Crashing Souls

by Cynthia A. Rodriguez

  He set me back down, and I braced myself on the wall. It looked like I was casually leaning when, in actuality, I was holding onto it so I wouldn’t throw myself at his feet, or worse, follow him inside and go to Everett. A girl had to have some dignity. As the doors closed, I held my right hand up without waving, palm open and fingers spread. When I was alone, I looked over at the ring that he’d given me many years ago.

  Someday I wouldn’t have to say goodbye to him.

  I walked back into my apartment and stood in the center of my living room. There used to be a time when I loved it there—the quiet above the chaos—but now I just felt lonely. Instead of it being a dull hum, it was a loud roar. I looked over at my separator, which hid my view of the bed. I didn’t want to sleep in it without Dexter. I sat on the couch and waited for the storm of emotions to blow over. When they didn’t, I turned on my television and watched romantic comedies until I was too sleepy to drag myself to my bed.

  •••

  The thing about secrets was their ability to pop up anywhere at any time. I was in my studio, painting, when my hand stopped mid-brushstroke. I walked over to my phone, ignoring the missed calls and texts and when I saw the day’s date, I dropped everything. My phone rang, and I grabbed it from the floor and answered it quickly.

  “I forgot,” I whispered. “How could I forget?”

  Miranda’s voice came in soothing and gentle.

  “No need to beat yourself up, dear. I’ve got the flowers. I’m on my way to your place.” I heard the honking of city traffic.

  “No, no. I’m at the studio. Stop by my place and have Larry let you in. Grab the white box beneath my bed. Let me…I’m a fucking mess. I have to shower. See you soon.” I was numb when I ended the call. I was living in a fairytale. I’d almost forgotten.

  The shower was quick. I tried to be thorough, but I couldn’t get over my almost going the whole day without…I felt terrible. My palm pressed against the smooth tile as I emptied my stomach. When the vomiting stopped, I was wracked with sobs. I sank to the bottom of the shower and rocked myself. I didn’t deserve the comfort of it.

  When I heard banging on the studio door, I wrapped myself haphazardly in a towel and yanked it open. Miranda hurried in, her arms full.

  “Here,” she said, shoving something black in my empty hands. “I figured you hadn’t anything to wear either.” I eyed the low black pumps she set on the floor.

  I got dressed slowly, zipping the side of the black dress up with a drawn out pull, and when I fumbled with my hair, Miranda took over, smoothing the strands and pinning it up into a high bun. She handed me my diamond studs, and I wondered how this woman thought of everything. I slipped on my coat and put on my shoes. When she handed me the box, I was grateful I hadn’t put on any makeup. Tears coursed down my face. This box was all I had left.

  “Let’s go.” Sometimes I hated that Miranda was such a force. But I needed it, and I was grateful for it. She was a witness to the wreckage. When we got into the car, she told the driver where to go and sat back, looking at me. “You shouldn’t be going through this alone.”

  “I’m not. You’re here.” I watched the traffic, hoping she’d not say anything else. I couldn’t listen to it today. I felt her face turn forward and we rode silently. When the driver stopped, he got out and opened her door. She hugged her coat closer to her body, fighting against the flurries that had begun to fall, and when he held out his hand, I took it. He leaned in close and whispered his condolences. I nodded and grabbed the white box, pristine and bright against the dirty Seattle winter backdrop. We headed down a narrow path, one that I could walk in my sleep. I knew how many steps it was to my destination.

  Forty-five straight ahead, twenty-seven to the left, and only six to the right.

  We stopped and I closed my eyes. Miranda took the box from me and handed me a bouquet of daffodils. I stepped forward and finally opened my eyes. The small grave marker was always a shock to me. I read the words Miranda and I picked out years ago:

  Anna Cruz-Andrews

  January 11, 2008 – January 11, 2008

  I held you for your whole life. I’ll love you past mine.

  I placed the flowers down and turned to grab the box before sitting on the grass just above her. I lifted the lid and smiled at the softest white blanket with her name stitched in pink. Anna. Miranda swiped her tears away and pulled the blanket, which had been a gift from her, out of the box. I sighed at the stack of pictures. When I saw her little fingers that would never wrap around mine, I sighed again, this time my breath wavered under the pressure of the sobs I was desperate to release.

  She’d been carried seven months, kicking and reminding me of her father. Miranda and I found out I was pregnant after my first exhibition, and we were eager to have her so that I could get right back to work. We’d set up her nursery in the spare room of my apartment. I lifted the only outfit she’d worn, outside from the beautiful blue dress she was wearing now. It still smelled like her.

  Anna, the child I’d created with Dexter, had been stillborn, something I couldn’t wrap my head around. She’d be seven this year.

  Miranda placed her hands on my shoulders. I was content to sit here for the rest of the day, but I knew we had to go soon. The flurries were turning into thick clusters of snow that were sticking to her headstone. I wiped it off, angry that she was cold and I couldn’t warm her. It was an unreasonable thought, one driven by grief.

  “I hope you’re sleeping well, sweet girl,” I whispered. I kissed my fingertips and pressed them to her headstone. All I could think of while we walked back to the car was that she’d had Dexter’s nose. A nose he’d never see.

  My eyes were sightless on the drive back to my apartment. I was blind to everything but the sadness and the pain.

  “Did you want me to come up with you?” she asked. I didn’t know, so I just nodded. She reached for the box, but I held onto it firmly. We headed to the elevator, and I let her work the shitty doors. When she opened them again, I stopped short. Dexter was about to knock on my door. He turned to us and Miranda stepped forward, anger making her steps quick.

  “What the hell are you doing here? Go back to your happy little family,” she hissed. All at once, I forgot that I never corrected myself. She still thought he was married and living another life with another family.

  “It’s fine, Miranda,” I said, not looking in her eyes, “he isn’t married.”

  She looked back and forth and asked me if she should stay. I shook my head. I was quiet while she stepped inside the elevator. Dexter eyed the box in my hands, and I regretted telling Miranda to leave. Part of me wanted to run screaming from him. Instead, I unlocked my door and stepped out of my shoes.

  He followed me. I didn’t bother asking how he’d gotten up to my front door. Larry was nosey enough to notice his presence and assume I’d want him there.

  “I had no idea you’d be in town,” I said as I sat on my couch, the box on my lap.

  “Probably because you haven’t been answering my calls for the last hour. You’ve been crying. Why?” He stood with his hands in his coat pockets. His suit was black. Had he known somehow that today was the perfect day for it?

  I snapped out of it and cursed inwardly. I’d left my phone at the studio.

  “Just a tough day,” I lied. It wasn’t a complete lie, but it was a lie by omission. I was begging internally that he wouldn’t ask when he asked.

  “What’s in the box? You’ve been holding onto it for dear life since you got here.”

  I looked down at my fingers. Sure enough, they were white from the force with which I held onto the box. It was now or never.

  “This box will kill us,” I whispered.

  “What are you talking about?” He squatted in front of me. When he ran his fingers against it, I wanted to pull it away. She’d been mine and mine only for so long. I’d pushed her out, begging for them to just cut her out of me, knowing she would be dead when she was placed in my arms. I’d wa
tched her blossom up until the day they told me she wouldn’t grow anymore. Me, all alone.

  “I’ve hidden something from you and it will destroy us,” I said with a cry, more tears coming. I bit my lip to keep from telling him. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him. How would I word it? How would he take it? Hate, hate, hate…the same hot hate I felt when I thought of it. He’d hate me. But who would I have left to hate? I’d long since let go of any hate I might’ve felt for him, any petty little grudge I may have held. Could I weather his hate and mine? The hate I was now feeling for myself?

  “Is…is it someone else? I don’t care. I can forgive you.” I stood, leaving him and the box on the couch. He wouldn’t forgive me for this.

  “Open it.” I kept my back turned for a few moments until I couldn’t bear it anymore. The blanket was in his hands and he looked confused. Confusion turned to anger when he saw her documents with her birth date. And anger turned to absolute sorrow when he saw the pictures of me holding our dead baby. Pictures Miranda took of me in the same black dress I was currently wearing, sobbing as they lowered my sweet baby girl’s casket. Pictures of her headstone with his last name on her grave. He sifted through all of them before sitting back on the floor, his head between his knees. His shoulders shook and I let him cry. Silence. The dreaded silence went on and on through the shrieking in my head. I’d done this. Dexter aimed the gun and I pulled the trigger, killing all chances we’d ever had of loving one another. I didn’t dare wonder if we could survive this.

  “Why?” he asked. When I didn’t answer, he roared the question and I flinched. This was what it felt like to be ripped in half, I thought to myself. I reverted back to my old ways, pretending I couldn’t be bothered while the tears dripped from my chin onto my chest.

  “You left,” I said. His tears made me want to run, but I stood there and took his hate. It was as real, if not more real, than his love. Dexter had crossed that thin line between the two emotions, and I was still on the other side. He was my love.

  “No. No. Why didn’t you find me and tell me? I deserved to know, Noa. God damn it, I deserved that much!” He stood and I backed away. He wouldn’t harm me. Not intentionally. But his eyes…those bright blue eyes pierced me like knives.

  I shrugged. He got closer. He was pushing me, always pushing me. And he knew that I would crack underneath the pressure. Crack. Silence. Crack, as he stepped even closer.

  “I want to know why!” Crack. The final crack broke me.

  “Because it was my fault,” I screamed. “My body couldn’t make her stay. It was my fault.” My hands were shaking, and my mouth felt dirty with the words I’d kept in my head all these years. I couldn’t keep her safe and give her what she’d needed. My broken body wasn’t a fit place for her because I hadn’t even known how to love myself. She knew and she left me. Like Dexter had.

  “Is that what the doctors told you?” He’d heard my hurt and it softened him. But I wanted his hate.

  I looked away at the scratches on my wood floor. They reminded me of moving in and setting up her precious crib.

  “They didn’t have to, Dexter.” My eyes were trained on the scratches, and when he left, I didn’t cry. I didn’t call his name. I didn’t beg.

  It didn’t hurt any less than it had the first time.

  Chapter 35

  There were things that a woman knew, no matter what. She knew when she’d gone too far, which I had. She knew when she was getting her period, which I wasn’t. And she knew when she was pregnant, which I was.

  I looked down at the stick that revealed two pink lines.

  Fucking fuck.

  How could this happen to me again? I didn’t think, after Anna, that I could even get pregnant again. Clearly, I was an idiot. I’d been blinded by lust and unprepared. Irresponsible.

  I relied on the pill when I hadn’t even been taking it as prescribed. A few hours late here, skipping a day or two there. Shit.

  I hadn’t heard from Dexter in a month. A whole month of silence. And in that month, I’d managed to finish most of my artwork for the showcase. While Miranda knew better than to cheer at my heartbreak, she was pleased. She was also on the phone screaming.

  “I know it isn’t becoming of a lady to jump up and down, so I’ve locked my office door. Oh, darling. I’m so happy.”

  I couldn’t feel anything besides horror and panic. Horror at having to face the exact same situation and panic at the idea of it ending the same way it had before. I voiced my concern to Miranda.

  “We can’t think like that. You’re a healthy young woman, Noa.” She stopped, waiting for me to agree. I didn’t. I couldn’t.

  “What do I do?” I asked.

  “You have that baby. I understand why he’s upset. I told you to tell him. But handle it this time the way you should’ve last time. Find him and tell him. Before it’s too late.”

  We said goodbye to one another, and for the first time in years, I tiptoed into the spare room. The last person to use this space was Phoebe. I’d hired someone to clear out all of the baby’s things and donate them. Whatever I kept fit into that damn box that I held on to as if it could bring Anna back. My box of sins, apparently.

  Miranda said to contact him, but I’d already tried. No answer. And when I called, the number no longer seemed to work. I didn’t have the number for anyone else who might be in contact with him, so I decided it was time to go back home and see what Tracey could do. I booted up my laptop and scheduled the flight. It would be the same day of my first doctor’s appointment. I sniffled, wiping the tear that escaped. I was going through it alone all over again. And it was killing me.

  I didn’t know how I was surviving without him. After he left, I was a zombie. And the day after, I locked myself in my studio and worked. Wounds, both old and new, caused me to work with a feverish sense of needing to complete the project. Miranda said she hadn’t seen me work this hard since we first met, when I was dealing with my unresolved Dexter issues. Funny. I was right back at square one. And I was pregnant, again.

  I was different. It never even crossed my mind to have a drink. I didn’t know if it was because of the warning I’d received from the Angel of Death or because I didn’t need it anymore, but I woke up each morning, ready to take on the day alone. It hurt like hell. It was terrible. But I did it. Because I knew life couldn’t stop. And if I’d gotten through it once, I could again.

  Even when it felt like I’d been shot in the chest. Even when I’d have to stop painting because my tears blurred my vision despite not realizing I was even crying. Even when I reached for him subconsciously, only to remember, with pain in my heart, that we were no longer anything. That he probably hated me. I’d hate me too.

  I battled intense bouts of depression after Anna’s death. My guilt and self-hatred over the situation nearly drove me to my end. But it was hope that kept me going. In my mind, time went on. And if there was more time, there was room for change. Things would get better. And they had. I went from crying all day to crying every day. Every day to every other day and so on. Until I tucked the memory away in a part of me that I only unleashed with the sweeps and strokes of my paint brushes.

  I sat on the bed and looked at the light yellow walls. That was the only indication that this room had been meant for a baby. All things Anna had been sent away. I lay back and cried myself to sleep for the baby I was now carrying.

  It was going to be all right. Because I wanted the baby even if Dexter didn’t want me. And time would go on and conceal my wounds again.

  •••

  I was bouncing my knee up and down when Miranda breezed through the front door.

  “You’re fifteen minutes late,” I said through my teeth. Fortunately, so was the doctor. As soon as Miranda sat, I was called forward. They took my height and weight, and I sighed when I was several pounds over what I usually weighed. I didn’t mind gaining weight for the baby. It wasn’t like anyone would be seeing me naked. That thought made me want to cry.

&nb
sp; Miranda saw my eyes watering and rubbed my back. When the doctor came in, he stuck that terrible wand inside of me, and as soon as I saw the flicker of the heartbeat, the hope inside of me grew. He told me I was eight weeks. I tried to mentally calculate when it’d taken place but my moments with Dexter blended into each other. It was a blur of unprotected lovemaking and that fire. That blue fucking fire. We hadn’t been careful. Wasn’t he curious at all? Apparently not.

  Miranda mentioned my history, and the doctor told me to take it easy and to call him if anything. He handed me his card with a personal number on the back and left the room. I was cleaning off when Miranda grabbed the card.

  “Maybe you should give him a personal call,” she said with a smirk.

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Isn’t that what got me in this situation?” The nurse knocked and handed me a print out of the sonogram. I tucked it into my wallet without looking, knowing it would break me down, and Miranda and I hurried out as quickly as we could.

  “No. Love is what got you here. Not fucking.” She handed me back the doctor’s card, and I stuffed it in my wallet. Sex, fucking, making love. It got me here. Love was what got me a shattered heart.

  “Who wants to fuck a pregnant lady? Especially when the baby isn’t theirs?” I pulled my hair into a ponytail and slid into her waiting car. “Plus I’d feel like a whore.”

  “He certainly looked like he wanted to fuck you,” she said, ignoring my last statement. “Or maybe he wanted to fuck me. Let me see that card again.” She had her expensive purse in her hands and her hair was perfect, of course.

  I burst into tears.

  “I forgot how emotional you were when pregnant. Except you were broken-hearted both times, so maybe that’s a factor. Don’t cry, darling. I won’t fuck your doctor.”

  I laughed, unable to stem the flow of emotions that went in every which way.

  “Fuck him all you want, Miranda. I’m crying because I only want to sleep with one person and he wants nothing to do with me.” I sniffled as the car slid into the slow-moving traffic.