My blood is simmering, slowly. As each second passes, I’m closer to the brink of boiling over. I have to get in my room before my mask slips and I unravel in front of Elliot.
2
Evie
After burying my face in the pillow and crying myself into numbness, I eventually fell asleep. When James and I started talking about marriage and a family, I would never have thought this would be my life. Today’s date isn’t one I’ll ever forget. The constant reminder and need to organize my day is almost insulting. Do people think I’ve forgotten? Do they think over time the pain fades or death somehow erases a whole person’s existence from your memory?
A loud buzz from the apartment intercom interrupts my thoughts and I have to wait for the front door to open before I know who it is. We don’t often get any visitors, so hearing another man speaking in my living room throws me off. I’m torn between curiosity as to who Elliot would have over and just sitting here in my room until he leaves. We don’t have any rules, this is his place as much as it is mine, but he’s never felt the need to invite his life into what we have here, and I’ve never sought out anything more than what he allows me to see. He works, I know that, but I realize doing what’s necessary to survive, and the choice to selfishly wallow means I’ve paid no attention to Elliot and his life.
I look at the clock on my bedside table and realize even if I want to wait for the unknown guest to leave, I can’t. My mom and sister will be here and we have to get to the cemetery. Thankful for the ensuite in my room, I begin to get ready.
Stepping out of the shower, I quickly wrap a towel around myself. As my hair drips past my shoulders, I drag another towel off the nearby rack and wrap up my wet hair. Walking toward the mirror, I stare at my reflection. I get lost in what feels like an out of body experience, watching myself run the towel over all the battle scars of my body. As time passed the physical proof of pregnancy and our gorgeous daughter, Bella, faded but the little pouch of excess skin has always remained. I remember lathering my body in cocoa butter, determined to avoid having stretch marks. James would laugh at me and tell me all the other moms call them tiger stripes and to be proud of them. I would roll my eyes and joke; I wasn't a tiger so what did it matter. I always said I wouldn't be like other moms, little did we know how true that statement would really be. I now simultaneously love and loathe the way my body looks. A reminder of everything I had and everything I've lost. A reminder that I failed at the one thing my body was built to do.
Before Bella, we spent years trying to conceive. So many doctors advised us to use IVF, but I was insistent I could do it on my own. After all isn’t that what my body was built for? My first miscarriage was horrific. A severe pain in the left side of my abdomen and dizziness had James and I rushing to the hospital. By the time we reached our destination, I had lost a lot of blood and was falling in and out of consciousness. I woke up and was informed that I had suffered an ectopic pregnancy. An hour later and death would’ve been a high possibility. My left fallopian tube was removed and the chances of conceiving naturally began to dwindle. The ectopic pregnancy meant I started to pay attention to my body a bit more. I was diagnosed with endometriosis and told in-vitro fertility was probably the only thing left for me to try. I guess in hindsight I should’ve seen how the cracks in our marriage started to appear with each heartbreak.
Our second pregnancy was filled with doubt and fear. We were scheduled to see the OBGYN early due to my history, after she confirmed the baby growing inside, we slowly let our guard down and let ourselves be happy. Eight weeks into the pregnancy I woke up and pushed and shoved at James till he woke up too.
“James, wake up. James. James. James.”
“What is it Evie?” he asks while yawning.
“I’m not pregnant anymore.”
He sits up and tears at the covers looking down at the mattress for any indication of a miscarriage.
“How do you know? There’s no blood. What happened?” His questions are firing at rapid speed, unable to comprehend my rambling.
“I can just feel it. It’s gone.” I try to speak beyond the heartache sitting in the middle of my chest. “I don’t know how or why there’s no blood, but my gut is telling me it’s gone.
He inhales deeply, running his hands through his hair. His eyes are squeezed shut, desperate to hide his hurt.
Instinctively, I want to comfort him. It kills me knowing that it’s me and my body responsible for breaking his heart, but I can’t. Right now I have nothing left to give. I feel hollow and empty. For the first time in our marriage, I need time to myself. Desolate, I walk out of the room and schedule my appointment with the doctor. I need to know what I have to do next.
We became one of those couples whose life was centered around conceiving instead of living.
Tension ran on overdrive, whenever someone would question when we were going to have kids or ask why it was taking us so long. All it took was one insensitive comment to derail all our hard work and it would be days before we would settle back to normal again.
When we finally fell pregnant with Bella, the first six months were filled with tension and worry. Neither of us wanting to jinx anything by outwardly expressing our happiness. It wasn’t until the doctors cleared us of any risks, the carefree and positive people we once were returned. For the first time in a long time, we had hope.
* * *
I smooth my clothes out before I step out of my bedroom and into the sea of voices standing outside my door. While I was in the shower my sister and mother must’ve arrived. They’re in love with Elliot, my mother thinks he walks on water, and I guess he hasn’t really given a reason as to why he’s anything less than a saint, but it still irritates me.
The chatter stops as soon as I step into the room, I look around for an unfamiliar face but only find my mom staring at me with the permanent pity mask she reserves only for me. She begins to walk toward me. “Evie, baby. It’s so good to see you,” she coos.
I don’t know why she does it, but she’s developed this strangely pitched tone while talking to me. Add that to the way she feels the need to break down. Every. Single. Word. And I’m convinced she thinks grief means I’ve lost the ability to hear or think clearly. But I let it slide because anything that requires any sort of effort I shy away from. I’ve convinced myself that while a lot of my reasons for retracting from social settings were valid, I wouldn’t know how to re-immerse myself into the land of the living, even if I tried.
Her hands land on my shoulders just as I respond to her greeting. “Hey, Mom.”
“Your sister and I were just trying to convince Elliot to come with us for lunch after the ceremony.”
I turn, looking at Elliot whose eyes are focused on the sleeve of his sweater. Too busy pulling at the invisible lint on his sleeve, hoping to avoid the awkwardness in the room. As the uncomfortable silence stretches, I know they’re all expecting me to jump in and invite him along, but I don’t. Instead, I look at my sister and raise my eyebrows at her expectantly. Luckily she picks up what I’m throwing down.
“Okay, you ready guys?” she says while clapping her hands together. “We want to beat that morning traffic.”
Glancing at Elliot one last time, I notice he’s still concentrating on anything but me. Giving him my back, I walk toward the door, impatiently wanting to escape the tension between us. As I open the door and step into the apartment corridor, I hear my mother’s whispered apology to Elliot. Taking this as my cue, I walk ahead.
The drive is quiet and somber. I anxiously pick at my cuticles, hoping to divert my attention from the bile that's creeping up my throat. No matter how many times I've gone to see her, the reality of what my life has become hits me harder every time. Sitting beside her grave, my mind usually goes over all the milestones she should’ve been hitting. I can’t help but get lost in daydreams of what she would look like and who she would take after. They say there’s seven stages to dealing with grief, and progression is inevitable, but wh
en it comes to Bella it’s been two years and all I feel is shock, pain and anger. All the time. I’m riddled with guilt and so full of hurt, betrayed by the God I loved and trusted. The same God I depended on to protect my loved ones and preserve everything that I had worked hard for. I struggle to believe that this God. My God. Is the same one who had planned out this path for me.
From the moment she took her last breath he was no longer my God. The day I buried Bella I swore I would never again put my faith in a God that let bad things happen to good people. A God that thought he needed my family more than I did. I needed her. She was mine.
Mine, to protect and love. To watch grow up and become the ultimate combination of all the best things her father and I had to offer. That was my future. My happiness. My everything.
And now, every time I make my way to visit her, it’s just another moment where I feel like a failure and I can’t figure out how to hold it all together.
We finally arrive at the cemetery and make our way toward where she rests in silence. I reach into my coat pocket, making sure I didn’t forget Bella’s letter. Whenever I visit, I bring the letters that I write to her. I pour all my thoughts out onto the pages, sharing life lessons or telling her how much I miss her. I talk about what we’d be doing if she were here with me right now. Bella gets the side of me that’s lost to all others. She’s the best part of me, because even in death I’m still her mother.
My feet stop and I automatically crouch in front of her headstone. The words engraved on the granite always dig in the knife a little bit deeper.
Bella Wright
November 17th 2016 - November 20th 2016
“The most important thing is, even if we’re apart... I’ll always be with you” - A.A. Milne
Whenever I look at it, I know God won. He showed me he holds the ultimate power. He has both of them, and I’m here. Alone. A never-ending reminder that the last bit of love I had left in my heart, got buried six feet under; becoming one with the earth, to never breathe again. This is me. Childless. Husbandless. Lifeless.
3
Evie
A loud thud wakes me up out of my sleep. Glancing at the clock on my nightstand I realize it’s midnight. I’ve been asleep since this afternoon, finding solitude in my room after an afternoon of ‘socializing’ with my mom and sister. I realize I’m still holding onto Bella’s stuffed Winnie the Pooh bear. I fall asleep with it in my arms every night.
The noise outside continues. A combination of whispers and movement has me hastily rushing out the door to see what the hell is going on. The lamp beside the couch illuminates the room in a low yellow light. It’s enough to see a large figure crouching down next to a passed out Elliot; lifting his legs until his whole body is on the couch. I tiptoe quietly, unsure as to what I’m going to do when I reach them. Somehow he senses me.
“Shit, you scared the fuck out of me,” he whispers as I get closer.
“Me?” I hiss back. “Who are you and what are you doing in my apartment?”
He stops whatever he’s doing and turns around. His eyes grow wide and lock on mine, we continue to stare at one another in silence. His eyes are the palest blue I’ve ever seen, the circumference of his irises a shade darker, enhancing their crystal-like shine. He’s noticeably taller than me. His stance is confident and unwavering; but instead of fearing the stranger, all I feel is comfort. His gaze remains focused on mine, unabashedly looking at me longer than is appropriate. The way his eyes bore into mine are intense; like the more he stares, the more he sees. Turning my head, I cross my arms over my chest, breaking the strange connection between us. He takes this as his cue to check on Elliot as he sleeps.
I’m taken aback by Elliot’s disheveled appearance and the stench he emits. The smell of alcohol seeps from his pores and his clothes hang off his body in disarray. I’ve never seen him look anything but organized and well poised. For the first time in a long time, I’m intrigued. What is it that brought out this side of him?
“Do you have something to cover him with?” The stranger’s deep voice pulls me out of my thoughts, and I immediately turn to Elliot’s room and grab a light blanket off the edge of his bed. Returning to the living room I ignore the way his outstretched hand waits for the blanket and I place it over him. It’s the least I can do.
He clears his throat. “Well Evie, I’m going to get going.”
I look at him, dumbfounded. “How do you know my name?”
He steps backward toward the door. “You’re all Elliot talks about.”
Looking back at a sleeping Elliot, I’m more confused than ever. And for the second time in ten minutes, I’m left feeling intrigued by the other side of Elliot.
* * *
Work has been slow. I woke up late and groggy from the interruption the night before, rushing around getting ready as fast as possible. Last night after Elliot’s friend left, I lay awake in bed worrying about whatever was bothering Elliot. I know how easy it is to become self-absorbed in my own grief. It’s a choice I’ve made; a conscious effort to not pay attention to how my way of life bothers anyone else. I know it’s wrong, but there’s only so much I can invest energy into and anything beyond Bella and missing her is just too much.
Elliot must’ve gotten himself up off the couch in the early morning and I haven't seen or heard from him since. Unsure why but the image of a drunk Elliot on the sofa, and the eyes of his mysterious friend, are the only things occupying my mind today. I’m curious as to whether Elliot will mention what happened, or if he even remembers that somebody else brought him home and put him to bed. Guilt is worming its way into my mind, creating cracks in my armor, and making me care about things I’m usually so oblivious to. It’s uncomfortable and unwelcome. Checking my watch, I realize it’s time for lunch. Maybe a nice long walk in the park will help me bury the worry burning in my chest threatening to spill out. I grab my bag and inform Courtney, my colleague, I’ll be back in half an hour. Searching for my earphones in this bottomless bag I call a purse, I bump into someone standing close to the shop entryway.
“Shit, sorry.”
I recognize that voice immediately. “Elliot. What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I was in the area. I was coming in to ask if your lunch break was soon,” he explains. We stand awkwardly in front of one another, like this is one of the first times we’ve met, and we haven’t been living in the same house for the past year. “Yeah, I was just heading out to take a walk in the park.”
“Do you mind if I join you?”
“Um, sure,” I hesitate. “I mean, yeah, of course.” I try to sound as convincing as possible, but it’s obvious something’s off. I can’t pinpoint it, but last night clearly has something to do with it. Walking, we bask in the familiar sound of silence that so often sits in between us. I wait for him to be the one to break the silence, we both know I rarely voluntarily engage in conversation, let alone start it.
“I wanted to apologize for last night,” he blurts out. “I didn't mean to get so drunk that I’d need someone to bring me home.”
“There's nothing to apologize for,” I assure him. “You’re allowed to have a life, Elliot.”
“I know,” he says sounding defeated. He shoves his hands in his pockets and walks with his head down, showing reluctance and confusion as to whether or not he should say more. Without even realizing it, words of comfort unexpectedly fall out of my mouth.
“The way I live is my choice, Elliot. Just because I walk around like a dead person doesn't mean you need to, or that I expect you to. You’re entitled to a life.”
He stops mid-stride, the surprise evident in his wide eyes.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he says. “I didn’t expect you to say anything really.”
I lift the corner of my lips. “That makes two of us.” We continue to walk further when Elliot’s phone rings. Not wanting to impose or eavesdrop, I find the nearest bench and sit down. I pull my headphones out of my bag for the second time toda
y. Before I can put them over my ears, Elliot walks up, So much for listening to music. I glance at my watch and decide it would be best if I finish the rest of my lunch break in the storage room at work. Alone.
“Do you mind if we walk back?” I ask.
“Of course.”
The walk back is quicker and quieter. Whatever guilt was eating at Elliot seems to have dissipated after our conversation. As the shop appears in my line of sight, I notice a man leaning on the wall next to the front door. With his right leg bent at the knee, he has one foot pressed up against the bricks for extra balance. His face is hidden as he concentrates on his phone, the closer we get, the more familiar he seems. He must feel us nearing, tilting his head and glancing in our direction. The flash of recognition in his eyes must match my own, my steps falter when I realize being in close proximity with him is inevitable. His words from last night have been playing over on a loop in my mind and I can feel a level of intrigue I'm not comfortable with begin to invade my thoughts.
“Hey man, I didn’t expect to see you here so soon,” Elliot says.
“I was close by and figured I might as well wait.” Just like last night he shamelessly stares at me like I’m a code he needs to decipher. I cut off his visual inquisition and turn to Elliot. “I’ve got to get back inside. I’ll see you later.”
“Wait,” he says. Damnit. “I didn’t get to introduce myself last night.”
“That’s okay, I’ve really got to get inside,” I say. My eyes remain down as I resist getting caught up in his gaze.
He holds his hand out in my direction, right under my face, offering it up for me to shake. “My name is Lior.”
Lior. It’s unusual, yet perfect for him. Raising my head, I let my eyes roam between his hand and his face, undecided on what to do next. He pushes his hand closer to me and I surrender, placing my palm to his. The heat from his hold travels up my arm and reminds me why I haven’t let someone touch me since Bella died. Skin to skin contact is too personal and so full of feeling. And for a split second, I let my guard down and relish in the warmth of his touch. He applies the tiniest bit of pressure, almost like he can read my mind and know how important the simplest gesture can be. I look back up at him and he’s wearing the faintest hint of a smile, like he’s scared anything more will scare me away. Little does he know, he’s not wrong.
Devastate Page 2
