Chapter 5: After
Chapter 5: After
What's so funny is I'm scared and lonely,
And I don't think that I'm the only one
As I watch you drive away.
And what's so funny is the birds are singing,
Sun is shining,
And the bells are ringing,
And I'm thinking,
What happened here?
-Bob Schneider, "Changing My Mind"
January 2009
Spencer came to the hospital every day. He sat by her bed, keeping constant, attentive vigil. He seldom spoke. She mostly slept. But his intense hazel eyes rarely left her pale, bruised face. When they did it was to watch the rise and fall of her chest. To assure himself she still lived, even as he mourned knowing their baby didn't. He longed to touch her, to brush her hair back from her forehead, to hold her hand. But fear held him frozen; his hands remained by his sides and his lips remained sealed.
Dave came nearly every day, too. He waited until Spencer had gone before taking up his post beside the bed. Unlike the young scientist, Dave spoke constantly; told her about his latest book; offered amusing anecdotes about his ex-wives. Mostly, though, he read to her. He started with Little Women, her childhood favorite. He moved on to American Gods, a book that delighted them both. He did the voices with relish, especially that of Mad Sweeney the leprechaun.
His rendition of Mad Sweeney's wake nearly made her laugh aloud. Nearly. Laughter wasn't a language she knew anymore.
Near the end, as gods old and new began gathering at Rock City, he abruptly stopped reading, closing the book over a finger he used to mark their place. He sat in silence; watched her face. She turned away from him, unable to bear his concerned scrutiny.
"J.J.," he began softly, but she waved a hand to hush him.
"Just keep reading, Dave," she pleaded in a whisper. "Please just keep reading."
March 2009
Something had awoken him, but he couldn't figure out what. Instinctively he slid a hand across the bed, reaching for Jen's warm softness, but her side was empty. Cold. Frowning, he rose from the tangle of blankets and padded down the hall. He knew where she was, and it worried him.
A faint light glowed from the tiny room; he nudged the door open. Watched her for several heartbeats. She sat in the rocker, sea-storm eyes locked on the empty crib. The scene around her was ideal, surreal in context. They had painted a sylvan wonderland on the walls, complete with huge, hoary trees, peeking animals, faeries and toadstools. The ceiling was a perfect map of the night sky over New York in mid-June, the baby's due date.
He cleared his throat, but she didn't look up. "Jen," he murmured.
"Go back to bed, Spence," she told him softly.
His face scrunched, brows drawing together and mouth twisting. "Come with me, Jen. It's not good for you to just sit in here like this."
"I'm fine."
"I, uh...really? You don't look...fine." He didn't mean physically; tragedy and pain had, if anything, made her even more beautiful. It had refined her, distilled her loveliness into its purest form. She had been a pretty young woman, a sexy mother-to-be, and now she was an exquisite mourner. It pierced his heart, and the wound was a bittersweet ache.
She turned to him at last, looking up at him with pain-dulled eyes. "I don't want to forget him," she breathed, her voice tiny and tragic.
"What? Jen..." He knelt beside her; bowed his head into her lap. "That could never happen, Jen," he whispered into her thighs. "Of course we'll never forget him. But you can't...stop. You have to keep going."
She dropped a gentle hand down onto his sleep-mussed hair. Stroked along the curve of his skull, down the back of his neck. She could feel the knobs of his spine beneath incongruously soft skin. She remembered tangling her fingers in the curls at the base of his neck when they kissed, made love. It seemed like so long ago, another lifetime. "Will we ever be ok again?" she asked bleakly.
"Yes." He raised his head to meet her clouded gaze. "I think so."
Though she wasn't as sure as he, she allowed herself to be comforted, however briefly.
June 2009
It was late. She didn't bother checking the clock; she knew whatever it read didn't matter. It was late, and dark, and despite the season, cold. Some part of her recognized that the cold wasn't physical; it went too deep for that. It sliced too keenly; abraded too harshly. She wrapped the robe around her thin body (she'd lost weight since the accident; she was practically skin and bones now) and shivered.
Spence slept on, oblivious. She crept from their bed and down the hall. The nursery beckoned. She stared into the empty little crib and imagined life without the accident.
It was nearly the baby's due date. She would be on maternity leave, rather than the bereavement leave they'd practically forced on her. Her belly would be huge, round, ripe. The nursery would be full of shower gifts; Candice had already started planning one before the accident; there would have been several others, she knew.
Maybe Spence was right; maybe she was out of control. Surely it wasn't healthy to obsess over an empty little room like this. Surely by now she should have moved on. Except...what was the protocol for losing a child? Was there a statute of limitations on such mourning? And was it supposed to be easier because you never actually got to hold said child? Because you never changed his diapers or fed him or smelled his sweet baby scent? Was it somehow supposed to be easier to go from being filled with a little life to being...hollow? A husk, emptied.
She sank down in the rocker. Stared up at the painted sky. Every constellation spelled her lost son's name; every star resembled his beloved, unknown face. She knew something had to change, and soon, or she would lose herself completely. Slowly, excruciatingly, she mentally began to pick up the scattered pieces of her former life. She was well aware they all wouldn't fit into the new puzzle she was creating.
Down the hall, Spencer sat up in bed, head cradled in his hands. He was losing her, and he had no idea how to stop the slide. He wasn't sure how much longer he could stay afloat in the storm-tossed sea of their silent, shared pain.
September 2009
Summer was almost over. Soon the leaves would be changing; the chill would return to the air. He brought her mums, one of her favorite flowers, and reminded her how much they loved New York in autumn. She smiled at him, a little, and even that wavering expression lifted his heart.
She returned to work, and she seemed to be thriving there. Despite her lengthy absence, nearly all of her old clients returned, grateful to have her back.
They started going out again. Lectures, gallery openings, the occasional dinner. Nothing too taxing or strenuous, but something. He felt hope, that fragile, winged little creature, stirring in his bruised and battered heart. Maybe they had come through it. Maybe they would be ok after all.
He tried not to notice the way she rarely met his eyes anymore. The way she seemed to be spending so many extra hours at the office. He threw himself into his work, ignoring the signs that were written in huge, flashing neon letters right under his nose.
They were disintegrating, had been for months, and he tried to pretend it wasn't happening.
It was a rare night - the first time in weeks - that they were both home early enough to sit down to dinner together. She made spaghetti; he stayed out of the kitchen because of his tendency (despite the delicate work he did in the lab) to burn pretty much everything, up to and including water. They sat across from each other at the table eating in separate cocoons of silence.
He watched her a moment as she picked at the salad; took a small bite of noodles. He cleared his throat, brows drawn together. "So I was thinking," he began hesitantly.
"Hm? What's that?" she asked, glancing up at him.
"Maybe we could turn the nursery into a library...? We've always wanted one; I think it would be a great tribute to...the baby." He always hesitated to say the baby's name. He was never sure how she would react.
She reeled back from the table, her face transforming. "What did you just say?" she demanded in a strangled gasp.
His face scrunched in surprise. He had expected some resistance to his idea, but this instant, violent transformation was disconcerting. "I just thought...um...I thought it's been six months, Jen. We can't leave the room like that forever; it's not fair to anyone."
"It's Henry's room, Spencer!" She rose from the table and paced to a window, arms crossed over her belly.
"I know that, sweetheart," he replied gently. He stood to move behind her, watching her warily as she watched...her own inner turmoil, perhaps. "But Henry's gone, Jen. He's not coming back. We have to try to move on." He winced, realizing it was the wrong thing to say.
"Move on?" she cried, whipping around to face him. "He was our son, Spencer. I don't think there's any moving on from that."
"What do you suggest we do, Jen? Stay in this strange limbo forever? We can't do that."
"I can't..." She took several deep breaths, training to regain control. "I can't not do it, Spencer. I can't forget the way it felt to have him inside me. I can't forget how it felt to wake up and know he was gone."
He sighed; ran both hands through his mane of curls. "I know. I can't imagine what that must have been like for you. But does it really help to stare at that crib every night?"
Her fury was such that she had to restrain herself from slapping him. Trembling with rage, she glared at him through flaming eyes. "You're tired of me staring at his crib? You're tired of this limbo? Fine. I am, too. I guess I can't do this anymore, either." She stormed out, headed for the bedroom in a whirlwind of hurt and ire.
He followed slowly, warily. Wondered what she had in mind. Wondered if the wounds he'd just inflicted could ever be healed.
And now we're back to the events in Chapter 1. Since I created these two flashback chapters, I've gone back and dated some of the other sections, too, just so we all know when things are happening. :)
I'm imagining a sort of Citizen Kane-like drift between these two; you know, the famous scene at the breakfast table, where she starts out sitting on his lap, and by the end of scene they're at opposite ends of the huge table not even looking at one another. It's harder to put that in prose. Ah, Orson Welles, how I adore thee...you arrogant, innovating bastard, you!
Please review me if you're enjoying this story; I've stated several times that I'm a bit stuck on it, and reviews really help fire up Lady Muse.