The next few weeks blurred together like the ink on Luke's newspapers. He tried to carry on like normal- we both did, to a degree- but as soon as he opened that paper to the Baby Announcements section, his face would squinch up and he would bang his fist on the table, making his coffee cup quiver perilously, before burying his face into the newspaper and disguising his short-lived sobs with a coughing spell.
For anyone who doesn't know, having a miscarriage hurts. Your stomach cramps, your body aches, but, most prominently, you are so numb that you can't do anything but curl up in bed and try not to fall apart.
I had some freaky dreams after "that day." One of the scariest recurring ones was about this tiny little kid, bundled tightly in a blanket. And that was it. The entire dream was me- or Dream-Angela, rather- staring at this innocent little baby. There was nothing truly frightening about it- no monsters chasing me, no morphing of the sweet child into a hideous zombie- and yet I always woke up in a cold sweat.
I suppose people around the valley thought I was bitter, or was being melodramatic, or a blend of the two. Perhaps I was. Like I said, my grip on reality was faltering. Most days, I just didn't feel like doing anything but lie in bed. As I drifted in and out of sleep, either Luke or one of my friends would slip out to the barn and feed my animals. I can remember the day my prized cow calved her first child. I stood on the porch with Luke, watching the cows graze in the field, watching the new one gather her bearings and stumbling around the grassy pasture. I watched unblinkingly until my eyes watered. Turning away, I simply said,
"Sell her."
By the evening, the calf was gone, after Cain had wordlessly led her back to the Brownie Ranch.
Nights were the worst part of the ordeal. Luke would drag himself home from whatever it was that he did to keep his mind off of the baby. He would move like clockwork once inside: first hanging up his jacket, then grabbing a beer from the fridge, and finally, plopping down on his favorite recliner to watch the evening news. I knew he never really payed any attention to Elli's droning about the next Flea Market. Instead, his eyes would fog over as he retreated into himself, the only place left for him to hide. I would stay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, trying to make sense of the muddled thoughts slinking through my brain. It was all I could do not to bury my face in the pillow and scream. Sometimes I did. Other times I just bawled.
New Year's Eve came and went uneventfully. New Year's Day was just another in a series of dull and pointless weeks.
I had no idea how to mend my relationship with Luke. Any conversation we had seemed broken. I felt like I had lost him. I felt like I had lost myself. All these layers of tragedy and pain seemed to just encase us, until we were just shells of the young, happy people were.
Every night, as I tried desperately to fall asleep, I would sneak a glance over at my restless husband. It wasn't fair. We were the "dream couple," the pair that everyone was jealous of. Every afternoon, as he returned from work, he would pick a flower from my field, come find me, stick it behind my ear, and wrap me in his arms, slowly moving his hands to my ever-growing stomach. We shared the domestic responsibilities- he cooked breakfast, I made dinner; Saturdays were our "clean the house and rock out to whatever was playing on the local radio, even if Gill had chosen easy-listening tunes" day. We had taken countless trips to the city, putting baby furniture on layaway and splurging on adorable onesies and baby toys.
This wasn't supposed to happen. Not to us.
I had no idea if my marriage to Luke would ever be the same. Sticks and stones may break one's bones, but silence pierces your heart.
Author's Note: Hmm. I'm not so wild about this chapter. Something about it bugs me. :/
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