with a mental illness bringing another child into the world when she can barely cope with one makes no sense. But I did understand. Most would be elated.
The nurse brought me a cup of water and said “Congratulations” again to me as I sobbed and sobbed. I called Adam. He heard my cries and consoled me. Finally, saying, “We will tell Scotty together. I love you.”
The next few days I murdered daylilies that propagated all over the damn backyard. I hacked away at their extensive underground root system and pulled up lily after lily. I was sweaty and tired, but I really wanted those lilies gone, so I kept digging and pulling. A vague worry crept over me about the baby, but I did not think too much about it. The sky was gunmetal gray, but it never did rain. I was in a bad mood and enjoyed hacking at the roots.
Ten plus weeks later a deep, pulling ache spread across my abdomen. I noticed the tiniest of smears on my toilet paper, a light brown smudge. There had been no problems before this. It was my second pregnancy. I knew that strange fluids and sensations were the order of the day. I called the doctor and said, “I’m sure it’s nothing. I am sure I am being silly. I should just calm down, right?”
“It’s probably nothing,” the nurse on call had said, “but come in, just for your peace of mind.”
The doctor — she was not my regular doctor, just the one on call the day I rushed in for my peace-of-mind ultrasound — said that nothing I had done could have caused this miscarriage. That was the first thing she said after she had told me the baby was gone. It had not even occurred to me that it might have been something I had done, so my mind raced with the possibilities. Had I done something wrong? How many ways could I blame myself for this?
The doctor gave me the news while the ultrasound wand was still inside me. That alone was traumatic. You are not supposed to be given bad news while you are being penetrated. To all doctors: remove the well-lubricated instrument before you tell the patient her baby is dead.
The life inside me had ended, and I did not even know it. It took a doctor to tell me. I wondered how long I was conversing with someone who was not even there. It is like being on the phone, and the call gets cut off, but you are still gabbing away like an idiot. It is the sort of thing you should notice that there is something dead inside you. Your body really should let you in on that information.
I had no suspicions, no premonitory dreams — just a pain as I attempted to garden, and then the most insignificant spotting you could ever imagine.
Right after the doctor removed the dead fetus, while I was still loopy from painkillers, I asked if it had been a boy or a girl — as if a tiny, complete baby had come out of me and not something that resembled a shrimp. How much more pathetic can you get?
There is so much I am grateful for. I am grateful that I already have a child, a beautiful boy named Scotty. I am grateful that I did not have a stillbirth. I am grateful that Scotty did not know about the pregnancy, that we did not have to deal with his heartbreak on top of ours. I do not want anyone to give me reasons to be grateful, if you do try to remind me, I will punch you right in your head. I was not sure I wanted another child.
As the months went by, the thrilling highs were less frequent. Mary needed a lift. There was not much to do on any night of the week after Scotty went to bed, so many nights Mary walked around town with friends. After walking an hour, they would often become tired and need a rest.
At first it seemed a little strange, but their favorite place in town was this beautiful church. Its frightened Mary to enter such a place, so imposing. To keep a promise to her friends, she saw herself forced to enter. It took courage to pass through the old oak door, but the moment she stepped in, she found it enchanting and breathtaking. Sometimes they would end up staying there for hours just talking. These friendships made her feel warm and cozy. She felt no harm. And Scotty was safe, home asleep.
The nights that Mary and her friends spent time in the church left Mary wondering a lot about the soul of the dead fetus. Does its soul need to return to earth in another body?
Mary enjoyed her nighttime outings. The best times were in the park near the lake and the woods. The stars would come as if to welcome this gang of friends back to their hours of comfort and relaxation. They would sit, heads tilted toward the sky, observing the constellations and the patina of the moon. Their chatter and drink went on until the small hours, always with a backdrop of crickets in the long grasses.
The lack of sleep took its toll. Over time, the thrilling highs were less frequent, replaced by longer bouts of dull depression.
Exhausted and frantic after years of suffering, Mary reached a limit. Over vodka a friend one evening gently directed her to some stimulants she had available in sample form. The result was perfect. She began using the pills, rather innocently, along with her medications for her disorder and her consumption of alcohol whenever she needed an extra boost. To her, it was better than a cup of coffee.
Mary’s workload grew exponentially, and she had trouble keeping pace. She could not juggle Scotty’s school activities, keeping up the property, creating wedding gowns, and managing her moods. She took more and more pills just to keep up, and then even more pills to get to sleep again. She gave little thought to this drug use. She and her friends were no street junkies making covert deals in dark alleys.
As she waited on the corner for her friends to show up, she thought I am successfully making my life smoother.
The gang of friends arrived. Mary climbed into their pickup. The pickup lurched as it turned onto a dirt road. The ruckus from the bottom of the truck was unbearable, because of the noise and excessive shaking. They slowly climbed. It seemed impossible to reach the lovely cabin at the top. The rocks and deep potholes shook the truck and everyone in it, like a paint mixer. They rolled down every window in the truck so they could have some leverage to hold on and not lose their grip. When the fresh clean mountain air entered the truck, they knew they were nowhere close to home. The cabin set deep in the heart of the mountains. Overhead, the woods closed in, shutting out the moonlight. The woods were silent. No eyes and ears. They were free. They chatted, laughed, drank alcohol, tried marijuana, got high and started all over….
They thought they were fireworks in the velvet dark, the blaze that dares to light up the night.
It was morning when Mary arrived home as golden bars of sunlight shined through the majestic oaks. Fractured images of sights and sounds and smells flashed with haunting echoes of the night were present.
Scotty dressed for school stood macho asking, “Where have you been? You look awful.”
Mary lashed out and slapped Scotty, “That’s enough! You don’t talk to your mother like that.”
Scotty rushed out of the house to catch the school bus.
Scotty struggled through feelings of sadness, confusion, and anger as he rehearsed for the town’s storytelling festival coming up on the weekend. His dad would be home and hopefully the family would attend this significant event, drawing people from all over the region. This year festival programmers scheduled local, regional, and nationally known oral storytellers but also featured a student, Scotty Miller.
Visitors roamed the streets, checking out the many interesting shops and securing a seat for the storytelling sessions.
Adam and Mary seated along with a large group of children eager for fright by Scotty’s collection of haunting tales. Through his spoken word and song, he started with a scary story about a student’s first day at a new school and not finding his classroom. The school was a maze. Scotty walked his audience through this winding maze of spooky adventures.
