She'd been lying face down on the porch, one arm tucked underneath her at the area of her chest. He'd expected to hear her laughter drifting through the screen door when he arrived home, but instead he found her lying motionless at the foot of her rocker. She'd been so eerily still that he knew she was gone before he even approached her, but he still felt his heart plummet with shock. On shaking legs he had fallen beside her and gently turned her over, a smile seemingly frozen upon her face and her hair gently blowing around in the breeze. Even in death she was still beautiful. His beautiful Jean.
He didn't know what had taken her out onto the porch that evening. She was usually so busy with the children that sitting around leisurely was the last thing on her list. On top of that, the place was still wet and damp from the previous night's storm, why on earth would she have decided to sit out and wait for him that evening? He guessed that was now one thing he'd never get to know.
His wife had died alone, that was something that would stay with him until the day he joined her. She had died alone with her children, her children who she had loved more than life itself, only metres away from her. Had they heard her fall to the floor? Had they heard her call out? Or had they thought that mama was just fooling around on the porch for their entertainment? He couldn't bring himself to ask them.
His own mind had gone into denial, telling him that there was no possible way she could be dead. How could she be when it had only been four hours ago she had been seeing him off to the office after dinner, kissing him and saying "I'll see you this evening"? It didn't make sense that he was then returning home to her lifeless body on the porch. He'd wanted to scream. He'd wanted to pull her into his arms and scream at her to come back. How was he supposed to raise two children without her? How was he supposed to function without her? How was he supposed to get through the rest of his life without her by his side? A life without Jean now loomed before him terrifyingly real.
The week that had passed since her death had been both the longest and shortest of his life. He didn't know where he had found the strength to do everything that needed to be done. He had called for Cal to come out on the porch, he had taken his son aside and explained as best he could that his mother was dead, he had taken a final look at her beautiful face before the lid was placed on her coffin and she was gone from him forever. He had done it all.
He had sat through her funeral with Jem clutched tightly in his arms, his son burying his face into his chest and holding onto him for dear life. When Atticus had attempted to move him to go and read Jean's eulogy, Jem had become frantic.
"No, Daddy, don't! Don't leave!" Jem had pulled at his arm, fat tears gliding down his little cheeks. "Don't go with Mama!" In the wake of his mother's death, Jem hadn't let Atticus take five steps away from him for fear that he too wouldn't come back. It had taken some time for both Atticus and Jack to calm Jem down, Jack eventually taking his sobbing nephew into his arms to allow Atticus to move forwards to the altar. Jean Louise had sat cradled in Alexandra's arms waking and sleeping at steady intervals, having no idea that she was sitting through the funeral of her mother. The mother she'd never know.
Jean had been buried in the Finch family plot, her name on the headstone shining bright and new. Before her coffin had been lowered into the ground, Jem had kissed his hand and placed it on top, tearfully saying "bye, Mama. I love you" before turning back to his father for comfort. Atticus had quickly lifted Jem into his arms, holding him as tightly to him as possible and doing whatever he could to soothe his tears while also trying desperately to keep his own at bay.
"Goodbye, Jean," he whispered with his son still in his arms, watching his wife's coffin sink lower and lower into the ground.
The days following her funeral could only be described as strange. It was strange going into each room and finding it empty, it was strange not hearing her laugh throughout the house, it was strange getting into an empty bed each night and staring at the space she once occupied. Her clothes still hung in the wardrobe, her perfume still lingered in the air, her bits and bobs still cluttered their vanity. She was everywhere yet she was nowhere.
It had been her heart that killed her. The heart that had killed so many of her family before her had also taken his darling wife. It hadn't taken Dr Reynolds long to reach the conclusion when he examined her, and Atticus hadn't been surprised to hear it. The doctor had told him over and over that there wasn't anything he could have done, but he still blamed himself. He was her husband; he had vowed before God to protect her, and when she needed him most he hadn't been there.
It was a week to the day when Dr Reynolds came calling, surprising Atticus who still hadn't returned to the office. He'd just put Jean Louise down to sleep and was getting ready to spend some time with his son when Cal informed him that the doctor was there to see him. He'd silently cursed the doctor for his timing. In the wake of Jean's death he'd cherished the time spent with his children even more. They were all he had left of her, and both of them were so like her in their own individual ways. Through spending time with them, it was almost as if Jean was still there with him, though he realised she never would be again.
When he met the doctor in the living room, he'd been ready to hoist Jem onto his knee and let him sit with him, but Dr Reynold's had been quite insistent that the boy wasn't in the room. Only putting up a little resistance, Jem had finally let Cal take him by the hand down the hall, watching over his shoulder at Atticus until he was out of sight.
"How are you?" The doctor asked once the kitchen door shut.
It was lost on Atticus how many times he'd been asked that in the week that had passed. Well meaning though people were, he didn't understand why they insisted on asking him that. He had just lost his wife, how did they think he was? He was falling apart and the one person who could put him back together had been ripped from him.
"Getting there," Atticus answered slowly. He figured the doctor knew damn well how he was.
Dr Reynolds only nodded. "If you need anything to...eh...help you sleep," he looked at his hat in his hands, "I'm only a phone call away."
"Thank you," Atticus replied simply, wondering if that was all he had called over to say. Had people seen his light on at night and grown concerned?
After a few moments, Dr Reynolds cleared his throat and a look passed across his face that told Atticus he'd rather be doing anything than he was right now. "Did...did you talk to Jean before she died?" He asked, his eyes finally coming up to regard him.
"We talked a few hours before she...before I came home. At dinner. Why?" Atticus replied, very confused at the doctor's question.
The doctor began to turn his hat in his hands as he thought, prompting Atticus to grow a little worried. Had Jean been sick? Had there been something wrong and she hadn't told him? Could there have been a chance she could have been saved? Frankly, he didn't think that would make him feel any better.
"Did she happen to mention anything in particular? Even before she died, did she talk to you about anything?" Dr Reynolds asked, looking more and more uneasy as he spoke.
"Nothin's coming to mind," he replied, thinking back to the conversations he had had with Jean before her death. There had been nothing of real importance. They had talked about how Jem was getting on at school, their plans for Christmas that year, maybe taking the children to Nashville to surprise Jack on his birthday. Nothing that had set alarm bells ringing in his mind.
Dr Reynolds sighed heavily and bit his lower lip as he thought. "Did you know that Jean was pregnant?"
Atticus felt his entire world come to a stand still, feeling as though someone had just punched a hole straight through him. He tried to breathe but the air just wouldn't come out. He felt like he was falling, floundering, weakening. That was why she had been on the porch. He should have known, he should have put two and two together. She had done the same thing when she was pregnant with Jem and Scout, it had just become her way of disclosing news to him. Doing so allowed them some time alone together to celebrate. His mind felt like it was lagging, struggling to process the news he had just heard. Not only had his wife been alone when she died, she had also been pregnant. He didn't dare think of what thoughts had been going through her mind.
"No," Atticus' voice didn't even sound like his own when he finally answered Dr Reynolds. "I didn't." He wondered if the doctor could see the inner turmoil going on within him, if he could see the man slowly starting to fall apart in front of him.
"She wasn't far along," Dr Reynolds added, as though that would be of any comfort. "But I confirmed it about three days before she died."
His mouth was dry and his mind felt emptied of every thought he possessed as the news swirled around within him. There would have been another baby. He could easily remember the immense feeling of joy that had flooded through him when learning of Jean's previous pregnancies, but now it just felt as though someone had deflated him. He felt empty and full of guilt. Maybe if he had picked up that something was wrong with his wife she would have been able to not only watch her two children grow up, but she would also have been awarded the chance to be a mother again, something that had given her so much happiness twice before. Was it because of him that she had been robbed of those chances? Why hadn't he enquired more as to her wellbeing? Why hadn't he so much as asked her if she felt ok that morning? If only he could turn back time.
Amidst his distress, he wondered if it would have been a boy or a girl. He wondered if Jean would have wanted another son or another daughter. She was such a brilliant mother regardless, so he reckoned it wouldn't really have mattered to her that much. Whether it would have been a son or a daughter, either would have been smothered in love from their mother. He would have loved to have seen her that happy again. Nothing compared to the look of utter content and elation that filled her face when both her babies had been placed into her arms. How he wished she could have had that chance of being so brilliantly happy again. She had been wonderful and so deserving of happiness.
"Atticus, are you alright?" Dr Reynolds' voice broke through to him. He hadn't noticed how long he had been sitting in silence.
Was he alright? Of course he wasn't alright. He had just been told that his wife had been pregnant when she died, it would be a long time before he would be anywhere close to alright. He felt like his grief was starting all over again, only this time he was mourning the death of a child as well as his wife. It seemed cruel, just when he thought things really couldn't get any worse the universe delivered another devastating blow to him. How much could one man handle?
In a haze, he only heard parts of Dr Reynolds' comfort and advice, he only vaguely felt him place a hand on his shoulder, and he didn't even hear the front door shut when the doctor let himself out.
For what seemed to be the hundredth time since his wife's death, he put his head in his hands and cried, both for Jean and for the child he would never get to meet.