by Jane Igharo
For the first time in ages, I don’t hear my mother’s voice.
chapter
41
It’s late at night. A few hours ago, after returning from my mom’s, I called Elijah. I apologized and explained I couldn’t be with him because I was in love with Rafael. Despite the hurt and disappointment in his tone, he accepted my decision. He didn’t fight it. After a long moment of silence, he wished me all the best, and I did the same. Now, I’m in bed, burrowed under a heap of covers. My iPod is connected to a speaker, and I’m on the second hour of a Whitney Houston binge.
Minutes ago, “It’s Not Right but It’s Okay” was playing. The lyrics gave me a boost. I sang along—loud, proud, and determined. In the moment, I felt somewhat empowered and optimistic but those feelings passed. The next song—“I Have Nothing”—came on, and it quickly revived my sadness.
Now, another ballad is playing, and I sing along while sniffing and whimpering. “And I will always love you-ooh.”
When the instrumental solo begins, I quiet down and notice an offbeat banging. Well, that’s new. I pause the song, isolating the sound coming from my front door. What the hell? I get out of bed to investigate.
“Who is it?” The real question is: Who the hell is banging on my door, disrupting my Whitney Houston binge at eleven thirty at night?
“Azere.”
“Rafael?”
“Yeah. Hey.” Even with the door separating us, his voice is clear, and it’s gentler than it was earlier.
“What are you doing here?”
“Azere, I dropped by before, but you weren’t home. I’ve been calling you for hours. You didn’t answer your phone. I was worried. Are you okay?”
“No.” I don’t have the energy to lie or to disguise my pain as something else. “I’m not okay, Rafael.”
“I know. Why don’t you open the door, so we can talk?”
“No. I don’t wanna talk.” I just want to hide under my covers and listen to the next song on my Whitney playlist—“Heartbreak Hotel.”
“Open the door, Zere. Please, cariño.”
Even after everything, he calls me that. Cariño. Does he think the word will generate memories of who we once were? Does he think it will make me open the door? If these are his thoughts, he’s absolutely right. I turn the lock and pull the door open.
He stares at me. I’m a mess—red, puffy eyes, untidy hair, and a wrinkled T-shirt with blotches of tears and snot. As I walked to answer the door, I caught my reflection in a mirror, and I was a little horrified. I wonder if he is too.
“Zere.” He draws me into him. “I’m so sorry.”
The hug is tight and long. I cling to him. My sharp fingernails dig through the knitting of his sweater, and a hint of his smooth skin touches my fingertips. I never want to let him go.
“I’m so sorry about today,” he says. “The . . . the way I treated you.” Regret makes his voice shaky, uncertain. “I was just hurt.”
“I know, Rafael. It’s okay.” Even without him asking, I know what he needs from me. I stand on my toes, and my puckered lips reach for his. For the first time in so long, we share a kiss. In an instant, everything is better.
“Come in.” I step aside, and he enters the apartment.
“I’m sorry too,” I say, rubbing my arms, trying to flatten the goose bumps that sprouted due to the sudden chill in the room. “Sorry for breaking up with you. And I’m so sorry about Elijah. Can you ever forgive me?”
“Of course.” He takes my hand and holds it to his lips, kissing each pointy knuckle. “I forgive you, Azere. Now, come.” He leads me to the living room. “We need to talk. Please sit.” I do, and he grabs the fur blanket on the couch and places it over my shoulders. The beige fleece covers my upper body and falls to my bare knees. After ensuring my warmth and comfort, he sits beside me. His expression is grave.
“Rafael, what is it? What do you want to talk about?”
“Sofia,” he says. “Azere, it’s time I tell you the truth.”
“Okay.” I’m nervous about the information he’s about to offer, but I don’t show it. I take his shaky hands, giving the support he clearly needs. “I’m listening.”
“Sofia and I met when I lived in New York.” His stare drops to the floor. “I loved her. Very much. We got married after dating for two years.” This isn’t the easiest news to hear. “Our families were ecstatic—my parents and hers. Her parents being the couple at Pottery Barn.”
Of course. It makes sense.
“We were so happy.” A smile touches his lips briefly. “During a Fourth of July weekend, we stayed at her parents’ place in New Haven. We were supposed to drive back to the city on Sunday evening, but she wanted us to stay another night and drive back early in the morning. A storm was coming. She didn’t want us to get caught in it, but I convinced her we would be fine. So we left.”
For a long while, he says nothing. His jaw contracts, his brows furrow, and his hands turn clammy.
“The storm started, and it was bad, but we were managing. We were halfway home. Then it all happened so fast. Screeching tires,” he says. “I heard screeching tires and a crash. Then everything went dark. When I came to, she was unconscious. Her blood . . . it was everywhere. A car had lost control and T-boned ours—crashed right into her side of the car. She didn’t survive the impact. She died. They both did.”
“Both?”
“Yeah.” Tears gather at the rims of his eyelids and drop. “She was nine months pregnant. Due to have the baby within days.”
Immediately, my hand drops on my stomach. Though I try to stay strong for him, a sob rumbles out of my mouth. He lost a child, experienced an incredible loss. What was it like for him to see me pregnant? Did the sight of me trigger his past? Was the preparation for our child bittersweet? It must have been on some level, and he dealt with that alone. As I watch him, it all becomes clear. This is the pain that’s been haunting him, the pain that created an eerie void in his striking blue eyes.
“In New York, I visited her grave—their graves. That’s why I didn’t want you to come along. That’s why I was distant when I came home.”
That’s everything—all my questions answered, all my suspicions put to rest. There are no more secrets between us.
“Rafael, why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“Because I was afraid you wouldn’t want to be with me.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because it was my fault—Sofia, our child. That was my fault. I should’ve listened to her. She didn’t want to go. I convinced her to. I promised her we would be okay, and she trusted me.” He shakes his head, remorseful and distraught. “It was all my fault. They died because of me, and I carry that guilt every single day. Azere, I’m messed up. And who wants to deal with that? Who wants all that baggage?”
“Rafael.” I take his face in my hands. “Listen to me.” My thumbs move over his wet cheeks. “It wasn’t your fault.” I say the words again and again, ignore the tears pouring out of my eyes and speak with tenacity, attempting to convince him of what is true. “It wasn’t your fault.” When he nods as if understanding and accepting the words, I wrap my arms around him and hold him tight for seconds, then minutes, until he pulls away.
“Azere, I’ve mourned Sofia and our child for three years. I decided to leave New York because it was time to move on. But even so, I came to Toronto in the same state I had been in for years—miserable and hopeless.
“But the instant I saw you in that lounge, drinking and staring off into space, something happened. I’m not sure what it was, but for the first time in three years, I didn’t feel absolutely miserable.” He smiles. “Even without talking to you, there was this instant connection that drew me to you.”
I felt it too—that pull. In fact, I feel it now. It’s as if the ends of one string are lassoed around our hearts—mine t
o one end and his to the other—and we can’t part from each other. Rather, we are pulled to each other.
On the night we met, that pull led me to his hotel room. And in the early morning, as I quietly slipped away, it took every ounce of resolve to resist that pull. And that same resolve has been exercised many times since, and sometimes, on many occasions, it has failed.
“Azere, when I woke up in my hotel room and you were gone without a trace—without a number or any way to reach you—I was devastated. But you were there—at Xander. It was like . . . like—”
“Fate.”
“Exactly.” He nods, his smile expanding. “Azere, you were the best thing that happened to me in a very long time. The past few months with you were incredible, the happiest I’ve been in years. But then you broke it off. You chose Elijah and . . .” He stands and walks to the other end of the room, his back to me. “It hurt. Zere, losing you hurt so damn much.”
“Rafael.” I toss the blanket that’s been draping my body and stand as well. “You haven’t lost me, and you never will. I’m right here, and I want to be with you. Look at me.”
He turns around, but his eyes don’t focus on mine. Instead, they are fixated on my legs.
“Rafael?” Color drains from his face. Something’s wrong, and I’m finally aware of what it is—warm, sticky wetness sliding down my thighs and soaking my T-shirt. I look at the spot where I sat. The teal sofa is drenched with blood. “No . . . no.” My knees wobble like they’re about to give out. I sit on the couch again as blood continues to pour out of me.
“My God,” Rafael says, kneeling at my feet. This scene is so parallel to one he experienced before. I’m not certain how he’s going to react. “I did this.” He assumes blame. “This is all my fault. I upset you today—stressed you out.”
“Rafael, look at me.” His eyes are set on the blood between my legs. He isn’t responsive to anything I say. It seems like trauma has unhinged him slightly. God, how do I help him out of this? What do I do? “Rafael, look at me!”
The zeal in my voice forces his head to snap up.
“This is not your fault. You didn’t do this. Do you understand me? This isn’t your fault.”
He nods like he did minutes ago, when I repeated the same words.
“Rafael, I need you to be strong right now. Can you do that?”
His head bobs keenly this time. “Yeah.”
“Good. Call the paramedics. Call them right now.”
“Okay.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. After dialing 911, he talks to the operator, giving my address and explaining my condition. “They’re on their way.” He ends the call.
“You see? Everything will be just . . . fine,” I say this even though I’m lightheaded. “Everything will be fine,” I say this even as Rafael’s face blurs. Stay with him, Zere. You can’t leave him—not like this. I coach myself inwardly. When I blink firmly, things are clear again. “We’re going to be fine, Rafael.”
Despite the confidence that straightens my voice, I can’t put faith in my words because my bloody legs are a heavy dose of reality that underline the inevitability of tragedy.
chapter
42
In most romantic movies featuring a pregnant protagonist, there is a dramatic yet equally comical scene where the water breaks and the expecting parents race to the hospital. In the movie Bridget Jones’s Baby, Mark comes over to Bridget’s apartment to reconcile their differences. As he’s about to attempt an emotional declaration, Bridget’s water breaks, and they begin their journey to the hospital. With a feminist protest obstructing their route, the couple faces a few hilarious hurdles before reaching their destination. When Bridget finally gets into a hospital bed, she’s screaming and cursing as she suffers contractions. Mark stays at her side, holding her hand, stroking her hair, encouraging her with loving words.
Inspired by this scripted scene and a few others of the same nature, I have envisioned various delivery scenarios. In one, my water breaks while strolling in the park, and Rafael, desperate to get me help, steals a tandem bike and peddles me to the hospital. In another fabricated scenario, we have access to a car. Unfortunately, we’re stuck in heavy traffic. I scream—you know, like every woman who’s in labor and hasn’t been drugged—and a miracle occurs. Dr. Jackson Avery from the TV show Grey’s Anatomy appears. In my fantasy, he isn’t an actor but a certified doctor, and he delivers my baby right in the middle of rush hour traffic on the Gardiner Expressway with “Circle of Life” playing in the background.
My fantasies, no matter how bizarre, have one thing in common—the birth of my child. Now, in a hospital room filled with scurrying nurses and a slightly frenzied Farah, that no longer seems like a possibility.
When we arrived at the hospital, Farah was waiting for us. After a quick examination, she explained my placenta had partially separated from my uterus; this caused the excessive bleeding. Because the placenta wasn’t obstructing my cervix, a Caesarean section wasn’t required. She broke my water, inducing labor.
Now, it’s happening. Based on what I’ve seen in movies, I expected my delivery to be painful. It’s not. It’s excruciating. I’m ready to call it quits, but that isn’t an option. The baby is crowning. I dig my fingernails into Rafael’s arm and screech.
“I can’t,” I say, breathless. “I can’t anymore.”
“Zere, yes you can.” He strokes my hair. “You can do this. You’re strong. I know you are.”
“I’m . . . tired, Rafael. I can’t.” I’m motionless on the bed, weak and defeated. I’m mortified by my reluctance to persevere. If not for myself, I must persist for my child and for Rafael. He can’t suffer another loss. I can’t allow it.
With that understanding, I gain a newfound resolve. I grip the layers of sheets beneath me and grit my teeth, pushing past the pain, the frustration, and my desire to give up. The piercing muscle contractions in my lower back threaten my determination, but I don’t quit. Holding on to my legs for support, I sit up and push harder than before. Tears and sweat cover my face, my heart thumps, and my body quivers under the strain of severe pressure. Certain I can no longer push, I fall on my back. Between my throaty inhales and exhales, there’s a cry—sharp and vibrant. Rafael’s head spins to Farah. I want to do the same. I want to see what . . . who has him overjoyed. Instead, I shiver. There’s a repetitive beep coming from the heart monitor machine.
“Blood pressure dropping,” a nurse says. “She’s going into shock.”
Rafael’s focus is on me again. He says something, but I can’t make out the words. He reaches out to me, but nurses enclose my convulsing body. I want to talk to him—tell him to take care of our child, tell him I love him, tell him to be happy no matter what. Unfortunately, my shuddering lips can’t form words.
Now, my eyelids are too heavy and can’t stay open. Rest, whether permanent or temporary, beckons me and its call is so enticing. As my lids close, Rafael’s distraught face appears between the spaces in my lashes. Soon, the world around me fades. There are no colors, no shapes. Merely darkness.
chapter
43
My father died at thirty-nine. He was young—too young. There were so many years he didn’t get to live. But those years weren’t wasted. They were inherited.
Often, my mother would say to my sister and me: Your father died young. You will not. The years he did not have will be added to your lives as inheritance. Untimely death is not your portion.
Considering this, I never thought much about death. I assumed I had been guaranteed a long life. I forgot that death is a greedy force that’s always prowling, always taking, impartial to youth or beauty or innocents. I was foolish.
Now, the strings leashing me to life sever, and I’m held by nothing. I’m falling into a vast, dark void that has no beginning or end, screaming and crying and clawing at blank spaces, pleading to nothing and no one i
n particular.
The fall is endless until something hooks me. I dangle, suspended by a single string. A single string. It lassos around my heart and tugs, pulling me out of oblivion and toward a speck of light. There’s something . . . someone else at the end of this string—another heart tethered securely to mine, calling me out of death by the sheer force of love.
As I move upward, the speck of light transforms, altering from a dot to a circle and increasing in size until it comes at me in a fierce, blinding radiance.
chapter
44
Light seeps through the seams of my closed eyelids. After opening my eyes, I blink until Rafael appears clearly. He’s standing over me, cradling a white blanket in his arms. My heart skips with excitement, and I prop myself up on my hands and shuffle to a sitting position.
“Take it easy, Azere,” he says. “Please.”
I peer at the infant sleeping in his arms. “Is that our . . .”
“Our baby girl.”
“Really? A girl?”
“Yeah. A beautiful girl.” He extends our child to me and places her in my arms. “And healthy.”
She’s gorgeous—fair skin with copper undertones, a head covered with dark, curly locks, and pink lips that pucker like the early spurt of a rose.
“She’s perfect, Rafael.”
“Yeah. She really is.” He sits on the edge of the bed. “How do you feel?”
“Great. I’m great.” Mostly because of the gem in my arms. I can’t take my eyes off her.
“Azere, you scared the hell out of me. I thought I was going to lose you. Both of you.”
“Well, she’s here now.”
“But you weren’t.” He cups my cheek, and I’m forced to look at him. Tears sparkle in his blue eyes. The trauma of almost losing us still haunts him. “Azere, when I saw you lying there, I thought I lost you.”
