Chapter 9

Nine

Haden

We sit in the waiting room surrounded by several patients.

A good majority of these patients are women at different stages of their pregnancies, some with smaller bumps to many who appear ready to pop. A few appear agitated, annoyed at their significant other and fanning themselves, complaining about the heat.

It is fucking hot in here.

One lady—her stomach enormous—mentions the word triplets. It hasn’t even dawned on me that Presley could be expecting twins, or even triplets. Suddenly, the room does begin to feel even hotter as I tug my collar away from my neck trying to get some air on my heated skin.

Triplets, holy fuck, talk about saying goodbye to any sex. It would be the end of any intimacy between Presley and me, not that I have been getting any lately. Presley complains she isn’t feeling well or has a headache. If I try to touch her, she pulls away, annoyed I woke her up even though she doesn’t look like she is sleeping.

The cold, hard reality is that I haven’t touched her in two weeks but do my best to control my overbearing sex drive knowing her body is going through changes.

Jerking off has become the new norm.

I lace my hand into Presley’s in an effort to calm my wild thoughts, admiring her perfectly manicured nails and platinum wedding band nestled on her finger.

She doesn’t say anything, reading an email on her phone.

“Put your phone away,” I gently scold her. “Work can wait. Just enjoy the moment.”

“This is important.”

I grab the phone from her, placing it inside the pocket of my pants. Grimacing, she folds her arms with an annoyed pout, letting out a frustrated huff as the receptionist calls her name.

We follow her down the narrow corridor and into a small room. The area looks similar to the one we last visited in Manhattan—a bed, plastic chair beside it, and the sonographer’s equipment.

The receptionist offers for me to take a seat while Presley gets comfortable on the bed.

“Are you excited?” I ask, watching Presley pull her blouse up to expose her stomach. “Can they tell the sex now?”

Presley doesn’t make eye contact, and I sense her nerves. Presley always wants to be in control, and when she can’t control a situation, she acts just like this. Careful not to stress her out, I touch her hand and rub it gently.

“They can’t tell the sex now,” she states, matter-of-factly.

The sonographer, Anne, walks in and greets us hello. She is an older lady, probably mid-fifties with a blonde bowl haircut. It’s rather unusual and comical, but I keep my amused opinion to myself for now.

“Are you ready, Mrs. Cooper?”

Presley nods with a smile.

“So, this is your second pregnancy, correct?”

“Yes,” we both answer at the same time.

“Let’s see how far along you are.”

Anne places the lubricant-looking stuff on Presley’s lower abdomen and pushes the stick-looking thing around. She slides back and forth, typing with her left hand as she continues.

It is hard to make out anything on the screen, just a bunch of black and some white lines. Given that Presley isn’t far along, the sonographer tells us to hang tight as some odd noises played over the speaker. However, not far into the appointment, the sonographer places the scan device down and removes her glasses. She turns to face us with a sympathetic expression.

“Mr. and Mrs. Cooper, unfortunately, we don’t have a viable heartbeat.”

I don’t understand, my gaze fixated on her face waiting for some sort of joke to play out. The words refuse to register, my body numb on this stupid and uncomfortable plastic chair. I’m trying to connect my thoughts, but they begin to jumble up.

“I… I don’t understand. The pregnancy test was positive,” Presley stutters.

Anne turns the machine off. “Most pregnancy losses are due to factors women can’t control. Miscarriages early into a pregnancy aren’t uncommon. Around eighty percent of miscarriages occur in the first trimester.”

My eyes wander toward the ground, staring at the floor. How did this happen? Did we do something wrong? I didn’t understand.

“But… but… how did this happen?”

Anne takes a deep breath. “I understand this is devastating news, and it’s best to make an appointment to see your doctor. There could be a number of reasons including genetic issues. Again, the best thing to do will be to speak to your doctor.”

“But we have a son. How does this happen?”

“Mr. Cooper, many women go on to have healthy pregnancies post-miscarriage,” Anne explains. “Now, please schedule an appointment as soon as you can.”

Presley removes her hand from mine, not saying a single word. She grabs a tissue from the box, wiping the gel as she pulls up the waist of her pants and drops her blouse back down.

“It’s not meant to be. A lot of my friends have had miscarriages, so I understand it’s a possibility.”

I’m trying to rein in my anger, my body tensing as I sit here, legs planted wide while I try to grasp what’s happened. This isn’t fair. I don’t care what happened to other people. Fuck everyone else. I only care why this happened to us.

“Is there something we did wrong?”

“Of course not,” Anne reassures us. “Like I said, it’s quite common. I’d like you to take these home.”

In my hand, sits pamphlets on coping with pregnancy loss. I scrunch them up as the anger pours through me, pacing the small room until I stop at the wall. With my fist clenched into a tight ball, I’m desperate to connect it with something hard in an effort to relieve the escalating rage within me.

We walk back to the car, sullen and without a single word. As we both stop in the parking lot waiting for the car to unlock, my eyes wander across to Presley. In my fit of rage, I hadn’t stopped to think about her or how she is feeling, blinded by my own feelings to such a loss.

Walking around the car, my arms wrap around her, pulling her in for a warm embrace. I instantly notice the distance, the cool temperature of her skin, and the way she allows her arms and hands to fall by her side instead of around me.

A pained smile graces her face as she reaches out and caresses my cheek.

“It’s okay,” I tell her. “We keep trying, right?”

“I don’t want to talk about it now.” The smile on her face disappears in a fleeting moment. “Let’s just get home and spend time with Masen.”

Back at home, we do just that. We cook in silence together in the kitchen—pasta primavera just like Mom used to make it when Dad was alive.

The three of us sit at the table, eat dinner as Masen speaks about his day. He rambles on for a good hour about some drama that happened in the sandbox. This kid can talk, oblivious to our silence beside him.

Presley drinks three glasses of red wine, and I chose not to comment nor berate her for drinking so much on a Wednesday night. I nurse a beer for the whole night, barely able to think about anything else besides today’s event.

My phone rings off the hook, voicemails and text messages sitting on my screen demanding attention. Perhaps I need a distraction, but the thought of trying to be professional when slowly my heart feels like it has been torn apart seems like an impossibility.

Together, we clean up, bathe Masen, and read a story to him in bed. He has been our saving grace, a reason to continue on when neither one of us feels like functioning.

When Masen’s gentle snores echo in the room, Presley retreats to our bedroom, and I follow her like a robot. She quickly gets changed into a pair of sweats and tee, then leaves the room toward the study.

After drowning my sorrows in a long, steaming hot shower, I make my way toward the study.

She’s immersed in work, two screens open and a phone call. I don’t recognize the voice until minutes later when I realize it’s one of her senior editors. I stand at the door waiting for her to finish, but the call seems to drag on. What feels like an hour later, she finally hangs up the phone.

“How about we watch a movie? Or better yet, come to bed?”

She shakes her head. “I’m busy. I need to be prepared for tomorrow’s meeting.”

“Don’t you think you should take the next few days off? I’ll stay with you.”

“I’m fine.”

“Presley…” I croak, struggling with my emotions. “It’s okay not to be fine.”

She stops typing but keeps her eyes fixated on the screen. “Haden, Anne gave us the statistics. There’s no point dwelling on this. When the time is right, it’ll happen.”

Her voice is devoid of emotion, again. She’s trying to control the impossible. Yet, maybe she’s right when the time is right, it will happen. However, it doesn’t erase the sadness that consumes me. Somehow, I feel like a failure for not protecting our baby. This feels like it is my fault, and I can’t shake the guilt.

“Okay, I’m heading to bed.”

“Good night,” she says, casually.

“Good night.”

I make my way to our bed and climb in, only to stare up at the ceiling. In a moment of loss, my world feels like it has collapsed. I only had a glimpse into what would be our future with another child. The pain, where the light becomes shadows and the darkness surrounds me, brings back the memories of losing Dad. The nightmare begins to replay—the cops at the door, the shrilling scream my mother let out as she collapsed onto the floor, and the unbeknown anger which follows every day as to why he was taken away from us.

A drunk driver. An idiot who thought he had his fucking driving under control.

The emotions are wreaking havoc, and the only thing, person, who can comfort me at this moment is the same person pushing me away.

I need her, but she never comes.