In the first days after that visit to Condon, the tears surprised me in their endless return. When I drove, when I ate, and in bed at night, damp tracks slipping down my face.
In those days after, my breath came only to the top layer of my lungs, small breath, afraid of what I’d find if I took more air in.
I tried to put a name on the pressed-in feeling in my chest, the aching in my stomach. It felt of longing and fear, and I wanted it to go away. The only fix I could imagine was me, pregnant.
The chatter of Mom’s words echoed in my head like a herd of running horses. Missing out. Disappointed. Bitter. Lonely.
Nothing I did (cry it out, talk to Bill, clean, work, exercise) slowed them. I tried to give them their lead, run them out. I tried to corral them. I tried to forget them. Clean, work, exercise, clean, work, exercise, clean, exercise.
I watched Bill to see if he knew how much I hurt. To see if he would do the fixing thing, say, Yes, for you I will have a child.
He did know how much I hurt.
He did not say the fixing thing.