My teeth ache from being ground against one another in order to keep from going crazy. I need to yell, need to vent, need to make something feel the pain I feel.
She stirs beside me as I pull into the driveway. Killing the engine, I sit and try to gather my thoughts.
The only sound is her faint breathing, and while I want to talk to her, apologize, try to find some comfort in her, I’m glad for the quiet. It’s like a bubble in the truck, she and I insulated from the world.
Elin loves me. And for that, I’m the luckiest fucker on the face of the planet. And that she still loves me after all of this? It’s a blessing I can’t fathom, but one I won’t fail to acknowledge every day for the rest of my life.
Scooting my seat back to the farthest position, I pull her onto my lap. She curls up against me, her arms going around my neck and her head against my shoulder. I kiss her forehead before opening the door and carrying her towards the house.
“What’s going on?” she asks sleepily as I push the back door open, the squeaking waking her. “Where are we?”
“Home,” I say, kicking the door closed behind us.
“I can walk.”
“Shh,” I whisper, finding my way through the darkness like the back of my hand. “Let me carry you.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know I don’t. I want to. Let me, please.”
“Okay,” she says softly, her cheek finding my chest again.
Padding down the hallway, I enter our bedroom. The moonlight streams through the window, giving me enough light to see our bed. The blue sheets are her favorite, the cream comforter in a messy heap at the bottom. She never makes the bed and seeing it like that, the same as always, makes me smile.
I lay her against the sheets. She smiles up at me, a soft, knowing smile, and kicks off her shoes and socks. “Grab your t-shirt off the dresser, please,” she asks, wiggling out of her jeans. I grab the shirt and turn back to face her and she’s sitting naked on the center of the bed.
I should say something—compliment her body or tell her how beautiful she looks, but with the truths of the night, it all seems wrong. I don’t know what to say. Maybe she’s right and there is nothing to say.
“Shirt?” she asks, holding out her hand.
Tossing her the shirt, she slips it over her head and slithers down in the blankets.
Her hair spilling against the sheets, she peers up at me. Propping herself up on her elbows, we stare at each other, a husband and a wife trying to find the steps to a dance that once came so naturally.
“If I tell you something, promise you won’t laugh at me?” she asks.
“No. But I’ll try not to.”
She smiles and snuggles further into the blankets. “I remember one night I couldn’t sleep. I felt like everything I wanted had been robbed from me and I was just beyond sad. Beyond angry. Just almost numb, I guess. And I got out of bed for the first time in a couple of days and walked into the living room and laid on the couch. I turned the television on and flipped through the channels and landed on some two a.m. preacher. He was talking about love, naturally, and how we should use every experience in our life to build love and how that’s a test in this world. How can you take your darkest moments and find a way to love more?”
I watch her eyes twinkle in the moonlight and I know she’s getting ready to amaze me. She never fails.
“I start crying,” she continues, “even though I’m certain there are no tears left. And I’m sure there’s no way I can find love in this mess. I loved you and you left. I loved this baby and it was taken from me. How can I be expected to find love in that? It was laughable.”
“I see your point.”
“But then I fall asleep and I have this dream, Ty. Not about you,” she adds, pointing a finger at me. “You were still on the black list. It was about the baby. I didn’t see it or anything, but the feeling of being pregnant, this . . . this . . . it’s a fullness. A warmth. Like you’re rounded out or something. I can’t explain it. And that’s the thing,” she said, propping back up on her elbows again. “Even though I was losing the baby, that feeling was there, just like the first time. I felt it. Maybe for a few hours or a day, but I felt it.”
“Elin . . .” The rest of the sentence catches in my throat, despite the simple smile on her face.
“I loved that baby,” she says, her voice breaking. “And if I never get pregnant again, I have an inkling of what it would’ve been like and I’m grateful for that.”
I climb across the bed and gather her in my arms. She lays across me, her hair spilling over my elbow and her eyes looking up at me so intently.