Thoughts of her, of losing her, of missing her, of aching for her so much my arms literally move to hold her but find themselves wrapped around myself instead, overwhelm me. Each day feels like I lose her all over again. She’d be three months now. The baby books say that her milestones this month would be improving neck and upper body strength. She would have enough lower body strength to kick what I know would be her chubby little legs. Her hands would be opening and closing and she would be reaching for and grabbing at toys. I imagine her little hand closing around my fingers. How her skin would feel against mine as I nurse her, how she would fit perfectly in my arms, how I would revel in every sigh, laugh, smile, gurgle, and cry. I know that each and every day would have been better because somehow I managed to help create something so perfect; so divine. Except it’s not, because she’s not here. And I ache so deep and so vast that I don’t even remember what it feels like to not feel this pain. At least with the pain I know that it was real, that she was real. I know that she wasn’t just something I imagined. A beautiful dream.
Cole doesn’t know it, but I kept a bunch of her things. We gave a lot of it away – well Cole did. He boxed it up and took it out of here. He didn’t say so, but I think it bothered him when I would sit in her room among her things and cry. We didn’t have much, but what we had was precious – like the soft, pink blanket I cling to now. I’m not sure if he did me a favor or if it only made things worse. I had placed a few items in my room, so when the other things disappeared, they remained. Otherwise, I’d be left with nothing other than the pieces of paper they gave me at the hospital that had imprints of her tiny hands and feet on them. I’ve traced those little lines with my finger tip over and over and over again.
I attend the counseling sessions arranged by the hospital and Cole. After class I rush there only to sit quietly and listen to Dr. Weisman tell me that what I’m feeling is normal and that this will pass, that her loss – this grief- will get easier. It takes all I have not to put my hands over my ears and scream at Dr. Weisman to shut up. What the hell would he know about losing a child he carried and so desperately wanted anyway? Does he understand that I either want to sleep forever, or am unable to sleep at all? Does he know how hard it is to go to class and study and concentrate on anything but her? What does he really know about this profound yearning for my daughter, this intense emptiness? Does he know how it feels to have had your body fail; to completely be unable to do the one thing we were created to do? Does he know how it feels to wonder why I had to be the one given a body that doesn’t even work right? He has no fucking idea, and Cole doesn’t understand why I find the sessions unbearable.
The rational part of me knows he’s concerned, I know that he wants me to get better and to find the will to heal and move past this, but I simply don’t know how. At least recently I’ve somehow found the will power to get up, get dressed for class, attend them and turn in my assignments and paintings on time. And even though it has taken every bit of strength I have most days, I returned to work – a job at the library on campus. It’s not a big deal, but it’s still a job, still a responsibility that I’m managing to follow through on. Sometimes it feels like I’m just going through the motions, sure, but I show up. That has to count for something.
The door to the apartment opens and closes and I fumble with what to do with the blanket I’m holding, and it isn’t long before Cole finds me in our room. I look up at him and even force a smile on my lips, “Hi. How was class?”
His eyes rake me head to toe and his brow furrows in a look of concern he seems to always wear anymore. The last few days his eyes have been full of sorrow, even more than they have the last few months and I have a feeling he wants to say something, but he doesn’t.
“It was fine.” His hand moves and I notice a white open envelope in his hand, his fingers white from grasping it so tightly.
“What’s that?” I ask gesturing to the envelope.
“It’s mail. For you.”
“And you opened it?” I ask confused. He never opens my mail. He runs a hand through his hair and walks to one side of the room and then back again. He opens his mouth to say something and then closes it again. After this is repeated a few times I put my book down and lean forward, “Cole, spit it out. What’s going on?”
“I want you to go.”
“Go?” I ask confused.
“Yes. I think you should go. No, I know you should go.”
“What are you talking about?”
He hands me the envelope and when I see the return address my heart stutters in my chest and my brows lower in confusion. It’s from the Institute of Art, an art school in Chicago, IL that I had applied for. But not just any art school, it was my first choice, before I elected to stay here and attend the art program at Arizona State University. I just couldn’t afford my first choice. Slowly, I take the letter out of the envelope, almost afraid to open it and see what it says. Words and phrases stand out at me but it takes a moment for my mind to catch up. Phrases like, ‘opening still available’, ‘transfer of credits’, ‘full ride scholarship’ and ‘in two weeks’. Looking at Cole, my confusion quickly fades away as the look on his face says it all. “You think I should go,” I repeat his words.
He stares at me for a long time, his eyes not leaving mine. I wish I could define all the emotions I see run across his face, but the jumble of them confuse me. I know I see sadness and maybe fear but the one that stands out at me the most is severe determination. “I want you to go.”
“But, it’s in Chicago,” I tell him lamely. He nods. “I’d have to leave. I mean, obviously I would. It’s far away.” Again, he nods. “Cole, I don’t… I’m confused. I don’t even know how or why I have a scholarship. This doesn’t make any sense.”
“Does it matter? This is an opportunity you can’t pass up. I won’t let you, Tatum. It’s exactly what the doctor says you need – what he said you would find – a way to work through your grief. A goal, something to focus on.”
“No. I’m not going to leave Cole. I can’t. I can’t leave you. Besides, I only have one year left here, and my goal is to finish this program. To graduate.”
“That’s a better offer and you know it. Not only will they hopefully transfer your credits from here, but they are offering you a full ride to attend their graduate program as well.”
“That just… that doesn’t make any sense. I didn’t even apply…”
“Tatum,” Cole says my name sharply stopping my confused thoughts, “the one thing that you have still been able to do since… since…” he swallows hard and I look away, unable to see the pain on his face. My eyes flood with tears, while guilt and shame sit in my belly like a flesh eating disease, threatening to eat me alive. I blink over and over furiously trying to push the tears back. “It’s the one thing that you are still passionate about.”
“That’s not-“
“Yes. It is. It’s the only time I see happiness in your eyes anymore. You need to go. I want you to go.”
“You want me to go?” I repeat lamely again. It seems to be the only thing I clearly understand, but I shake my head. “No, no Cole. I won’t leave you. I love you and I won’t go.” When I see him begin to shake his head again, I feel panic begin to tighten my chest. “Please, please, Cole. I promise. I promise I will get better. Tomorrow, maybe tomorrow I can even go out to dinner. Would you like that? We can even catch a movie or something too. I’m trying. I swear I am. It will get better. I’m sorry. I’ve just been so sad.”
“I need you to go.” His voice comes out louder than before and I immediately quit talking. My eyes devour his face; I try to take in every single twitch and assign it meaning. “Tatum,” his voice breaks on my name and it takes him a moment to continue. “I can’t do this anymore.”
A sob instantly chokes back other words and a noise escapes my throat and it feels as if my chest is going to cave in on itself in panic and despair. “What?” I ask. A mere whisper compared to the storm going on inside
of me.
“I can’t do this anymore. I can’t…I can’t look at you, like this, day after day. We are just feeding off of each other’s guilt and pain and sorrow. Instead of bringing us together it’s pushing us apart and I can’t live like this anymore. I can’t – I can’t do this anymore.”
“You can’t do this anymore,” I repeat lamely, the words feeling strange on my tongue.
“I need you to call them and tell them that you will move to Illinois, that you will take this full ride scholarship, and you will finally live out the dream you had before….before…”
Funny how he’s quick to point out my failings yet he can’t even utter the words himself. He continues to speak and make excuses and gives me reasoning for his feelings, but I don’t hear any of it, not really. This feels like one more loss, one more thing to overcome. A motion out the window catches my eye and I look out the window to see pink balloons flying in the sky yet bound by the string that holds them to the sign at the front of our apartment complex entrance. It’s almost as if they are a sign from Hope, silly as that may seem. Like she’s telling me to cut the string, to reach for the sky; to not let myself be bound any longer by this pain and heartache.
It won’t be easy, but I can do it. And I will. For her.
“We’re here,” Blaine says snapping me out of my thoughts. Looking around I realize we’ve parked and the car is no longer running. Glancing at him I wonder how many times he may have spoken to me before I became aware of it – trapped in thoughts from long ago. Smiling at him, I open my door and step out of the car. “You okay?” he asks as he comes around to my side and takes my hand.
“Fine.”
He squeezes my hand and doesn’t ask me any further questions and I’m relieved. Following him into the hotel, it occurs to me that even though being here is harder than I expected given the fact I’ve certainly moved on with my life, I feel comfort in knowing that I’ve accomplished exactly what I said I would do, for her, yes, but also for me. I just wish that I felt content instead of this unsettled feeling that I can’t seem to shake.
Once inside our room, Blaine turns to me and gives me a look that I know the definition of before he even touches me. I force a smile I don’t feel, and tell myself that I’ll be okay. This life of mine is a good one, flaws and all. I’m just feeling on edge because I’m nervous about the showing tomorrow night. That’s all this is. I’m sure of it. I’m happy.
Why does it feel like I’m trying too hard to convince myself?
I am not happy. I should not be back here and I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. I’ve argued with myself about it all day long. I saw her through the window yesterday, she smiled, she looked…amazing, but most importantly she looked happy. That should be enough. Yet somehow, it isn’t. I feel greedy for more. Seeing her brings back feelings I haven’t had in years. Or have not been able to confront for years. Feelings of want, desire and need for her, but also traces of my old self deep inside. The person that went after what he wanted and took it, or at least worked like hll to get it.
I keep telling myself I only want one more look. Just one. I want to make sure that the smile I saw yesterday is genuine. I want to see for myself that her eyes are shining in the way I remember so well. The way that tells me she’s happy, in love, and loving her life. The way she used to smile before we lost our baby. The smile I used to be afraid that I would forget, but found it impossible since it appeared in my dreams regularly.
Of course I’m not sure how I’ll be able to know any of these things for sure because my plan involves her never even seeing me. Part of me would do anything to have her eyes look into my own again, but that’s not possible. Anyway, I just want one more glimpse, one more look. How could I not? She’s here. In Arizona. In our home once more. After five long years of wondering about her, I can see her for myself. And my god, she’s right down the street, I couldn’t resist my desire to see her even if I tried. I’m not strong enough. I’ve been strong for all these years, I more than deserve this.
I couldn’t concentrate all day long. I’m pretty sure Jerry has never yelled at me more than he did today, and that’s saying something. He even took a swing at me in what is becoming his daily drunken state telling me that it would help, “snap me out of whatever the hell is wrong with me.” Little does he know that isn’t possible. And I don’t even want to think about what he would do if he knew that she was here, or if he knew what I was doing right now. God knows what he would threaten me with, and the thought makes my stomach clench. But still, the lure to see her is stronger.
As soon as it was appropriate, I made an excuse about not feeling well and got the hell out of the gym. I’ve been pacing my apartment all afternoon wishing the time would move faster. I even showered twice hoping the warm water would soothe my nerves. Part of it was also because I kept imagining myself walking in here and taking Tatum in my arms because I simply wanted one more hug, one more touch, one more moment, one more anything with her. But the fact is, I lost my right to have anything with her long ago. I signed those rights away literally, and while a piece of me regrets it, I would make the same decision again.
It’s been fucking painful, all this time, missing her, aching for her, wondering about her and clinging to hope that it was the right thing. That she wouldn’t just throw the opportunity away. But here she is…a gallery showing. She’s made it. She really has. I knew she had the ability to from the very first moment I saw her painting. The memory comes to my mind immediately.
Making my way up the stairs of the co-ed dormitory, I walk to the door I’m seeking and knock loudly. I’m anxious to pick up Chelsea with the double d’s and take her out. Ever since I met her in the course we share together I’ve been working my way to get my hand under that shirt of hers and on what promised to be one hell of a naked view. I’m taking her out to dinner and a movie tonight, but I’m hoping we can skip the movie and get comfy in the back seat of my car instead.
When the door swings open, a gorgeous brunette with stunning green, or maybe they’re blue, eyes opens the door. She looks annoyed if the pinched look on her face is any indication. Her hair is piled on top of her head but a few pieces fall down her face the bottoms landing on the top of her exposed right shoulder. She has something dark smeared on her face in a few places, and her hand is on her hip. “What?” she snaps at me and all I can do is simply stare at how beautiful she is, but she’s not about to let that happen. She slams the door in my face.
Knocking again, it opens quickly and she just stares at me as if I’m the stupidest person she’s ever seen. “Hi, I’m Cole. I’m here for Chelsea,” I finally manage to say.
“She’s in the bathroom, probably putting on her eighteenth coat of mascara,” she says then walks away from the door leaving it open.
Walking inside, I barely register much of the small dorm because I’m too interested in watching the spit fire that answered the door. She’s moved to her side of the room and sits before the window. She has the curtains pulled open and in front of the window she has a large easel set up and she’s standing before it. Clearly, she’s painting which explains the smears of color on her face. As I walk around her, I don’t think twice about invading her privacy and look at her canvas, then look at her.
“Stare much?” she asks sarcastically without turning to look at me.
“You’re really good at that,” I tell her gesturing to the painting and ignoring her sarcastic comment. And I mean it. She’s captured the image of the sky perfectly. The brightness of the moon almost seems to shine with light from her canvas. She’s captured the smokiness of the clouds around it and somehow the rest of the sky almost seems to glow. I have no idea how she’s managed to make a painting look so full of light, but it’s really beautiful, but it’s nothing compared to her. I couldn’t look away if I wanted to. So, I guess I am staring.
“Well, I should hope so since I work at it day and night and go to art school.”
“Hell woman, who pissed in
your cheerios? I gave you a compliment. Could you be more bitchy?”
“Do you want to find out?”
She stares at me and I can’t get over how much of an attitude she has. I don’t know what it is, but I find myself more amused than anything else. I can feel my lips curve into a smile, and I’m almost shocked when hers do too. We both start laughing out loud and honestly, I’m not even sure why, but I know that right there I vow to hear her laugh again.
“What’s so funny?”
We both stop laughing when Chelsea opens the door and walks into the room. She looks great, but suddenly, her double d’s aren’t so appealing. Not as much as the little Monet that’s captured my attention.
“Nothing,” my new artist friend says to her roommate.
“I’m sure that’s true,” Chelsea says with a roll of her eyes. “Sorry you had to endure my boring roommate. I hope you weren’t here long.”
Ahh, the bane of college life. Getting stuck with a roommate that you don’t get along with. Poor Monet, I think to myself.
“You two have a great time,” she says with little sincerity. She turns back to her painting, but I can see her looking at me out of the corner of her eye.
“Actually, I don’t think I’m feeling much like going out after all, Chelsea. I’m sorry.”
“What? Are you serious?” She walks to me and places her hand on my head. I want to push her away, but I remain still. “You feel fine, no fever. Are you sure?”
“I’m sure that I am definitely wanting to take out the wrong roommate.” Chelsea’s mouth falls open and so does Monet’s.
Fighting Pride Page 3
