When the doctor couldn’t find a heartbeat, Sky didn’t react.
When we were gently told Sky is miscarrying and explained the options, she stared out of the window.
When I held her hand, kissed her face, and told Sky we’d be okay, she said nothing.
I focus on pouring glasses of water, attempting to summon enough strength for us both. My chest hurts, as if something is scratching from the inside trying to get out, and the pain dizzies me. I want to comfort Sky, but I need hers too.
This isn’t happening.
Sky continues to stare across the room and doesn’t take the glass I offer. I place it on the low table instead and sit next to her. She doesn’t react to my touch when I take her hand, but Sky’s eyes well with tears again. I want them to spill, for her to let go, almost as much as I don’t want her to cry.
“This is my fault,” she says, her voice a whisper.
“No, you heard the doctor. She said nothing you did or didn’t do caused this.”
“I’m being punished because of how I reacted, because I said I didn’t want the baby yet. So now she’s gone.”
I grip her hand. She. “No, Sky. Don’t beat yourself up about this.”
“I jinxed us. I didn’t deserve a baby.”
“No.” I stroke her cheek with the back of my hand. “Stop this. You were in shock, we both were, and we just reacted differently. After a couple of days you were fine, I don’t believe that’s what you thought.”
The anguish in Sky’s eyes when she looks at me tightens my chest further. “I did want this baby. I really did, Dylan.”
“I know.” I wrap my arms around her. “I know.”
Sky lets go of her composure, of the brave face she can never cover herself with around me. For the first time today, Sky gives herself over to her pain. She buries her face in my shoulder and curls into a ball on my knee, sobbing into my chest. I’m torn apart with my own grief and fight to stay strong enough to help Sky through hers.
And I don’t know if I am.
* * *
SKY
However honest andopen we are, there are some things in life Dylan and I will cope differently with. The loss of our baby is one of those things. The grief hits us both hard, and I carry around a lot of guilt. Dylan’s heartbreak was hard to cope with on top of my own. At night when Dylan holds me, we try to talk, as if in the darkness, we can let the pain go. I know he meant well, but when he mentions trying for another baby once we’re married I break down again and accuse him of not caring. From then on, the subject is avoided.
With two weeks to go, we switch focus and push ahead with the wedding plans.Dylan’s right, we need to concentrate on the future, however hard it is to let go of the recent past.I try, and then something small happens, and the loss sneaks in and takes over my thoughts.
I need to concentrate on the brightness headed our way.
As one of the only people who knew about our baby, I turned to Tara. She tried to be sensitive, but I don’t think she understood, as if only ten weeks pregnant meant this should be easier for me. Her attempt at soothing words backfires: she tells me early miscarriage happens all the time and people move on to have normal pregnancies. I wanted to shout “well, it doesn’t happen to me all the time” but lashing out at her wouldn’t help. Instead, I nodded and locked everything back inside, switching again to wedding talk. Tara’s relief was obvious, and I wish I could speak to somebody who understood, somebody other than Dylan who needs the same.
* * *
Dylan standsat the edge of the kitchen looking out at the terrace we sat on together eighteen months ago, the first time I visited the house. The day the band manager, Steve, brought me here, and I was ready to slap Dylan for outing me to the world. Nowadays, I understand Dylan’s confusion over his actions was genuine. He never fully considered what telling the world about me would do, and the fierce passion Dylan holds is now something I love about him. Today the sunshine of the day is replaced by the perpetual grey clouds and rain bouncing off the table outside.
Dylan’s hidden hurt shows in his slumped stance, as he rubs his face, unaware I’m watching him. My heart aches too at the realisation he holds himself together as tightly as he holds me when my heartbreak deluges me. We need to talk again. He isn’t coping as well as I thought.
I walk over and wrap my arms around his waist, then rest my cheek against his back. His stiff figure relaxes as he entwines his fingers with mine. The rain batters the window, and we silently watch for a few minutes.
“The weather will be better in Bali,” he says eventually.
“I hope so.”
He disentangles himself and turns. The tension extends to his face, and I smooth my thumb across his brow. His blue eyes are dark, the stress deeper than he shows.
“We should concentrate on our plans for next week.” He’s hesitant, wary of my reaction as he touches my face too. “I need to focus on something else. That doesn’t mean I don’t care, I just—”