“Cleo, be reasonable,” he begged. “He couldn’t stay here. They had to take him. To p-preserve—” Again he stumbled, and this time seemed completely unable of finishing what he’d been trying to say. She heard a high, thin wail, and for a second didn’t register that it had come from her. Dante—alarmed by the sound—reached for her, trying to gather her into his arms, but she resisted his embrace, pushing him away, and his eyes flared with pain as he stepped back.
Cleo turned away from him until she was facing the opposite wall, and curled into a tight ball. It hurt to have him here. She wanted him gone.
“Luc and Blue were here,” he said, determinedly disregarding the fact that she was ignoring him. “And Cal called. The pink roses are from him.”
He kept talking and talking even though she stubbornly refused to acknowledge his presence. He told her that Blue and Luc had promised to return later and that they both sent their love. Susan Killian had sent flowers, as had James, Mrs. Whitman, and Coco and Gigi. But she didn’t care. She didn’t care about any of those people. How could they possibly understand how this felt? Zach had trusted her to take care of him, depended on her, and she had failed. Utterly failed him. Her hand went down to her abdomen, wishing she could feel him move again. Willing any kind of movement that would tell her that this was nothing more than a horrible nightmare, but it never came.
Her baby was gone. He was dead. And all the smiles, the first step, the first word, his first day of school, the long and beautiful life he should have led were gone with him. The unbearable agony that came with that gaping sense of loss was immeasurable, and the tears that finally came flooding out in no way at all helped her feel better.
She felt Dante climb onto the bed behind her and curve his body around hers. It was a tight fit, but he made it work. His arm crept over her waist, and his hand came to rest over hers on her abdomen. He held her as she cried, and while initially she tried to resist the comfort he offered, in the end she was grateful for his solid warmth and silent support.
“I wanted to hold him again,” she said into the silence, her voice thick after her onslaught of tears. “The morgue is cold. It’s not the place for him. He’s so tiny.”
“I know,” he said, tightening his arm around her waist. “I didn’t want them to take him either.”
“This is your fault,” she accused. The words seemed to come from out of nowhere, but she found herself needing to blame someone, needing to hate someone, and hating Dante right now was so much easier than loving him. She couldn’t love anybody right now; love led to loss and pain.
“We can go down and see him when you’re feeling a little calmer,” he said, misunderstanding her. He withdrew his arm from around her waist, and she felt him get off the bed, leaving her cold and alone. But that was what she wanted. She couldn’t depend on him; she refused to depend on him. Not when he would inevitably move on with his life and leave her behind. She turned around to face him.
“That’s not what I meant,” she corrected, amazed by how calm her voice sounded. “You did this.”
“What?” He seemed to lose every ounce of blood he had; his usually swarthy skin went completely white. “What do you mean?”
“This is your fault.” Her voice rose and became shrill as the nascent thought gained momentum. “The Great Dante Damaso always knows best, doesn’t he? He always gets his own way! If I hadn’t gotten into that car with you on Saturday night, if I’d driven myself back, this would never have happened. But you would never have let me, would you? Because you always know best!”
He stepped back, stumbling over the visitor’s chair as he shook his head. His eyes were bright and feverish, and his face looked carved from granite.
“You can’t mean that. You don’t know what you’re saying,” he said. His voice was urgent and rough with emotion. “This wasn’t my fault, Cleo; how can you say that it was?”
“From the moment I met you, every single thing in my life went wrong,” she sobbed, and he shook his head again.
“Do not blame me for your life, Cleo. It was a fucked-up mess before I ever met you,” he snapped, and then took a deep breath as he tried to get his spiraling emotions under control. He held up his hands in surrender. “You’re in pain, I get that. You’re hurting, but don’t do this . . . not now. Let’s be the parents Zach deserves; let’s give him a dignified and loving farewell.”
“We don’t have to be together to do that.” She kept her face and voice remote and cold. “I want you to leave. Go home. Please.”
“I don’t want you to be alone,” he protested, his face clenching in frustration.
“I’ll be fine. Your being here makes this worse; don’t you get that?” Her voice was bordering on shrill again, and he backed away.
“I’ll pick you up tomorrow.” He probably sensed that she was on the verge of losing it completely and that his presence really just exacerbated her distress. He approached her again, with the extreme wariness of a man reaching out to pet a snake, and before she knew his intention, he dropped a kiss on her cheek.
“I’m doing this under protest, Cleo,” he whispered. “I’d stay here all day and through the night if you’d let me. Try to get some rest, okay? I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She didn’t reply, just watched as he picked up his jacket and left without a backward glance. After she was sure he was gone and wouldn’t be back, she curled up on her side, stared out at the blue sky visible from her window, and allowed the tears to come again.
Blue and Luc showed up a couple of hours later, and Cleo burst into fresh tears when she saw her brother hover uncertainly in the doorway. His face just crumpled as he made his way to her bedside and gathered her into his arms.
“I’m sorry, Pattypan! I was such an asshole,” he whispered into her hair.
“My baby died,” she told him, and his arms tightened around her at the words. “He was so beautiful, Luc. I named him Zachary Damaso Knight.”
“I’m so sorry,” he said again, still holding her close, and she felt comforted by his embrace. But the solace she found in his hug made her guiltily think of Dante and acknowledge to herself that he didn’t have anyone to offer him this comfort. She shoved that thought aside, telling herself that he would be okay, he hadn’t felt the same depth of love for Zach, he’d been going through the motions, trying to do the right thing.
He would bounce back.
“Please, take me home,” she begged her brother.
“Of course,” he assured her. “As soon as they give you the all clear, we’ll get your stuff from Dante’s and . . .”
“No, take me home now! Today.” She felt a pang of loss at having to leave Zach behind, and she very nearly changed her mind. Earlier, after Dante left, she had demanded they bring Zach up to her again and had sat in a rocking chair for an hour just singing to him until her voice hoarsened. Afterward, when she resisted their attempts to take him from her, they gave her a mild sedative and very gently but firmly removed him from her grasp. A grief counselor had been dispatched to her room and told Cleo that the anger she felt was normal, but nothing the woman said had helped. Nothing anybody said or did could help or make her feel better. Nothing could make this gaping chasm in her soul go away.
Dante restlessly paced from empty room to empty room, avoiding the bloodied bathroom in Cleo’s room. He knew he would have to clean it up before she came home again. He didn’t want her to see it. He doubted she even knew how much blood she’d lost, and the memory of the fear and panic he’d felt at the time surged back.
He had gone over it and over it in his head. Maybe if he’d done something differently he could have saved the baby. Maybe if he’d heard her cry out sooner. Or perhaps if he’d helped her apply pressure to stop the bleeding. Maybe if he hadn’t insisted they go shopping that afternoon. He swallowed back bile as he remembered how he had pressed her. He should have used his common sense, but he had selfishly wanted to spend that time with her and hoped an inoffensive pastime like shopping would make her see him in a positive light. Would make her consider marrying him.
His mind kept coming back to her words in the hospital. Even though she voluntarily gave up her keys, she had only done so to avoid a prolonged argument with him. An argument he’d had no intention of losing, and she knew that. She was right, this was his fault, and he didn’t blame her for hating him right now and for not wanting to be around him. He hated himself and could barely stand his own company right now.
He found a bucket, scrub brush, and some detergent, and after mentally bracing himself, he stepped into the bathroom.
Oh God. It was worse than he remembered; the blood was smeared on the white tiled floor, the side of the bath, in the basin, on the commode, even on the wall. He swallowed back his nausea and went about the solemn task of cleaning up the last vestiges of Cleo’s pregnancy. Once he completed the grim job to his satisfaction, he finally allowed himself to succumb to his nausea and lost his meager lunch down the toilet. He stripped down where he stood, climbed into her shower, and scrubbed himself clean with delicately fragranced soap that reminded him of her. He stood beneath the buffeting, punishingly hot spray, with his hands braced on the tiled wall, his head tilted up toward the water, and finally allowed himself to grieve.