“Look who it is,” he slurred, pushing her arm away, “the mother of my dead child.”
His words stung, but Emory didn’t back off. “Mason, you’re drunk. Let me help you.”
But Mason was in no mood for help and decided not to sit, stumbling away from her into the kitchen. He began to randomly open up the cabinets, one after another, in a frenetic pace. “I need something else to drink.” Mason tossed plastic glasses and paper plates to the floor in his mad search.
She tried to usher him out of the kitchen. “I think you’ve had enough.”
“I’m mourning the death of my child,” he said, dodging her. “Leave me alone. I have a right to have a few drinks.”
“Enough of this!” Emory yanked him out of the kitchen, her strength surprising him, staggering to keep up. “We need to get you sobered up.” She pulled him to her bathroom, turned on the shower, and pushed him in, fully dressed. Mason hollered, the cold water hitting his body, momentarily jolting him from his stupor. He adjusted the temperature and hung his head, letting the water do its work. When he came out, Emory helped him remove his wet clothes, then led him to the bed. “You need to sleep this off.”
Mason quickly pulled her down on the bed, pinning her under his naked body, kissing her neck, as Emory struggled to roll him off. “Come on,” he begged, “we can make another baby right now.”
His dead weight not budging, Emory kneed him in the groin. “Nothing can replace our baby, asshole!” Mason bent over in pain, allowing her to scoot away. Emory watched him work through the pain, then stretch out on the bed, exhausted. She heard him snoring before she left the room.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Wrapped in Mason’s shirt, Emory sat alone by her bedroom window, staring through puffy eyes into the night sky, wondering what Mason was doing and how he was doing and if he’d ever forgive her. She looked down at her mother’s ring. What must Mom think of me? She buried her nose in the shirt sleeve, taking in his scent, hoping for sleep tonight. She needed it. The past few nights, when she caught an hour here and there, her nightmares surprisingly had vanished, replaced by Mason’s piercing, blue eyes filled with anger and tears, unnerving her, causing her heart to race.
Emory felt an arm slide around her shoulder. She looked up, sniffling, at Wesley beside her. “Has he called?”
“No, sweetie.”
“Because he hates me, and I deserve it.”
“He doesn’t hate you.” Wesley held her. “He just needs some time. You’ve had six years to deal with it. Give him some time.”
“What if he just moves on like before?”
Wesley shook his head and patted her back. “I think he knows better now.”
“I miss him. And with tomorrow. . . .” She lowered her head.
“I know.” He kissed the top of her head. “By the way, the article about your engagement came out.” Emory looked up at him, worried her private life was now public. “It was all fluff. No mention of your injury -- or anything else.”
They heard a soft knock on her bedroom door, and Tomás peeked his head in the room, holding a tray of food. “Homemade potato soup with bacon and cheese.” Wesley gave him an appreciative smile.
So did Emory. “It’s good to have the chef back.”
Tomás held up the bowl to her, seeing Emory’s cheeks and arms thinner than he remembered. “Please eat something.” Emory picked up the spoon and took a tiny sip and a few more, then moved to her bed.
Tomás left to clean the kitchen, and after a few minutes, Wesley came out, quietly closing her bedroom door. “She’s finally sleeping. I haven’t seen her like this since . . . .” Wesley stopped himself.
“It’s OK,” Tomás said, indicating he didn’t need to know.
As bad as the last few days had been, Wesley didn’t know what to expect in the morning. Wesley assumed it would be rough -- the anniversary of the miscarriage was rough every year -- and likely even more so now. Potato soup won’t work tomorrow.
* * *
Mason had holed up in his condo, blinds drawn. He didn’t know whether it was day or night and didn’t care. He’d let himself go, without shaving or showering in days, sitting alone in his den, gripping a glass of whiskey in one hand and their hotel room key in the other, surrounded by the stench of leftover takeout cartons and stale liquor. He’d drunk Emory off his mind many times over the past six years, but alcohol apparently had lost its magic. It couldn’t change the past; it wasn’t helping him forget. Pregnant, fall, dead baby. All they could’ve been, what they should’ve been, haunted him.
His phone rang constantly -- his brother, mother, teammates, physical therapist, and coaches. He ignored every call, drinking more each time he saw it wasn’t Emory. Why won’t she call? Why would she? He closed his eyes, his anger transformed to guilt, as visions of Emory flooded his mind: her pink leotard, her voice, barbecue sauce, her naked body on top of him, the weight room.
Mason staggered into the kitchen for a snack. He grabbed a bag of chips and walked into the den, tripping over a pair of shoes along the way, his glass flying out of his hand, the chips crumpling onto the floor. He shrugged his shoulders. Maybe that’s my damn problem. I get in my own way. Mason looked around at the shattered glass and crumbs, numb to it all, and decided it could stay. My life’s a fucking mess anyway. He walked into his bedroom and took a seat on his bed, thinking about his decision to break up with Emory, and move on so quickly to Alexis. It got in the way of a happy future. It got in the way of Emory’s health. It got in the way of learning he had a child and seeing the heartbeat. It got in the way of Emory’s ability to make good decisions with her body. It got in the way of his child’s life. As much as Emory blamed herself, he wondered whether he, too, caused his baby to die. I left not just her, but our child. Just like my dad did to me.
And Emory had suffered alone, while he was in bed with Alexis. He hadn’t sufficiently paid for that mistake; indeed, he hadn’t paid at all. He knew he typically was able to get by with a wink and a smile, or with the attentive help of his brother or mother, but this was different. It required more. It required him. It required Emory. His past had caught up with him, and he needed to pay. I deserve to pay. No one could bail him out. He needed her. Why did I ever leave her? Mason picked up the remote and blasted it through the television in his bedroom, glass and sparks exploding out of the screen.
* * *
It was barely sunrise when Wesley woke. He knew full well where Emory was -- it was where she always was this day, regardless of the time. He decided to make coffee before he checked on her. He had time; she wouldn’t be going anywhere for awhile. He turned on the coffee pot and watched the drip, drip, drip -- one on top of another -- and the resulting steam, all reminding him of Emory and the day. He’d hoped that over the years, the day would take on less significance -- that time would somehow heal the wound. But it hadn’t -- not even close. Emory, rather, seemed to aggregate her pain, the current year’s pain cumulating with the prior year’s, all serving to burden her further. Drip, drip. Each passing year was another without her child: she had missed more time, and the pain grew worse. It never got easier, only harder, and the result was more and more pain, more angst, more steam inside -- now for both her and Mason.
Wesley poured himself a cup, drank it quickly, and walked downstairs. He knew what to expect. He stared through the door of the studio, watching Emory at the barre, dressed all in black. It was her usual routine -- locking herself away, starting with first position, dancing until her ankle was swollen, then collapsing. It was her therapy and penance, and Wesley hated seeing it year after year. He took a deep breath for patience and carefully opened the studio door, squeaking loudly.
“Get the fuck out!” Emory yelled.
“No.” Wesley joined her at the barre. “You have to stop this. It wasn’t your fault.”
“You say the same shit every year. Leave me alone.”
“I was there, remember?” Wesley slipped behind her and took he
r gently by the waist. “I heard all the doctors tell you.”
She jerked away, and he caught her arm. “Let me go right now.”
“No, stop this!” he pled. “I won’t watch you do this again.”
“Good, don’t watch.” Emory pulled her arm from his grasp. “I told you to get the fuck out.”
Wesley turned his back to her and started to leave, but he then thought better of it. “Where do you think your baby is?” he asked, turning back around.
Emory glared at him, on the verge of erupting. “What kind of fucked up question is that?”
“A simple one,” Wesley said calmly. “Where do you think your baby is?”
She knew Wesley could be a pest, but his simple question was beyond rude. She was grief-stricken, and this was all none of his business. But she decided to humor him, hopeful he then would leave, so she could resume her punishment. “In heaven.”
“I think so, too.” Wesley took a few small steps forward. “Do you think that those in heaven watch out for us? Want us to do well?”
Emory tapped her foot. He knew damn well this was her time -- on her child’s day -- and he was intruding, his soft voice and multiple questions grating on her. “You know I do,” she said sternly.
“You talk to your mother and baby, don’t you?”
Emory looked away, trying to keep it together, her lip quivering and a tear falling. “Yes.”
“Do you think your baby, just like your mom, wants what is best for you?” Another tear fell, then several more, as Emory nodded. “Do you think your baby wants to watch you do this to yourself?” Emory brought her hands to her face, covering an avalanche of tears. “Do you think your mother wants to watch you do this to yourself?” Wesley knew she knew the answer; she didn’t have to say it. Her legs gave way, and she gripped the barre for support, Wesley rushing to support her. “You need to let go.”
“I can’t!” she cried.
“Letting go of the guilt and pain, doesn’t mean you let the baby go.” Emory clung tightly, digging her hands into his back. “Don’t you want to be able to focus on the happy times when you were pregnant?” He pushed her hair back. “I know those few weeks were stressful, but remember how we played classical music to your belly and read the pregnancy books in bed.”
Emory sniffled, then mustered a small laugh. “We had no idea what we were doing.”
“And remember how I insisted you eat pickles?” Wesley asked, Emory laughing slightly again. “You loved that little baby. I saw it on your face when you first heard the heartbeat.”
“But Mason should’ve been with me for all that, and. . . .”
Wesley stopped her. “Don’t.” He looked into her eyes. “Be with Mason forthispart. He has no idea today is the anniversary of his baby’s death. Go share this day with him. You need the father of your child today, and he needs you.”
Emory nodded and dried her eyes. Wesley had given her strength and a direction, but she needed Mason’s forgiveness before she could forgive herself.
* * *
Emory stood outside of Mason’s condo, key in hand. Maybe I should have called first? She said a quick prayer, unsure what she’d find when she opened the door. She doubted it was as clean as she’d left it. She turned the key and unlocked the door, stepping inside slowly and shutting the door quietly behind her. “Mason?” she called out nervously.
It was dark, and the pungent smell hit her immediately. She put down her purse and keys and called for him again. “Mason?” She stepped over empty food cartons and dirty clothes littering the floor. Just outside the kitchen, she heard a crunching sound under her feet. She took a few more steps and heard more crunching. She opened the blinds and saw a collection of empty liquor bottles and kneeled down to examine the glass and broken chips on the floor. This is my fault. She heard a little moan coming from the bedroom. “Mason?” Emory pushed the door open and saw him on the bed, in his underwear, an arm covering his face.
She flicked on the light and opened the blinds. “Hey, stop that!” He threw a pillow in her direction.
Emory walked to the bathroom for a glass of water and aspirin. “Get up, drink this, take a shower, and put on a suit.”
Mason didn’t move but peeked under his arm, seeing Emory in a conservative navy dress and the coat he’d bought, her hair pulled back in a bun to show her pearl earrings.Why all dressed up? What time is it? What day is it?
“Mason, did you hear me? Get up!”
He covered his face and rolled over. “No!” Emory climbed on the bed and with all her strength, pushed him out of it, Mason landing on the floor, hard. “Damn, OK!” He staggered to his feet.
Emory picked up the glass and handed it to him. “Drink!” She then handed him the aspirin. “Now go take a shower.” She gave him a slight push towards the bathroom. “We have somewhere we need to be.”
“Where?” Mason pouted, squinting his eyes and running his hands through his hair. “I don’t want to go anywhere.”
“Get in the shower.” Emory gave him a forceful push. “I’ll pick out a suit for you.”
Mason walked slowly towards the bathroom.A suit? He stood at the sink with his head down, groaning and holding his temples, as he looked into the mirror. He hadn’t seen himself in days -- bloodshot eyes, face covered in stubble.
“Hurry up!” Emory yelled, making the bed. She fluffed a pillow and looked towards the television -- and the gaping hole in the screen, wires exposed, glass littering the floor. Jesus.
Mason decided against shaving. Don’t want to overextend myself. He did manage to get into the shower and wash his hair, the warmth of the shower refreshing him for a moment.
“Mason, hurry the hell up!”
He shut off the shower and dried himself, walking into the bedroom naked, still massaging his temples. “I’m going back to bed.”
“No, you’re not. Bed’s made. Get dressed.”
“I don’t want to. I’m tired.” He tried to go around her to the bed, but she stepped in front of him.
“Mason, have you been alone in here drinking for the past three days?”
It’s been three days? “Yeah, so?”
She cast her eyes down. “Nothing.”
“You thought I might be with another woman?”
“It crossed my mind.” Emory swallowed hard. “I’m sorry you were alone.”
Mason reached for her hand but stopped, seeing her engagement ring. “I wouldn’t do that to you again, Em.” Damn you for tempting me, Clive, you crazy bastard!
“I know.” She gave him a small smile and handed him a suit. “Now get dressed.”
“Why? My head is fucking killing me.”
She cupped his face in her hands. “Because our baby died six years ago today. I think it’s time we mourn that loss together.”
* * *
They both agreed Emory should drive, Mason in no shape to do anything. His stomach was queasy, and his head hurt. It hurt to open his eyes, let alone look out the window at the rising sun. It hurt to talk, which was fine because he didn’t know what to say anyway. And the turns were the worst, as if he was spinning into orbit. He decided just to keep his eyes closed for the most part, wallowing in guilt, blaming himself for the death of his child.
Emory didn’t talk during the short drive. She could tell Mason was hurting and gave him his space. She thought about his condition -- drunk and sloppy -- and the condition of his condo. It scared her. She didn’t have any magic words. She thought about her annual routine -- how scary it was to torture and torment herself -- and about Wesley’s words in the studio, while well-meaning, were comforting for only a moment. She knew, in the end, she deserved the pain. In fact, she needed it to satisfy her own guilt.
She pulled into a parking space, and Mason lifted his head, looking up at St. Peter’s. “We’re going to church? It’s not Sunday.” Should have extended myself to shave.
“There’s no better place today.”
They walked inside and saw Father Ton
y greeting parishioners. “Thank you for speaking with me this morning,” Emory said.
“Of course,” Father Tony replied, patting her shoulder, then offering Mason a smile. “I like what you’ve done to your face.” Mason rubbed his stubble, embarrassed. “Jesus himself had a beard.” Father Tony then suggested Mason check out the Book of Jeremiah before leaving to prepare for mass.
Emory and Mason dipped their hands in holy water and made the sign of the cross. She walked in front of him, taking a seat in the last pew. The church was mostly empty, not uncommon for a weekday morning mass. Mason sat beside her, careful not to touch her. Father Tony emerged, and the mass began, without any music or fanfare. It was a bare-bones service, with three Bible readings followed by a short homily which focused on the Book of Ephesians. In whom we have redemption through His blood, the forgiveness of sins, according to the riches of His grace. Such power comes from God in Heaven, Father Tony explained, and God’s followers are commanded to share the power with each other. Holding a tissue and dabbing her nose and eyes, Emory peered at the statue of Mary holding the infant Jesus, believing without question that her own mother was cradling her baby. And Mason’s baby. Mason peeked at her occasionally, fighting his every instinct to hold her.
After the homily, Emory and Mason bowed their heads, as Father Tony delivered the intentions of the mass, offering prayers for those serving in the military, for those affected by violence and racism, for the sick and suffering, and for lapsed Catholics to come home. He then offered one final prayer. “We pray for the peaceful repose of the soul of baby Mason, for whom this mass is being offered.” Amen.
Mason’s head sprung up, and he looked at Emory, tears in his eyes. She grabbed him, fighting back her own tears, and held him in her arms. “I know, I know,” she whispered, now crying herself. “I’m so sorry. I love you.” He buried his head in her neck, and she draped her arm around his head, the other around his waist, Mason clinging to her, his tears falling on the shoulder of her navy dress. I finally brought Daddy to say goodbye.
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