Inconceivable! (46 page)

I grabbed a clean pair of sweats and one of John’s old T-shirts.

When I went back into our bedroom, John was there. “If you feel up to it, we’ll go back to Roeselare tomorrow. I spoke to Astrid and she’s made an appointment for you to see Dr. Dreesen.” He paused, looking uncertain. “It’s time for the progesterone shot.”

“No. There’s no way I’m doing any more of those shots. If there was a baby in me, it’s gone now. I’m not torturing myself anymore.”

I rolled over and buried my body under the heaping covers. John set down his phone, and crawled onto the bed. He stayed on top of the blankets and put his arm around me.

“I’m sorry, Hatty. I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

“Me, too.” I let the black curtain of a heavy sleep close over me while John held me tightly.

We shared news of the miscarriage by phone with my parents and John’s father the next day. I wanted to get it done because telling it meant reliving it. Both calls included the requisite untruth: “I feel fine. I’ll be okay. I don’t need anything.”

While my parents shared my agony in their tearful, quiet way, John’s father responded with predictable disappointment devoid of sympathy. Leopold insisted this was a good test run, and assumed we’d do another cycle right away. He also said this would not change the queen’s plans to abdicate.

When we got home to Langbroek, I sat on our bed, staring out the floor-to-ceiling window, seeing nothing. Thinking nothing. Feeling nothing. My heart thumped inside a cocoon of numbness. I’d unpacked my emotions and reached the bottom of the suitcase. Instead of finding a secret stash of peace or comfort, I found nothing. It was empty.
Barren
. The only emotion that sometimes crept up on me was a sense of wonder at my inability to cry more. The tears had dried up after those phone calls to our parents. An accusatory voice in my head snipped,
What kind of mother will you be if you can’t wail and scream over the loss of your baby?

“Hey. Do you need anything?” John sat beside me on the bed, taking my hand.

“Do you?” Kicking that trash can at the ER was the only emotional release I’d witnessed from him.

He pinched the place above his nose and closed his eyes. “No.” He raised his head and looked out the window. “I don’t know what’s next.”

I pushed out a gush of air. “Do we just go on with normal life?”

“I don’t know what normal is anymore.” He squeezed my hand, walked to the bathroom, and closed the door. I’d heard a soft hiccupping sound coming from the bathroom earlier, though he’d emerged later with dry eyes. I supposed he wanted to stay strong in front of me. Even though it seemed my tears had dried up, I hungered for a few more moments of shared grief. But I couldn’t bring myself to ask him to sit and wallow in pain with me. Shouldn’t that sort of emotional synchronicity happen naturally? Yet another disappointment to add to the pile.

Royal life’s driven by ceremony and scheduled events. But there was no prescribed way to recognize our loss, mourn it, and achieve closure. No funeral, no proclamation, no announcement. Instead, we faced another kind of ceremony: the queen’s abdication.

took my seat at the long table beside John for what was sure to be the most awkward family meal in Toulene’s history. The lunch was a precursor to the abdication and coronation ceremony, which was set for 3:00 p.m. at St. Joseph’s Cathedral.

Seated across from us waiting for lunch to be served, Henri and Adela hid their pity behind weak smiles. Cousin Gerhard sat on the other side of Henri, a bit miserable since there were no women at the table with whom he could flirt. The rector of the church sat on the other side of me, chatting with Aunt Elinore about the expected turnout and how the intermittent rain showers might keep people away. Then there was Leopold and the queen. They looked placid, and for some reason, that worried me.

The servers came around with our first course and refilled our glasses. My stomach turned as I heard the tinkle of the queen’s little bell.

“Dearest ones. This is a day to celebrate. And I want to thank the rector for always opening the church for these special occasions. It’s a place that’s appropriate for both beginnings and endings,” she said, looking directly at me on the last word. “Lift your glass as I end my reign and we welcome my capable son onto the throne.”

“Prost!” The sound of wine glasses clinking together rang out.

On impulse, I pushed back my chair, stood, and held up my glass. “I’d like to propose a toast. To the woman who is my queen. She upholds the rule of law in all cases, no matter the cost to her family or the ones they love. So, cheers to you, Queenie!”

There was a pause before I heard subdued murmurs of “Prost.”

I sat back down and after a moment of awkward silence, people resumed their conversations. John firmly pressed his foot on top of mine, at the same time looking at me and smiling.

Yeah, well, at least I didn’t drop the f-bomb.

From my seat on the platform behind the pulpit, I gazed out at the solemn faces looking toward us from the pews. Long banners hung from the balconies inside St. Joseph’s, displaying the Meinrad family’s coat of arms. The rector began the ceremony with an opening prayer.

John was the first family member to speak; he introduced his grandmother. Just as he did every time he spoke in public, he used a tone that was reassuring and strong. He made people believe the future would be fine, regardless of what it held. With my body still working to rid itself of residual tissue, I no longer took comfort in his confidence that things would work out. They hadn’t.

I took a deep breath to stave off my tears and joined the polite applause as the queen took her turn at the pulpit. John sat down beside me on the raised platform and took my hand. I nodded to reassure him he’d done a great job.

“It is with deepest gratitude I come before you today to pass the crown in this peaceful ceremony to my only son, Leopold Hendrik Franz Meinrad. I know he plans to continue to focus on advocating for full funding of my early childhood initiative, Read to Succeed. I once again call on the assembly to make this vital program a budget priority. Expect our next monarch to roll out a strong agenda that takes into careful consideration the needs of our people. And now, I want to leave you with a few words from the Common English Bible. It comes from Romans, chapter 8: ‘If we see what we hope for, that isn’t hope. Who hopes for what they already see?’ I can’t see the future, but I know it will be glorious. So it is with hope and expectancy that I leave you. The prosperity we desire for our country is waiting in the distance. My son will lead you there.”

With the grandeur of thundering applause and Toulene’s national anthem as her backdrop, the queen walked to a table and signed the abdication papers, making it official.

As the anthem ended, it was Henri’s turn to speak. He approached the pulpit looking pale and sweaty as he shuffled his notes. I quickly glanced at Adela; she stared with a worried expression at her husband’s back.

Henri took a deep breath. “Fellow citizens. Not everyone has the opportunity to bear witness to the peaceful transfer of power, and our own history demonstrates this process often is not an easy one. At times, it’s been fraught with violence and betrayal. So, it is with tremendous pride I stand here today to be a part of this joyous ceremony. It is our privilege to honor the longest reigning monarch in our country’s history. Queen Sophia Gisila Victoire Meinrad has led Toulene with dignity and grace for more than thirty years. And I expect my father will continue the role she established of an active monarch who champions policies that are in the best interest of the people. It’s my honor to present my father, Prince Leopold Hendrik Franz Meinrad. I look forward to seeing the plans you have for our country. You make me proud.” Leopold came up to Henri, and they embraced.

As Leopold began his remarks, Henri stumbled a bit before reaching his seat, and Adela and I went to him. We helped him off the side of the stage. I held open a door leading into a hallway. Before closing it behind us, I looked back at John. He wore a helpless expression on his face. As the heir apparent to his father, he was required to be present during Leopold’s coronation; he couldn’t leave the stage.

In the hallway, Henri leaned into me. “I’m going to be sick.”

Adela slung her arm around him, and I looked around for a trash can. There was one sitting a few feet away. I grabbed it and rushed over to Henri as his lunch left his mouth.

“Just breathe,” I said. Adela stepped away, looking like she was going to be sick. Yep, the person who just had the miscarriage was the only one not barfing.

“Adela, go get a cold rag so we can cool him off,” I said, guiding Henri farther down the hall toward a chair.

As he sat, Henri looked at me. “How did I do? You’ll tell me the truth, won’t you, sister?”

His sweet, youthful face shone through the sweat. Bits of goop were plastered around his mouth.

“You were marvelous. You Meinrad boys are quite talented.”

Adela came back with a damp communion cloth. “Thank you, Hatty. I can handle him now. You go enjoy the rest of the ceremony,” Adela whispered.

I slipped away, but instead of going into the cathedral, I found an exit and escaped into the cold afternoon. Autumn’s air was alive, scented by fires in the fields and whispering stories of the coming snows. I closed my eyes involuntarily and opened them when my cell phone vibrated. I hadn’t realized until that moment I’d been clenching it in my hand.