He’s on his residency at the hospital two counties over and his hours have been crazy. He comes home and tells me to give him quiet, I try but sometimes I might sneeze or cough and that sets him off.
“You know, if a child is what you really want, you should try again,” she offers as she continues to pet my hair and stroke my back.
I look up at her and give her a weak smile. She’s being kind to me, saying beautiful things, but I know it’s only her job to pretend to care. “Thank you,” I respond. Then I curl further into myself and don’t want to hear anything else she has to say.
“You have to eat something, gain your strength back so you can go home and try again.” I simply nod. What she doesn’t know is Trent told me I’m not allowed to eat anything, because it’s too expensive and we can’t afford it.
“I’m okay,” I whisper. “Not hungry,” I add. I’m not famished, I have no desire to eat anything. All I want to do is stay curled in this spot until the day they release me.
“You’re skin and bone, sugar. There’s nothing to you. You need to eat something.”
“Not hungry.” She must be delusional if she thinks I’m skinny, they weighed me when I came in and I’m eighty-three pounds.
“You had a dilation and curettage, you need your strength to get through this. An operation like that is only minor, but your body needs to heal and it can’t heal if you don’t eat.” Her voice is so sweet and gentle. She’s really trying her best, but what she doesn’t understand is I’m not allowed to eat.
“I’m fine, thank you,” I say and close my eyes. This will give her the very clear indication I don’t want her here any longer.
“If you don’t eat, the doctors may not allow you to leave,” her voice holds a slightly harsher tone.
But I ignore her. She stands beside the bed, and right now I want her to leave. I don’t need pity. I don’t need the sadness in her eyes, because I have enough of that sloshing through me to last a lifetime.
“I’ll send one of the aides in with something for you to eat,” she says in a quieter voice. She knows I can hear her, I’m simply choosing to ignore her because it’s easier.
The door opens and closes and I’m left alone. Not totally of course. There’s a woman in the bed beside me and she’s been chatting since the moment I was wheeled in. She got the idea once I turned my back and didn’t respond.
“You okay?” she asks me. “I know how tough losing a baby can be. I’ve lost three, and now I can’t get pregnant.” Her voice is wispy, as if she’s talking to herself then to me. “My husband says we can try again, but I don’t think I’m ready. It’s just too much pressure.”
I open my eyes and blink the fat tears away. They cling to my eye lashes for a split second, before they fall and wet the pillow beneath my head. I try and draw in a deep breath, but all I seem to attract is more hurt.
Shutting my eyes, I want her to stop. I want the world to just freeze and never move again. I don’t want to be here, but I don’t want to go back to our apartment either. I’m not sure I can face Trent. He’ll see the hurt in me and I’ll see the immense disappointment in him.
Thankfully, it’s not long before the woman in the other bed stops talking. And now I’m left to my own thoughts. Maybe it’s better when her voice is constantly chatting, because for those moments I’m not consumed by my own self-hatred. I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore. Why am I even breathing? What’s the point to my life?
The door creaks open, and I hear the tell-tale sound of the food cart being wheeled in.
“La-ladies,” says a confident deep voice, despite his stutter. There’s a serene tone to it, like a beautiful, calming chime. “I-I-I br-brought y-y-your d-d-dinner,” he stutters, though his voice is still strong and peaceful.
I turn to look at him, and immediately his eyes focus on me. My tears have eased, but not stopped. He gently brings his eyebrows together and slightly turns up one side of his mouth. I sit up in bed and focus on him.
He’s still as beautiful as I remember him from all those years ago. His face still holds the mystery and beauty of an expertly-crafted statue of ancient Roman times. His hair is thick and dark, and beside his dark, captivating eyes there are small lines.
“You-you haven’t or-ordered anything,” he gently says to me.
I’m completely spellbound by him. It’s not a lustful attraction toward him, more like he’s a beam of high-intensity light shining down and its brightness holds me captive.