These Days Series: After Tuesday | Forgotten Yesterday | Deciding Tomorrow

by Renee Ericson

  “It’s okay,” he consoled, stroking my hair. “It’s probably nothing.”

  Leading me out of the building, Brent then hailed a cab and we took a ride to the hospital to make sure. When we arrived at the emergency room they weren’t able to take us back immediately, so we had to wait.

  There were no words, just constant tears—tears with no comfort. Tears wrapped in anticipation.

  About an hour later, we were finally called back to be seen.

  I lied back on the cold, paper-covered bed.

  The vinyl cushion was yellow.

  The nurse pulled out the ultrasound machine.

  She squirted the gel on my stomach and moved the wand around, finding our baby. I recognized the shape of our child instantly.

  No words were said.

  The room echoed with silence—screaming no sounds.

  There was no movement. The familiar flicker within the chest of my child wasn’t there.

  There was nothing.

  “I’ll be right back,” I faintly heard the nurse say as the ultrasound screen went black.

  Nothing.

  I had no weight.

  Over.

  The world didn’t exist.

  I was floating out of time, dropping into a cavern of nothing. Where was I?

  The air was stale.

  My soul bubbled with pain.

  We—I lost the baby.

  ~Present~

  The phone wails in the background. Tears are streaming down into the creases of my mouth. Blinking a few times, the image of the baby, my baby, within the ultrasound picture comes back into focus. My ringtone gets louder as my thoughts drift further away from that awful instant in time where everything sank into a dark abyss. It was the beginning of my, and Brent’s, undoing.

  The ringing finally stops and I wipe the strands of tear-soaked hair from my cheeks. Setting the image on the floor, I finger my forehead and regard my slightly bulging stomach from long ago. I’ve said goodbye so many times, but the longing is something that can easily come back. It’s never easy to lose someone or something you wanted so badly. Maybe even more than you realized at the time. I lost three people that day. My child, myself, and even though it didn’t seem like it…I lost Brent, too.

  Acutely, I hear my phone start to ring again. Rising from the floor, I shuffle to where it sits on my bedside table. Brent’s name flashes on the caller ID. Perfect timing. I clear my throat and pull myself together.

  “Hi,” I say, forcing a cheerful tone.

  “Hey there,” Brent replies. “Is this a bad time?”

  “No.” I clear my throat again. My eyes shift to the closet and then back to the bed. “I’m not doing anything.”

  “Oh. Okay.” Voices echo loudly in the background. “Hang on a second.”

  “Sure.”

  Rustling sounds come through the connection, along with a few muffled voices, and then a stretch of silence.

  “Sorry about that,” he starts again. “It’s hard to find a quiet place to talk in here. All the guys are getting ready.”

  “Ah…testosterone.”

  “Yeah, we have a little bit of it,” he chuckles. “I meant to call you earlier, but I got too busy and didn’t have a minute until just now.”

  “That’s okay. No worries.”

  “So,” he begins coolly. “You still up for later?”

  I move my gaze once again to the mess of papers in the closet and then to the ceiling. There’s a heavy stutter in my heart for a brief second telling me that, “Yeah, I’m still up for it.”

  “Good.” The timbre of his voice tells me that he’s smiling. I can almost see his expression. “It’ll be late.”

  “I know. It’s fine.” There’s something simmering within in me that needs to be said. “I want to see you again.”

  “I want to see you, too,” he retorts with utmost sincerity. “Just tell me where and I’ll be there.”

  “When do you think you’ll be available?”

  “Likely not until after eleven.”

  Considering the time and the day of the week, it’s not easy to plan a meeting place, but the idea of coming here or going to his hotel will…well, could lead to something. It would lead to something.

  “I’ll text you where, later. That way you’ll have the address.”

  “Don’t forget”

  “Oh, I won’t,” I laugh at his urgency, shifting my mood.

  “I’ll call you when I’m done here and know better about the time.”

  “Sounds good.” The pile of our life together calls to me and I step back into the closet. “Good luck at your game.”

  “Thanks.” He clears his throat and I wait, knowing there’s more. “And Ruby?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I know I shouldn’t say this but...” He lets out a breathy chuckle. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

  “Really?” I stammer out while bending down to pick up our “family photo.”

  “Really.” He sighs. “I’ll call you later. I’ve got to go.”

  “Okay. Talk then.”

  We hang up and I place the phone down to hold the picture with both hands. The look of adoration captured in that moment, slowly inundates me with embracing warmth.

  Love radiates off of the paper from Brent.

  From both of us.

  From all of us.

  I never could have fathomed that something joining us as one, would so greatly divide us into two.

  Twelve

  The tall lamps reflect off of the damp, dark pavement as a light rain falls from above. It’s half past eleven in the evening. Given that it’s a Sunday, the neighborhood pedestrian and vehicle traffic is sparse. My chest tightens every time a cab approaches, thinking it may be Brent.

  With the rapidly dropping temperature and the moisture in the air, I should wait inside the hot dog shop, but I’m not sure what kind of greeting I would receive. So, I endure the weather outside.

  After waiting about fifteen more minutes, a cab stops at the curb on the other side of the street, letting out a passenger. Brent comes into view over the roof seconds later and the yellow vehicle takes off, speeding north of the city. He jogs across the road when there’s a break in the traffic. I straighten, pushing off of the building to meet him at the curb.

  “Hey there,” I say, my voice breaking slightly. My nerves are on overdrive. Taking a stroll down memory lane this afternoon and the fact that his kiss still lingers on my lips from this morning has me on edge. “Did you have any trouble finding the place?”

  “No.” Brent tucks his hands into his pockets and tilts his head up to read the glowing sign. “Apparently, everyone knows about this place.”

  “Yeah, it has a bit of a reputation.”

  “So I hear. The cab driver said I should order the milkshake.”

  “Don’t you dare,” I protest, pinning a glare in his direction.

  “Why not?” he laughs defensively, stepping in closer. He smells of the same cologne from earlier and soap.

  “Trust me. You need to be drunk to fully appreciate it.”

  “Who says I’m not?” He raises his brows. “We won, you know. Maybe I celebrated the whole way back.”

  “Fine,” I playfully concede. “Order at your own risk.”

  He gestures a hand toward the door. “Shall we?”

  “Sure.”

  I lead us past the picnic tables sitting out front to the shop’s entrance.

  “I can’t believe I’m taking part in a hot dog booty call,” Brent remarks, pulling open the door.

  “Well, I want you to have the full Chicago experience while you’re here. Hot dog booty call and all. Plus, they’re open late.”

  The door closes behind us and the warmth surrounds me, allowing my tense muscles to relax. There are currently no other customers, a clear dichotomy from late Friday and Saturday nights, in the open, but small dining area. A few stools rest under a ledge that runs the parameter of the grey space, intended for ca
sual dining. A large woman passes into view of the ordering window, sparing us a glance.

  “Fire up the grill,” she shouts back to the other employees. “We got some horny fuckers in here looking for some meat. The honeymoon starts now.”

  Brent slowly turns his head in my direction with a wide-eyed, dumbfounded look. I sour my lips, holding in a laugh, and shrug one shoulder, acting clueless.

  “Come on bitch,” the girl calls from the window, leaning on her elbows. “Don’t be a cheap shit. Buy your woman some food.”

  Brent holds my gaze waiting for a reaction, but I’ve been here before, so I pretend that the boisterous hollers have no affect on me.

  “Do you know what you want?” I encourage him.

  He opens his mouth to speak and then tongues the inside of his cheek. A small grin creeps up the longer he holds my attention. I think he’s catching on that there’s something “special” about eating here.

  “Let me take a look at the menu,” he replies.

  “Ah shit,” the woman cackles. “We gotta reader. Listen, Imma give it to you straight. Hot dog, Polish, or burger. We cook it how you like it. We got fries too. That’s it.”

  “No shakes?” Brent asks me, confused.

  “Oh no, motherfucker!” the woman at the window shouts. She then turns, addressing one of the employees working with her. “You hear this shit? This motherfucker, here, thinks he wants a shake.”

  “Oh yeah?” The other woman, smaller in stature, comes to join her in the window. “This guy, here?” She glowers at Brent, up and down, and then bends over in hysterics.

  “What’s so funny?” Brent questions me.

  “I told you.”

  “You told me what?”

  “Not to go there.” Without a thought, I place my hand on his shoulder. “Just order and you can look it up online later.”

  “Ooooooooooh,” the larger woman hoots. Brent and I turn back to the window, finding her by herself with a sassy expression. The other woman continues to laugh in the background. “Now, now, kiddies, no hanky-panky in this fine establishment. You keep your hands to yourself.” She looks directly at Brent. “And don’t you worry, hot stuff. I’m sure you will get some if you’re not a cheap fucker.”

  Brent starts toward the window to order and I follow close behind.

  “So, you still want that shake?” she sasses with Brent.

  “No. I guess not,” he says, leaning in closer, like it’s a private conversation.

  “Mmmmhmmmmm. That’s right. You couldn’t handle it anyhow. I can tell you like your shakes small.” Her eyes dart to me. “And all we have here is extra, extra large.”

  “If you say so,” Brent laughs. “Give me a hot dog.”

  The woman leans back with mock disgust. “Now hold up Mr. All-American. Where are your fucking manners? Didn’t your mama teach you ladies first?”

  “Fuck, I can’t win.”

  I stifle a giggle. Brent was never one to cuss much in the past, and that may have changed over the years, but I would guess his profanity is an effect of this place. I even feel the need to start shouting insane amounts of nasty verbal vomit.

  Brent backs away from the counter, opening his stance to me. “Bitches first.”

  “Now that’s more like it,” the woman says approvingly. “We gotta keep these men in their place,” she addresses me, her voice dripping with honey. “So, what can I get you, sweetheart?”

  “Char Dog with mustard.”

  “I like that. A girl who knows what she wants. Now you?” she asks Brent.

  “Same.”

  “Smart. I can see you’re learning. You want fries? Don’t go all-cheap ass now. You’re so close to getting that pussy. You don’t want to blow it by not properly wining and dining.”

  “Sure. Why not? An order of fries too.”

  “With cheese. If you love her you get the fucking cheese. No pussy without the cheese.”

  “No cheese,” I interrupt.

  The woman waggles her finger at me with a glint in her eye. “See, I knew I liked you. You gonna make him work for your pussy.”

  “Yeah,” I giggle. “He’s gonna have to work real hard.”

  Brent snaps his head in my direction, mouth gaping, in pseudo astonishment.

  “All right Captain America. You better be paying.”

  Brent pulls out his wallet and hands over his credit card.

  The woman tsks. “And here I thought you could read. Where do you want me to slide that? My ass? Read the sign. Cash only, motherfucker.”

  “Shit. Nothing but the finest,” Brent mutters. He pulls out a twenty and holds it out towards her. “And you better give me change, bitch.”

  She fakes a smile, taking the bill from Brent’s hand. “You bet your sweet ass I will.”

  She rings our orders into the register and gives Brent back his change.

  “Did you miss this one, too?” she asks, grabbing the small bucket sitting on the counter and shoving it toward him.

  On the front, written in permanent marker, it states:

  All Bitches Must Tip

  “Of course not.” Brent takes one of the bills and drops it inside. “Bitch.”

  “Thank you,” she drawls innocently. “Your food will be right up.”

  I grab the fabric of Brent’s coat, directing him to the side where we can wait for our food to come out. He glares at me, waiting for an explanation, but I just can’t give him one. If I talk, I’ll bust up laughing. His dimples keep making an appearance, even though he’s trying hard to look right-pissed. I’m barely containing my giggles. And then, hell, I’m not containing them at all. Snorting at his expression, I cover my mouth to muffle my bubbling cackle.

  “I wish you could see the look on your face right now,” I tell him, through hiccupping snickers.

  “What the hell kind of place is this? Don’t tell me all Chicago hot dogs are sold this way now.”

  “Nope.” I wipe a tear from laughter away with my knuckle. “Just this place. They have the foul-mouth service market cornered.”

  “Well they do one hell of a job. Is the food even any good?”

  “It is, actually. One of the best places in the city, but most people come here for the late night customer service.”

  “It’s memorable, that’s for sure.” He rests an elbow on the edge of the counter by the window. “I’m not doing a web search, so just tell me. What’s up with the milkshake?”

  “Think Mardi Gras.”

  Tilting his head down, Brent tightens his expression, lost in thought for a short moment. Then it sinks in.

  “That’s what I asked for?” He takes another look at the woman who took our order, now taking care of and cussing at another customer. “For her to shake…her…”

  “Yes, you did.” I bust up in hysterics, leaning in and resting my head on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, I tried to warn you.”

  “Yeah,” he laughs with me. “But you didn’t say anything about the rest of it. That woman tried to rip me a new asshole with her insatiable service techniques.”

  “I know.” I’m still laughing.

  There’s a shout from the service window that our food is up. Brent’s lips sweep across my hair and my whole body to stills.

  “I’ll get it,” he says. “You’re obviously out of commission right now.”

  I disconnect myself from his shoulder and lean back, calming my laughter while he picks up our order. By the time he comes back, my giggles are in check, but I can’t seem to shake my cheek-aching smile.

  Brent sets our food on the counter that abuts the window. He arranges it so there’s a hot dog in front of each of us with the fries in the middle. I pick up mine and take a bite. It’s so good. Brent does the same and ends up devouring his before I’ve even finished half of my own dog. I nudge the basket of fries in his direction, signaling that he can have them. It’s noticeable that his appetite is more ferocious than mine. He picks at the fries eating most of them by the time I’ve finish
ed my char dog.

  “You can have the rest,” I tell him after swallowing my last bite. “I don’t really want any, anyhow. I’m not that hungry.”

  “You sure?”

  I wipe my fingers on a napkin. “Go on. I can tell you’re hungry.”

  “Yeah, must have been masked by all of those nerves in my stomach about seeing you again.”

  My heart leaps into my throat. He’s been putting a lot out there. Risking rejection by kissing me after brunch, telling me he can’t stop thinking of me earlier on the phone, and now admitting his anxiety about seeing me tonight. I haven’t been very open, at all, about how much he’s affected me in the past two days. It’s time to change that.

  “Seeing you has really thrown me for a loop, too,” I tell him frankly.

  Brent stops sifting through the fries and looks vacantly out the window. My hands continue to smooth the edges of the napkin with no purpose. I’m fidgeting.

  “How?” he asks cautiously.

  “A lot of ways.” I bite my lower lip.

  “Good ways or bad ways?”

  “A little bit of both, I think.”

  He reaches across the counter and allows his index finger to lightly trace the length of my own. I watch as his palm searches for mine, and our hands easily come together. A little too easily, like four years of time hasn’t come between them.

  Closing the area separating us, he softly says, “Me too.”

  Thirteen

  We finish eating and exit into the late night, or rather the early morning, since it’s now past midnight. The light rain has stopped and with no set plan, Brent and I decide to take a walk. We trek north, past the closed shops and restaurants before coming upon a busier intersection. At the major crossroad, I veer us to the west, away from the lake. I frequent this area often since it’s where I do most of my shopping. My apartment isn’t far from here.

  Together in silence, we travel a few blocks before I feel Brent’s hand reach into my pocket to find my own. Easily, instinctually, and without a thought, I lace my fingers with his. Hand in hand for another block, I catch him grinning in my peripheral vision. Everything feels so familiar. Is this backpedaling?