But I’m not doing well knowing there’s a woman down the hall in my guest bed, breathing and sleeping and dreaming or whatever the fuck else she might be doing.
My guest bed.My nerves flare to life.
This is completely ridiculous.
The sun is still not up, so I refuse to stand up from this bed.I will not rise to my feet until sunrise, no matter what.So I lean back on my hands and stare at the massive wood beams of my bedroom ceiling.I force myself to stop thinking about Emma Clark.Because it isn’t right.
Yes, there have been women since Amy’s death.And no, none of them have resulted in a sleepless night.Of course, sleep wasn’t why I was with them.And no woman has ever spent the night here.
Now there’s a woman here.I want to sleep.I can’t.
I take another series of breaths and focus on my wife.I decide to call to mind my Amy, the sum of all her parts, the experience of having her by my side.But to my horror, it’s not as sharp as it once was.My memory of her is fading.
I snatch the framed photo from my bedside table and stare at it.It’s the one of Amy and me on the beach in Coronado, near the Navy SEAL base.She was the love of my life, no doubt about it.We were married for a pitiful seven months, and together for only two months before then.
I remember how my brothers told me I was insane for marrying a girl I’d only just met.They didn’t understand.
I met Amy and it was game over.I knew that she was the woman for me, and it wouldn’t matter if I dated a hundred women and waited until I was turning gray to tie the knot—I’d never find anyone as perfect for me.
Amy was my person.
I know that ten months is not a lot of time to embed a face in a man’s mind.Still, I hate myself for letting my memory of her fade.What was Amy’s favorite drink?What was her all-time favorite movie?Song?TV show?I can’t be sure.
No matter how much I wrack my brain, there are small things I can’t pull from the dark corners of the past.The time we spent learning each other.Loving one another.
And I can’t forgive myself for betraying her like that.Losing knowledge of her—her smell, the sound of her laugh, the feel of her hand in mine—that is surely a betrayal.
How can I betray the woman who sacrificed her life to bring our child into the world?
So.
Much.
Pain.
I fall back onto the bed, flip onto my stomach, and grab a pillow.Then I punch the shit out of it.Because there is one thing I willneverforget about Amy, never forgive myself for.
I am responsible for her death.
At her regular obstetrics appointment, the doctor found that her blood pressure was slightly elevated.I didn’t much care for her doctor’s casual attitude.In fact, I pressed him on his lack of concern.I wanted a second opinion.But Amy trusted him and asked me to please trust him too.
I failed her.I didn’t take Amy to another doctor or to the hospital.Looking back, I know what a good husband would have done.That man would have burned rubber out of the doctor’s office parking lot and hauled ass directly to the emergency room.
Not me.All I did was ask the doctor for an extra follow-up appointment before her regularly scheduled checkup a month later.He said it wasn’t necessary.
He was right.
Amy didn’t make it to that checkup.
She was already dead.
As the doctors and nurses wheeled her down the hall for an emergency Cesarean section, I ran by her side, grabbing her hand and kissing it.I told her she would be fine.That I loved her with all my heart and couldn’t wait to meet our son.
Her eyes filled with tears as the light faded from her gaze.It took every bit of her remaining energy to gently shake her head and speak her last words: “I’m so sorry.”
I punch my pillow again with the flood of rage, guilt, and grief that’s had a stranglehold on me for eight years.A grief so intense that it will last for the rest of my days.
Amy didn’t get to meet Jasmine.Our daughter was pulled from her lifeless body.
