by Becca Barnes
Evan tried to get me to talk, but I wouldn’t. I couldn’t.
I sat on the bed, fists clenched and heart broken. There was an empty suitcase at my feet. I had decided to go stay with Jen or my parents, but I couldn’t bring myself to fill it yet. Ironically because everything in this house reminded me of Evan. Every item held too many memories. A whole month’s worth of falling head over heels in love with the man.
It wasn’t that I was angry. Okay, yes, I was angry. Part of me was furious. He had lied to me. Repeatedly. Or if they hadn’t been outright lies, he’d certainly withheld the truth.
But it was more that I was sad that I hadn’t been given the chance to grieve. And I was disappointed that he’d kept it from me. This past month, he had told me over and over with his words and his actions that he adored me. But he didn’t trust me to share the pain of losing our child.
Bruised pelvis. I rubbed the spot where she’d been. Where she’d still be, save for a patch of black ice.
There was a soft knock at the door, and I had to fight the childish urge to shout, “go away!”
The door opened, but it was Jen who stepped into the room.
“Hey,” she said.
“Did you know?” I asked without preamble.
She didn’t answer, merely bowed her head.
“You did. You knew? And you didn’t tell me? How could you?”
“It’s complicated.” She sat on the edge of the bed, pulling at a thread on the duvet.
“So explain it to me. Explain how my best friend could keep a pregnancy from me. My pregnancy. My baby girl.”
“It was a girl?” Jen looked up from the thread. Tears splashed over her lashes, and she didn’t bother to wipe them away.
“You didn’t know that?”
“I only found out you were pregnant at the hospital. After you’d already miscarried. You hadn’t told anyone about the pregnancy.”
“Even my family?”
“No one. Although, I think they probably suspected. And in a few months, they could have done the math.”
“Do they know now?” Now that she was gone.
“No.”
“So Evan wanted to keep it a secret?”
“Ha.” Jen bit her fist to hold in the mirthless laugh. “Oh, gosh no. Apparently Evan had wanted to shout it from the rooftops before the pee had dried on the stick. You were the one who wanted to keep it under wraps.”
“No.” My hands shook as I touched the empty, hollow spot in my middle. “I wanted her. I loved her. I know I did.”
“Oh, honey.” Jen dropped the duvet and gathered me up in a tender embrace, both our tears spilling freely. “No one would ever in a million years doubt that. Never. You were such a loving mama for the time you had with her. You are a loving mama.”
“But I don’t even remember her. And now, she’s gone.” I pressed against my pelvis until I could feel the sharp sting of the now long-faded bruises.
“She may not be here.” Jen placed her hand over mine, then lifted it and held it against my heart. “But she’ll never leave here.”
“It just hurts so much.” Sobs racked my body, and Jen didn’t say anything. She simply rubbed my back as I curled up on the bed, trembling. “And I don’t know how to fix this with Evan.”
That glass wall between us had broken, yes. But now it felt like there was a minefield of shattered shards that threatened to cut to the bone no matter what I did next.
“Maybe”—Jen stopped rubbing my back and lifted my chin—“maybe what you need is to hurt together.”
Twelve
My breath puffed in icy flumes in front of my face as I made my way across the yard to Evan’s workshop. The building was warm inside, a refuge from the biting cold. Evan had his back to me, and I slipped in undetected. It smelled of cedar shavings and the musky tang of his sweat. He was slicing his way, inch by inch, through a massive tree trunk, his bicep straining against his tee shirt with each thrust of the saw.
There was no telling what the object would be. Maybe a stool. Maybe a table. Maybe it was just going to be a pile of sawdust, serving no purpose other than giving himself an outlet for his misery.
“Hi,” I said.
He dropped the saw without turning toward me and braced his upper body against the block of wood, his muscles still tensed.
“Annie.” He said my name hesitantly, his voice ragged and hoarse. When he finally turned around, I saw he’d been doing his own share of crying. “I’m so—”
“Don’t say, ‘sorry.’” The word had become hollow to me. An empty husk to fit in a hole that couldn’t be filled. I didn’t want apologies. But I did want answers. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He turned the stump upright and sat down then pulled a stool up next to it for me. A shaky breath escaped him, and his eyes drifted shut. Jen had said it was complicated. I had a hard time seeing how telling someone she had been pregnant was all that complicated, but I wanted to understand. I needed to.
“I did tell you,” he said.
“What?”
“In the hospital. They’d brought you in and gotten you stable. You’d had a concussion, and you had been drifting in and out of consciousness, but you were finally able to stay awake. You kept asking about the baby. They, umm, they told me that we’d lost her, and they asked if I wanted a doctor to tell you or to wait or if I wanted to tell you. I couldn’t let some cold, sterile ER doctor tell you that our daughter was gone. And I couldn’t keep lying to you and pretending everything was fine. So I told you, and . . .”
His voice severed into a ragged, choking sob as he broke down once more.
“It’s okay.” I stroked his hair and ran my thumb across his cheek.
He sat up and brushed the moisture from his face with the back of his hand.
“I told you, and you were hysterical. We couldn’t calm you down. Your blood pressure shot through the roof. They were afraid you were going to stroke out, that they might have missed a clot or a bleed, so they—”
“They put me in a medically-induced coma.”
“I lost our daughter that day. I almost lost my wife. And I swore that I would do anything it took to keep you safe, to keep you alive. Anything. Even if it meant protecting you from the truth.”
“Is that why you’ve been pulling away from me? When we make love?”
He nodded.
“I can’t risk losing you again. I won’t. I knew I would have to tell you sometime. At first, I was waiting for you to regain your strength. And then to heal from all the physical wounds. And then . . . then I was a coward. I couldn’t bear to put you through one more moment of pain.”
“And we hadn’t told anyone. You’ve carried all of this by yourself?”
He reached over and took my hand.
“I’d carry much heavier for you.”
“Why didn’t we tell anyone?”
“That, I can’t answer. You never gave me your reasoning. You just wanted to wait. I trusted you.”
“I think I know the answer.” Amnesia may have stolen my memories, but it hadn’t erased my fears. “I was worried that you resented me for getting pregnant, that you felt trapped into marrying me because I was the mother of your child. I guess I wanted to give you an out. Maybe that was why I was so distraught in the hospital. In the confusion and pain of the accident, I thought it meant I was losing you, too.”
“Annie, you were the mother of my child the first time I laid eyes on you. The mother of all my future children. From the moment we met, I knew there could never be anyone else. Never. I’d be lying if I said that little blue line didn’t speed up the timeline a little. But our wedding—standing before God and man and a beachcomber who couldn’t take a hint and then saying, ‘I do,’—that was the best, most beautiful day of my life.”
Evan gave a sad shrug.
“Actually,” he said, “that’s not true. It was a tie with finding out you were carrying our child.”
“I love you,” I said.
“I love you.”
We held each other, quiet and unmoving. Like two wind-whipped saplings who had grown together, finding strength and ability to weather all the storms they couldn’t on their own.
“So”—I finally broke the silence—“the diaphragm?”
His shoulders shook with laughter.
“No match for my penis.” He shook his head. “Not even close. Pretty sure we got it on the first shot.”
I dissolved into giggles.
“You must have been so shocked when I told you.”
“Best shock of my life.”
Thirteen
Evan carried me over to a couch in the corner, and I straddled him, freeing us both of the layers that separated us. We moved together in a sure, steady oneness. Each thrust was somehow both sweet and steamy at once.
We took our time, staring into each other’s eyes, grappling with the mystery of our union. How could I know so much about this man, my husband, and yet have so much to learn?
As we careened toward climax, I felt him waver, hesitate, begin to pull away. I placed my hands on the side of his hips, holding him to me. I met his gaze straight-on, pushing myself harder and deeper into him. Urging him to claim me as his own, as I claimed him.
“Now.”
We both cried out, clutching at anything we could grasp of the other, unwilling to sever the connection.
“You do realize what that looks like?” Evan reaches out to touch the end of the ultrasound wand, but I swat his hand away.
“Stop it. That goes inside me.”
“I think we’re past the point of worrying about the consequences of me being inside you,” he says.
“Good point.”
“It’s huge.” He looks worried as he bends down for a closer look.
“That’s what she said.”
“That is what she said.”
“And it’s not that big. I mean when he comes out . . . that’s going to be huge.”
“He?” Evan raises one eyebrow.
“No, it’s too early to tell. But I feel weird saying ‘it’ all the time.”
The tech comes in and introduces herself. I wince as she inserts the wand into place.
“Does it hurt?” asks Evan.
“A little uncomfortable but not bad.”
It’s only a dating ultrasound. A few quick measurements.
“Everything looks perfect,” says the tech, and I release a breath I didn’t even realize I’d been holding.
“Ready to see your baby?” She flips the screen around, and Evan and I both gasp at the same moment. It’s nothing but a tiny, wriggly bean. But it’s our wriggly bean.
“And . . . ” She flicks a switch.
Whoosh whoosh whoosh whoosh.
“It’s the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard,” whispers Evan.
I press my hand against my stomach, and I could swear I detect a tiny beat. I know it’s not really the baby’s. He’s much too small. Or she. No, I know it’s my own pulse, my own heartbeat that I feel. But in that moment, they’re one and the same.
Evan and I collapsed into a heap on the old sofa, a blanket pulled loosely over us. I nuzzled into his arms like an inchworm as he kissed my hair and drifted off to sleep.
With my ear pressed to his chest, I could hear the soft and steady whoosh, whoosh, whoosh of his heart. My own pulse slowed to match his. I twined our fingers together, and he lifted our hands in a slumbered daze and planted a kiss on my knuckles.
One and the same.
Epilogue
(A While Later)
“Make way.” My mother shoved Jen and a whole tray of appetizers nearly to the ground in her one-track haste. “Menopausal Glammy coming through. Where’s that baby of mine?”
I didn’t bother to correct her use of the word, “mine.” Nor did I have to look hard to see where my daughter was. She was where she always was, given her druthers, tucked into her Daddy’s arms.
She tugged at his beard with her chubby fist. He made a funny face, and she burst out chortles, nearly knocking the felt fabric “birthday girl” crown off her head. When Mom reached them, Emma clutched her little hands to reach for the shiny package my mother held. Covered in frosting and cupcake crumbs, she was a whirling, twirling mess of tulle and ruffles. I lifted my camera before the moment was lost. It took a second to get it focused with all the wiggles, but with a little patience and practice . . .
Got it.
Evan heard the click and looked up, grinning.
The dogwood tree in the background was in full bloom. Faith’s tree, as we referred to it, planted in her memory. It gave nothing but simple goodness—shade and beauty and pollen for the honeybees.
He gave me one of those inscrutable looks of his that still left me wondering what he could be thinking, even after all this time. But he didn’t leave me guessing.
“I love you,” he mouthed. “So much.”
“Me, too,” I mouthed back. Because there was nothing else to add.
Afterword
Dear Reader,
I hope you had as much fun reading Annie and Evan’s sweet and steamy love story as I had writing it. I’m already itching to share more stories from their world. ❤️
I also wanted to share a special message of love and encouragement to any of you who, like me, have experienced pregnancy loss or loss of a child. I know it’s an almost unbearable pain that’s too frequently grieved in silence. I remember feeling so isolated and alone as I said goodbye to the babies I lost.
But you are not alone. You are loved and seen. Your child is loved and seen. And I pray you’ll find the help, hope, and healing you need.
You can find free resources and support at unspokengrief.com
And if you ever just need a virtual hug, email me at [email protected]
XOXO,
BB
About the Author
Want to be the first to hear about upcoming releases, updates, and special deals? Sign up for my newsletter here.
And I always love to hear from readers! Drop me a line any time!
[email protected]
