“Bull crap,” I say.
Tears run down my cheeks and I press my thighs against my cramping abdomen.
Love is bull crap.
What has it ever done for me? I loved Jeremy and he left me for his current wife and their three perfect children. I loved my job and all of Ian’s positive mantras and that turned out to be a lie. I loved my baby girl, I really, really loved her, even though I only had her for a week, I loved her. How stupid is that? I loved her.
I had daydreams about what she’d be like when she was born. What she would look like, and what her favorite color would be. I dreamed about her first smile, and taking her to the beach, her first day of kindergarten and her college graduation. The second I learned I was pregnant, I loved her. I loved her with my whole heart.
I sent her all the love I had to give. Every last bit of it.
Isn’t that what moms do? Love their children?
I lay down on the floor and stare at the wall. I hate that quote. I hate it. As my baby girl leaks from my womb, I stare at the quote and the thought of love hurts.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to hold on to you. I’m sorry I messed up. I’m sorry I couldn’t keep ahold of you. I’m sorry.”
Then, I’m quiet.
I lay on the hard floor as the light comes through my window, travels across the floor, moves from late morning, to afternoon, to dusk.
Josh never calls.
My legs go numb and my body aches.
I’m sorry.
It’s all my fault.
I’m sorry.
Love is a terrible thing.
When my apartment is dark and I can’t see the quote on the wall anymore, I finally admit to myself there’s one other person that I loved. But I messed that up too. Because Brook was right. I’m a judgmental coward. I’m selfish and fearful, and I’ve used all those quotes and mantras to keep from facing the world and facing the truth.
I’ve not always been a good person.
I’m not as brave as I pretend.
The reason I’m alone is because I refuse to let anyone get close.
I judged Josh and used him and kept him at arm’s length.
And I love him, but I’m too afraid to admit it.
Because what if he loves me back?
As the darkness grows deeper, I realize I’ve been wrong. Truly, deeply wrong. Because there is nothing good in this moment. There is no silver lining. There is no way to look on the bright side. Josh is gone. My baby is gone. And all the lies I told myself are gone too.
26
The weak light of Tuesday morning spreads over the hardwood floor and settles on me. I lift my cheek from the wood and open my eyes. They’re grainy and itchy, and I feel exactly like you’d expect after spending the night on an old wood floor. I wince at the ache in my back and my hips.
I consider calling in sick and crawling into bed when my phone starts to ring.
Josh.
I scramble toward the coffee table and grab my phone.
It’s not Josh, it’s Leah. I frown. It’s only seven in the morning, usually this is when she’s in the mad morning rush of getting the kids off to school. She never calls before nine, not until after the kids are gone and she’s had her coffee.
“Hello?” I wince at the croaky sound my voice makes.
“Gemma, hey. Did I wake you? Aren’t you working today?”
“Uh,” I clear my throat. “I’m awake.”
She doesn’t hear me because she’s pulled the phone away from her ear and she’s yelling, “You only get one fruit snack pack, Mary. Put that down. Sasha, take your homework out of the cat’s mouth. No, I will not tell your teacher the cat ate your homework.”
While she’s corralling the kids I stumble to the kitchen, grab a glass of water and gulp it down. The wall mirror reflects my red-rimmed eyes with dark hollows under them. Beyond that, I look exactly the same as I always have. I turn away. It feels like I should look different, that I’d be able to tell just looking at myself that everything has changed, but no.
“Anyway,” Leah says, “Mom asked me to call you, because she’s been so busy making all the food and everything and helping Josh organize. The “poor dear comes from a broken home” and all that. You remember. Kids, you’ve got five minutes to get in the car!”
I blink and try to understand what Leah’s saying. My mind feels sluggish and fuzzy.
“Sorry. What are you talking about? What about Josh?”
Do they know? Did Josh tell them after all? Is my mom busy making her favorite party foods, mini gherkins on toothpicks, mini sausages on toothpicks, pimento olives on toothpicks, and lime Jell-O molds to celebrate me and Josh having a baby?