Anniversaries aren't always happy. In fact, often, the anniversaries you remember are the ones that are hard, and sad, and are best forgotten. Funny how those anniversaries are the ones you mark every year. You don't need a calendar – they're burned on your brain, every nuance, every moment. And when you imagine this day, you imagine the pain and dull cramping you felt for close to a week; the way you could barely move, and the emptiness not only in your belly, but in your heart, too.
Apparently, this anniversary is one you never get to forget.
You're working with Callie, and because you barely know her, you consider it a bit of a blessing that you get to put your feelings and memories aside to keep your guard up, your façade ready. No one, save one person, knows what this day means. And Callie, tossing her unruly black hair out of her eyes and giving you her slightly cynical smile, doesn't see anything amiss in your behaviour. You're a little sluggish; a little off, but she doesn't know you, so she doesn't see it.
You might just get away with this.
Until you're saddled with a pregnant woman, a horrible fracture, and a dead baby. And then you lose it in the bathroom, and all pretences fall away. Because you don't get to hide how broken you are, and for some reason, you don't seem to care that this woman gets to see it.
She stands on the other side of the door and tells you jokingly that she's coming in if you don't open the door, but when she actually catches sight of you, crouching in your heels and skirt, inches above the dirty floor, she simply plunks down beside you and her comforting warmth gives you much-needed comfort.
You don't need to tell the whole story. She already seems to know.
Her kiss is sweet, soft. She tangles a hand in your soft red hair, awkwardly to one side, and pulls you close to her. She smells sweet, like some sort of cheap floral perfume, and you've never done this before, but she seems to know what she's doing. That's the beauty of this – it isn't awkward. It's just natural. You've never even considered how natural this could be.
It's simply Callie, you decide. She's simply capable. She's strong, and capable, and amazing. And a good kisser.
Later, you deliver a dead baby and she keeps a hand on your shoulder through the ordeal. She helps you afterwards, preparing the body for the morgue, helping to close the little eyes, the tiny waxen form wrapped in a hospital receiving blanket that it doesn't really need – it's never going to need to stay warm. You cry; she rubs your shoulders wordlessly.
Yes, you've done it before; no, it doesn't make it any easier when it's time to actually deal with death.
You eat lunch and tell the story in a flat voice. Abortions. Betrayal. Hurt, and pain, and a thousand other adjectives and nouns that comprise the sum total of your relationship, pregnancy, and break up with Mark. Because it never would have worked. Because he wouldn't be a good father. Because you're not sure you would be a good mother. There were as many reasons as there were words.
She listened wordlessly; she drank from her paper cup of soda and watched your face and hands as they articulated the story, and then afterwards, she led you to an on-call room and tangled her fingers in your hair again.
You've never had sex with a woman. To be honest, she hasn't either, but it's not hard to figure out. Her rough fingers inside you; her nails scraping along your tender parts – it's painful at first, almost like being a virgin. You arch your back, cry out – bite your lips and then hers as she crashes her mouth down on yours to kiss you.
Afterwards, lying naked in sterile-smelling sheets, she gives you one of those looks that's served you so well all day and says, "Life isn't fair. Days like this are hard. But you can't dwell."
You begin to think she really doesn't understand anniversaries, but maybe she does. She's created another event to think about on this day.
Maybe she understands their power better than you.