"I got tickets to the final game of the season for the Rangers," I say, my eyes locked on the half-empty popcorn bowl. "I'm planning on going by myself, and saving that second seat empty in his honor. I don't know, I think it'll be good for me, to do something we loved, and leave that room for him. Is that stupid?"
She removes the bowl from my hands, setting it on the coffee table before sitting up on her knees and wrapping her arms around my shoulders.
"No, I don't think that's stupid," she murmurs. "I think that's the sweetest thing I've ever heard. He would love that."
"You don't think I'll look like a weirdo?" I ask nervously, leaning into her touch.
"You probably will," she says. "But that's because you're you, not because you'll be alone."
"I should have seen that coming," I grumble, playfully pushing her away as she cackles.
"Are you sure you want to go alone though?" she asks in a more serious tone, settling back into her seat. "I would go with you, if you want."
"You hate baseball."
"Yeah, but I love you."
My stomach clenches uncomfortably at those words—not because we haven't said them a thousand times, not because they mean anything different than they always have, but becauseit's usually a 'we.'Welove you. There's no 'we' anymore, there's just her. The reality of it is almost unbearable.
"No, it's okay," I say, clearing my throat to fend off the emotion threatening to rip through me. "I really do want to do this alone."
"Oh good," she sighs. "I was hoping you wouldn't take me up on it. Now can we rewind this? I think I saw a girl drive up in a clown car but we completely missed it."
"You got it."
Chapter 10
Abby
Twelve Weeks
Iam going to be an awful mother.
That thought has lodged itself in my brain and will not get out, no matter how many pep talks I give myself in the mirror. After seeing Little One and hearing their heartbeat a few weeks ago, I thought I’d never come down from that joy.
I was hugely, catastrophically wrong.
I didn’t realize the difference it made to have someone in the house so often. The night Jack crashed on my couch was the first night that I felt like my muscles fully unclenched–the first night I slept and woke up feeling truly rested.
There’s an odd thing about grief that no one talks about–it takes a physical toll just as much as it takes a mental one. Those first few weeks, before I took that fateful pregnancy test, I was in a fugue state. Days would pass, and I would have no idea what I did. I’d sleep for sixteen hours, but nothing eased the unbearable fatigue. I haven’t slept well since Aaron died.
Except for the night there was another person in my house. And after that brief moment of reprieve, and the high of seeing my baby, the crash has been wreaking havoc on my heart andmy body. I’m constantly making an active effort to relax my shoulders, to unclench my jaw, to take a full breath.
And then you throw pregnancy on top of that, and I never know what’s going on in my own body. Is the headache from the hormones or the grief? Is my chest tight from nausea or the weight of unimaginable loss?
I didn’t think it was possible, but I feel more alone than ever.
Anguish rises in my throat, threatening to split me in two. My breaths turn shallow as I pull my phone out.
“Hi Daddy,” I say, trying not to sound like I’m on the brink of collapse. “What are you up to tonight?”
“Hey there, Red,” my dad says with a groan. He was undoubtedly asleep in his recliner when I called. “Nothing to report over here. How about you, any fun plans with your friends?”
“Not tonight,” I say. The anxious butterflies in my stomach feel more like wasps.
Stop it. This is your dad, there’s no reason to be nervous.
“If it’s not too much trouble,” I begin nervously. “Do you think I could come over for dinner? And maybe stay the night?”
