Then I call Claudine. I hate bothering her on her day off, but I can’t take talking to Che right now. “Dante? Is everything all right?”
“No, everything is... I’m at the hospital right now with Bethany. Can you please go in and clean out all the stuff from the room? Turn it back into a guest room so Bethany doesn’t have to—”
“I’m sorry, dear. I’ll take care of it.”
“Our bedroom too, there’s blood.”
“I’ll take care of everything. You take care of Bethany, leave the rest to me.”
Hanging up, I think of calling Che but I can’t right now. I can’t say the words yet. Not yet.
Bethany was right, so fucking right. The idea of walking into the room filled with baby items that wouldn’t be used. I squeeze my eyes tight. There I was pushing her out of her comfort zone. Was there some sort of feminine intuition at play? She was relieved, when she reached the twelve-week mark. I felt the surprise inside her at the same time. When we lay together in bed after hitting twelve weeks, she said it seemed like a dream and she wasn’t sure it was real. I understood—a part of me felt the same way.
Only now it’s no longer a dream; it’s a nightmare we aren’t going to wake up from.
***
Bethany
As Dante opens the door, we’re met by meows and whimpering from Mac. The noise is welcome after the quiet for the last few hours. Dante’s voice is barely above a hushed whisper every time he speaks to me. Going down the hall, I stop at the door, keep going, don’t open the door, but I open the door and push it open. I blink as I see it’s back to the guest room it was before Dante started filling it a few days ago. Thank god. I turn away back toward our room.
I flash to the blood in the bed and stop. Only to realize the bed is made up with a blush pink comforter instead of the usual teal one, or even the red one we use while the other is cleaned. Right now I’m grateful for the bossy know-it-all Dante. I climb onto the bed without pulling the covers back. I’m surprised at the soft fur brushing against me as Mittens investigates me. Looking up, Dante shrugs.
“You need to eat. Please let me make you something.”
“If you eat too.”
“Okay, I’ll eat too. What do you want?”
“I don’t care.”
He nods. “I’ll be right back.”
When he leaves I pat the bed for Mac. Mac looks like he doesn’t believe me; I pat the bed again and make kissing noises. He jumps on the bed with a happy snuffling. I cuddle him and he rests his head on my stomach. My empty stomach. I blink back the tears. God, I cannot cry anymore, I can’t. My head is killing me and it just fucking hurts.
Dante is back with a plate and two forks, an omelet and a tray. He sighs. “Mac, get down.”
Mac looks to me. “Sorry, Mac.” Groaning his displeasure at Dante, the dog jumps off the bed then lays down on the floor on my side of the bed. Dante sets the tray down over my legs then sits down beside me. It’s already cut in half.
Mittens knows better than to try, but Ginny gets close to the plate. Dante pushes her gently away. “Pancetta, tomatoes, mozzarella.”
“It looks good.” It does, but I’m not hungry. I promised though so I take a bite. Without tasting it I eat my half and Dante eats his. When we’re done he takes the tray back into the kitchen. By the time he’s back I’m already lying down, desperate for the oblivion of sleep. He looks down at me. I hate seeing the sadness in his eyes. “Can you please hold me?”
He moves fast; his arms are around me, holding me tight. “I’m sorry. I am so sorry,” he whispers into my hair. “I don’t know what else to say. Tell me what you need and I’ll do it.”
“There’s nothing for you to be sorry for. This is my fault. I was the one dumb enough to get pregnant in the first place, then I was still taking birth control pills. I thought a baby was a bad idea. How could I think that?”
“Hey, shh, it’s not your fault. There’s nothing you could have done. One in four pregnancies end in a miscarriage. This is our turn.”
“How do you know that?”
“Che schooled me, then I did some reading and was freaked the fuck out for a solid week. It happens, it’s no one’s fault. You can’t blame yourself, sweetheart, I won’t let you.”
I don’t want to argue with him. My throat is too tight to let any words out anyway. Squeezing my eyes closed, I reach desperately for sleep.
***
Bethany