A/N: Written for a prompt from the Glee Angst Meme: Rachel and Quinn are married and want to have a family. Rachel has always wanted to be pregnant so she carries the child. The pregnancy goes fine but in the end, the baby is stillborn. They both grieve but Rachel spirals into a downward depression, feeling as if she's failed not only her child but Quinn as well.
I haven't felt much like writing lately, but this prompt grabbed me and I had to do it. I hope you enjoy it (which is weird to say, because of how sad it is, but you know what I mean), and please review if you have the chance.
They ask if you'd like to hold him, and it seems like such a ridiculous question. He's your son. Of course you're going to hold him. Of course you're going to say hello.
Of course you're going to say goodbye.
He's swaddled in blankets when they hand him to you, and the weight of this little bundle in your arms is exactly how you imagined. For just a moment, you feel what you're sure every mother feels when she holds her child. You understand the term "pride and joy" now, because those are exactly the emotions you feel when you look at the face of the tiny person that you created.
You carefully unwrap the blankets, revealing his perfect body. He weighed in at eight pounds and three ounces, and this is evident in his adorable double chin, his dimpled hands, and the rolls on his thighs. He's the picture of a happy, healthy baby.
How did this happen?
You run a finger over across his face, tracing the gentle slope of his nose, his chin, his forehead. You smooth out the hair on his head and wonder if it would always be such a dark shade of brown, or if it would lighten with time. You wonder if it would be curly, like yours was as a baby. You wonder how many times Puck would try to style it in a mohawk while you weren't looking.
You take his tiny hands in yours and count his fingers. Five on each hand, so long that you're just sure he was born to play the piano. You move to his toes, and they're even longer; you smile at the thought that perhaps he would have grown to be six feet tall.
Your smile quickly drops because it hits you for the millionth time: he will always be twenty-one and a quarter inches long.
You feel sick.
You will not vomit while holding your son for the first time and last time, but you feel so sick.
How did this happen?
You push past the sudden frenzy of grief and carefully change the baby's position. Since before you even became pregnant, you imagined what it would feel like to hold your sleeping child against your chest. You need to know.
It feels just like you thought it would, except for the coolness of his skin and the stillness in his chest.
It feels just like you thought it would, except he's not sleeping.
–––––
The sun has already set by the time you wake up, disoriented and briefly ignorant to the events of the past two days. It's when your hand grazes your flatter-than-normal stomach that it all comes crashing back on top of you and you suddenly wonder if you'll ever be able to breathe again.
Quinn is at your bedside, and she holds your hand so tightly that it aches. She can squeeze your hand until it falls off, for all you care. It doesn't matter.
You stare at her, and she stares back, and the look in her eyes reminds you that this loss does not belong to you alone. You have to share it. You wish to God that you could keep it to yourself, not let your wife touch it or feel it or even know of it. But what's yours is hers; even this.
A tear slides down her cheek, and you feel yourself breaking. You feel yourself shattering over and over again, until you're nothing but dust.
When you first try to speak, you find it impossible. Your throat aches from dehydration and grief.
You accept the straw when she dutifully places it to your lips, and the water burns going down. The birth is a haze at this point, but you wonder if you screamed. You want to scream now. You don't know if you'll ever stop wanting to scream.
When she puts the cup back the bedside table, you take a shuddering breath and try again. You need to say this. You can never make anything right again, but you can say this, and you can hope that she knows that you mean it.
"I'm sorry," you whisper. "I'm so, so sorry."
–––––
You're released from the hospital on the day of the memorial service.
A memorial seems so wrong, and you pointedly refused to plan it, leaving Quinn to shoulder the burden. You're sorry for that, of course, but you don't understand the point. There are no memories. You weren't allowed to make memories.
A schmaltzy old man from the funeral home called it a 'celebration of life', but only until you banged your palm against the table, ignoring the stinging and burning as you informed him that your son never lived.
After that, everyone just calls it 'the service' to keep you calm. You would like to tell them not to bother, because nothing will make this less painful and unnecessary to you. Nothing will make you less bitter as you sit rigid on your chair in the front row, focusing on a flower arrangement on the wall, listening to other people cry over the loss of your child.
Nothing will make you less angry as people you barely know form a single-file line to offer their condolences, as if they believe their words will fix something. You must be on the receiving end of a hundred hugs by the time the room is empty, and you don't feel a single one.
Your body is still in a hospital room, and the weight of a baby is still heavy against your chest.
–––––
It's been more than a week. You don't know the exact date, but you're sure that another Wednesday and Thursday has come and past. You're so stuck in those forty-eight awful hours that you can't even fathom how the earth is still spinning, but somehow, the sun has been rising and setting consistently, just like it did before.
It may be the only thing in your life that hasn't been changed forever.
Quinn tries so hard, when she can get past her own grief. She cries every night when she thinks you can't hear (she doesn't realize that you have barely slept since that day), but she devotes her days to you. As if your pain is greater. As if you shouldn't be the one trying to fix her and save her from all the pain you've caused her.
Her goal right now is to get you out of bed. You can tell that she doesn't want to push you, but she's also afraid of what might happen if she doesn't. You would simply tell her that it's a lost cause, that you are never going to leave this room again, if not for the fact that you're sure it would break her heart even more. So instead, you just pretend to be asleep every time you hear her coming up the stairs.
Your breasts are engorged and leaking milk made especially for a baby who is not here. You're taking medicine to suppress it, but the doctors warned that there might be no avoiding it for a few weeks. The old Rachel Berry would have seen this as an opportunity to pump and donate it to a milk bank. The new Rachel Berry simply avoids movement at all cost, because then it aches a little less. This is the excuse you use when Quinn catches you awake and suggests that you get up.
"It hurts," you whisper, and she nods understandingly. Sometimes you forget that there was once a time when she was also a new mother without a new baby.
"A warm shower helps," she says, taking your hand in hers. "Do you want to take a shower?"
Your answer is no, like always, and the disappointment and worry that flickers across her face is enough to kill you. You almost wish that it would.
–––––
One month in, and you are drowning.
More aptly, you are sinking.
Drowning would imply some sort of fight to survive, but you have already accepted your fate. You lie in this bed with your arms splayed and hope that the earth will split open and swallow you whole. Otherwise, the guilt is going to kill you.
You remember it all so well, those last two weeks before your world disappeared. You were thirty-eight weeks along and so uncomfortable. The baby was big, far bigger than your small frame could carry for any great length of time, and you were so helplessly top-heavy that you could barely walk. Santana had taken to referring to you as a Weeble-Wobble.
The doctor suggested induction. They said people did it every day, that it was completely safe, and that it would be preferable to letting the baby get much bigger before delivery. You refused, because you desperately wanted to do this without drugs, and began researching natural ways to induce labor. You attempted them all over the span of two weeks. Bouncing on a yoga ball, eating spicy foods, having lots and lots of sex, drinking certain kinds of tea, and anything else you could think to possibly try. Nothing worked.
You woke up on a Wednesday morning, three days before your due date, with dread settled deep in your chest. You tried to just go about your day, but during your morning shower, you finally realized what felt so different. The baby always went nuts when you let the water spray directly against your stomach, and that day, you felt nothing.
You barely bothered to rinse your hair before you began trying all of your tricks. You ran up and down the stairs. You ate ice cream. You drank a cup of coffee. Anything to get him moving.
On that Wednesday morning, he was still.
You vaguely remember the flurry of phone calls that followed, which led you to the emergency room, just to check. The nurse in your doctor's practice assured you that he was probably just asleep, but to get checked to make sure things were fine.
The tests only confirmed what you already knew in your heart, in a way only a mother can: nothing would ever be fine again.
It's been one month, and you're certain that this is still true.
Quinn lies beside you most mornings, telling you that it's not your fault, and begging you to live. She says that she can't lose you. She can't lose you, too.
All you can think is that after entrusting you with her second chance at motherhood and watching you let it slip away, it would be in her best interest to lose you as quickly as she can. She doesn't see it that way, but you know she is still grieving, and someday she will understand why you don't deserve to be here.
You hope that day is soon, because you're practically already gone.
–––––
When you first arrived home from the hospital, you discovered that the nursery door had been left wide open. Quinn rushed to shut it, but you stopped her. You needed to do it yourself.
You stood in the doorway for the longest time, taking it all in, before backing out slowly and clasping the door shut gingerly, like you had often practiced for all those nights when there would be a sleeping baby in the crib against the wall.
As often as you wish you could just shut your bedroom door and keep everyone out, you keep it open so that you can watch the nursery door. There's a small stuffed bear hanging from the knob, and sometimes you just lie on your side and stare at it.
This morning, you wake up to find the door slightly ajar. It makes no sense, and even though you're about to break the rules you've set for yourself, you refuse to leave the door open even a crack. That door is to be shut, always.
You climb out of bed and pad across the room, your pulse quickening with every step. Someone has been in the nursery, and the thought makes you ill. No one is allowed in the nursery. You're not sure if you've ever articulated this, but certainly it has been made clear by other means. No one is allowed in the nursery.
When you reach the door, you're torn. You desperately need confirmation that nothing has been disturbed, but you're also not sure if you're capable of being in that room yet.
You're still considering your options when you hear movement in the room, and at that point, the choice has been made for you. You swing the door opened, prepared to scold Santana or Brittany, or your fathers, or even Quinn, for thinking that they could be in that room.
The first things you see are boxes, and it takes all you have to not pass out on the spot.
Quinn looks up at you from where she appears to have begun sorting through piles of clothing. You can see that she has been crying, and while that would normally break your heart, right now you just want to kick something.
Half a second later, you do just that, taking your anger out on the door frame (and likely breaking your toe in the process).
"What are you doing?" you demand. "Stop it!"
Quinn flinches. "Rach, we talked about it. Do you remember? We talked about this."
You shake your head wildly. Maybe she had talked about it, and maybe you were in the room and maybe you were awake and maybe you even looked at her or nodded your head, but you don't hear when people talk to you anymore. You never meant to agree to this. You would never agree to this.
"Those are his clothes!" you cry. "You can't just…no…those are…those are his…"
You know that you're not making sense at this point, but words don't even matter as you frantically pull clothing out of the cardboard boxes and shove them back into drawers and on hangers in the closet. Quinn is up from her spot on the floor, and she tries to stop you, but it only makes you work harder. This can't happen. It's too soon.
Quinn finally manages to grab your wrist, and she pulls you close. "I'm sorry, Rachel," she whispers. "I'm sorry."
You struggle against her grip, pulling away with all your strength and scratching at your captured wrist with your free hand. The anger pulses and burns throughout your entire body, and it may be the first time you've felt something in six weeks. You can hardly think straight.
"We can wait," she says. "Okay? We'll wait."
She lets go of your arm and you are immediately back to work. She tries to help, and for the first time in so long, for the first time since high school, maybe, you think you might hate her.
"Go," you whisper harshly. "Get out."
She looks at you with such sadness and you know that you've broken her again.
You almost don't care.
Once you reorganize his clothing, you stay in the nursery. You barely leave for the next two weeks, as if you have to protect it. You spend your days in the rocking chair, staring at the milky teal walls, the white furniture, the various stuffed animals poised to entertain a child, and the picture frames that will never be filled with photos.
You want to close your eyes and pretend that your son is asleep in the crib beside you, but the room doesn't smell right. It smells like unused linens and unopened boxes of diapers and wipes.
The room is ready and waiting for a child that will never be, and the thought makes your whole body ache. You're sad that he will never enjoy this room. You put so much thought into it and you worked so hard, and you're sure that he would have loved it.
It's little things like this that make you hate yourself the most.
–––––
Everyone is moving on. The cards stop coming, the meals stop coming, the visitors stop coming. It's been three months, and as much as you are glad to see an end to the stream of hollow sympathy, you wonder if anyone remembers anymore.
He would be laughing by now.
Quinn has gone back to work. You're glad for her. You never wanted her to sit here and wallow with you. You don't see her a lot, because your sleep schedule is so messed up. You're usually passed out when she gets home at six, awake and staring at the ceiling during the hours she sleeps, and asleep again when she leaves at eight the next morning.
You're grateful for that. She personifies all the damage you've done, and you're too much of a coward to face it. It's hurts too much.
You wonder if she's given up on you, finally.
You wonder if she knows that he would be laughing by now.
Your thoughts are interrupted by the swift knock on your open bedroom door.
You look to the doorway and are met by the no-nonsense glare of one Santana Lopez. The two of you have developed a strange friendship over the past few years, but she's still not a soft person, especially where you are concerned. Though you'll never care to admit it, you need her sometimes, and you think she sometimes needs you, too.
"Q sent me to check on you," she says.
You roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling. "I'm still here."
"I'm aware. I could smell you from downstairs."
You would scoff, but that requires more energy than you're willing to spend on social interactions at this point.
"Seriously, when was the last time you showered?"
"I don't believe that's any concern of yours," you answer. And truthfully, you're not really sure the last time you showered.
"It's a concern of the whole goddamn neighborhood at this point, Berry."
She walks across the room and pulls your blankets back without your consent, then takes your hands in hers and pulls you into a sitting position. "Come on," she says. "You're going to take a shower and wear real clothes and eat something other than Xanax for lunch. You look like you're about to disappear."
You wish you could tell her how desperately you are trying to disappear.
–––––
It seems you've met your match with Santana, because an hour later, you're freshly showered, wearing clean pants, and sitting on a stool in the kitchen.
"You need to eat," Santana says, sliding a plate of crackers and cheese across the counter.
"I'm a vegan," you reply with a shrug, sliding it back.
Truthfully, you gave up veganism early in your second trimester, when you started craving all things dairy and decided that pregnancy was not a time to deny yourself anything that wasn't inherently harmful. You're sure that Santana knows this, but she can't argue that you haven't reverted back to your old eating habits.
"Then pick something out of here," she says sharply, throwing open the refrigerator door. "I don't care. Just eat."
With a roll of your eyes, you grab a small bunch of grapes from a drawer in the refrigerator, and pop one in your mouth to appease her.
She watches to make sure you swallow it, and then raises her eyebrows expectantly.
"Well, keep going. Quinn might let you get away with this bullshit, but I didn't come all the way over here to watch you eat one grape."
You stare at her blankly for as long as you can, until her gaze grows particularly hard and you feel no option but to relent. You grab a bowl from a nearby cabinet and put the grapes inside, and then you start down the hallway, toward the stairs.
"Uh, no," she says, sprinting to catch up with you and then blocking your exit. "Think again, dwarf."
You try to push past her, half-heartedly, because you already know what the result will be. You sigh heavily when she refuses to move. "What do you want from me?"
"I want you to be okay," she says, and it's something so simple but it carries so much weight when it comes from her, you almost want to cry.
–––––
The next morning is a Saturday, you guess, based on the fact that Quinn is still home when you wake up at nine.
She walks out of the ensuite bathroom in a towel, her hair wet and combed to one side of her shoulder. You watch her while she flutters around the room, getting ready for her day. You wonder what she has planned. You wonder if you have any right to wonder.
When she catches you staring, your face gets warm but you resist the urge to slink further into the blankets.
"Good morning," she says, slowly, in a way that you imagine one might greet a wild animal.
"Hi," you reply. It's too early in the morning to definitively say whether it will be good or not. But you've just spoken to your wife for the first time in weeks, so that's a positive indication.
That's all you've got for now, and she seems to understand. She resumes getting dressed, and when she's done, she smiles at you gently as she leaves the room.
You smile back, a little bit.
It's a start.
–––––
The next day, when Quinn walks to a nearby cafe to buy the Sunday paper and a coffee, you wait in the kitchen for her to return at 9:05, like she always does. Like you used to do together.
She's shocked, you can tell, but she does her best to just smile. She apologizes for not getting you a coffee as well, but it's okay. You're not ready for things to be that normal.
She asks if you would like the paper when she's done, and you can't say yes. Things like that are hard for you, you've found, because it reminds you that everything in the past few months has actually happened, and life has gone on. It hurts, and you're not ready.
But maybe someday you will be.
–––––
A few Sundays later, you ask for the Arts and Leisure section when she's finished. You don't know if you can read it, but you'll hold it, and you'll try. She nods and tries not to watch you too closely.
–––––
The Sunday after that, you steal it before she gets a chance to read it. She doesn't stop smiling for an hour.
–––––
It's almost summer. You remember thinking that it would never be anything other than November, but it's almost summer. The breeze is chilly and the ground is cold on your legs, but the sun is warm and it's touching your face and your shoulders and breathing is a little easier because of it.
Quinn is waiting in the car. She knows that you need to do this. You've started to rebuild and merge your distinctly separate existences into one life again, but this moment is just yours.
Your hands are shaking as you trace the E on the stone in front of you, and then the L, and then the I. It wasn't ever a name you had really considered, but it came to you suddenly, about a month before your due date, and it seemed so right. You knew that his name was Eli, and that was the moment when everything first seemed real to you.
You haven't cried once. Not one time in the past six months. You have screamed until you thought you throat might bleed, but you haven't shed a single tear for your loss. For your son.
Some days this makes you feel so strong, and sometimes it makes you feel like a monster.
It won't make you feel like anything anymore, because your vision is blurry and the back of your throat aches. You look up, to keep the tears from falling, and the blue shocks you.
It's been so long since you've seen the sky.
You take in a breath, one so deep that your lungs ache, and you place your hands back on the stone, and you hope that somehow he can hear you.
You tell him about his family, about his mothers, his grandfathers, his aunts Brittany and Santana, and the whole crazy Gleek family. You tell him about flowers and the ocean and Barbra Streisand. You tell him how sorry you are that you couldn't keep him safe. You promise that you tried. You tell him how much you love him, how much everyone loves him, and you hope that's enough. You hope that makes it better. You hope he's already been better for a long time.
And then you weep.
–––––
You have dreams where the warmth of a baby's breath against your neck is the only thing you're aware of. There's a peace that accompanies these dreams, and there is no way you can even begin to describe the feeling. It is so whole and perfect and bright, and it covers you completely. It takes every wound, every scar, every moment of sadness in your entire life and washes over them until you feel nothing.
When you wake up, the heartache is dizzying.
You have these dreams for three years and four months.
And then they're not dreams anymore.
Quinn sits beside you again and holds your hand again, but everything is so different from the last time you were in a hospital bed. Seven pounds, nine ounces, twenty inches long, and everything about her is warmth and happiness. You name her Joy, and you don't care if it's cheesy.
She lies against your chest, exhausted from making her entrance into the world, and you just close your eyes and listen to her tiny newborn sighs and suckles, and it fills you in such a way that you find yourself wondering again if you can survive the next minute.
Her breathing is even against your bare skin, and you can feel it so deeply that it almost burns.
It's a reminder of everything in your life that never came to be, of all the little breaths that never happened, and it hurts. It will always hurt.
But you think that maybe it's a good kind of hurt that's chipping off the hardened pieces of your heart and making room for happiness to grow.
You think that maybe everything will be fine.