| ficlet |
She’s promised to be honest. She’s promised to open up. To let him listen to her. Trouble is, she doesn’t know where to begin.
He pours her a glass a wine. They sit on the couch. She struggles.
Of course. The baby.
She doesn’t know what he knows about the baby. She had never told him she was pregnant at the time, but she’s always assumed that he heard. He has his ways of hearing things, after all.
She starts by apologizing for not telling him about the baby herself.
“No need to apologize,” he responds, as if brushing it off his shoulder. “No need at all.”
She tells him how scared she was. How nervous the pregnancy made her, how difficult it was to maintain hope. She knows he doesn’t understand.
It’s a war between her brain and her heart, finding the words to describe the miscarriage. Her mind tries to tell the story without emotion, like reciting learned facts. Her heart wants her to cry.
“You don’t have to do this, Martha,” Lionel says, taking her hand.
She does and she knows it. She takes a breath, and describes to him the day of Lex’s wedding. Feeling optimistic as she got dressed, feeling beautiful and hopeful for the first time. Then worrying about Clark. Lana showing up to the church alone. Running to the truck. Trading theories back and forth with Jonathan on the car ride back to the farm. The force, the energy, toppling the truck onto its side, over and over. Blacking out. Waking up empty.
“I’m so sorry, Martha.” He doesn’t look at her. She doesn’t blame him.
She tries to describe how she felt, then she realizes she hardly had time to feel very much at all. Soon Clark was gone, and everything was about him. Clark was gone, and she couldn’t grieve for her child. She lost two children at once. She could only deal with one at a time. She needed Clark to come home.
“Why didn’t you…try again?” Lionel asks quietly. She can see he isn’t quite certain if he wants to know the answer or not.
They did, she tells him, after awhile. And once she even thought she was pregnant again. Turned out to be the onset of menopause and nothing more. Such a small window of time they had, between being healed by the spaceship and being betrayed by her own aging body.
That’s why she had asked to work at the Talon. Not because she was bored, not because she “needed more of a challenge” in her life. She asked to work at the Talon because she needed a distraction. She wanted someplace to go where she wouldn’t feel sorry for herself. Where she wouldn’t have time to.
In that short span of time, she had lost a baby, lost her son twice, lost her husband to a three-month coma, and lost nearly everyone she knew. Working at the Talon was the only way she could think to move forward.
“I imagine people don’t think of you that way,” Lionel says, now even quieter than before. “As a woman who has endured so much. I admit even I never thought of you that way, but rather as the perfect wife and mother, a kind, giving neighbor and friend. The smart, unyielding city girl who sacrificed her potential for love. I never thought to associate you with tragedy.”
That’s the way she wanted it, she tells him. And then…
“She would be seven today,” he muses, accidentally out loud.
Martha looks up at him, tears shining in her eyes, and for a moment wavers somewhere between smiling and frowning.
Seven. Her baby would be seven today.
She doesn’t let him apologize, though he tries to profusely. Instead she finishes her glass of wine, and goes to bed. It’s too late to grieve now.
He pours her a glass a wine. They sit on the couch. She struggles.
Of course. The baby.
She doesn’t know what he knows about the baby. She had never told him she was pregnant at the time, but she’s always assumed that he heard. He has his ways of hearing things, after all.
She starts by apologizing for not telling him about the baby herself.
“No need to apologize,” he responds, as if brushing it off his shoulder. “No need at all.”
She tells him how scared she was. How nervous the pregnancy made her, how difficult it was to maintain hope. She knows he doesn’t understand.
It’s a war between her brain and her heart, finding the words to describe the miscarriage. Her mind tries to tell the story without emotion, like reciting learned facts. Her heart wants her to cry.
“You don’t have to do this, Martha,” Lionel says, taking her hand.
She does and she knows it. She takes a breath, and describes to him the day of Lex’s wedding. Feeling optimistic as she got dressed, feeling beautiful and hopeful for the first time. Then worrying about Clark. Lana showing up to the church alone. Running to the truck. Trading theories back and forth with Jonathan on the car ride back to the farm. The force, the energy, toppling the truck onto its side, over and over. Blacking out. Waking up empty.
“I’m so sorry, Martha.” He doesn’t look at her. She doesn’t blame him.
She tries to describe how she felt, then she realizes she hardly had time to feel very much at all. Soon Clark was gone, and everything was about him. Clark was gone, and she couldn’t grieve for her child. She lost two children at once. She could only deal with one at a time. She needed Clark to come home.
“Why didn’t you…try again?” Lionel asks quietly. She can see he isn’t quite certain if he wants to know the answer or not.
They did, she tells him, after awhile. And once she even thought she was pregnant again. Turned out to be the onset of menopause and nothing more. Such a small window of time they had, between being healed by the spaceship and being betrayed by her own aging body.
That’s why she had asked to work at the Talon. Not because she was bored, not because she “needed more of a challenge” in her life. She asked to work at the Talon because she needed a distraction. She wanted someplace to go where she wouldn’t feel sorry for herself. Where she wouldn’t have time to.
In that short span of time, she had lost a baby, lost her son twice, lost her husband to a three-month coma, and lost nearly everyone she knew. Working at the Talon was the only way she could think to move forward.
“I imagine people don’t think of you that way,” Lionel says, now even quieter than before. “As a woman who has endured so much. I admit even I never thought of you that way, but rather as the perfect wife and mother, a kind, giving neighbor and friend. The smart, unyielding city girl who sacrificed her potential for love. I never thought to associate you with tragedy.”
That’s the way she wanted it, she tells him. And then…
“She would be seven today,” he muses, accidentally out loud.
Martha looks up at him, tears shining in her eyes, and for a moment wavers somewhere between smiling and frowning.
Seven. Her baby would be seven today.
She doesn’t let him apologize, though he tries to profusely. Instead she finishes her glass of wine, and goes to bed. It’s too late to grieve now.