Still (Grip Book 2)(56)

"Mr. James-"

"No, I get it," he cuts in. "It's not your fault. You're just doing your  job, but if you think us knowing whether it's a girl or a boy is going  to make this decision any harder, you're wrong."

"It . . . humanizes the decision in a way that only complicates it for the parents."

"You think the semantics of this situation complicate our decision?" I  ask hoarsely. "They don't. What complicates our decision is that we love  this baby as if he or she is already here, already ours. What  complicates it is the roomful of nursery furniture we've bought, every  piece chosen with . . ."

My voice breaks, tears dampening my words.

"With love," I resume. "What complicates it is that I feel flutters in  my stomach, and I've been waiting any day now for them to be kicks. This  is our baby, and it's been the center of our world for months, and now  you say I may have to end its life or carry it to term and then watch it  die in my arms. Please. Just tell us."

I raise my eyes to her, and a tiny portion of my torture is reflected in  her stare. She nods, resignation on her face when she says, "It's a  girl."

Grip's sharply drawn breath matches mine, and my eyes, my hands, my  heart-every part of me seeks any part of him I can get to. With our  fingers tangled together in my lap, we just nod, both of us too cut up  to speak, the moment so raw we hemorrhage in the silence.

In a daze, I submit to the needle slowly drawing fluid from my belly. I  don't even hear the things Dr. Wagner and her staff say from then on.  Agony unimaginable rises over my head, disbelief muffling all the words  around me, muting my responses. My lungs constrict painfully as I go  under over and over, drowning but unable to die.

And I want to die. I think I could die without complaint if it meant  avoiding these "decisions," accepting one of these impossible options,  if it meant not breathing and living for the next four months growing  this child only to watch it die before it's ever even lived, a  manifestation of our malformed hopes.

When we get to the car, Grip and I just sit there for a moment, steeping in hot water, boiling alive in our suffering.

"Fuck," Grip finally mutters. I glance at him from the passenger seat,  unable to even curse. I am a curse. I feel cursed-how can I not with the  things the doctor said?

"Fuck," Grip repeats, slamming his hand on the steering wheel again and  again and again. I flinch at the percussion of his fist into the  unyielding leather and plastic, flinch every time he strikes it.         

     



 

"It can't be . . . we can't . . ." He stops abruptly, and one tear  streaks down his handsome face, the face I dreamt would stare back at me  in a little boy or a little girl.

"It's a girl," I whisper.

Agony ripples between us where our fingers intertwine, and Grip brings our hands to his lips.

"We can't give up yet, Bris. There's still the test. Maybe she's  mistaken. Anything's possible," he says, his mouth settling into that  firm line I've seen every time he's faced and conquered a challenge.

But this isn't a tough industry, a ladder to climb. It's not bias based  on the color of his skin. If the tests confirm what Dr. Wagner suspects,  this is insurmountable. There's no climbing out of it or working our  way around the impossible choices we'll have to make.

I can't help but think of how this day began, with the heat of our  lovemaking, with our dreams and speculations about this baby whispered  as dawn broke. We were sure it would be just as we wanted, that anything  was possible.

Dwell in possibility.

I can't think of what's possible as I replay the conversation with Dr.  Wagner like a horror movie I can't un-watch, the word "terminal"  clanging like a bell over and over in my head.

Possible? Not when all that is weighing on me, waiting for me, is death.

Bitterness pools in my heart, a fast-filling well of poison choking me. I  don't speak for the rest of the ride home. I think about how certain  Dr. Wagner seemed, how she called the test Grip is pinning so much on a  formality. I stew in my fear and anger and frustration until it runs  over, leaving little room for hope.





35





Grip





The nursery is doused in shadows. The only light comes from Bristol's  phone, illuminating a small sphere in the dark, showing her high  cheekbones, stark in the diminished light, and the full curve of her  mouth pulled thin with tension. She's sitting on the floor, her dark  brows contorting into a frown as she scrolls down the screen with her  index finger.

The last ten days of waiting for the test results have been harder than  anything I've ever experienced, but not harder than what lies ahead.

Our baby will die.

Whether because we terminate the pregnancy or decide to let it run its  course, her death is an inevitability for which I have no idea how to  prepare. I can't, and I have no idea how to help Bristol because I can't  help myself. I thought I could protect her from anything, from anyone. I  called myself her first line of defense but I'm blindsided, never  suspecting that the enemy-death-had already breached our gates.

We always talk about everything, Bristol and I, but a heavy silence hung  over us on the way home, like a rain cloud poised to pour. We were  silent as if our words would trigger the storm, and the deliberate,  unnatural quiet followed us across our threshold. Maybe by unspoken  mutual agreement, we decided it isn't real until we talk about it, until  we weigh our shitty options and are forced to make impossible choices.

"Couldn't sleep?" I ask from the door, my voice scratchy from lack of use. I've barely spoken since we left the doctor's office.

At my question, Bristol's head jerks up, her attention wrested from the  phone. With a click of her finger, she turns it off, losing the light  and plunging the room into darkness. The overhead light would show too  much, would be too bright. I step carefully in the general direction of  the lamp on a table in the corner. I fumble under the shade until I find  the little button that will show me Bristol's face, but not much else.  Her thoughts will remain a mystery until she's ready to talk, and as  much as I don't want to, as much as I've avoided it for the last few  hours, we have to talk.

The soft, lambent light shows me the broken heart in her eyes, killing  me at a glance. They aren't teary or red-rimmed or puffy. There are no  telltale signs of distress, but that secret joy that lit her eyes to  precious-metal silver for the last few months has been snuffed out.  They're dulled to pewter, an alloy of pain and grief, a mixture of  mourning.

I take a tentative step, only to freeze when I spot the things flanking  her on the floor. To her right sits a tub of her favorite Cookie Dough  ice cream. The lid is off, and a large serving spoon spears the creamy,  untouched surface. To her left is a half-full bottle of her favorite  liquor, vodka. No glass, so I assume she'll be taking it to the head, if  she hasn't already. My heart thuds behind my ribs because that must be a  sign. Bristol hasn't touched a drop of alcohol since she found out she  was pregnant. She would never endanger our baby, unless the point is  moot, unless she has already decided something I thought we would decide  together. My heart painfully draws its own conclusions, even though I  can't make myself ask her the question.         

     



 

What do you want to do?

Each word of the unspoken inquiry is like a drop of acid burning through  my tongue. I can't ask. I haven't even gotten up the nerve to ask  myself. I poured my pain and anger and frustration out on the only place  that ever seems to offer me any relief, besides Bristol-on paper. I  wrote an embittered manifesto that no one will ever read, but I haven't  asked myself what I want. I'm afraid I already know, and if Bristol  wants something different, that's what we'll do.

And it will kill me.

It's Bristol's body. She would have to carry and nurture this  unspeakable tragedy to its inevitable end, not me. I know I have a voice  in this, but I can't ask that of her. I've been afraid all afternoon to  ask myself if I even want to. There are no right answers. Everything is  wrong. We have door number one and door number two, and they both lead  to hell, one just faster than the other.

I settle beside her on the floor, mirroring her posture-knees pulled to  the chest, back to the wall. The half-empty bottle of vodka draws a line  of libation between us. She blinks, still not meeting my eyes, tracing  patterns on the darkened screen of her phone before placing it carefully  on the floor.

"Your ice cream is melting."

"Yeah." Her voice scrapes into the quiet, giving me nothing. "I don't need it anyway."

She always says that before she eats half the pint.

"And the vodka?" I keep my voice even, free of condemnation.

"That I need." She flicks a side glance to me, searching my face for  judgment, I assume. "I need a drink, and I've been sitting here  wondering if it matters anymore if I have one."