Chapter Four
Annie
Never had I seen Brett so emotional, so shattered. My failure left him bereft and brokenhearted. As I rode to the hospital, he held my hand, while my mind bombarded me with painful memories and thoughts of worthlessness. Plagued by inadequacy, I wondered how my husband would endure my punishments, those God kept placing on me. The guilt was almost unbearable. I tried to stop the tears; I didn’t deserve to cry. This was warranted, my penance for not saving Will, for not having the strength or the courage to do what was necessary to pull him out of his living hell. Then there was Cole, once again my weakness, weakness for a man, had cost me a life. I thought I’d done things differently this time.
“Sweetheart, talk to me.” Brett’s faint voice dragged me out of the haze.
Unable to respond verbally, I squeezed his hand to acknowledge I’d heard him and offered him a meager grimace hoping to pass it off as a smile.
“Are you in pain…physically?” The hesitation in his voice indicated his own heartache.
I knew my tears and silence killed him just as much as the loss of our child, but somehow, I couldn’t force myself to snap out of it. While I recognized his need for comfort, I simply wasn’t able to offer it right now. I shook my head just before he turned his attention back to the road.
My cheek rested on the seat, turned toward my beautiful husband. I watched him, the subtle way his face would hitch, and he’d attempt to conceal the emotion he was harboring. His bloodshot eyes darted all over the road. He was in no better shape to be driving than I was, but there he sat, doing what he needed to do to take care of his wife.
“I don’t deserve you,” I croaked in a barely audible whisper.
When he glanced in my direction, there was horror written in his features, as though he couldn’t believe I would have uttered those four words. “How can you say something like that?”
Clearing my throat, I sat up. I needed to give him an out. He was worthy of one, and as much as I didn’t want to let him go, if I loved him, I had to give him the option. “You want children, Brett. You deserve them. You deserve to have a family that adores you and little kids running around calling you daddy. I will never be able to give you that. I don’t want to rob you of the life you were destined to lead.”
“What are you talking about, Annie?”
“This is my second miscarriage. My body simply rejects pregnancy. It’s God’s way of protecting a child from having me as a mother, from being screwed up by my inadequacies. You shouldn’t be denied children simply because you picked the wrong wife. I want you to be fulfilled and happy.”
His face turned from sorrow to anger in what seemed an instant, but it was long enough that he had time to pull over on the side of the road. He put the car in park and turned toward me, giving me his undivided attention. There was silence in the air for several long minutes where he searched my face, for what I wasn’t sure, before he spoke.
“My God, Annie. What did Will and Gray do to you?” Sorrow laced his voice and hinted at agony. The pity he felt for me washed over his face as his hand reached out to cup my jaw.
I wanted to lean into his palm, accept the comfort he tried to offer, but I held firm and just stared into his forgiving green eyes.
“How could you ever think my place on this Earth is anywhere but with you? Children or not, my heart is yours. If this is too much for you to deal with, then we stop trying, but I’m not leaving. If you want to adopt instead, we can do that. If you just want it to be the two of us, I don’t care. But never, regardless of what you want to do, will you do it without me by your side. You’re my wife. I cherish everything about you and always will—with or without anyone else ever joining our family.”
His lips met my forehead forcing on me the comfort I refused to accept from his words. There was something about that gesture that sent me over the edge. The cries erupted in an ugly, shaking mess. Racked with guilt and shame, my body released the energy that threatened to consume me. The negativity, the agony, the remorse, it all ripped through me in a roar turned sob before I collapsed onto the side of his shoulder. The console made it difficult to get nearer to him, but somehow, he pulled me close and eventually over the seat and into his lap. This was the last place I needed to be having a miscarriage but the only place I could fathom in that instant. The baby was gone, getting to the hospital in five minutes or fifteen wouldn’t change that outcome, but the comfort of Brett’s support could save me from a mental breakdown that seemed within reach.
My husband forced me snugly to his chest, his arms swathed me. Somehow, even with the anguish of the events, I felt safe. Brett always gave me that. Selflessly, he never ceased to calm the storms that raged within me.
When I finally quit crying, and stopped trembling, I maneuvered back across the seat and buckled my seatbelt. I didn’t have to say anything—he knew everything going through my mind, but he refused to let it consume me. He would fight for me the way I’d believed I had fought for Will. He’d never let me go weeping into the night, but would rage until dawn and drag me into the light of day—every time.
The hospital was vaguely reminiscent of the time with Cole. Only this time, I was fully aware of all that happened. There was no D&C, but they kept me overnight for observation. The entire experience was rather somber, and Brett and I didn’t talk much throughout it. He held my hand and never left my side, but there were no words that would change the circumstances. Pretending there were was senseless. At some point, we would need to talk about how to proceed. And I was sure it would come up in our next counseling session, but he knew to let it lie for now.
“Have you called anyone?” I assumed he had, but he hadn’t done it in the room.
Brett was amazingly sensitive that way—he knew hearing it relived over and over would send me reeling, but he also refused to allow me to be the one to break the news to our loved ones.
“Yeah, I’ve let everyone know. They all send their sympathy.” The way his lips turned up just slightly told me more than his words. It was forced, and the calls had been difficult for him to make.
I held out my hand, requesting his company at my side. When he got up to join me, I scooted over on the hospital bed, wanting him near me. As gracefully as Brett could manage, he joined me, and I slipped into his side and under his arm. He kissed my temple and snuggled into me.
“Annie, we’re going to get through this. Together.” His hand in my hair, stroking my head, soothed a bit of the anxiety that had settled within me, that hovered in every pore of my body and every fiber of my being.
“I don’t know what to feel right now.” My voice was nothing more than a wisp, barely audible. “Part of me just wants to forget this happened and move on like today is no different from any other. But the part of me that wants to hold on is so loud and damning. I don’t want to be punished, and I don’t want you paying the price for my sins.”
“I don’t believe for a minute you’re being punished, sweetheart. Maybe there’s something we’ve overlooked.”
My chin lifted, tilting my eyes to meet his. “What do you mean?”
“Maybe we need to see a specialist?” His words were laced with caution, but Brett wasn’t casting blame, he was searching for a solution. My husband didn’t want to experience this again, but more than that, he didn’t want me to.
“Maybe it’s a fertility issue, or there’s a condition preventing you from being able to carry a child to full term. I don’t know, I’m not a doctor, but I think it’s worth exploring if you decide you want to keep trying.”
“Do you want to keep trying?” I had to know where he was mentally in all of this. Granted, it was too soon to worry about getting pregnant again, but I needed to know if the desire was there. This was a painful process and not one I cared to endure repeatedly, but to please him, I would.
“Not at the expense of our marriage.”
“So you don’t?” I was a total basket case. I knew he wanted to have a family with
me, but he didn't deserve to suffer through repeated losses and heartache. He was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t. No answer he gave would make me happy.
“I think we need to talk to your counselor before we make any decisions and consider seeing a fertility specialist. But if I had to answer in this instant, if I had to decide right now to have you as my wife and healthy or risk kids and your mental well-being, then hands down it would be a no. I refuse to give you up hoping to gain something else. That’s selfish as hell, but it’s where I am.”
I was desperate to believe we were more important to him than the family we might deny ourselves, but I’d never been that meaningful to anyone. I thought I was. At one time or another, I believed Will and Gray needed me, but truthfully, neither did—at least not in the way that truly mattered.
“You would seriously give up having the family you want for our marriage?”
His sigh was heavy and crammed with emotion. “Yes. Without a second thought. But I don’t think we have to make that choice today, and there are lots of options. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Just know, I love you.”
That I had a hard time accepting—he loved me more than he loved the idea of anything else—I’d never experienced that level of adoration.
It was a struggle not to succumb to the devastation of losing another baby. Brett was disappointed, but he didn’t outwardly look to cast blame on me. Although, he had suggested I go back to seeing my counselor on my own in addition to our time with him as a couple. Somehow it felt like starting over—the pain of another loss, but Dr. Carthage kept reminding me how differently I had dealt with this miscarriage. When I got home from the hospital, I stayed in bed for one solid day. Brett stayed with me catering to my needs, holding me. But on the second day home, we got up and spent the day together trying to be normal. We’d called in sick, which neither of us ever did, but it was necessary and had been much needed. There were tears and sadness, but I wasn’t overcome with the level of grief I’d suffered with Cole. It took Dr. Carthage pointing out that didn’t mean I loved this child any less, it simply meant I had learned to cope—without drugs—and without falling into a pit of despair.
I shouldn’t have been proud of that, or maybe I should, but regardless, I was. The difference was solely the level of support I had in Brett. Not once had I felt isolated, and I had fought vehemently against the urge to shoulder the burden of fault even if I wasn’t always successful. He saw in my eyes and reminded me, no one was to blame, it wasn’t a penance for my sins, and God wasn’t heaping suffering on me to hold me in purgatory.
I had yet to make an appointment to see my OBGYN, but my six-week follow-up was approaching, and my ability to bury my head in the sand was waning. Brett insisted we go to the appointment together to discuss our options with Dr. Matthews. The last thing I wanted was for my husband to have someone confirm I couldn’t bear his children, but I’d rather know now than several more miscarriages later. But regardless of the need to know, I didn’t think there was any way for a woman to ever prepare herself for those words. Dr. Carthage and I had been working on that in my private sessions, and what that would mean for me and for Brett as a couple and for our marriage. My instinct was to bury my fears, prevent Brett from experiencing what I felt if it wasn’t necessary, but leave it to a nosey psychiatrist to force that fear to the forefront of a session.
My heart shattered every time I saw Brett’s turmoil. Naturally, he was an optimistic person, full of joy. He was that man—the person who walked into a room and changed the entire dynamic—you could sense the atmosphere shift. People were drawn to him, not because he was charismatic, but because he was genuinely kind. So, facing the reality that I might be barren in front of my husband wasn’t something I cared to do unnecessarily. I had no desire to alter his way of thinking or to bring him to the pragmatic ways of my thought processes. There were times I wished my psychiatrist wasn’t aware of the intricate ways my mind worked. It was a darker tunnel than Brett had ever traveled through, and I didn’t want to take him down that road. But somehow, Dr. Carthage’s one vote always outweighed mine when it came to sharing or exploring emotion.
“You’ve been awfully quiet all morning, Annie. Are you all right?” Brett held my hand as we walked into the doctor’s office.
I worked daily on not concealing my emotions, attempting not to downplay their intensity, but being honest was a lot harder than just telling the truth. There was a vulnerability in that level of candidness that terrified me. That fear altered my ability to communicate. I wasn’t comfortable with confession, but Brett was the only person with whom I needed to master the skill, and he recognized it for what it was without condemnation. I admitted, “I’m scared.”
Just before he reached for the door, he drew me to the side to allow other people to pass. The sounds of traffic faded into the background, and the surrounding conversations dissipated. The warmth of Brett's palms seeped into my pores while he held my attention. The way he caressed me with his gaze kept my eyes on him. It was as though he touched more than my cheeks, saw more than what physically stood in front of him. His love was palpable. “Nothing changes. Understand?”
I nodded—my feeble attempt at communication.
“Whatever we’re told in here, nothing changes between us. It may alter our path, but it doesn’t alter us. You will still be my wife, and I will love you as fiercely as I do right now at this moment.”
He didn’t wait for a response or leave room to argue. His lips met mine in a quick peck just before he sealed me in a tight hug. As he pulled away, taking my hand in his again, the sounds around us resumed. I trailed my husband into the waiting room of doom. The chatter seemed unusually loud, the library-like quietness of a doctor’s office nowhere to be found. Everywhere I turned there were mothers with infants or women round with child. The inadequacy engulfed me. When the nurse called my name, even as Brett stood and tugged on my hand, I remained in a hesitant daze of self-hatred.
Squatting in front of me, his eyes met mine, and suddenly I was swimming in a sea of serenity. He didn’t have to say a word. Everything I needed to give me the confidence to stand radiated back at me. With my hand in his, I followed the nurse back to an examination room only to find myself greeted by the infamous paper gown. My eye roll was a natural response when she handed it to me.
I changed out of my clothes when she left the room, and Brett took a seat in one of the extra chairs. The restless moving, nervous fidgeting, tearing at the paper covering my legs was all an attempt to mitigate my apprehension.
“Sweetheart, you don’t have to be nervous. Try to think of this as getting advice on how to proceed instead of some earth-shattering revelation. There are always options.”
My anxiety manifested in irritation, not with Brett but at him. “Seriously?” The loud huff that emanated from my mouth was enough to tell him not to talk anymore. But I added a scowl just to drive home that point.
Fortunately, we weren’t forced to wait the normal hour for the doctor to arrive, but that was where my good fortune ended. I suffered through the vaginal exam, beet red with embarrassment. Even when it was clinical, having another man between your legs while your husband watched was awkward at best. Brett had moved over to hold my hand and stroke my hair as if that somehow eased the awkward situation, but the end was the same. There was a reason women hated the gynecologist, and he’d just witnessed it first-hand.
Dr. Matthews snapped the rubber glove when he removed it, the sound reverberated off the walls and pierced the silence. My body flinched at the stark noise, but Brett turned to face the man who’d just been staring at my holiest of holy places.
“Mrs. Ryann, you can get dressed. I’ll be back in a few minutes so we can talk.” His sincere smile did nothing to alleviate my unease. In another world, under different circumstances, I’m sure I’d think he was a panty-dropping hottie—but as it stood, he was just a creep who stared at pussy all day.
Dressing after these exams alway
s felt shameful. Like I’d compromised my dignity for a quick frolic with a high-society doctor, and his wife was none the wiser. Nothing that sordid ever happened, but I always left this office feeling humiliated.
Brett handed me my clothes, and I exchanged them for the remnants of the paper gown, or rather what was left that I hadn’t shredded, to toss in the trash behind him. I never had the urge to fill silence with idle conversation, and Brett didn’t typically either. His ceaseless rambling showcased his nervousness.
“That has to be the most uncomfortable situation I’ve ever been in. I know it’s medical, but the idea of another man in my territory bothers me. Have—”
“Brett,” I interrupted. “It’s not a great situation for anyone involved. Trust me on that.” My tone was curt and got the point across just as the doctor knocked on the door and stepped back in with his nurse. She was like a ninja—I forgot she was in the room she moved so quietly.
He sat casually on the rolling stool and addressed us both. “Things have healed well. You look good. I don’t see any cause for keeping you from resuming normal activity. Do you guys have any questions for me?”
Tempted to raise my hand, I felt like a child in an adult classroom. My lips rumbled as the air passed them forcefully. The few seconds that had passed seemed an eternity before I actually got out any words. “Yeah.” My fingers nervously passed through my hair, and I fumbled to create intelligible sentences. “I do.” My brain refused to force the question from my mouth. My eyes filled with tears, and Brett took the lead. Where Gray had always read my thoughts, Brett had the ability to finish them—he always knew what I was thinking and where it was going.
The warmth of his hand on my knee settled my nerves as my husband communicated for both of us. The subtle confidence I loved so much about him was out in full force. “This was Annie’s second miscarriage.”
Freed (Bound Duet Book 2) Page 8
