Josh and Gemma Make a Baby(77)

It will feel…just like a normal period? It will feel…normal?

The breath leaves my lungs, and there’s such a heavy weight on my chest that I can’t pull in any air.

“You didn’t have any other embryos that made it to the blastocyst stage,” Dr. Ingraham continues. “Your partner will have to come in again to donate another sample and you’ll need another retrieval.”

I still can’t pull in a breath. There’s no air in the whole room, in the whole world. I try to drag in another breath and finally I manage to work my lungs.

“All set?” Dr. Ingraham asks. “You can start again with your next cycle. Let us know when you’re ready to proceed.”

I swallow and nod, but I’m not able to talk past the burning tightness in my throat.

He leaves me to get dressed again. But for the longest time I’m not able to climb off the table. I just stare at the blank ultrasound machine and at the red spot of blood on the paper beneath me.





An hour later I make it home. When I close my door behind me another cramp catches me off guard and I gasp. I press my hand against my stomach.

Then I pull my phone out of my purse. I need to call Josh. He should know.

I dial his number and hold the phone to my ear. After it rings and rings he picks up.

“This is Josh.”

“Josh, hi, it’s—” I start to cry.

“Who calls anymore? Send a text. Anyway. Leave a message.”

It’s his voicemail. It isn’t him, it’s voicemail. I sniff and try to pull back my tears. I can’t tell him over voicemail, I can’t, I don’t even know how I’ll tell him in person.

I close my eyes and say, “hey. It’s me. I’m playing hooky again. Call me?”

I hang up and drop my phone to the coffee table. The beaded bracelet on my wrist clacks as I drop my hand. It’s the pregnancy bracelet Hannah gave me. The one that’s supposed to protect from miscarriage and guarantee a safe pregnancy.

I stare at it. Then I rip it off of my wrist and fling it at the wall. The bracelet breaks and the beads bounce around the floor.

I drop down and wrap my hands around my knees. The bracelet took a chunk of paint off the wall, right above Ian’s quote.

The one that says, love is the best gift I’ve ever had the privilege to give.

“Bull crap,” I say.

Tears run down my cheeks and I press my thighs against my cramping abdomen.

Love is bull crap.

What has it ever done for me? I loved Jeremy and he left me for his current wife and their three perfect children. I loved my job and all of Ian’s positive mantras and that turned out to be a lie. I loved my baby girl, I really, really loved her, even though I only had her for a week, I loved her. How stupid is that? I loved her.

I had daydreams about what she’d be like when she was born. What she would look like, and what her favorite color would be. I dreamed about her first smile, and taking her to the beach, her first day of kindergarten and her college graduation. The second I learned I was pregnant, I loved her. I loved her with my whole heart.

I sent her all the love I had to give. Every last bit of it.

Isn’t that what moms do? Love their children?

I lay down on the floor and stare at the wall. I hate that quote. I hate it. As my baby girl leaks from my womb, I stare at the quote and the thought of love hurts.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to hold on to you. I’m sorry I messed up. I’m sorry I couldn’t keep ahold of you. I’m sorry.”

Then, I’m quiet.

I lay on the hard floor as the light comes through my window, travels across the floor, moves from late morning, to afternoon, to dusk.

Josh never calls.

My legs go numb and my body aches.

I’m sorry.

It’s all my fault.

I’m sorry.

Love is a terrible thing.

When my apartment is dark and I can’t see the quote on the wall anymore, I finally admit to myself there’s one other person that I loved. But I messed that up too. Because Brook was right. I’m a judgmental coward. I’m selfish and fearful, and I’ve used all those quotes and mantras to keep from facing the world and facing the truth.

I’ve not always been a good person.

I’m not as brave as I pretend.

The reason I’m alone is because I refuse to let anyone get close.

I judged Josh and used him and kept him at arm’s length.

And I love him, but I’m too afraid to admit it.

Because what if he loves me back?

As the darkness grows deeper, I realize I’ve been wrong. Truly, deeply wrong. Because there is nothing good in this moment. There is no silver lining. There is no way to look on the bright side. Josh is gone. My baby is gone. And all the lies I told myself are gone too.





26





The weak light of Tuesday morning spreads over the hardwood floor and settles on me. I lift my cheek from the wood and open my eyes. They’re grainy and itchy, and I feel exactly like you’d expect after spending the night on an old wood floor. I wince at the ache in my back and my hips.

I consider calling in sick and crawling into bed when my phone starts to ring.

Josh.

I scramble toward the coffee table and grab my phone.