Nothing Good after 2 am

It’s 2 am. What good can happen after 2 am? Who am I kidding? Nothing good happened before 2 am tonight.

The rough fabric of the gown rustled as my wife held the peek-a-boo back together and paced across the slick floor.

“Honey, lay down. You’re just going to raise your blood pressure if you keep pacing and fretting.”

“How can I lay down? I’ve wanted this my entire life, and now there’s something wrong.”

I stopped talking. I knew she was right. Even when she was young, she wanted nothing more than to be a mother. She wanted it so badly that I caught her giddiness when we got pregnant a few months ago. When we got pregnant… I always thought it was stupid when people said that. The baby grows in the mother’s womb, right? Once Misty got pregnant, though, I understood.

I called to check on her from work every day. I got up in the middle of the night to fulfill her cravings. The joy was overwhelming at the first fluttering of the baby’s feet. We got so wrapped up in this child so quickly. How can you love a child so much when you haven’t even seen it yet?

The memories and the waiting got to be too much. I got up and joined Misty’s pacing.

“Where is that doctor? Shouldn’t we know something by now?” I asked.

“Why do you think I’m stressed?”

“Maybe I should see if I can find him. Maybe he forgot us.”

“I’ve been keeping myself from doing the same thing. Go ahead. I can’t take this much longer.”

I walked through the curtain and nearly into a tall man with a kind face.

“Dr. Kramer. I was just coming to look for you. Misty is about to lose it.”

“It looks like you are, too. Come in here and have a seat.”

It’s never good when they tell you to sit.

We walked across the pea green floor, and Dr. Kramer asked Misty to sit. Bad news. I could feel it welling up in my stomach.

“You know we did a lot of tests to find out why the baby had stopped moving, but the last ultrasound told us all we needed to know.”

Misty’s hand went to her mouth, and I could see in her eyes that she knew what the next words would be.

“I’m so sorry to tell you the baby didn’t make it.”

They didn’t make it? What didn’t they make? The football team, the dance troupe? They didn’t make any of that. They didn’t make puberty. They didn’t make childhood. They didn’t make birth.

I knew Misty was torn up, but all I could do was rub her back as I looked at the wall and thought of all the things our child would never be.

Here. That’s the main thing they would never be.

The car doors clicked so quietly that I wasn’t sure they had even closed.

“Misty, are you going to be okay tonight? I need to go to the store, but I want to get you home first…”

No response but a small whimper.

The doors clicked quietly, again. It was if we were observing a moment of silence. We were both thinking of the child that would never be. The front door closed just as quietly. I vaguely wondered how long this moment of silence would end. There would be time for her to talk in the morning.

Soft feet on the steps. Even the creaks were quiet. How did they know?

In the bedroom, I did the thoughtful thing, getting Misty undressed and into her nightgown as if she were a little girl. There was no thought of her nakedness or of intimacy. Pulling the comforter over her shoulders, I pressed my lips on her cheek.

Down the quiet steps and out the quiet door, I went. The car started silently, and I went in the direction of the store.

A sharp turn loomed in front of me, and all I could think of was driving straight. The moment of silence ended with the sound of crumpling metal.