The Dance (8 page)

“Bry, let me help you get into bed.”

The second my gaze landed on the bed my pulse raced and I suddenly felt claustrophobic in the large room. “I can’t lie on those sheets.”

“I’ll change them,” Will said in a low voice.

I froze at the foot of the bed as he stripped off the comforter and sheets. With each layer removed, my muscles tensed. I forced myself to focus on the stiff tightness, hoping it would distract from the hollow feeling inside. Will balled up the sheets and stuck them on the chair in the corner.

“Get them out of here.” I ordered.

“What?”

“I want them out of this room. Out of this house.”

Without a word he gathered the mound of material and tossed it in the hallway.

“I need to get out of this nightgown.”

Will helped me out of his navy blue hoodie he’d covered me up with before going to the hospital. Taking my hand, he led me into the bathroom, leaving me at the vanity while he turned on the shower. He stood in front of me and gently lifted my pale pink nightgown over my head. I closed my eyes, humiliation washing over me as he peeled back the tabs on the adult diaper the hospital had put me in. It seemed appropriate since I felt like a helpless child at the moment. When I opened my eyes, I saw Will tossing the diaper into the trash can. Holding my hand, he guided me to the shower, reaching in to check the water temperature. He kicked off his sneakers and stripped out of his clothes.

My body jumped at the sound of Will clearing his throat. “I’m sorry.” He paused for a second. “A shower will make you feel better.”

I didn’t feel the warm water wash over me or the touch of Will’s hands. Every part of me felt dead. But for Will’s sake, I pretended it was all helping. Grabbing the body wash, he poured a drop into the middle of his trembling palm. His hand glided over my body as if he were touching a delicate piece of glass. The air was still and silent except for the splashing of the water against the tiles.

“Do you want me to wash your hair?”

“Yes, please,” I whispered.

As his soapy fingers twisted in my hair, I closed my eyes and drifted back into pretend mode. I knew it was important for him to keep focused on an activity. That’s how Will handled things. He kept moving.

The sound of running water stopped, replaced by the glass shower door sliding on its track. Will reached out, grabbing a large fluffy towel, and bundled me up in it. He then took a smaller towel and wrapped it around my wet hair.

Helping me out of the shower, he said, “I’m going to take a quick shower while you dry off, okay?”

“Okay.”

I sat staring into the vanity mirror covered in towels, thinking the answer might miraculously appear in front of me as to why this happened. After his shower, Will wrapped a towel around his waist and headed into the bedroom. I finally finished towel drying my hair and put on a tank top and pair of lounge pants I had hanging on the back of the bathroom door. By the time I walked in the bedroom, Will was smoothing out the fresh comforter and sheets he’d put on the bed. He was also wearing his work clothes.

My brows squished together as I narrowed my eyes at him. “What are you doing?”

“Finishing making the bed.”

“I don’t mean that. Why are you dressed?”

He continued smoothing out the comforter, not looking at me. “It’s a workday.”

“You’re going to work?”

He turned in my direction but our eyes didn’t meet.

“I have to.”

“But you didn’t get any sleep last night.”

And we just lost our baby.

“I’ll down some coffee with a Red Bull chaser.” He took my hand. “Let me help you into bed.” He pulled the covers up over me. “I called your mom. She’s coming over to be with you today.”

He placed a soft kiss on my forehead before walking toward the door.

Clutching the covers to my chest, I said, “Will?”

He faced me but still didn’t meet my gaze. “Yeah?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too.” He turned and left without another word.

I don’t know how long I sat there staring at the door, thinking and hoping Will would walk back through it. We were both in shock that in a matter of hours our little family had been destroyed. Will may have been able to grieve by himself but I needed my husband. The one person who understood exactly how I was feeling.

He didn’t even wait for my mom to get here.

Each second that ticked by, my throat thickened with tears. I lay back, pulling the comforter over my head, and let the loneliness consume me.

As days turned into weeks my relationship with Will shifted. He’d been given a lot more responsibility at work and put in charge of a large project. I was proud of him and glad he was thriving at work. But I had my suspicions that he had pushed for the new project in order to keep him at work later. When he did come home at a reasonable time, we’d eat dinner, saying very little, and then he’d head into his office. Many times I didn’t see him again until the next day. While Will was apparently moving on, I couldn’t get past the night we lost the baby and our connection.

After being together for almost ten years I thought our relationship had a stronger foundation. But it dawned on me one day that until the miscarriage our relationship hadn’t been tested, not in any real way. I never wondered how Will and I would handle a difficult time. I assumed we’d tackle it together.

Time seemed to come to a grinding halt after the miscarriage for me. The days bled seamlessly into nights. My doctor gave no real explanation as to why I’d lost my baby other than to say that 10 to 20 percent of pregnancies end in miscarriage with the cause being undetermined. She assured me that there was no medical reason why I couldn’t get pregnant again and carry to term. But once you lose a child, a little voice takes up residence in your head saying you’re damaged goods.

After three months, I finally forced myself to go into what would have been the nursery to remove the inspiration pictures that lined the walls. I studied the details of each picture until I had committed them to memory. I was so caught up in what could have been I didn’t realize Will was standing in the doorway.

“What are you doing?” There was a sternness to his tone.

Not looking at him, I said, “I figured I might as well take the pictures down.”

“I’m going to take a quick shower.”

“Do you blame me?” The question had been stuck in my throat since the morning we came home from the hospital.

“No. I think the pictures needed to come down.”

“I’m not talking about the stupid pictures.”

“I have a business dinner tonight.”

I whipped around, grabbing his gaze. “Really, Will? Is this how we’re going to deal with the first traumatic event in our lives?”

His brown eyes appeared darker than usual. “What do you want me to say?”

“Anything. I want you to look at me for more than a second and say anything.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve been swamped at work and . . .”

“Bullshit! You blame me for fucking up our well-planned-out perfect life.”

“I don’t have time for this.” He stomped into our bedroom.

I followed, calling out behind him. “Then when will you have time? I’d like to be put on your busy schedule.”

Will ripped off his shirt and pants, standing in the middle of our room in only his boxers.

“I’ve racked my brain trying to figure out what I did wrong. Was it something I ate, did I twist my body a certain way, or am I being punished for something I did in the past?”

“Nothing I can do or say will erase what happened,” he said, sounding defeated.

“I know that. I don’t expect you to perform some miracle. But I need you. I don’t know how to move on from this without you.”

“I . . . um . . . I . . .”

I stepped toward him and took his hand in mine. “We can go see a counselor to help us.”

He shook his head. “No. I’ll do better.”

I wanted to believe Will but I had a feeling he was only saying the words he thought I wanted to hear. He caught my gaze for a brief moment and let go of my hand before retreating into the bathroom.

During the months that followed, my relationship with Will ebbed and flowed. We had hopeful moments, though they were fleeting, replaced by long periods of disconnect. I understood people handled grief in many different ways. And you can’t dictate to another person the right way to move through their sorrow. I needed the one person in my life who could understand what I was feeling. But he apparently didn’t need me. At least not at the moment. I turned to my parents and Sophie, of course, but it wasn’t the same. The constant gnawing pain in my heart couldn’t be consoled by hugs and a sympathetic gaze.

Will continued to immerse himself in work. Instead of being jealous and angry, I decided that if this was his way of dealing with the loss of our child I had to give him the time and space. Work made him happy and that was important to me. I eventually eased back into some semblance of a routine as I waited for my old self to reappear. A big part of me doubted I’d ever see that girl again. Losing your child changes the atmosphere forever.

We pulled up to the three-story colonial house right across the street from Charleston Harbor in the area of downtown known as The Battery. The beautiful white home was the epitome of old southern charm. Wraparound porches hugged each story complete with quaint rocking chairs welcoming visitors. The house had been in Will’s family for four generations. His parents were the current occupants. Alex, being the eldest son, was entitled to be the fifth generation to live there but that would never happen. Alex gave up his birthright the minute he walked out of rehab the first time. Mr. Forsyth made sure to notate in his will that the tradition would skip to his second son instead. One day Will and I would be holding Sunday dinners here with our children.

Before we reached the first step the front door swung open and we were greeted by the open arms of Will’s mom. Every time we came over she greeted us as if we hadn’t seen one another in years. Will worked side-by-side with his dad every day and we had Sunday dinner with his parents every other week. Whispers had swirled in the local society circle for years about Alex. I assumed Will’s mom’s grand gesture was more a show for the neighbors. Making sure that those who were within view could see the good son coming home. Thus proving that the majority of her family was indeed perfect despite the one bad apple.

As Mrs. Forsyth waited for her hug, I swear I saw her gaze shift from side-to-side checking for an audience. “There’s my handsome boy.”

“Hey, Mom.” Will kissed his mother on the cheek like any dutiful southern son would do.

“Hey, darling.” A pitiful expression crossed her face.

I was well aware of how devastated both sets of parents were when they got the news. Whereas my parents gave me love and support, Will’s mom continued to send out subtle signals of hurt and disappointment.

As I climbed the steps, Will walked past his mother and into the house.

With her head tilted in sympathy, a faint smile ghosted across my mother in-law’s shriveled bright red lips. “How are you, dear?”

“Pretty good. Thanks. How are you doing?”

She stepped onto the porch, closing the door behind her. “Let’s have a little girl chat.”