Bathetic, adj
The past two weeks were filled with knowing looks to each other as we moved around our apartment.
"Feeling sick again, darling?" my eyes would say when you exited the bathroom, after you suddenly rushed to enter it.
"Oncoming period," you would say aloud, but I knew by now that this never happened around the time of your period; you had never been sick. You'd smile secretively, walking over to me, and unload the fridge with everything you needed for an English Breakfast – recently, a particular craving of yours. I'd take over, tell you to go sit on one of the stools in the breakfast bar, and your eyes would say, "Yes, sick again. We mustn't lose ourselves, dear. You remember what happened."
Your miscarriage was a few dark months ago, and was regularly at the forefront of both of our minds – I suspect yours more than mine, despite our joint and equal love for it – and yet, though we tried not to lose ourselves in this new madness – of the prospect of you possibly, hopefully, being pregnant again - we couldn't stop this from becoming all we thought about, all we prepared for. This is it, something seemed to whisper in the air. Your baby.
Our evenings were spent with us curled on the sofa together, you sleeping, my arm wrapped around your waist and my fingers tapping an old lullaby on your stomach whilst I searched the local paper for nearby houses, something bigger than what we were living in, for when we'd eventually need to move out. During the day, when we watched the news or we met new people or when we were reading and we'd come across a name, something that we hadn't considered before, we'd inform the other of this lovely name that we had just heard. I began to do some repairs around the apartment – minor, little things, like fixing the light in the fridge and putting the shower curtain back up – though you would chastise me for it, accusing me for getting ahead of myself before we even knew.
And so, days later, here we were once more. You had locked yourself in the bathroom with the pregnancy test, and I was in the bedroom, sat on the floor with my back against the wall, forehead touching my knees, as I prayed that it was positive, as I envisioned your reaction when the door opened and you told me that it was positive. You would open the door, waving the stick in the air, crying and laughing and emphatically saying "a baby, darling! A baby!" as you had the first time; I would take you into my arms carefully, also laughing and teary, and we would phone and owl everyone we knew to tell them the news. I'd take you to that restaurant that you loved, and pay for anything that you wanted.
When, finally, you did open the door, you were crying – but you weren't laughing. I scrambled to my feet, and went over to you, wiping away your tears; the pregnancy stick was held tightly in your hands. "No?"
You shook your head, lips moving, saying words that I couldn't hear.
