of my head I kept thinking that if we had a baby, you’d want to stay. Like, maybe the baby would have made you happy in a way that I can’t.”
My eyes drifted shut and that vise around my heart twisted and squeezed. It took me a few seconds to pull myself together enough to speak. “I want to stay. You make me happy. You do. None of this is your fault. None of it,” I stated firmly, willing her to believe it. “It’s all on me. I’m the fucked-up one. You’re perfect.”
She laughed but I could hear that she was crying. “I’m not perfect. I say and do all the wrong things. I try so hard to be supportive but it’s so hard... it’s just so fucking hard. And I don’t blame you. It was the war that did this to you. It messed with your head and turned you into a different person and some days... most days...” She was crying harder now and I had to fight the urge to kick down the door and break the chain that was keeping us apart. But she’d already seen what a monster I could be and this wasn’t the time to force my way inside.
“Most days I just really miss you. I miss you so much it hurts. And I thought that if we had this baby, it would be like having a piece of you. The better parts of both of us in one tiny human that we could hold in our arms and watch our baby grow bigger and stronger. And I feel so cheated and so angry. I hate the US Marine Corps with every fiber in my body. I hate it, Jude. I really hate it. And I don’t know what to do or how to make this better.”
We’d just lost our baby, and I was losing Lila. And I couldn’t handle any of it.
I was sitting outside our apartment door, three days before Christmas, at a complete loss as to what to do or how to fix this. I always used to have an answer. I always used to find a solution. Make it better. But this time I didn’t know how to do that. And there was nothing worse than feeling helpless. Feeling weak because you’d let down the person you loved more than anyone else on the entire planet.
I needed to pull myself together. “Man up,” my dad told me last week. “Pull yourself up by the bootstraps and tough it out.”
I rose to my feet and pressed my palm against the door. “Open the door, baby. Let me in.”
“I lied. When I said I don’t blame you, I was lying. I hate you right now, Jude. I can’t trust myself…”
I pressed my forehead against the door, feeling like I was seventeen again, begging her to let me in. “I don’t care what you do to me. You can use me as your punching bag. You can do anything you want to me. Let me in.”
After a moment of silence, I heard the chain sliding against metal and she flung the door open. Gone was the sad girl and in her place was a woman I barely recognized. Green eyes flashed with anger and before the door had even closed behind me, she struck. She hit my chest, my shoulders, everywhere she could.
“I hate you!” she screamed, beyond hysterical. “I fucking hate you.”
I didn’t put up a fight. I wanted her to hurt me. I wanted her to inflict pain on me. I wanted to take her pain away and make it mine. So I didn’t even feel the sting of her slaps or the smack of her palms on my chest when she shoved me.
My back hit the door and her feet stumbled. Reaching for her, I pulled her into my arms and we clutched each other tightly, holding on for life. We were on a sinking boat and we were going down.
“Why is this happening to us?” she cried, choking on a sob. “What’s happening to us, Jude?”
Drowning, I held her up, trying to keep her afloat even as I went under.
I couldn’t do this.
Not this moment.
Not this life.
Sobs wracked her body and I tried to hold her broken pieces together. “It hurts,” she said brokenly.
“I know, baby, I know.” I lifted her into my arms and carried her to the bedroom, her tears soaking my T-shirt and bleeding into my skin. They flowed like a river through my veins.