"Be strong," they say. "For Aurora."
For Aurora. Be strong, echoes within me.
Yes.
"For Aurora." My voice doesn't sound like me. Perhaps because I no longer feel like me. Still, I clench my teeth together and force myself to stand. With fumbling hands, I pull down my sleeves and button up my shirt. The blood-smeared suspenders also have to go.
With a sad expression, Sky takes them from me. "Tell me if I can help. I'll do anything..."
It won't change anything. What can she do? Give us our baby back? I nod briefly at her, then I enter the treatment room, trying to stand as upright as possible.
For Aurora.
Covered with a fresh sheet up to her abdomen, she lies at the head of the room amid medical equipment and IV stands. The floor next to her is littered with discarded swabs. They match the color of her dress, the dark red straps of which provide a stark contrast to her pale, makeup-smudged face.
She turns her head toward me, the glimmer of her hairpin crumbling onto the pillow. She tries to smile, but her eyes remain expressionless.
I want to breathe, but my chest won't rise.
I want to scream, but there's a noose around my neck.
I want to cry, but I am empty.
Swallowing heavily, I sit down next to her on the bed, wrapping my arms around her shoulders and pulling her close enough that her head rests against my chest. I stroke her upper arm, kissing her forehead.
"We'll get through this," I say minutes later, feeling like a complete idiot because the words sound so clichéd. Aurora deserves better than platitudes.
No wonder she doesn't respond.
I hold my breath to hear hers. It flows slowly but steadily.
Feverishly, I search for something that could bring her comfort. But what do you say to someone who has lost their mother and then their baby within a year?
"We can't choose our fate," I whisper earnestly, never stopping the caresses. "But we can decide how to deal with it."
Were those the right words? Is it even okay to say them when I myself have no idea how we'll ever recover from this day?
It would be easier if Aurora could show me what she's thinking. But her head simply rests heavily on my chest, she blinks at regular intervals with her artificial eyelashes, and she breathes. Does she even perceive my presence?
"Please, Aurora, let me help you," I say in my desperation, but it doesn't elicit any reaction from her. I have no clue what's going on inside her, what she wants to hear from me, or what I should do for her.
Only one thing becomes clear to me at this moment—in the past few weeks, I felt that the training was too much for Aurora. But I pushed those worries aside, all too willing to be persuaded by her to keep going. And today, before our performance, I saw clearly that she wasn't doing well. I ignored that too and didn't want to acknowledge the problems. I am just like my mother.
She taught me this strategy, and I willingly adopted it. We never talked about what weighed us down. It made it easier to forget where I came from, how tough life was, or how little my own father cared about me.
Was that the right thing to do? How do you handle problems if you don't bury them? Is there any other way, especially when you're in a situation you can't change anyway?
Feeling lost, I kiss Aurora’s forehead again. "Whenever you need me, I’ll be there for you," I whisper into the silence between us, hoping desperately that she can hear me.
