Love, Always (7 page)

Adam

The anger I felt over her dad striking her is nothing compared to the joy I felt when Dee told me the baby was mine. She’s my daughter, my little girl, in every sense that matters.

Her fingers in my hair awakens me until I am nothing but pulsating nerves, and I have to push the need and desire down because I know Dee, and I know that’s not what she wants. It’s hard to remember that when she looks at me the way she did this morning as she cleaned the cuts and scrapes on my face. She’s so insecure and scared and sad. I want to hold her in my arms for the rest of eternity until all she feels is the love I have burning inside of me.

I want to be with her. I want to hold her in my arms like I did last night. I want to be hers.

But she won’t take me; she knows I’m not good enough. But I’m trying. I’m really trying.

Six years old

Mom walks into my room quietly, and I only pretend to be asleep for a second so she could wake me, but then I remember my baby brother. I open my eyes quickly and shoot out of bed, no longer worried about the needle in my arm.

I run to Mom and she kneels down so she could hug me.

“When can I meet him?” I ask, bouncing with happiness, but Mom shakes her head at me.

Although I’m grown, I let Mom pick me up and carry me back to bed where she lays me down. She lays down next to me and pulls me close to her. I feel her tears fall on my cheek, so I pat her face until she smiles back at me.

“Tommy’s with your daddy,” she whispers to me.

“When are they coming?”

Mom shakes her head again and more tears come out of her eyes.

“Do you remember what happened last night, baby boy?”

I look back at her and I shake my head no although I do. I remember the nightmare, but it isn’t true. It was just a bad dream.

“Daddy was shot by a bad man last night,” she says between her cries, and I cover my ears, not wanting to hear anymore. She takes my hands and holds them in her own before she continues, “Daddy’s in heaven now, watching over us like a real superhero.” I look away when her tears fall faster. “Tommy went with him last night.”

“Because of the bad man?” I ask, and Mom’s cries shake the bed we’re both lying on.

I can’t focus on anything but the pain. The pain in my lower back, the cramps that tighten my stomach so hard I’m afraid to even breathe. But I have to breathe; long inhales and slow exhales.

Adam rubs my back on the ride to the hospital, but all it does is infuriate me. I don’t want his hands drawing circles on my back. I don’t want his words of comfort. I want this baby pulled out of my vagina now.

I go to move his hands, but stop when I feel like I've wet myself. An uncontrollable gush of fluid flows from my stupid vagina until I am covered in a disgusting liquid that smells like come.

“My truck!” Adam shouts in horror.

His truck? The pain in my back radiates upward until my brain tingles as the dam between my legs continues to flow, and all he can think about his stupid truck? I slam my fist against the car door repeatedly while I try to restrain myself from attacking Adam. I will beat the ever-loving shit out of his precious truck if he mentions it again.

Adam puts his hands on my lap and squeezes gently. I glare at him, unsure if he’s going to ask me to put a plug up my vagina or if he’s offering some half-assed form of sympathy.

“Touch me again and I will break your damned fingers off.”

He lifts his hand from my lap, an exaggerated lift in the air as if he is declaring surrender. He continues to weave in out and out traffic, but I see the smirk on his face. Glad to see my current situation is such an amusement to him. Jack ass.

I grunt in pain when Adam breaks too hard in front of the emergency room entrance and I do my best to not cause irreparable damage to his fingers when he helps me out of the truck. He’s only trying to help after all. But unless we can suddenly trade bodies, there isn’t an awful lot he can do to help me.

A nurse wheels me into my delivery room where my vagina is put on display for the enjoyment of anyone with gloves. I’m close to begging them to just stick their hands inside of me and drag this baby out when a nurse asks me if I’d like an epidural.

“Yes.” I breathe a sigh of relief that the pain will soon be over.

“Are you sure?” she asks. Am I sure? Are you insane? I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life. “You’re already five centimeters dilated, almost there.”

“If you don’t give me something for this pain I’m gonna stab you in the heart.” I look around for a sharp object so I can make my threat more attainable.

“She’s sure,” Adam tells her as he takes my hands and puts them in his own. Probably wants to keep my hands away from anything that resembles a weapon.

The nurse pulls out a needle the length of a small sword and I swallow at the sight of it. I close my eyes and focus on my breathing rather than my heart constricting in my chest. I try not to jump when I feel the needle’s pinch on my back and reassure myself this will all be over soon. Not soon enough.

“How far along are you?” she asks.

“Full term,” Adam responds for me as I focus on the next set of contractions. “She was scheduled to be induced in a couple days.”

“The baby’s coming today,” she chuckles to herself, the only one privy to her ridiculous sense of humor.

I am only granted a few moments of solace once the shot takes effect, because my body and this world enjoy seeing me suffer. I shake, every one of my limbs tremble. I have no control over them, over anything really.

Adam stands beside me, rubbing his hands over my arms. “Do you want another blanket?” he asks, his eyes wide with worry.

“I’m not cold,” I say through trembling lips.

“You’re already five centimeters, almost there.” His words of comfort roll off of me, weightless and without any true depth or definition.

I clench my jaw shut and close my eyes, waiting to dilate even further. But whoever is in charge of my life is a ruthless bitch who hates my very existence. The first wave of nausea hits me so hard I don’t have time to complain. My mouth becomes an open faucet of acid and bile. I feel Adam press a damp cloth to my forehead before replacing my covers that are now full of vomit with fresh clean covers. The smell of my vomit nauseates me further, and I close my eyes as I focus on my breathing in the hopes that I will keep whatever wants out, in.

“It’s okay, Dee.” Adam helps me sit up and rubs my back as I hold a plastic bag he brought me by my mouth. “It’s gonna be okay.”

Like a punch to the gut, I remember my own reassuring words while Josh lied helpless under the rubble. If I had helped search for him…if I hadn’t admitted defeat while Josh was still breathing…

I gasp for air as I obsess on the images of Josh’s battered, lifeless body. The room begins to spin and tilt, so I put the bag by my lips and open my mouth as I dry heave. The pain in my stomach returns as it convulses with each attempt to vomit. I can’t stop my tears as they fall down my face. I am held hostage by my shaking body, by my desolate life, by the depression I only pretended had left me.

The nurses rush in while alarms go off in a shrill around my room. I want to cover my ears and shut the world out, but I am afraid to move the bag away from my mouth. I spit in the bag several times and turn away ice chips. I don’t flinch when they check me and feel numb when a nurse tells me I’m eight centimeters dilated.

I turn away from my doctor when she comes in, but listen to her closely as she gives me instructions. With Dr. Armas situated below me and Adam standing by my side holding my hand, I focus on Josh, on what should have been his moment, and push.

I hear my baby cry. It’s a distant cry, one I don’t recognize. I should feel something. Excitement? Joy? I’d settle for content.

I close my eyes, shutting Adam out when he brings me my baby for the first time. I was right; I don’t want her. My limbs continue to shake as I vomit in a pink basin the nurse gave me while pushing.

“She’s perfect, Dee.” Adam holds her close to his chest as he runs a finger down her nose. “What are we gonna name her?”

I turn over, away from Adam and my baby, and watch the nurse fill my IV with antibiotics that will bring down my fever. The nurse pats me on my shoulder when she finishes checking my IV and blood pressure.

“You’ll feel better soon.”

She’s wrong. I won’t ever feel better.

I close my eyes and try to drown myself in my own despair. I fall asleep listening to Adam sing to my baby and wake up to the same peaceful baby screaming the song in my heart. I turn around to find Adam changing her diaper with a bottle of milk by his side.  

“I think she’s hungry.” His smile radiates a happiness that would normally touch me. “You wanna try feeding her?”

“Just make her stop crying.” I get up to use the bathroom and press my head against the cold tile on the wall when I am blessed with a few moments of privacy. My breathing accelerates as I listen to Adam’s soft murmurs, and I can’t stop my hands from trembling. I turn on the shower, neither knowing nor caring if I’m allowed to bathe. I’ve slept since the baby was born, and I need to cleanse myself of everything that has happened today.

After a hot thirty minute shower, I don’t feel any better, so I slip on my flip flops and leave Adam and the baby sleeping as I go for a walk. I leave the maternity ward and take the elevator to the top floor. Maybe I’ll find an emergency exit to the top of the building so I can get fresh air. When the elevator doors open I am met with a shiny little plaque letting me know I have reached the sixth floor, which also happens to be the Psychiatric Ward. My heart pounds in my chest until all I hear and feel is my erratic heartbeat. Is this an omen? Or a sick joke?

On knees that have grown weak, I force myself to step out of the elevator. I follow the sign and make a left. My heart rate increases as does my breathing, but I have no way of slowing either down. With each step forward, my knees threaten to give out on me. I don’t know how, but I manage to walk to a small window with a nurse sitting behind it. I clear my throat, and alarmed, she looks up at me quickly.

“I think I need to check myself in.” My voice sounds firm, much stronger than I feel. The tears that have been a part of my everyday life do not come. Finally, the drought I had been hoping for. But it only came because I am too tired, too numb to feel anything anymore.

My knees tremble under my weight, but I keep myself upright. If I go into a psych ward, I’m going in with my back straight and my pride fully intact.