“There’s nothing you can’t tell me, sweetie. I promise not to reveal what you say to anyone.”
“Something’s wrong with me.” I bit my lower lip, felt the pain of my teeth digging into the tender skin.
Her eyebrows dipped down into a vee. “You mean something physical?”
“No, nothing like that. It’s just…I don’t even know how to explain this, to myself or anyone else.”
She smiled, tentatively. “I won’t judge you.”
“I’m having these…weird feelings. I get pregnant, carry my baby to almost full-term and she dies. But Dr. Farney had told us not to worry about giving birth a few weeks short of her due date. Now all that hope and emotion and love. For what? She’s dead before I have a chance to experience her.” I pounded my fist on the table. “I did everything right, Cecilia. I ate the right foods, I exercised, I wasn’t stressed out, the baby appeared perfectly developed…”
Cecilia leaned back in her chair. “Of course you’ll be depressed, Brandy.”
“I’m not finished.” I took a deep breath, felt the tears sliding over the edges of my eyelids, down my cheeks. “I guess I blame myself for her death…no, make that I definitely blame myself for her death. Something went wrong inside me, in my body that caused this to happen. Weston and I don’t have our child because of me!”
Her lips set in a tight line. “Have you talked to Dr. Farney about this?”
“My appointment is scheduled for one month after…after delivery, in a couple of weeks,” I stumbled.
“Have you told Weston?”
“I mentioned it one time in the hospital. He didn’t agree with me, but what did I expect? ‘Yeah, Bran, I blame you for our daughter’s death and I think you’re a terrible person for allowing this to happen.’ I know he feels that way, but he’ll never admit it.” I swiped the tears from my cheeks with my fingertips.
“I don’t believe that for a second.” She covered my hand with hers. “I doubt he blames you for your daughter’s death.”
I looked at her sheepishly. “That’s not the only thing going on.”
Her eyebrows flicked up, her lips puckered as she chewed the inside of her lip, waiting for my explanation.
“Every time he touches me I have this…” I searched for the right words, needing her to understand.
“You have this what?” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I’d call it a vision but I never actually saw it happen, so—”
She squinted at me, looking confused.
After one deep, shuddering breath, having never said the actual words to anyone before, I muttered, “In my mind I see a baby…my baby, her face swollen and purple. She’s struggling to breathe and I can’t help her.” I covered my face with my hands. “Weston’s been very patient and understanding but—”
“He doesn’t expect you to have sex already, does he?”
“Well, Dr. Farney said as soon as the bleeding or spotting ceases we can make love. And it has…But these pictures I see in my mind, Cecilia…”
“Did you talk to a grief counselor before you left the hospital?”
I looked over at her, my face wet from crying. “A woman stopped by before I was discharged but I didn’t want to talk about it. And Weston has that typical macho attitude, he’d never spill his guts to a counselor.”
“But what about you? If Weston won’t go, that doesn’t mean you can’t.”
“I read the pamphlet—the stages of grief and all that? Fits me to a tee. I’m angry and depressed. But most women have a baby to show for their pain. God, I’m so confused right now. I just wish I didn’t feel this way. I’m hoping it’ll pass. Weston deserves better than a wife who can’t give him the baby he so desperately wants, who doesn’t want him to get near her because she has visions of her baby dying every time he touches her.”
“You should at least talk to Dr. Farney about this.”
I dabbed at my eyes with a napkin then grabbed a muffin from the basket and placed it on my plate. “I will…at my next appointment. I’ll discuss it with her then. Maybe I’m a candidate for drug therapy. You know, for postpartum depression?” I shrugged. “One suggestion was exercise.”
“You used to jog. You could try that again.”
“Endorphins, right? I saw something about that on the Dr. Oz show.” I paused, contemplated taking a bite of muffin, then decided I couldn’t swallow anything right now. “I can’t go on like this, Cecilia. I’m determined to wrench myself out of this.”
“At least you’re not accepting it as the status quo,” she said, patting my arm. “You’ve decided to do something about it. Give yourself points for trying.”
“Thanks for bringing these over, Cece. The way to a friend’s heart is through her stomach ya know.”
“I’ve gotta go.” She smiled and tilted her head. “Will you be all right here alone?”
“I’m writing again but I get so distracted, thinking about what might have been.” My eyes started watering, emotion overtaking me again. “I have to be so disciplined when I’m working. No one will write my book for me. I’ve got to get back into a routine.”
She stood up, leaned over, and gave me a hug. “Hey, you’ve got a plan, Brandy. You’ll talk to the doctor, start running again. I bet pretty soon you’ll be feeling back to normal.”
I gave her a weak smile. “I hope so,” I said then walked her to the door.
“If you need anything,” she insisted then gave me a wave and walked next door.
What I needed was to get back to work. I refused to wallow in despair. Life really did go on. And I had to learn to accept that.
Chapter 3
After Dr. Farney examined me, she tore off the sanitary gloves, and leaned back against the counter. “I’m sorry about your baby, Brandy.” I nodded with a grimace for a smile. “How are you doing?”
“I’m a writer, Doctor. I spend the majority of my time alone in the house, and I’m haunted day and night with thoughts about my baby’s death. It’s overwhelming.”
She rolled the stool over and sat down, her brows furrowed. “Are you getting out of the house, at least for a little while each day?”
“I planned to start jogging but I wanted to see you first. If you say it’s okay—” She nodded. “I read the pamphlets the social worker gave me about losing a child and also those from your office on postpartum depression.”
“Did you see a counselor?”
I shook my head. “I don’t want to rehash the whole experience over and over again, Dr. Farney. According to what I read, I’m following the grief timeline—first denial then anger, bargaining, depression and finally acceptance. I’m trying to accept it. That’s the last stage.”
“Have you had any suicidal thoughts?”
I shook my head. “No, never.”
“Trouble concentrating?”
I shrugged. “I just started writing again. I suppose it’ll take a while, though.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to be feeling completely well, Brandy. It’s been,” she looked at my chart, “about four weeks. That’s not a lot of time. Your depression won’t disappear overnight.” She paused. “How about Weston? How’s he doing?”
“He’s okay. I think he’s dealing with it the only way he knows how. He doesn’t like to talk about it but I can see it in his eyes. He gets this blank look. He tries to be supportive and loving but—” I stared down at my folded hands, feeling a hot blush crawl up my neck to my face.
“But what?” she urged.
“I don’t want him to touch me,” I mumbled. “Every time he holds me or kisses me I get these visions of my dead baby.” I took a trembling breath and continued, “I’m scared for him to touch me because the visions are so realistic, it frightens me.” Tears edged toward my eyelids and I tried blinking them away. I didn’t want her pity. I needed her advice.
I glanced at her, trying not to cry, but it was useless. The tears dripped onto the blue paper gown laid across my lap.
She placed her hand over mine and looked in my eyes. “We could try antidepressants, Brandy, but I’m hesitant to do that given the fact what you’re experiencing right now is to be expected. You lost your baby. And you carried her almost to full term. That’s devastating for any woman. And being intimate in any way will naturally bring up thoughts of procreation, and thus the fears surrounding her death.” She tapped her chin with her pen. “Let’s hold off for right now. See how you’re doing in a few weeks. Make an appointment and we’ll talk then. Perhaps you’ll feel differently about talking to a counselor.”
She patted my shoulder and left the room.
I dreaded going home, knowing what awaited me—an empty house, my laptop with a partially completed manuscript, and a fully decorated nursery awaiting an infant. I’d have to put everything in boxes and store them in the attic. I could ask Weston to do it but I felt so guilty about losing Christine I could barely look him in the eye.
He’d arrive home for dinner soon, we’d sit together on the couch and watch a little television, and inevitably our holding hands would lead to a few kisses which would segue into another of my explanations. I could not continue shunning his advances forever.
At the same time, I felt the tug of my novel. I hadn’t written but a few pages since coming home from the hospital and I wanted more of the story completed before the inevitable call from my agent.
So I drove home and had just settled on the couch with my MacBook when the doorbell rang. I peeked through the curtains and saw a truck, sides plastered with pictures of flowers of all types, sizes, and colors.
When I opened the front door, I could barely see the person cradling a large bouquet of pink roses. A young man bent his head around to the side and held the flowers out in front of him.
“Brandy Chambers?”
“That would be me.”
“Lucky lady.” He handed me the bouquet.
I thanked him and he took off running down the pathway toward his truck. I set the vase on top of the coffee table in the front room. A card jutted out of the top of the bouquet and I thumbed it open. It was Weston’s handwriting: “We’ll both feel better soon. Hope these make you smile. Think of me when you look at them. I love you.”
I fondled the pink petals with my fingers, wishing I’d feel something besides guilt and grief. I certainly didn’t feel romantic. But this was a temporary state. Worrying about ‘when’ instead of ‘if’ my depression would disappear was a better way to view my mental status.
After completing one chapter of my book, I smiled to myself, closed my laptop, and went to the kitchen to start dinner before Weston got home from work. I’d just put a casserole in the oven when he phoned, telling me he and James were in a meeting with the “big boys” and he’d be home after it ended. I was watching TV when he returned at ten o’clock.
I grabbed the remote and pushed the mute button. “How did the meeting go?”
He stood in the foyer a second before joining me and my eyes took in the full picture. He was a handsome man, full dark mustache gracing a wide mouth, straight even teeth, a tiny strip of hair ran from the middle of his bottom lip downward toward a sexy cleft in his chin, thick straight eyebrows hovered above chocolate brown eyes, slim nose, high cheekbones. And his smile was “to die for” lighting up his entire face with a grin that used to melt my heart. In the past, just looking at him would turn me on. But now I felt nothing and wondered for the hundredth time when I would feel normal again.
And no matter what clothes he wore, he always filled them out like a bodybuilder, full chest muscles, thick biceps, steel thighs. He loved working out at the gym, and it showed in how physically fit he was. He was a big guy. When he walked into a room, it filled with his presence.
Sitting down beside me, he took a deep breath. “They want me to travel to the East Coast to help with the initial building phase on a bridge in the New York area. There aren’t a lot of people who know how to run a job this size. I told ’em I’d have to talk to you first, but they need an answer as soon as possible.”
“Do you want to go?”
“It’ll mean a huge raise while I’m there, and they promised to pay me the same after I come back.”
“How long would you be gone?”
His eyebrows dipped down, his lips set in a straight line. “That’s what bothers me. I’d be gone for four or five months. I don’t feel right leaving you here all alone. It may not be the best idea.” He paused and then slapped his knee with the palm of his hand. “I forgot. How did your appointment go with the doctor?”
“She said it’s too early to treat my depression with drugs, that it’s natural to feel this way after losing a child at birth, and I shouldn’t expect too much too soon. She wants to see me in a few weeks to re-evaluate.”
He shook his head and leaned back on the couch. “I shouldn’t leave you, Brandy. It’s too early.”
“I could go with you.”
“You probably could, honey, but you’d be sitting in a hotel room all day. They said I should expect to work pretty long hours. Six in the morning until seven at night. You hate hotels.”
“You’re right.” I paused, thinking. “I’d feel more comfortable staying home where I can do my own thing. I really want to finish this draft and hand it over to Brent. He’s given me a lot of latitude already because of…everything.”
He shook his head. “Still. I’m not sure it’s wise, Brandy, you being alone for months after what you’ve just gone through. And I wanted to…you know…get the nursery taken care of, put everything in the attic.”
“I’ll do it, West.” I knew in my heart it would mean closure after I accomplished that feat. “I need to do it.”
He put his arm around my shoulders, bringing me toward his chest. Leaning down, he kissed me tentatively, slowly widening the kiss, his hand roving under my shirt, searching for my breast.
I could sense what he wanted and pulled back, turning away from him. “I can’t do this.”
Shoving himself off the couch, he stood, facing me. “I’ve been really patient, Brandy, but this is getting to be too much. It’s June. We lost the baby in early May. You told me you’ve healed already so what’s your excuse this time?”
He was frustrated, and I understood if he was leaving for several months there wouldn’t be many opportunities left for us to have sex. “I wasn’t making excuses. I’ve been too depressed to have sex.” Tears dripped down my cheeks—again. “Maybe it’s the price I have to pay for giving birth to a dead baby.”
He sat back down, turning me toward him. “I’m sorry I used the word excuse, Brandy. It was thoughtless. What I should have said is, do you think we could make love?” He smiled, engaging me with his eyes.
I shook my head. “There’s nothing wrong with making love, but I just can’t do it…yet.”
“I’m not sexually appealing to you anymore? Did the doctor say this is part of the postpartum depression thing going on here? How long am I supposed to wait?”
“Oh, West.” I sighed, aching inside, wishing there was a way I could explain what refused to be explained. It was easier to simply let him make his own assumptions than tell him the truth about my horrifying visions, the feelings of failure, the guilt. I had to believe I’d work my way through this in time, with or without a counselor’s help.
“It’s like we’re roommates. We share the same house but that’s about all. Every time I come to bed and try to cuddle, you mumble something about not feeling well or you’re exhausted or you’re too sad.”
I was caught in a web of my own deception. I couldn’t tell him again about blaming myself for our baby’s death. He’d already said he disagreed with me. “I was talking to Cecilia about this and…”
“You talked to Cecilia?” His voice echoed off the front room walls. “Great! You can share the most intimate details of our…non-existent sex life with our next-door neighbor but not with me. That’s just crazy, Brandy!”
“It wasn’t like that
. We were having coffee one morning. I wanted to run it by her, woman to woman, get her opinion about whether it was normal or not, you know? Was that so wrong?”
He stood up again, walked to the front room window and stared out the glass. “The fact you confided in your girlfriend before you talked to me about it makes me feel pretty left out.”
I got up and stood next to him. “I’m sorry, West.”
He turned to look at me. “I forgive you, Brandy, but can’t you at least try?” He took me in his arms. “Let me make love to you, show you how good it can be again—like it was before.”
The warmth of his breath along my neck made me shiver. Leaning back, I closed my eyes and tried desperately to melt into the physical feelings of his kisses, his solid arms around my back.
“Oh, Weston, I just—”
“Shhh,” he interrupted. “Don’t think about anything. I’ll take care of you. Just let everything go.”
I let my thoughts drift, making my mind a screen filled with images of waves meandering toward the shore. Weston lifted me in his arms, placing me gently on the couch, then covered me with his warm body. I forced myself to relax into his closeness while his hands slid along my stomach, pushing away my shirt, his tongue stroking the skin around my navel, up to my breasts, suckling my nipples. I tried to focus on the physical experience of his lovemaking and my insides loosened.
I’d always been an active partner in bed, giving as good as I got. But I felt different now; my mind and body were two separate entities that wouldn’t converge toward my sexual fulfillment. But I was a partner in this union. Everything wasn’t all about me.
I focused on making Weston happy. I could fake it, couldn’t I? I couldn’t continue rejecting him, expecting him to return again and again to give it his best shot. There’d come a time when he would give up entirely, perhaps look for solace elsewhere.
“I love you so much, Brandy.” He was breathing hard now, his voice edged rough by desire.
“And I love you,” I whispered.
He pulled back, staring down at me, eyes half-closed, one hand cradling my head in his palm while he guided my pants past my knees. Finding the zipper’s tag on his jeans, I tore it down to the end, widening the gap in his pants enough for me to feel his erection beneath the tight briefs. I gently pulled downwards along the edge of the soft cotton where he stood full and erect, waiting for my attentive hands.
Moon Over Alcatraz Page 2
