On The Edge of Summer
Do you remember what it's like to lose something you thought was a sure thing? Do you remember that stomach-dropping feeling; that gut-wrenching conviction that although this opportunity might come around again, it's never going to be the same as it was right now?
It was easy to rely on it; to count your chickens before they hatch. No one told you that the biological certainty is never certain. No one told you that some people's bodies aren't made for this. And now you're staring at the situation like you would stare through water at the sun – it's not real. It's all a dream. Isn't it?
Well, it's you and it's me
Me with a drink in my hand
The ice is tinkling like a wind chime
And late afternoon settles over the land
And you're talking about things
Interesting just slightly
And things that matter too much
To say any way but lightly
Everything's sharp and bright; too bright for two AM. It starts with the cramping; you're awakened suddenly and try to ignore it. Your arms curl around your abdomen; you push back the scientific, clinical thoughts and focus on holding it there; keeping your baby inside where you can protect her. This time, you know it's a girl. This time, you've seen her face in your dreams, and the little cry that escapes your lips is like a warning to God: don't do this again. Please, if you're merciful, don't do this again.
Mark is asleep beside you. His arms are twined behind his head; his eyes are closed. He's been with you through the other three, and you've watched the lines around his eyes deepen at every loss. You've got a drowning certainty that this fourth will just about break him. It makes you hope against hope that this isn't going to be the fourth time.
The first time, he was overjoyed. He placed his hands on your still-flat abdomen and kissed it, just above your navel, whispering to the glow inside, telling the baby all his hopes and dreams. You both had made the mistake of calling the Shepherd family; of telling a few close friends. Of buying into the overjoyed blind faith that having a baby brings to otherwise rational people. Maybe the first one was the worst, because three months in, when you ended up in the ER at four in the morning with blood streaming down the insides of your legs, you hadn't been able to stop crying and he had to gulp back his own tears in order to take care of you.
The second time, you were more cautious. You didn't tell anyone but Naomi and Derek, vowing that when the three-month mark passed, you would start to redecorate the spare room and send out the joyful news to everyone. You didn't make it past the second month. This time, Mark stroked your hair as you lay on your bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, tears streaming into your flaming red locks.
It seems impossible that there could have been a third time. You both weren't that lucky and you sure as hell didn't think there could be a third time. More than a year had passed since the second miscarriage; you tentatively suggested it one night after a long day in the OR where you'd lost twins and Mark had lost his facelift patient to an anesthesia problem. The sex that night had been born out of need; maybe it didn't matter if you lost people if you could make one to come home to. One to live for on days like these.
It had worked and the test turned blue and you had said nothing to anyone, not even Naomi and Derek. It was like the secret that you both shared alone; his covert glances at your belly; the way you would brush up against him and he would place a hand on your abdomen. No one knew and it was so beautiful to share the beautiful news. Maybe you had been too cocky before. Maybe, you had tempted Fate a little too much.
Maybe, it just wasn't meant to be. You lost it the evening before you would have marked the third month of the pregnancy. It could have been the anticipation, but the red blood down your legs was more like a fucking curse. That night, Mark cried in the chair facing the window of your bedroom while you curled into a ball in bed and rode the waves of cramps as a punishment for not being able to be a good mother; no, not even when you're trying to provide a safe haven for this baby you both want so much.
Did you know you're so beautiful?
On the edge of summer
That years from now
I'll cry to remember
How very close you were
Knowing this will I reach for you
Knowing this will I reach for you
The way you want me to.
When you missed your period, you chalked it up to stress. After three miscarriages, you didn't ever want to hear the word "pregnancy" in relation to yourself again, and certainly not a bare six months after the last one. Mark and you were on the rocks, anyway; three miscarriages will do that to a marriage. He started to smile at young nurses and you started to dig your nails into the palms of your hands just to feel something other than empty resignation. You'd had sex one night after a fight laced with vodka; he'd yelled at you for being cold and you'd screamed at him for not being able to help you with anything. You'd fallen into bed and the sex had been incredible; you hadn't noticed the blood trickling from his shoulder or the dark bruises on the curve of the hip bone under your ivory skin. It had been an instantaneous miracle of an orgasm. You'd fallen into delicious sleep; the first good sleep you'd had in six months.
And then the stick turned blue.
When you saw it, your first thought was why. Why a fourth time? Why, after everything? So this child maybe never had a chance; you were defeated enough to not even tell Mark about this pregnancy. He's been more attentive than Derek, but back-to-back surgeries have made him blind to anything but your smile lately, and he hasn't noticed that it's been two months and your belly isn't as flat anymore.
Well, it's time to be wise
Wise in the ways of the heart
To come out from under the covers
This voluntary state of apart
From the faces, oasis
In this Sahara of sorrow
These graces that hold me
It's from you that I borrowed.
When the bleeding starts, you're so devastated that you can't stop your gag reflex from taking over. You heave towards the bathroom, but you don't quite make it and the vomit mixes with the first thick drops of blood spotting the white tile. You can't hold it; the pain is too great, and you kneel on the bathroom floor with a bloody hand on the edge of the toilet as the life slithers out of you and onto the floor. Isn't it natural that you would do more than mourn? It's so painful – it's like your heart is bleeding out instead of your baby.
When he wakes up, you're white and shaking and the floor is a mess. Without a word, he takes you in his arms and supports you, helping you to squat over the toilet and cleaning up the mess. He can tell by the way that you're breathing that this one will be a trip to the ER. When the ambulance arrives twenty minutes later, you pass out in his arms.
Did you know you're so beautiful?
On the edge of summer
That years from now
I'll cry to remember
How very close you were
Knowing this will I reach for you
Knowing this will I reach for you
The way you want me to.
Lying in the white hospital bed, he gazes down at your pale face and waits for your eyes to open. When they do, and you register him, you try to lift your arms but he's already anticipated it and he grasps your hands strongly in his own warm ones.
"Why?"
"I couldn't."
It's the look in his ice-blue eyes, right now; that look of utter defeat. That's why you couldn't. That's why you're choking on it; choking on the secret, because you remember a similar secret that also ended in pain.
"Addison."
"Don't say it," you beg, your voice cracked. "Don't say it."
"I can't." His voice is ragged. "I've got to go."
He turns and you grasp his sleeve, but it slips through your fingers and all that's left is that pain you get when something's snatched away.
I'll cry to remember
How very close you were