I clear my throat as I approach her. When I reach her side of the bed, her arms are crossed over her chest and her eyes pressed shut. She looks like a battleworn soldier who lost the war.
I lean over and press my lips against her forehead. “I’m here, Elle,” I whisper.
Her eyes blink open and she looks completely broken as our gazes meet. She presses her hand over her mouth. “I lost the baby, Paul,” she cries as tears slide down her face.
“Shhh, I know.” I take her hand in mine and hold it firmly. “I’m so sorry, Elle. I wish I’d been here.”
She shakes her head. “Don’t say that. You’ve been here all along for us, more than anyone, and you’re here for me now.”
I nod. “I am. And I’m not going anywhere. I want to help you get through this.”
She closes her eyes again. “I have no idea how to do that. I feel like I’ve lost a part of me . . . it’s like every dream I had for my baby and our future together will haunt me the rest of my life.”
I think about the dreams I had, too . . . maybe they were fantasies, but they felt real to me. My favorite was imagining the three of us at the beach, Elle holding the kid’s right hand, and me the left, while we swing the little one over the ocean swirling around our feet.
Without letting go of her hand, I reach behind me and drag the chair as close to her bed as possible. We let the silence and pain wrap tightly around us. All I can do is hold onto her hand while she cries, knowing these tears are the beginning of a river we will wade through. There’s no other way.
After a few intense minutes the tears slow down and she closes her eyes. I rest my head on the mattress next to her thigh. The weight of defeat is swallowing me and I frantically blink back my own tears. I need to be tough for her, but it’s hard, damn it, when I feel broken too. Elle seems to sense my spirit falling and without opening her eyes, she gently places her open hand on my head.
It’s in this intimate moment that the door opens and Trisha sticks her head inside.
“Sorry. Elle? They’re ready. Do you still—”
Elle doesn’t wait for the rest of the question. “Yes,” she says.
Trisha gestures for me to join her. “Come on Paul, we’ll wait down the hall.”
I try to hide my confusion and concern from Elle, figuring whatever she’s made her mind up about I need to trust.
I lean into her. “I’ll be out there. Tell them to let me know when I can come back to you.”
She nods. “I will.”
I slide down into the waiting room couch and press my hand over my eyes. These fucking florescent lights are making me edgy. The last thing I need right now is everything in this bleak place brightly lit and defined when my mind is so dark.
Trisha lets out a long sigh as she sits down next to me.
“So what’s happening in there?” I ask.
“It’s called a D and C. It’s finishing what nature started. At least she won’t have to deal with possibly a few weeks of bleeding after this.”
I press my lips together. The mystery of women and what they have to deal with has never felt more overwhelming to me. I know Elle is resilient, but everyone has their breaking point. I need to be ready in case this is hers.
Chapter Sixteen
TABLE FOR TWO
Grief is a shadow that clings to you especially in the quiet darkness. You can run but that fucker is attached to your heels looming behind you, ready to swallow you up.
Grief is also the language Elle and I speak now, it’s the language of no words just the hollow echo of her empty belly as we sit side-by-side on her couch, watching mindless comedies to fill the evening hours.
Once she’s back at work, I check on her every afternoon as she moves from one meeting to another. She seems busier than ever and she finally shares with me that she’s been pushing hard to pick up more clients so her schedule is always packed.
I get it, but it doesn’t keep me from worrying about her. The night I took her home from the clinic is now just a fuzzy collection of the fragmented actions—Elle leaning against me as she signed off on paperwork, carefully loading her in my car like she was a porcelain doll, and tucking her into her bed at home while making sure she took her pain meds. My care was all I had to offer so I did the best I could, even sleeping on her couch so I could check on her throughout the night.
She was asleep, when in a wave of rage and despair, I pulled a number of items out of her purse. With my phone I took a picture of the hospital paperwork with the miscarriage diagnosis, procedures and charges. Then I opened up her phone to recent calls, scrolling down until I found that motherfucking Viking’s name. I copied his phone number onto the text I’d written, attached the photo, and hit send.
Maybe it wasn’t the smartest thing to send a text threatening him if he ever contacts Elle again, but at least he has hard proof that the baby he was suddenly trying to claim, lost its chance at life that night. As much as I wanted to track him down and beat the shit out of him, far more than that was the determination to make sure Elle didn’t have to deal with him again in her sorrow.
That text and other emotional parts of that night I’ve filed away in my brain but they sneak up on me at unexpected times, temporarily stopping me in my tracks. I’m sure it happens with Elle, but she does her best to hide it from me. Knowing her, she thinks I’ve put up with too much already. Maybe she hasn’t realized yet that when it comes to her there’s no too much for me.
I know we need to push ourselves if we’re going to get past this. After a few weeks I start testing her.
Hey, you want to go to that new restaurant on LaBrea?
Did you hear about the latest DeNiro film? It’s playing at the ArcLight and it’s supposed to be great.
Did you know they’re doing tours of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Hollyhock House again? Wouldn’t that be cool?
All of my suggestions are met with an unenthusiastic shrug. “Maybe later,” she says.
I decide to give it more time, but one evening she points out a picture in a magazine spread. “What do you think of this?”
I look over her shoulder. “The Getty Center garden? It blew my mind first time I went. I love the bold choices. It’s amazing that they allowed Robert Irwin to realize his vision.”
She smiles. Damn I’ve missed that smile. “Will you take me to see it?” she asks.
I push back a grin. I don’t want to risk her changing her mind by thinking I’m expecting too much. “Sure. How about Saturday morning?”
“I’d like that.”
She’s wearing a sundress and sandals when I pick her up at ten thirty. It feels like her mood is the lightest it’s been since before losing the baby. Perhaps she’s pushing herself to try to find her new normal. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail and she has sunglasses pushed on top of her head.
“Hey, pretty girl,” I say when she steps up to me for a hug.
“Hey, handsome.”
She plays with the radio as I drive, and I let her. She finally settles on an Ed Sheeran song and leans back in her seat with a smile. “It feels good to get out.”
“Well, wait until you see the garden.”
After we get off the tram from the parking lot, I take her hand and pull her along, heading directly to the Central Garden, pointing out the ravine and stone waterfalls along the way. I have trouble containing my excitement. For some reason it never occurred to me to bring Elle here, and the fact that it was her idea makes it that much sweeter.
“Wow,” she exclaims when we finally reach the focal point of the gardens.
I start pointing to various plants and design elements and explain that everything was designed to reflect color and light.
“Those are interesting,” she says, pointing to the teepee structures that have fuchsia petals feathering out of their tops.
“I know. That design fascinates me. They’re custom designed bougainvillea arbors.”
“They look like abstract art.”
After
circling the garden twice, I take her where they’ve carved a quote of Irwin’s in the plaza floor. “Always changing, never twice the same.”
She studies the words for a minute before looking up at me. “Boy that could be my motto this year, too. My life was one thing, then it changed direction completely, and then it flipped me over again.”
I squeeze her hand. “It’s been a lot.”
“Too much,” she says quietly. “What’s the saying? The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. I don’t think God or the universe thought I deserved a baby.”
I look over at her, alarmed. The entire time I walked through this journey with her, I never thought she’d take the miscarriage as punishment.
She’s staring at the vast view in the distance. It’s a sunny, warm day and everything felt kind of perfect until this moment.
I step in front of her so she looks at me. “You deserve a baby, Elle.” She shakes her head and casts her gaze down. I slip my fingers under her chin and lift it until we are eye to eye. “Yes, yes you do.”
“But we don’t always get what we want, do we, Paul?”
There’s a long weighted pause where I try to respond, but I can’t find the words and she doesn’t back down. I finally decide it’s time to change things up. I pull her back toward the museum buildings.
“Where are you taking me?” she asks with a wary expression.
“I made reservations in the nice restaurant.”
Her somber mood lightens a bit. “That sounds good.”
We order wine right away and have almost finished our glasses before our lunch order arrives. I order another round because I can tell the wine is doing its trick and helping us both relax. It feels good to let loose with Elle. I keep teasing her and she giggles so much that I have to remind her to eat.
I love seeing her eyes sparkle and her cheeks turn pink as she recounts that day she first found me in her yard.
“What did you think when you saw me down on my knees on your grass?”
She arches her brow at me and runs the tip of her index finger along the rim of her wine glass. “You know what I thought. If I didn’t make it clear that day, surely now that you know me, you know exactly what I was thinking.”
I take a sip of my cabernet. “What a handsome devil I am?”
“Ha!”
I feel wounded. “What? You didn’t think I was handsome?”
She sets down her glass indignantly. “Are you fishing for compliments or something?”
I shrug. What is wrong with me? The wine is making me act stupid, but I can’t help it . . . I need to hear that she wanted me.
“Oh for goodness’ sakes . . . it was because I thought you were unbelievably gorgeous that I had two thoughts in my head.”
I instantly feel better. “Okay, what were the two thoughts?”
“The first was trying to estimate how long it would take to get you in my bed. The second was wondering if I’d replenished the condom stash in my nightstand drawer.”
“So confident,” I tease, as my mind tries to process the idea of us fucking for hours.
“I was until you totally burst my bubble. I think I sat in stunned silence for about twenty minutes after you turned me down and left.”
“Wow, so I was an exception to the rule.”
“And you still are.”
She takes a sip of her wine and winks at me.
“Well don’t think I left easily that day. I almost caved and blew my two year record.”
“Really? I know the very instance! It was when I told you to take out your cock so I could lick it! I think I was on my third or fourth beer by then.” She grins widely and I take a second to glance around our table to see if anyone is listening to us. She’s getting a little loud.
“What?” she asks.
“You may want to quiet down a bit, I think everyone including the guy in the corner over there heard you.”
“Oh stop!” she says with a laugh.
“But you’re right . . . that was one of the times I almost caved.”
She folds her arms over her chest. “And for the record, I wouldn’t have just licked. Oh noooo . . . I would have sucked.”
And there she goes . . . my girl with the filthy mouth is back. I could howl with relief I’m so happy to see her again.
She gives me a flirty smile that is unabashedly seductive.
“You like that, don’t you? I can see it all over your face.”
“Forget my face.” I glance down between my legs.
“The anaconda,” she whispers as her eyes close with pleasure.
“Yeah, he really loves your filthy mouth.”
“Maybe one day you’ll let my filthy mouth love him. I still can’t believe we haven’t had wild sex, Paul.”
I swirl the wine in my glass. “I thought you liked us as friends.”
“I’d like it better if we were friends with benefits.”
“Hmm.”
The waiter brings over the check. I glance up to note that there are a lot of people waiting to be seated. They must want to turn our table. Maybe it’s just as well. If we continue on like this I could lose control and we may end up screwing in the parking lot.
As we wait for the tram to take us to my car, Elle throws me a curveball. “So Tuesday I’m flying up to Stockton to see my mom.”
I can’t hide my surprise. The only time she spoke of her mom was when recounting her less than idyllic childhood.
She shakes her head. “Believe me, I don’t want to go but she’s having heart surgery and needs someone to take care of her.”
“And you’re the only one who can?”
She nods. “The only one who’s reliable. I resent having to take care of her again, but if I don’t go and something happens, I’ll never forgive myself.”
“How long will you be gone?”
“Hopefully just a week. It depends on how it goes. She’s a mess.”
We’re quiet on the ride back to her house. When I walk her to the door she doesn’t invite me in since she has to get a proposal done for work.
Our hug feels different. It’s a little bit sweet like the old days and a little bit sad knowing I’m not going to see her for at least a week.
“I want daily reports,” I say as I push her sunglasses up on her head so I can see her blue eyes.
“Yes, sir. And don’t forget that the wedding is in three weeks. Have you gotten your tux yet?”
“No, I promise, I’ll do it this week. Take care of yourself, okay? Safe travels.”
She smooths down the front of my T-shirt. “I promise . . . and I’ll be home before you know it.”
That following Thursday, I finally return to the family dinner after missing a month of them while I looked after Elle. My parents didn’t give me any shit about it because they knew that Elle took comfort in my company and she needed quiet, peaceful time to heal, not the emotional chaos that our family dinners can be.
I’ve just let myself in the front door when Ma drags me to the kitchen.
“What’s up?” I ask.
She puts her index finger up to her mouth. “Shhh.”
“Okay, what?” I whisper.
“Patrick is bringing a girl to dinner.”
I fold my arms over my chest. “Did you set this up?”
Ma waves her arms dramatically. “I certainly did not. This girl is a hippy.”
She spits out the word like it’s dirty.
Now that’s unexpected. “He’s interested in a hippy?”
“He’s not just interested, they’re dating. They may have already had s-e-x.”
She whispers the letters and I have to suppress a laugh.
I hold out my hands. “Well, that’s what people who like each other do.”
“Not you and Elle,” she points out.
I close my eyes and count to three. There’s no point in arguing with my mother before the evening even begins. I respond the only way I know how.
“Yeah, but we’re weird.”<
br />
“Well, you might want to figure that out. I like Elle. I think she’s good for you.”
Is she teasing me, or is this my mother’s way of suggesting that I get together with Elle?
I let Ma get back to cooking and head to the living room where Trisha is arguing loudly with Dad about politics. The evening is showing great promise for being a hot mess.
I’m finally able to distract Trisha away from politics with an update about Elle, including the latest news that she’s in Stockton with her mother to help her after her surgery.
Dad looks uncomfortable hearing about the bypass surgery and he excuses himself to check on Ma.
“Is he okay?” I ask Trisha.
“His doctor just put him on cholesterol medicine. Between that and the knee surgery, he seems to have finally realized that he’s an old man and it’s all downhill from here.”
“Geez, Trisha. You didn’t tell him that, did you? You make it sound like his days are numbered.”
“Face facts, Paul. It’s just a matter of time for all of us.”
“Well aren’t you Suzy Sunshine.”
She shrugs. “I’m a realist. Life is hard and then you die.”
If she keeps going on like this, I’m going to need a stiff drink. It occurs to me that the night she spent helping Elle probably only supported her bleak outlook.
I’m about to change the subject when the front door opens and Patrick steps in with a shit-eating grin on his face. He’s followed by a woman in a long gauze skirt and Birkenstocks. He takes her hand and leads her into the living room.
I have to focus on not letting my mouth gape open. Apparently what we have here is the perfect example of the saying that opposites attract.
“Umm, Paul, Trisha, I’d like you to meet Skye,” Patrick says.
I glance at the girl and then back at Patrick. Who is this Patrick? How could he look so different in just a month? His hair is longer and messy like he just had wild sex and finally got out of bed. Holy hell! What if he did? Clearly the S-E-X agrees with him—he looks great. I decide not to chide him about the African print shirt he’s wearing . . . at least for now. Instead I focus on Skye.
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