I feel older than thirty.
As I shuffle to the bathroom, I force myself not to think about everything that’s happened, but the fear is raging like an angry storm inside my mind. I need to focus on one thing at a time, or I won’t make it through this.
I turn on the faucet and splash cold water on my face, inhaling sharply at the initial shock that hits my skin.
For a moment, I close my eyes. I focus on the tiny rivulets tracing my forehead and the drops dripping off my face.
I open my eyes again and study my reflection in the oval-shaped mirror. The woman looking back at me is wearing a dark mask of pain. Her appearance has changed with each life event that she has gone through.
Every time I lost a baby, I woke up wearing this mask.
I bring my fingers to my cheeks. My skin is dry and leathery beneath my fingertips. I drag my hand down from my right temple to my chin, stretching my skin slightly along the way, distorting my face.
My hair, my beautiful hair that helped me land a job, refuses to show any of its gloss. It chooses to be dull and lifeless, like my eyes.
Delores made the right decision telling me not to come to work. Even if I go, my hair has taken time off and won’t draw in any customers. Not that anyone would want me to take care of them anyway, not while Alex is still a murder suspect.
When this complete nightmare is over, Alex and I will probably have to move again to another place, hopefully before the baby comes.
A cold knot forms inside my stomach at the thought that Alex might never make it out of jail, that he might end up going to prison for a very long time.
From experience, I know that not only the guilty go to prison. All too often, innocent people end up serving life sentences for crimes they did not commit. How can I be sure that my husband won’t end up being one of the unlucky ones?
If they take him away from me, I’ll end up raising our baby alone. That’s if the baby even survives this storm.
I bite down hard on my lip and taste the salty tang of my tears mixed with the water I had used to wash my face.
“It’s all a mistake,” I murmur, holding my stomach with both hands, trying to soothe mybaby even if I can’t do the same for myself.
The baby kicks, a soft tap against my ribs that brings me a little comfort when I thought nothing ever would.
“It’s okay, baby. The truth will come out soon. Daddy will be fine. We will be fine.”
Without warning, pain strikes again and my blood runs cold.
I had a nightmare, but my bodydidexperience real pain. It’s so intense this time that it forces me to double over the sink.
My hands tremble to the edge of the sink and grip it hard. A nail breaks and sweat pops out of my forehead.
To distract myself, I count inside my head, while waiting for the wave of pain to pass, to give me a short break so I can breathe again. When I reach fifteen and I’m still in agony, I clench my teeth until my jaw aches.
Yesterday evening, I called my OB-GYN’s office to ask if I could stop by for a checkup in the morning. It did not surprise me when her assistant informed me that they didn’t have any openings anytime soon. I’m not stupid. It had nothing to do with being overbooked. They were shunning me like everyone else.
I don’t know how much my baby will be able to handle. How long until it gives up? How long until I give up?
A silent thought forces its way to the forefront of my mind, an old enemy coming to kick me when I’m down.
What if you’re not meant to be a mom?
I have lost four babies before this one. I wasn’t allowed to have any of them. I wasn’t allowed to hold them in my arms, to kiss the tops of their heads, to inhale their newborn scents.
Maybe what I’m going through is a punishment for what I did as a kid, for disobeying my parents when they told me to stay away from boys until I was done with college.
The day I told my mother about my first pregnancy, she showed me the door. She swore that from that moment on, my life was cursed, and I would never find happiness. She said I had not only disobeyed her, but I had disobeyed God.
I was only fifteen, and I had been dating Alex for six months. Two months into our relationship, my father was arrested, and three months after that, he died. I never told him about Alex.
Sometimes I wonder whether his reaction would have been different from my mom’s. Would he have forgiven me?
