Say Forever(63)

Hey, sobrino. Just wanted to let you know the catering business is going well. I've got several weddings and quinceañeras booked, but I could use some help. My offer still stands. Also, I'm sorry about your baby, mijo. I hope you and your pretty señorita are doing well. You are a good boy and deserve to be happy.

I lean back in my chair and stare at his message for a long while, even though I know I need to get back to work. The line that gets me is he thinks I deserve to be happy. The thing is, I can't recall what happiness feels like anymore. I close my eyes and try to remember, try to recapture that feeling. The memories are there, but distant, as if they happened a lifetime ago: images of when Christina and I first met, and me holding her while she stumbles over my feet, of the time the A/C went out in my old apartment, and we cooled off in my pool and then made love in the moonlight, us chasing her brothers around the yard, laughing and pulling celery out of their pants, and all the many, many times, we'd take baths together and then make love well into the night.

Christina and I have shared some wonderful times, but we haven't even been together a year. I know there are more memories we need to create, if only we can find a way to be happy again. I ignore at least a dozen unanswered emails and open up that travel site I've been hearing about on TV. I know I need to do something about us now, before it's too late. I grab my cellphone and scroll for Grace's number as I formulate a plan in my head.


***


Christina

The only happy memories I have of my father were the times he used to take me fishing. He usually let me bring my sketchbook, and I'd draw pictures of fish jumping through the water. I even drew one from memory once of him hauling in his catch. My dad said it was my best work of art and he'd hung it in his office.

The dried salt from the water felt rough on my skin after we'd come in from a long day of fishing, and the dock smelled of pungent fish blood as seagulls swooped down and devoured discarded entrails. I'd usually turn my head when my dad filleted each fish. Even though they were long dead, I still felt sorry for them. The meat was raw and grey as blood ran down the cutting board and onto the concrete beneath.

When I think of those fish now, I think of my heart. Raw and bleeding. Despite all the hardships I've dealt with in my life, nothing has even come close to the pain I feel from the loss of our child. Nothing.

And I don't know how I can recover from it.

The guilt that overwhelms me is so powerful it's crippling. I hardly have the energy to build my new wedding design business. I don't have the desire to do anything anymore except paint pictures that convey my feelings of darkness and despair. Otherwise, I spend way too much time in bed, thinking maybe the miscarriage was God's way of punishing me for resenting an innocent child. All the while, thoughts about what I should have done differently run through my head. I should have insisted my OB see me right away, rather than be satisfied with a two week wait time. I shouldn't have eaten all those brownies and pancakes and other sugary foods.

But I guess none of those regrets matter now that the baby is lost. Inconsiderate people try to console me, telling me I was only four weeks pregnant, and these things happen. Andrés and I can try again, they say, but after that miscarriage, I don't know if I want to risk the heartache of losing another child. Besides, don't they understand I need time to mourn? Four weeks or not, that was still my baby. I didn't even know if it was a boy or a girl. I never even got to see my little peanut on an ultrasound, and now our child is gone forever.

Andrés's depression makes mine even worse. At first I thought he was mourning the miscarriage, too, but after talking to Arturo on the phone yesterday I'm not so sure. I knew Andrés hated his job, but now that I know about Arturo's offer, it all makes sense. Now I understand why he was so melancholy when I bought him professional cookware for Christmas, and why the only time he seems happy anymore is when he's in the kitchen. I wish Andrés would open up and tell me if he's truly unhappy at his job, but I'm such a mess of emotions right now, I don't know how to help him when I can't even fix myself. If only I could find some way to bring us both out of this funk. My misery feeds off his, and we're dragging each other into an endless pit of depression.

I jump at a knock on the front door. Even though I'm in bed, the loud banging resonates through the apartment. Only one person I know knocks like that: Grace. I throw off my covers and grab my sweatpants off the floor. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I slip them on. I run a hand down my ribs, which are showing through my tank top. Andrés keeps telling me I need to eat, but I don't have the appetite.

The banging grows more insistent.