Coda (Songs of Submission #9)(48)

But by the time Jonathan carried me to the door, I felt as if I’d been stabbed in the stomach.

“Monica?” He swung the door open.

“I think I should go to the bathroom.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah.”

He looked concerned, but he let me down, and I ran to the bathroom off our bedroom. It had a shower, and a bathtub, and a door that locked. It was a super fancy little corner of the world, and it had a view of the ocean, because what else did a girl need when her body was ridding itself of a blight. Right? I peeled off my pants and sat on the toilet, hunched in pain so bad, I felt as if my guts were being pulled and tied into a knot at the end of a balloon.

There was a soft rap on the door.

I couldn’t do this in front of anyone. Not even him. Not even the man whose chest had been open before me. Not even the one whose bleeding heart I carried every night in my dreams. I was doing this alone, whatever this was.

I grunted when the air went out of the balloon and the stretching and knotting started again.

“Monica,” he said through the door, “I’m calling for pain killers.”

“I’m fine!” Why did I say that? I wasn’t fine.

“You were with me in the hospital,” he said. “You have a distorted view of pain.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” I said, barely able to breathe. “You are the love of my life, but get the f*ck away from the door.”

“No, I will not leave you.” He used his dominant voice, and I didn’t give a single shit. “Open it.”

“Go jogging!” I screamed it not because I wanted to scare him, but because the pain intensified by an order of magnitude. I put my head in my hands, and the blood started.

chapter 35.

JONATHAN

The door was locked. Not that I gave a shit on a practical level. A bobby pin could fix that. I could knock the door down or unscrew the knob. I was sure the staff kept a chainsaw somewhere in the garage. Or hedge clippers. I could have broken that lock with my spit, to be honest. That was how wound up I was. I put my fist on the door for one last threat, but before I pounded it, I heard her hiccup then sniff. As badly as that made me want to get into that bathroom, I imagined a sudden bang on the door would only startle her. What would be the point of that?

“I’ll tell you what,” I said.

No answer. Just breathing.

“I won’t break this door down. But I’m staying right here.” I sat with my back against the door, my forearms on my knees.

She groaned, and I heard her pregnancy ending in a rush. She made an N sound that stretched out like a rubber band.

“Monica?”

“Women have gone through this for centuries, okay? Generations. Just… if you’re going to sit at the door like an eavesdropper…” She stopped, and I could only imagine why. “I’ll let you know when I’m through.”

The last word ended in a squeak. If I broke down the door, I could hold her hand. Or bring her a painkiller. I could be doing something instead of sitting against the door and imagining what she was going through. I felt trapped and incompetent. I wanted to grab my fitness as a husband back.

That was it. I wasn’t leaving her alone.

Bobby pins. I needed just one to open that door. I went to her dresser. The surface was cluttered with a picture of her parents, a crochet runner, a calendar. I opened her nightstand drawer. Old pictures. Sunglasses. Pens. Little notebooks. What the f*ck? Where were her bobby pins?

It hit me hard, deflating me. The bobby pins were where they belonged. In the goddamned bathroom.

I stood by the door, ready to break it down, and I heard her on the other side. She was humming the “Star-Spangled Banner” of all things. I put my hands on the door. She groaned the lyrics, and I heard a sickening splash.

I couldn’t take the door down. I couldn’t do that to her, but I couldn’t leave her either.

She was the heart patient, and I was the lonely young woman trying to grasp onto anything I could to make something happen. Would I have gone into Paulie Patalano’s room to pull the plug? Maybe. Maybe I would have. Because if this kept up for weeks and was a matter of life and death, yeah, I’d take that door down with a chainsaw even if it scared the shit out of her. I’d take the door down and shove it up someone’s ass.

But it only felt like life and death. It wasn’t.

I put my forehead to the door just as she sang “…and the home of the brave.”

“Brava,” I said.

“Go away,” she replied so softly I could barely hear her.

“Is ‘America the Beautiful’ next?”

“Not until the seventh inning.”

“I’ll wait out here all day.”

“I wanted this baby, Jonathan. Once I found out, I did. But before that… do you think not wanting it… it’s so stupid.”

“You didn’t miscarry because you didn’t want it. You didn’t scare it away.”

“We’ll try again. Right?”

She needed that hope. Hope was her power, her way of coping. She’d do reckless things to keep it alive. She’d murder and betray. She’d be brave and strong, all in the name of hope. If I could take her hope and let it feed me, I might have a nourished life, no matter its length.