semblance of solace in a weird way, knowing it wasn’t a random act by a stranger, that she was just that unlucky. I don’t understand why it makes a difference. The end result was still the same. She’s hopeful they will find him and put a stop to this once and for all. I’m not as optimistic. We didn’t even know of his existence; he’s used to being in the shadows, hiding.
Finlay ends his call and is standing in the middle of the room, gazing at me. I fiddle with my fingers and then rush towards my bedroom. “I need to clean the bathroom,” I tell him as I flee.
I brace myself as I hear Finlay’s footsteps as he continues to mope from room to room. He struggles to look at me anymore, and I him.
The loss of the baby hits me out of the blue some days and knocks my healing back weeks.
“It’s not your fault,” he reminds me when he finds me crying in the bathroom. And I know, deep down, that’s true.
Miscarriage is common, and that’s so freaking sad to think about. There are other women at this moment feeling this cruel agony, and I want to weep for them, for me, for Finlay.
“My mother’s here,” Finlay yells through the wood of the door separating us. I’ve been in the bathroom for over an hour “cleaning” it, when we both know it’s clean and I just needed to escape the silence between us. She’s here for my hair sample. We’re finally getting the tests to tell us for sure that Gaby and I share a father, just to have it on paper for Gaby’s peace of mind.
Checking myself in the mirror is pointless; I know I’m a puffy mess. Tears refuse to obey my command to stop, they happen at random moments.
I was talking to my teacher the other day about the early work of an artist he follows, and my mind drifted, and then my lip began to tremble and large, salty droplets dropped onto my cheeks. Mortification instantly brightened my skin tone, but my professor thought I was extremely passionate and commended me for being so free with my feelings towards art. I’ve caught him nodding at me a couple of times on campus like we share a secret.
“Antonia, baby. Please come out.”
“I’m coming,” I call back, and inhale a deep breath before unlocking the door. “I was just cleaning the shower.” I smile as I brush past him.
He won’t pull me on the lie, and that furthers the divide because he’s allowing me to fade from him. It’s not his fault; he thinks he’s doing the right thing, and in a way, it’s what I want. But there’s the other part of me, the complicated woman part we all possess, where we tell people we’re okay in the hope they see the empty hole and fill it with them.
Pulling myself together, I greet the doctor Diane brought with her.
“I just need to swab the inside of your cheek.” He holds a cue tip looking thing up, so I open my mouth and let him rub it against my gum.
He pulls it free and puts it in a plastic bag, sealing it and putting it in an envelope.
“I thought you needed a hair sample?” I query.
“No. Saliva is just as effective.”
“Now we just need to go see Gaby,” Diane states, as she makes her way back out.
“My flights are booked,” Finlay blurts out before I can escape into the bedroom.
After much reluctance, he is going on a few business trips, and I will miss him before the goodbye just like I always did. It’s a constant state of tug of war where my emotions are concerned. Part of me wants him here to share in my depression, and then the depressed side of me wants him away so I can let it swallow me up and not have to hide it from him. Darkness hangs over me like a rain cloud threatening to drown me at any moment. It’s best I don’t pull him under with me.
“So, I’m leaving early in the morning and thought we could maybe have some fun tonight and try to get back to the old us?”
They don’t exist.
He’s smiling like he just complimented me or something, when in fact, he’s reminding me that I’m no fun at the moment and ruining what we used to have.
Pulling the fake smile that is becoming easier and easier to pull off, I go