Her lips don’t twitch. Her eyes don’t glimmer with humor or interest or life. She just stares at me unblinkingly.
“I can’t do this, Grip,” she whispers, her anger fading as quickly as it came. She presses her cheek deeper into my palm. “You keep thinking I can do this, that I’m stronger than I am, but . . .”
She shakes her head, helplessness loosening a tear from her lashes and spilling it over her cheek.
“I’m not strong enough either, baby.” I dip to press my forehead to hers. “Not by myself, but remember what I promised you?”
“What?” she asks.
She doesn’t remember? I console myself with the reminder that she was exhausted and on drugs before her C-section, but my heart still winces that she doesn’t remember what I promised.
“I said—”
“That you would love me for the rest of your life,” she whispers, eyes closed. “And that you believed we could survive anything together.”
There’s my girl. Hope flares in this dark room that is our life right now. It’s the smallest thing, her remembering those moments, our hardest, but it’s the only thing I have.
“Yeah, that’s it. The only way we get through this is together.” This one thing encourages me to broach a topic I know we need to address. “I, uh . . . was talking to Dr. Wagner.”
Her eyes narrow.
“I just had the checkup and was okay,” she says, slowing her words as if she needs to process them. “I’m not due back until my six- week appointment.”
“I know.” I nod my agreement. “But I called her office and we talked—”
“About me?” Her words come fast and outraged. “Without me?”
“Bris, just listen.” I sigh, dreading this. “She thinks you should reconsider the prescription she suggested.”
“For the milk?”
Dr. Wagner mentioned a prescription that would expedite the milk drying up, but Bristol refused. I wish she would take it. Nature is cruel, preparing Bristol’s body to nurse and nurture even though her arms are empty. It’s a constant reminder of what we’ve lost burgeoning in her body.
“No, not those.” I clear my throat unnecessarily. “The, um . . . the antidepressant.”
“I don’t want that.” Bristol tosses the comforter back, throwing her legs over the side with more energy than I’ve seen. It’s a shame the only thing that seems to enliven her is anger. “It hasn’t even been two weeks.”
“True, but not only do you have the . . . grief,” I say, the word getting snagged in my throat. “But all the hormonal changes that come with having a baby, too. When Dr. Wagner heard you weren’t eating and were sleeping all day—”
“And she ‘heard’ this during your secret conversation about me behind my back, right?” Bristol stands and faces me, arms folded under her breasts.
“I’m not going to watch you get worse. Don’t ask me not to help, Bris.”
“You can’t fix this. Pills won’t fix this.”
“Neither will not eating or lying in bed all day with the curtains closed.” My voice comes out sharper than I intended, but those are the words I meant to say, ones I’m not taking back. I notice for the first time that she’s wearing my Dave Chappelle T-shirt, HABITUAL LINE STEPPER. I can’t help but think about that night, years ago, when she wore it while we ate on the roof, before we made love. My eyes wander over the long legs and tangled hair. Even grimy, bitchy, depressed, and despondent, she’s the only woman I want.
“Is that why you want to fix me, Grip?” she asks, scorn curling her lip as she watches me watch her. “You wanna fuck? Is that what this is about? Popping some pills in me so I’ll be in the mood to suck your dick again?”
“Dammit, Bris!” The words combust in my mouth, and I roll off the bed to face her, a king-size sea of rumpled, unwashed sheets separating us, a chasm of shared pain somehow keeping us apart. “How could you . . . why would you say that to me? You know it’s not true. Are you trying to push me away?”
“If that’s what it takes for you to stop poking and prodding and trying to medicate me out of this, then yeah, I’ll push you away.”
She drops her head forward, the mass of dark waves obscuring her face and rioting past slumped shoulders.
“You can’t fix this,” she moans, twisting her head from side to side and cradling her waist with folded arms. “None of that will bring her back. You can’t bring her back.”
I can’t stay away from her. I never could, and her pain, her tears draw me, the same way her vitality and her beauty always have. There is nothing about her that repels me, even when she tries her best to push me away. I step close, cautiously slipping my arms around her, resting my hands at the small of her back. She’s stiff, resistant to any comfort I offer, but after a few moments of stroking her back, she goes limp against my chest, almost pliant. This is the closest we’ve been since Zoe died, and I don’t want to shatter it by bringing up the meds, or the support group or the grief counseling—all things Dr. Wagner says will help us—but I can’t let this go on. It’s not good for either of us.