As he slowly tiptoed into the room he took in the devastating sight before him, she was sat cross legged on the floor surrounded by various objects, a pink antique rattle, a tiny pink baby grow, a purple blanket, an ornate christening gown, taken in at the sides so it resembled that of dolls, several photos, some of just Connie, some of her and Georgia, one of the three of them, sat together, Georgia in his arms whilst he sat on the rocking chair, Connie stood behind them, dressed in a pretty skirt and top; it'd been the day of her christening, the only day they saw their daughter as just that, a tiny perfectly formed human being.
He stood, giving her space to acknowledge his presence; she had tears streaming down her face as he cautiously moved towards the pile, taking some of the finer details in, the ink print of a tiny foot, the hospital badge as small as his finger, the soft toy that he'd given her on the day of her birth; it brought back memories.
"Connie, I… I'm sorry about earlier," Michael stifled, plonking himself down on the soft blonde carpet, letting his hand trail into her free one propping her up. HE let his fingers intertwine and snake between hers her skin as puffy as the day he'd had to tell her about their little girl, the way she'd damn near pulled herself out of the bed only hours after nearly loosing her life. He felt her sadness seep through his skin, hitting him like a blow, winding him of air silently.
"Do, do you still think about her," Connie sobbed moments later, dragging her hand away from Michaels as she picked up the soft baby grow, her finger tracing the gentle gingham details. Pressing it to her cheek she savoured the way it absorbed her tears, kissing them to some peaceful abyss.
"Occasionally," Michael admitted, though when he did choose to dwell on it he felt more hurt over nearly losing her, than loosing the baby. What had caused him the most pain had been the overwhelming sadness she'd felt when Georgia had died; they way he'd spent all night holding her in his office at work whilst she cried her eyes out. How she'd been distinctly unable to mutter any word of consolation to him, he'd spent so long with her he'd convinced himself her tears had broken his heart.
"It sounds clichéd but I think about her every day, Michael. Is that wrong?" she was beginning to sound like the child who was about to enter school for the first day, not wanting to let go of mummy's hand yet wanting to play with the other children, asking whether the big boys would hurt them, whether mummy was allowed into the classroom. Georgia would have been just past that age by now, and Connie knew it. The little girl she'd risked life and limb for the previous Christmas had brought all her maternal instincts to heart, she'd been somewhat surprised at them coming back, the day the tiny white coffin had his the earth she'd convinced herself they'd been buried with it.
"No it's not Connie, you were her mum, the person who cared for her every night and day she graced this earth. You made a perfect mummy," Michael replied, smiled contentedly as he stared towards the picture of Connie holding the tiny pink and white bundle with such immense care, the trail of wires poking from the edge a sore reminder of what had limited her obvious caring talent.
"We could have been great together?" Connie mused, letting the soft tingle of the rattle trill out in the silence that set an ache into both their hearts, his silence was obvious, she knew family had never been on his cards, if she were brutally honest she hadn't planned on it either. Yet seeing that tiny baby, with her big dark eyes had pulled on her soul in some angelic way, filling the moral fibre only a mother possesses, giving her the nouse to worry at the slightest yelp or jolt of pain.
"We still are, aren't we?" Michael counted, slipping the rattle out of her hand, bringing her in close for a hug, she sitting in front of him, cuddled by his arms and legs, protecting her as she cried.
"You tell me Michael," she sighed eventually, growing tired of his overwhelming ability to care for that moment, for knowing when to give her that hug. But as she drew away of him she swallowed herself up in guilt, something inside her spoke in volumes beyond a shout that she'd caused him more than enough hurt after Georgia, after the funeral, the time she spent moping around at home, on her own, lost in a time zone. What hurt the most was seeing his face when he'd come home on that first night, the way he'd slung his suit over the banister on the stair, expecting her to be cooking the supper, the way he'd gone to investigate their room when she wasn't there. The way he'd found her in a crumpled heap on the floor of their bathroom, her arm outstretched showing the pronounced cut oozing all manifestations of blood, fresh stuff still bright as the moment it left her broken heart, older stuff forming the first defence of a wound, the brittle red edges of a scab setting into place.
"No not really, Connie, what's up? I mean really?" Michael retorted, seeing the mess she'd become before him, how downbeat she appeared, her hair ruffled, her skin loose to the touch from having lost so much weight. In certain aspects she looked like the shadow of her former self, but not this one. He could feel his voice pity her, something he'd swore would never happen in their relationship, it showed weakness, some kind of inability to keep her on a level par. Make her something less than him, a moral he'd been instilled with from birth.
"Good question," Connie stated evasively, making a move to clear up the precious object's she'd been obsessing over, carefully lifting each back to the box, layered with tissue paper to protect it from the inevitable aging process. The photo's were placed on the very top, arranged just so before she put the lid back on, her footsteps were silent as she manoeuvred the box back into it's place at the top of the cupboard, nestled between her summer wardrobe and his woolly jumpers, metaphorically protected from the big bad world by two tower's of strength, mummy and daddy. "I can't keep it together," she shrugged, sitting back down on the floor as he mimicked her, slightly better off knowing Georgia had gone back to the cupboard where she belong by his means.
"It's only natural," Michael replied gently, slightly perturbed by her recoil at his statement, the way she drew her legs up to her chest, sinking into her sedate comfy shell with incredible ease and familiarity.
"I wish people would stop telling me that though. It's not. I'm a complete mess; not the person I was. I'm not going to be that person ever again. There's no point to life is there?" She spat, showing the deep hatred she held for herself, the way she couldn't see any light to her life. Unable to see the way she could love, the way she could, work, socialise.
"Yes there is Connie; you've got me, work, our life together," Michael tutted, unsure of how to cope with the mess displayed before him. He didn't much fancy the thought of children, but the idea may well have put light to the end of her mournful tunnel.
"But it doesn't seem enough somehow, I've got no focus," she shrugged, fiddling awkwardly with the material of her trousers, fixating her gaze on it far too much.
"Then go back to work, it'll give you something to do," Michael suggested positively, happy to find something that he was so passionate about. He'd purposely kept a locum on in her job, hoping with all hope that she would decide to return; even the slightest glimmer of doing so would make his selfish efforts worthwhile.
"My heart isn't in it though Michael, you know that's what keeps me in work, the passion," Connie protested, remaining completely rigid in her stance, brushing her head against each knee to wipe away the residual salty tears that continued to batter her worn face.
"I know you'll find it again; it takes time. Why not try a morning tomorrow? I'll be there every step of the way," Michael continued, gently placing his hand on top of hers, giving it the softest squeeze as if to seal his proposition set in stone. "Please, for me," his last words provoked nothing more than a muffled sob and a mute nod of the head.
"But don't force me anymore, please, Michael," she whispered, releasing her arms so he could bring her into a proper cuddle, he let his arms slip around her shoulders, bringing her in close, feeling every mutation on her bone, sliding down her arms he clasped her hand in his, fiddling with the ring in an affectionate way.