In the morning, Lily is awake before me. She always is. She’s showered and dressed and she’s downstairs, standing at the kitchen island in the dark, eating a piece of toast, while I just rolled out of bed.
“Will you tell me about it?” I ask, coming to stand at the island opposite her. “About the dream.”
Lily stares back, her brown eyes reluctant. “I didn’t have a dream,” she confesses.
I cock my head. “What were you thinking about, then? Why were you so upset last night?” I ask.
There’s a long pause before Lily tells me.
“I went for a walk yesterday after work, at Langley Woods,” she says. Langley Woods is a large forest preserve. Lily and I have been there before. We’ve gone together to run or to take our dog for walks, when we had one. It’s not far from our house. There is a waterfall, though it’s small, more like a dam than anything, and over ten miles of hiking trails. “The doctor said walking would be good for me. Safe,” she reminds me, as if defending something she hasn’t yet said, asserting that what happened isn’t her fault.
Lily is a distance runner, but she’s laid off running since she found out she was pregnant. There were three miscarriages before this, each pregnancy ending before the end of the first trimester. Lily blames herself for them, as if something she did or didn’t do is what led to the miscarriage.
“That’s good,” I say. “A little exercise, a little fresh air. That’s good.” My voice is calm, encouraging, supportive, but inside my heart is beating a little faster than it was a minute ago because I’m wondering if Lily is going to say that something happened to the baby, that she lost the baby yesterday. My palms are clammy now; they start to sweat. The last time it happened, she was nine weeks along, like now. We’d already been to the doctor. We’d had an ultrasound and heard the baby’s heartbeat. The doctor had told us that the risk of miscarriage went down after detecting a fetal heartbeat for the first time, to something like a few percent, 4 or 5, I can’t remember. Still, the doctor was wrong. She filled us with false hope. We didn’t think anything bad could happen at that point. Shame on us. Lily had a history with recurrent miscarriages by then. She wasn’t like other women the doctor saw. That small 4 or 5 percent included Lily, because she lost that baby even after hearing a heartbeat.
Lily was at work when it happened, sitting in on an IEP meeting when she felt the rush of blood between her legs. She sat there until the end of the meeting, until everyone else had cleared the room. When she stood up, she looked down and saw the blood on the chair. It came as no surprise, but was no less devastating.
Now Lily’s hand shakes as she reaches for her water bottle. She unscrews the cap, brings it to her mouth and takes a long swig. She lowers the water bottle slowly back to the countertop and replaces the cap. It’s dragged out. She’s searching for the words to tell me the baby is dead, that she lost it yesterday when she was at Langley Woods. She came home. She showered, washing the blood away. The baby’s gone. That’s why she was so upset last night. There will be a D&C to clean out what’s left of it. It’s old hat. We’ve done this before. This is nothing new for us.
Lily’s voice shakes when she speaks.
“Jake Hayes was there,” she says. It’s not what I expect to hear. It takes a second to regroup, to replace thoughts of miscarriage with Jake’s face.
“Oh yeah?” I ask, flooding with relief that this has nothing to do with the baby. I let out a breath. I feel my body sag, my shoulders droop forward. I didn’t realize how much tension I was holding in until I release it. They say that emotional pain is far worse than any physical pain you can experience, which makes the relief from it all the more profound. The baby is fine. I’m still going to be a dad. Everything is okay. “Did you talk to him?” I ask, my tone turning optimistic. “How’s he doing? We haven’t seen him in what—six months?”
Nina Hayes teaches at the high school with Lily. She and her husband, Jake, are mutual friends. Lily sees Nina almost every day, but it’s been a while since either of us has seen Jake. He’s a surgeon. He’s too busy saving lives to hang out with us.
What I realize is that Lily’s whole body is now shaking. What started as a shakiness in her hands and her voice has spread. “You look like you’re freezing,” I say, coming around to her side of the island, reaching forward to run my hands along Lily arms for friction. Up and down, up and down. It’s not cold in the house, but I run warm. Even in December I’ve been known to crack a window. But it’s September still. It’s too early to turn on the heat, not when the temperatures still reach eighty some days, even if they do drop to the upper forties and fifties at night. “Are you feeling okay?” I ask, touching her forehead with the back of my hand. She doesn’t feel warm, but still I say, “Why don’t you call in sick today? Take the day off. Rest.”
“I can’t,” Lily says. “I’m giving a test tomorrow. I promised the kids we’d go over their study guides today, so they’re ready for it.” Lily is far too conscientious. It’s her one weakness, if it’s even a weakness.
“Can’t a sub do it?” I ask.
Shaking her head, Lily says, “No. The subs are good, but they’re not me. They don’t always know the answers. They don’t always explain it right. I don’t want the kids to get stressed. If I call in for the day, I’ll have to push the test back, and then we’ll be behind.”
“So?”
“It’s not worth it. I’m okay,” she says decisively, pulling away from my hand. “I can go. I’ll just nap when I get home.”
“Tomorrow is Wednesday already,” I say to try and brighten her mood. “Two days down, just three days until the weekend and then for forty-eight hours, you don’t have to get out of bed. I’m at your beck and call. Anything you need—back rub, foot rub, breakfast in bed—I’m your guy.”
Three days until the weekend is almost the most pathetic consolation prize ever, but I’m trying. She humors me with a smile. “Sounds amazing,” she says.
Lily leaves her plate with half a piece of toast behind. She takes her water bottle and moves toward the garage door to leave. She mostly wears pants these days, as the days get cooler, and because she feels more comfortable in pants. Today they’re leggings, with a stretchy waist. She’s gained maybe a pound or two, the kind of weight gain noticeable to her but no one else. She hasn’t told anyone we’re pregnant.
The leggings look incredible on her, but then again, anything would look incredible on her.
Lily picks up her bag by the door. She lifts it onto her shoulder. It looks heavy and I go to take it from her, to carry it to her car for her, but she says she’s fine.
“You sure?”
“Yes. I’m sure. Have a good day. Love you,” she says.
“Hey.”
“What?”
“You never told me about seeing Jake,” I remind her, remembering then. She stops with her back to me, her hand on the garage door handle. “Is he doing good?” I ask.