Fractured

Luke's Point of View

"Huh…?" I awoke late one night (or really, really early in the morning, I was too groggy to tell) to find an empty side of the bed. I blinked sleep from my eyes and yawned. A quick glance at the bedside clock radio revealed that it was just after midnight.

"Angela…" Where was that girl? I know that farmers arise early- I've been waking up at 5:45 a.m. every morning for the past three seasons to make this particular farmer's daily meal- but this was ridiculous.

There was no reply.

I groaned softly, and then pulled myself out of bed. Carefully, I made my way through the darkness over to the bathroom, where a dim light was shining from under the door. The door wasn't shut completely, so I leaned against the door.

"Angela. Angie. Come on. It's late. Get in bed."

Again, the only sound that could be heard was the reverberating echo of my own voice.

"Angie…" I thought that we were past the "morning sickness" phase of pregnancy. According to the book, we were supposed to be moving on to "hemorrhoids" and "stretch marks." Oh, joy. Still, anything was better than watching my wife tossing her cookies while I held her hair away from her face, rubbing her pajama-clad back. Watching, or even hearing, other people hurling made my stomach turn, as well.

What I found in the bathroom was not a crouching Angela, hovering by the toilet with a green face. Oh, how I wished it were in retrospect.

Instead, I saw my wife sitting on the toilet, staring at her pants with puffy eyes. Crimson fluid stained the fabric, and was continuing to stream down her toned legs. Her hands were cradling her swollen stomach. Even as I entered the bathroom, she did not look up.

I couldn't think, couldn't breathe. I had to reach out my hand and grasp the sink counter to stabilize myself. "Wha…" I heard myself say. That was all it took for Angela to burst into a fresh round of tears. Not your typical, "oh-I'm-so-sad-because-so-and-so" tears either, the sort that could be wiped away with a funny joke, or a hug. This crying was utterly silent; the kind that only happened when you were terrified, heartbroken, or a combination of both. The kind of crying that scared the hell out of me.

"Luke…" she gasped. I shook my head, and then grabbed her hands, gently pulling her off of the toilet.

"Let's go."

_______________________________________________________________

The steady pulsating of the equipment in the Clinic was intimidating. It was driving me crazy. It seemed illogical. My whole world was falling apart, and it felt to me that everything else in the world should be too.

At first, Irene had started to tell me that I couldn't stay by my wife's side as they tended to her. Yeah freaking right. I could feel my face molding into what Angela called my "stubborn cow expression." My eyes watered at the memory.

The mechanical beeping droned on as I clutched my best friend's hand nervously. She was lying there peacefully, paper-thin lids shut tightly. Every now and then, her eyes would flutter, she would mutter something incoherent, and fall back asleep. All the while, her hands never left her bulging belly. Dr. Jin and Irene were "discussing" quietly in the corner.

Around 8 a.m. Dr Jin hesitantly come up to me. Angela was awake by then, and she hadn't said a word or shed a single tear. Her lip quivered as the black-haired doctor approached.

"I'm sorry."

Two words sent my world crashing down. I sank down to my knees as Angela choked out a sob. I shut my eyes, and, though I've never considered myself really religious, managed to piece together a fevered prayer.

Harvest Goddess, if this is punishment for something I've done… please. Please. Not our baby.

_______________________________________________________________

The memorial service for our unborn child was the saddest, most infuriatingly difficult event I have ever had to experience. My mother's cruel and confusing disappearance in my life was easier to stomach than this.

My wife's face conveyed no emotion. Her features were carved out of stone, and yet, tears still managed to creep out of the corners of her tortured eyes. As we stood in the bitter cold, staring at the crude gravestone, she grasped my hand like it was her only lifeline, the last thread keeping her from breaking apart. I pulled her into my arms, and she melted into my body.

The funeral party was entirely clad in black, a sharp contrast to the white snow that was starting to fall. Everybody attended the funeral treated us like porcelain dolls. I can't really blame them- what do you say to parents who lose their kids?

"I'm so sorry…"

Yeah, well, we are too. It doesn't make anything better. Words don't stitch up a broken heart.

"It just wasn't meant to be."

How the hell do you know? This baby could have been the greatest person the world had ever known. We don't even get the opportunity to find out, because it "wasn't meant to be"?That's fucked up, plain and simple.

"Hey, don't worry about it. You can always try again."

It's not as simple as that. This baby wasn't just a "fetus" to us. We had already added on a nursery, had already started picking out names we liked; hell, Angela had even started to buy scrap booking supplies and baby announcements. We loved this little nudger with everything that we had. That kind of love is not something that you just get over, and try to duplicate in order to fix what's broken.

As the snow cascaded down, coating everyone's bodies and dusting the top of the gravestone, villagers turn around and start to head back to their warm, comfortable homes and get on with their lives. Angela and I stayed at the cemetery, watching the tiny grave as if we were expecting it to implode, until the sun settled behind the mountain range to the west of us.

No one ever warned me of the pain a truly fractured heart would bring.