Woodrow's hand moved in and out of focus as tears clouded my eyes. His thumb roved over a tiny cheek. His other hand tightened around mine, and I saw pain on his face. . . a face with an expression that made him appear younger. He wasn't Woodrow anymore. He was a child, holding his baby, and he was so confused.
He didn't even understand why he was hurting so much.
But I did.
The grief crashed down on me like a tidal wave, dragging me under and flooding my body. I was sure I would die. I wanted to die. And I selfishly wanted to take Woodrow with me, so we could all be together.
I pulled my hand from his, and his bloody palm settled on my leg as I lifted our baby from his other hand. I placed the tiny body—covered in blood—on my chest. Woody moved to my side and watched my gentle fingers massage where I thought tiny lungs would be, but they weren't strong enough to fight with me and suck in air.
“What do I do?” My eyes were on Wynter, as if she had any motherly wisdom to impart. “Why isn't the baby crying?”
“The baby is dead, Jolie.” Her lack of sympathy reminded me of all the hate I felt for her.
“How can I save—?”
“You can’t,” she cut me off.
A checkered kitchen cloth sat near the sink; it crumpled as Ville clutched it. He walked over; the sound of his boots created the usual feeling of dread and anxiety in the pit of my stomach, reminding me of the emptiness now there. Twinges continued, feeling like mini contractions as he neared.
Woody continued blinking at my side, switching rapidly once more to Woodrow, before immediately switching back. Ville, the only one of us here with training in psychology, didn't even notice this time.
My head rolled into Woody's, settling carefully in the crook of his neck. My hair brushed his ears, but it didn't affect Woody the way it did Woodrow.
“I love you, Woody.” I kissed his throat, letting him know how I felt. I loved him so much, in a way so different to how I loved Woodrow, but still so completely.
He tensed, fearing more damage to the injury he suffered without even knowing how he got it. But before he could even answer me, Ville distracted us both.
“She doesn’t mean it, buddy. She doesn’t love you. Not really. She’s just looking for someone to care for because her baby didn’t make it.”
“He’s a liar, Woody,” I whispered, so low, he probably didn’t hear it.
Ville tossed the cloth at me, covering the small baby in my arms. My heart cracked as I tried to guess the weight—the cloth feeling heavier. I looked away, keeping my attention on Woody, whose silver eyes hadn't left the little one. I couldn't move the cloth; I couldn't look and take in features. I couldn't even glance to see if my child was male or female.
It was too painful.
With the baby covered, Ville's fist invaded my hold, snatching away my child. Wynter came up behind him, her washing-up gloves on as she cut the cord.
“I'll get this wrapped up.” Wynter scooped up something between my legs, hurrying it to a cookware pot.
I squinted to get a better look, and my empty stomach rolled over the realization that it was my placenta, and that was what I felt leaving my body when those mini contractions came.
“For what?” I asked in horror. I shouldn't have fucking asked.
“For dinner. It's good. We did it with Nessie's, too. Can’t waste decent food.” Ville shrugged.
I almost vomited up last night’s dog food. “Are you gonna eat your own grandchild, too?”
“No. That's why we cut the cord, silly. Besides, there's no meat on this tiny thing.” I fumed at Ville, staring up at him with the most intense hate.
He tied up the cloth, making my baby look even smaller within the fabric, and ensuring no more stains would happen in this kitchen. He tossed my baby at Woody, hitting him in the chest.
I screamed at him, livid anger lifting me higher, but not high enough to get up and doanything.
Woody's hands moved quickly, cupping our baby to his chest. Another pained breath shuddered out of him.
“Do me a favor, huh, champ, take that out to the trash. There’s enough rubbish in here.”
“Daddy—”
