself. Failed Mark. And failed her child.
She reached for Mark and pulled his head, his precious head to her. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I tried to hang on…. The baby—”
“Mandy, no. Shhh. It’ll be all right.”
She buried her face in his hair, not caring if her tears or nose or anything else ran over him in the process. He was hers, and she could cry on him if she wanted to.
His smell comforted her, spoke to something deep inside. He smelled like safety and hope and a future. She drew it in as deep as she could. She cried harder, letting herself dissolve into his scent. He bent over her, curving around and above her like a shield.
Holding her, but he did not cry.
He accepted her tears and stayed strong for her, and a tiny shadow in her heart hated him for it.
When her sobs waned into deep breaths, gasping for a calmer rhythm, he pulled away. He smoothed her hair with long fingers. They tangled and it hurt.
Making more crinkly sounds, he leaned to the side of the bed and pulled a tissue from the rollaway cart. He handed it to her and she blew her nose loudly, inelegantly.
“Amanda.” His voice had the thick sound too.
She looked into his eyes, still bright with unshed tears, and saw it written there. She knew what he was going to say.
It was tangible, like the awful pillow and the grainy tissue and the hollow pain in her womb where the baby used to be.
Don’t say it. Please don’t say it. Oh, God, don’t let him say it.
He squeezed her hand, reassuring. “I know this is a terrible thing. I know how you must be feeling. I’m hurting too.”
Her doubt of his intention stirred. She didn’t see the hurt in him. She didn’t see much feeling at all. Then anger, displaced rage at his wholeness, while she lay in a million pieces, reared hot and lashed inside, a loosened tether whipped free.
There’s no way on God’s green earth you know what I’m feeling. Have you ever had your insides scraped out, Mark? Have they taken out your very heart and called it a “simple medical procedure”?
She lay there waiting, knowing what would come. She only hoped she could stand up against it, and not melt like wax before the fire.
Mark’s fingers wiggled a little, betraying him, but his voice came out strong, sure. “Mandy, I just can’t help thinking that maybe this was for the best.”
His face had nothing “best” about it. He looked like ashes stuck together, his green eyes dull against the mottled gray.
“That God knows best, and it’s his will for us.” He finished with another squeeze of her hand, a stranger to her in this intimate moment.
So it fell, like a tombstone on her soul, pushing, knocking away her breath and hope in one sweeping motion.