Searching You

Preface

Where are you on the map, my darling? Are you strolling along the moonlit coastlines, or lost at sea?
Remember when I carried you for six long months? “What a healthy baby you will be.”
I said that in confidence…I said that with love. I meant what I said I thought was enough…

So where are you on the map, my angel? An angel you might be…
Spooning me as I sleep through opprobrious nightmares,
Or caressing me as I curl up over a mug of hot coffee?

“I miss you,” I say regardless…I say that dejected.
Why, God, do you tempt me? Why must you pull on my heartstrings, and make me your selected?

Where are you on the map, my sweetheart? You must be there.
Adding to my search; my path? In a place found in the middle of nowhere?
Dad says hello; he misses you too.
It’s not my fault you’re missing…but my search shall continue.

Chapter 1

“I’m fine,” she says, and she tries to sound convincing with as little a mound of aching flesh on her shoulders as possible, as it strains to weave itself through her tone...but the burden remains, and they both know it never left, and perhaps never will.

Her head turned slightly in his direction as she said it, nearly snapping out of her deep reverie, though not quite. She can’t stop thinking about what was and what should have been. Her right hand — the hand that touched him — never leaves her flat belly when she remembers the pain…

The tears…

The silence…

“Why isn’t he crying?” she sobbed anxiously, trying so desperately to sit up immediately after parturition.

They said nothing as their bloody latex gloves carried his tiny, wrinkled body away. The metal instruments caught the intense lights in the room and reflected on her sweaty face, revealing quite clearly her uneasiness.

“Is he OK?” she cried, glancing around at the few doctors struggling to pacify her.

“Baby,” he says, and his lopsided smile shifts into her focusing view.

His voice was like a gentle wind rippling the full moon’s reflection in the dark water. The moon may scatter, but the wind lingers, caressing the night as it wanders. She examines him for a short moment — her tired eyes bloodshot and glistening — a moment filled with contentment and passion.

How does he do that? Her inner voice tends to think, as she begins to force a corner of her mouth to rise.

The gentle smile of a lover takes it all away in an instant, and sometimes for an instant, but treats you with an instant of happiness nonetheless.

“Come to bed,” he adds, and he’s on one knee, resting a soft hand on her overlapped one, rubbing her with a thumb. “You OK?”

Her eyes dance about his face and she grips her mug tighter with her left hand. She doesn’t realize it, but she leans forward slightly as well, and presses her lips together. He frowns, and then uses his free hand to comfortingly massage her shoulder.

“It’s gunna be OK,” he assures her, his composure much tenser now.

He knows what trouble lurks in the night there. He feels it himself, although, this familiar encumbrance was one he wished wasn’t amidst in spite of everything.

Tears fall from her fluttering eyes as her chin quivers. Instantly, she wipes them away.

“As I’ve said,” she mutters gutturally, looking away from his face, “I’m fine.”

He upsurges and kisses her on the forehead as her eyes close. When he returns to place, his blue eyes study the depth of hers. He’s concerned about her, still.

“Come.” He grabs her hand and they both get to their feet. As he leads her toward the staircase, they pass the kitchen counter and she places her mug there. The resounding of her fuzzy slippers swiping the tiled floor is all that can be heard, really. It’s dim downstairs, with no more than an orangey emission that comes from the lamp that stands on the small table next to the couch she had been sitting in.

Nights like these are frequent, more so around this time of year: May, when he was born. It has been roughly two years since the loss, and it still hovers over their lives (perhaps hers more than his) like wafting clouds in the night sky. The stars are swallowed up, leaving a fraction of light left for the pupils to absorb. It’s tough to see this way before the eyes have adjusted.

In bed, her body’s facing away from him and her eyes rove in thought. It has been hours, and dawn is approaching. He’s sound asleep under the covers behind her, and she still can’t seem to rest. Her mind is alight with memories, guilt, sadness, pain, disgust, and horror. In her room; her space; her world, the mysterious shadows creep in the corners, seep under locked doors, and slip through ajar windows from the dead of night. They whisper bitter things to her as she tries to shut them out. Even as she tosses and turns, trying to achieve a smidge of comfort in the thin sheets — mostly hogged by him — they seem to get louder…

And louder…

And louder, still.

Her eyes shut tight as she tries to remain composed and relaxed, but his body…his white, diminutive body continues to appear.

Under what gave the impression of being a single light, she lightly tugged on the blue hospital gown that covered her distended belly as she pulled her arm over it. Tears of joy, relief, comfort, and deep concern welled up in her soft eyes as she stared down at him through the plastic. His eyes were closed, and his little chest swelled and then collapsed repeatedly. Something within her, an uneducated part undoubtedly, was certain that his shallow breathing meant something was wrong. To be safe, she turned her head in search for a nurse. One was just walking into the room to check up on the newborn preemies.

“Please, my son. Is he alright?” she demanded in a soft tone.

The nurse approached her and looked down at the boy. Quickly, she glanced up at her suspiciously, and then back at the baby, whose breathing rate increased.

“Miss, he’s fine,” the old woman muttered, monotone, and then began to walk away.

“Wait,” the concerned mother hollered suddenly; desperately; dissatisfied.

The nurse stopped but didn’t turn. An instant of awkward silence followed, before she continued:

“Can I hold him?”

The nurse sneered into what looked to be the surrounding darkness and then answered. “No.”

It was abrupt. It was to the point. It was a response she wished could have led her to a sensible conclusion, or rather, a satisfying sense of support; a comfort; a guarantee that her little boy was indeed fine. She turned back to the incubator after seconds of plain discontentment, and saw that her baby’s chest wasn’t moving.

* * *

She rolls over and stretches her arm, half asleep, hoping to feel him lying there. When disappointed, her eyes open slowly, managing to adjust through the curtain of her hair. Just as adrenaline surges through ones veins without warning, she experiences a wave of desertion that stabs her core and disperses throughout her entire body in an instant. He isn’t there, and as her tired eyes scan the room she grasps his definite absence. She turns her head away from the empty side of the bed, and serene rays of the early afternoon sunlight settles on her face through the spaces between beige linen. She brushes her hair out of her face and narrows her eyes while they adjust to the brightness. Although her lover has left her in what she feels is a dire time requiring the upmost support, she relaxes in the soft cushiony pillows and takes advantage of the entire sheet.

Peripherally, her eye catches something new on the nightstand next to her. They fix on a small pink sticky note stuck to the front of the alarm clock there. She reluctantly reaches over and pulls it off. It reads in legible cursive:

Sheridan, I got called into work early and didn’t wanna wake you. But I left a little something in the fridge. I hope you can get that tight water chugger of yours outta bed — she chuckles at the sexy inside label — to get it. And don’t worry, baby, everything will be alright.
Love you,
James

Baby. That word from the note — and like the note — sticks to her. Although her lover wasn’t referring to him, she very well knows whose special day it is. It is his birthday. Their baby’s second birthday, to be precise. She struggles to swallow the truth, but as those mysterious shadows resurface to her world and make it as dark as can be once more, the truth is all that can be swallowed. If she refuses to, she must eventually spit. And spitting at these demons will only anger them. In her frail mind, the shadows recreate her tranquil room into a dark space that suffocates her. Their whispers are even bitterer than the last time they were. Simply, were.

Saved by the bell, she is now, as the doorbell rings through the house and blows the dark ones away into nothingness. Her room is restored, and her misty, glazed eyes blink as she looks up from the daydream — or, daynightmare. It takes a moment, but that blasted ringing finally stops and the knocking begins.

“I’m coming,” she says too low to be heard even just outside the bedroom, as she throws her upper body up and almost rolls off the edge of the bed.

As she gets to her feet and slips on her fuzzy slippers, she looks around the room for her silky night robe. How elegant and sexy she looks in it as she floats into the hallway and down the staircase. By now, the knocking has stopped. Something as urgent as this seemed, what with all the vehement ringing and knocking, didn’t allow a brushing of the teeth, a shower, or even a dressing into more decent attire, to come before it. She peers through the eyehole and gets a glimpse of two excited-looking women. When she then opens the door, the blonde wraps her arms around her tightly. Her head is forced to turn so that her face wouldn’t become squished near Sheridan’s plump breasts. The second woman grins and says, “Can we come in, Sherry?”

“Of course,” she replies over the first woman’s shoulder, expecting some urgent news, and all at once convinced of it by the broad smile and exuberant hug.

The second woman, who is holding a couple shopping bags at her side, steps passed the others and makes herself at home. The first woman releases Sheridan and grabs her upper arms, smiling into her face — teeth perfectly straight and gleaming white.

“Oh!” she exclaims while her hands slide down Sheridan’s arms to her hands. “Do we have news for you!”

With that, she strides passed and into the house, meeting with the second woman on the couch. Sheridan closes the front door and walks close enough to both women before crossing her arms over her chest. The only thing she’s interested in is whatever they have to say that’s so important.

“Our,” — the second woman begins, glancing at the blonde while placing a hand on her thigh — “First intention for coming over was to share our condolences…” — Sheridan instantaneously looks away for a fleeting second in slight annoyance, and when she returns, her bodily and facial expression is left entirely listless — “Since it is Michael’s second birthday.”

The second woman pulls a small box out from one of the shopping bags at her feet with her free hand. She hands it to Sheridan with a forced smile. Sheridan opens it up, half-intrigued. She pulls out a beautiful necklace. As she examines its quality and design, it catches the intruding sunlight from the windows found about. The abstract heart hanging from it is black with fancy golden writing on it, reading: Treasure. She opens it up like a locket, and written on the left side on a white background in standard black printed letters is:

Michael Turners
May 23, 2011–May 25, 2011

Sheridan’s hand flies up to her mouth as she tries so desperately to fight back tears. Her glossy eyes shoot to the now uncomfortable-looking woman.

“Sherry…” the blonde says softly; concerned.

“I —— I’m just…” — she dabs her eyes with the back of her hand and studies the necklace one last time before placing it back in the box it came from. “This is beautiful guys — girls. Thanks.”

Both woman look at each other for a minute and then back up at Sheridan. The blonde stands up and gives Sheridan a tight hug. After a brief moment, she says, “Let it out.”

Those words compel the tears to fall, regardless of Sheridan’s will to disobey. As they fall, she resents them. It’s embarrassing, awkward, and unfair. However, some part of her likes the attention and support, and chance to recollect her pain with close friends who give her just that. She manages to hold back a few more streams of salty emotions as she gently pulls herself away from the embrace. The blonde looks up at her sympathetically.

“Are you alright?” she asks, reaching up to wipe some tears off of her pale cheeks.

“Yes,” she retorts, sniffling and forcing a smile she feels appears quite deceiving.

“Maybe some good news might help wash those tears away.” The blonde sits down and grabs the second woman’s hands.

Sheridan reluctantly sits on the couch opposite them. The second woman looks down, trying not to smile as the blonde continues. Sheridan waits in anticipation, trying to forget the gift and Michael all together, just long enough so that she could receive the news with open arms.

“We’re pregnant.”