I let her words wash over me, cleanse my discouragement away, and renew my commitment to reaching my wife.
“Giving up on Bristol is not an option,” I say, swallowing my doubts. “But thanks for the encouragement.”
“And how are you holding up?” she asks, her voice a little lighter. “Who’s going to take care of you?”
“Bristol will,” I reply. “We take care of each other.”
My response comes before I even have time to think about it. I wondered who would reach me if I’m occupied with reaching Bristol, who would take care of me if I’m taking care of her, but that’s the answer: we take care of each other. We always have, and if we meant our vows, we always will.
“Charm, I need to go.” I consider the closed bathroom door. I don’t hear water running or any movement.
“Of course. I’ll be on the lookout for your email. This book is going to be amazing, Grip.”
I don’t give a damn and don’t even bother responding, just hang up. Charm will cut me some slack for my rudeness. Being around people is hard because there are all these rules, all these things you have to do, and the only thing I want to do right now is hurt, hurt and hold my girl and heal.
When I enter the bathroom, the shower’s not running and there’s no steam fogging the mirror. Bristol’s on the floor, her long legs stretched out flat along the tiles, her back to the tub. She cups her breasts where two huge wet spots show through the T-shirt. Her head is bowed and tears run unchecked down her face. I rush over to squat beside her.
“Baby,” I whisper, gently moving her hands away. “It’s okay.”
It’s not fucking okay. I’m an imbecile saying asinine shit. My inadequacy overwhelms me in the face of her brokenness, in the reality of mine. She gulps in air like she’s drowning, going under. I want to be her lifeline, but I’m sinking, too.
“My milk is drying up.” She squeezes her breasts, pressing her eyes shut and cutting into her bottom lip with her teeth. “Soon it’ll all be gone and I’ll have nothing. It’ll be like I never carried her . . . like she was never here.”
She opens her eyes, meeting mine with dark humor, her lips tilted to a bitter angle.
“You know I don’t even have stretch marks.” She tugs the shirt up and the edge of her panties down. “Except these.”
She lovingly caresses a small patch of faint stripes at her hip. Her fingers drift to the relatively small but still-red scar from her C-section. “And this.”
I was there for that scar. I watched them reach in and pull Zoe out. I’ll never forget cutting the cord, hearing that first squawk confirming that our mission was accomplished, that Zoe had made it.
“I wish I’d seen that,” Bristol says, watching me with watery eyes. “Seen you cut the cord.”
Only now do I realize I spoke my thoughts out loud. I didn’t mean to; I try to keep my pain to myself. Some days I can barely stand under the weight of it, but I look over at Bristol, hear her crying in her sleep, and I muzzle my own misery. She carries so much already. The last thing she needs is me being a pussy, weeping all over her. I want to be strong for her and more than anything, to protect her. I’m supposed to be her first line of defense, and watching her sobbing on the floor, caressing her scars, and clinging to her grief, I can’t help but think I’m failing colossally.
“Let’s get you cleaned up.” It’s not really what I want to say. I just want to join her on the floor and weep, but one of us has to be strong. I tug at the hem of the shirt but she folds into herself, keeping the shirt in place.
“No, I don’t want to get cleaned up.” Her head drops back to rest on the lip of the tub.
“Well I’m not letting you sit on the floor all day in a sour T-shirt and . . .” My voice fails.
“And what?” she demands. “Cry? Wallow? Why not?”
“This situation—”
“This situation is grief.” Her strident voice ricochets off the bathroom walls. “Stop trying to fix me.”
“I don’t need to fix you,” I bellow back, my restraints snapping. “I need you, Bristol.”
“What?” she whispers, uncertainty shadowing her face. Did she think I wasn’t suffering? I know I protected her from the worst of it, but she has to realize I’m as gutted as she is.
“Fucking newsflash: Zoe was mine, too. I’m her father. I’m broken.” Tears set my throat on fire, and these words are the match. “It’s killing me that she’s gone, and it’s killing me that you won’t let me in.”
“I don’t know how.” Tears paint her cheeks. “I’m in the dark.”
“So am I.” I grab her hands between mine. “You’re my light. I’m your light. We only get through this together, Bris.”
“I just feel so . . . alone.” The word comes out on a gasp of desperate air, a hammer falling on my heart.