"How far along are you?" Rory sits up in bed, suddenly feeling very awake.
"Nineteen weeks," she admits.
"Why am I just now finding out? How long have you known?"
"A while."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I was nervous."
"About how I would react?"
"No. I was afraid something was wrong."
Rory waits a beat before she responds. She picks up on a shakiness in her mother's voice. "Is something wrong?"
"No."
"You sound worried. Is everything okay?"
"I keep having this recurring dream."
"I'm listening."
"In the dream I go to sleep, and I am heavily pregnant. When I wake up I'm not pregnant. I search all over the house, and I can't find the baby anywhere. When I get to the kitchen Luke is there, and by this point I am panicking. He tells me to calm down."
"As if that has ever worked."
"I ask him where the baby is, and he tells me that we lost the baby."
"Mom everything is going to be okay."
"I feel very anxious about all of this. I am not young anymore. I am finally starting to feel as if I don't want to puke every second of every day. Luke keeps suggesting that we tell people, and I am terrified."
"That something is wrong?"
"Yes. I have ample evidence to the contrary."
"It is going to be okay," Rory reassures her.
"Luke keeps saying that."
"Why don't you believe him?"
"It is completely irrational," she admits.
"Do you want me to come home?"
"I'll be okay."
At first she doesn't register that anyone is trying to get her attention. She sits on the couch, with her legs folded underneath her. Her lap is covered in a blanket. She stares blankly at the coffee table, where her empty coffee cup sits. She looks up, and finds Luke standing at the edge of the couch.
"Lorelai?"
"Hm?"
"I have called your name fifteen times."
"I'm sorry," she apologizes.
"Are you okay?"
"Fine," she lies.
"What do you want to eat?"
"I'm not hungry. I think I am going to go for a walk."
"Do you want me to go with you?"
"No," she shakes her head as she pushes the blanket off her lap. He watches her as she takes off through the front door. She inhales the cool winter air. The snow has kissed the ground. She wears her boots, and coat. She ignores the cold winter air that hits her cheeks as the wind blows.
"Stupid snow," she curses under her breath.
As she walks she knows that her lungs should be expanding with air. Instead, she feels as if she is drowning. She makes it as far as the garage on her trek. She tugs open, the door, and steps inside. She takes as seat on a lawn chair, and blankly stares at a sea of cardboard boxes. She hears a door close, and hears steps moving towards her. Finally she feels as if someone's eyes are going to bore through her. She hears a sigh, and a hand touches her shoulder.
"Enough! I am not going to keep doing this. I am not going to let you keep doing this to yourself. We are getting rid of this stuff," he tells her.
She turns around to face him. She quickly vacates her seat, and rises from her chair. She moves until her body is against his. He wraps his arms around her, and holds her close.
"Lorelai we can't keep doing this. It isn't healthy."
"Every single time I think I am strong enough to face it I am wrong. Every time I allow myself to go to that place I just feel like I can't breathe."
"We can't keep living like this," he points out, "We have to move on."
"I don't know how. Where would I even start?"
"It is time to start talking about it," he tells her.
"I wouldn't know where to begin."
"I am right here. You are not going to scare me. I am not going to cut and run. I am here no matter what. Take it out on me."
"It feels like someone stuck a dagger in my heart, and twisted it around for a while, and then just left it there."
He presses his lips against her forehead. He exhales, and struggles to keep his own tears at bay.
"Let's go back inside," he suggests.
She nods. He closes the garage up as she turns to go back to the house. She collapses on the couch, without even removing her jacket. He enters the house, and slides under her legs.
"It's okay to be angry. It is okay to be hurt."
"Stupid snow," she tells him.
"The snow makes the world new again," he reminds her.
"And the wounds feel just as fresh."
"Lorelai, I'm right here."
She falls silent. She doesn't respond to him. He sees her slipping further away with each passing day. She has become a shell of the person that she used to be. Her smile is now nearly as rare as the hope diamond. She doesn't laugh at stupid jokes, or dance in the living room for no apparent reason. Times have been dark, and the darkness has returned to her blue eyes. His mind begins to wander. He can see she is tired. There are dark circles under her eyes. She hasn't been sleeping again. She is up and down all hours of the night. It reminds him of a time just a few years ago.
Christmas 2013-
He comes downstairs, and finds her sitting on the kitchen floor. She sits on the kitchen floor in his white t-shirt. He studies the floor, and finds that it is covered in pills. An empty mug rests between her legs. Her hair is barely secured by a ponytail holder. He looks at her feeling concerned, and bewildered.
"What the hell are you doing?" He asks harshly.
"I don't want to do this anymore. Nothing works. Nothing helps. I can't stay on this damn merry-go-round!"
"What is all over the floor?"
"I dropped them. Then I just got so angry. They aren't helping. How many different drugs have I tired?"
"Lorelai, you're being unreasonable."
She reaches beside her left leg, and lifts up a clear Tupperware container full of prescription drugs.
"First there was the buspar," she proceeds to dump the bottle all over the floor.
"Stop!"
"Then there was the Lexapro," another bottle of pills ends up on the floor, "Celexa, and Remeron. Effexor."
He watches in horror as more and more pills end up on the kitchen floor.
"Paxil, Zoloft, Prozac. Vistaril for anxiety, and then on to Xanax. Trazodone for sleep, which was as effective as drinking a glass of water. Ambien, which just made everything worse. None of this is helping! Clearly I am beyond help!"
They allow themselves to be enveloped by silence, and grief as they remain in the kitchen on that cold Christmas morning. She doesn't move a muscle. She doesn't even attempt to refill her cup of coffee. The two of the stare at the hundreds of pills lying on the floor. There are a multitude of colors, and shapes on the floor in front of them. Finally she has had the guts to say what is on everyone's mind.