the table, letting my napkin fall to the floor, and I ran out of the dining room through the kitchen, already screaming his name.
“Abbot! Abbot!” I shouted, as I ran across the deck, tipping a small potted plant on the railing that cracked with a thud on the grass.
By the time I was running downhill across the lawn, Abbot was holding on to the ladder, shaking the water from his hair.
“What is it?” my father called to me. “Is everything okay?”
I was breathless. My heart was thudding in my chest. I stopped and doubled over, my hands on my knees. Finally, I stood up and waved. “Everything’s fine,” I called. “Fine.” I turned around, and there stood my mother and Elysius on the deck, the door flung wide at their backs, the cracked pot having spilled its dirt on the grass. I knew what I must look like to them: so gripped by fear, imbalanced by sorrow, terrifiedof living, a widow screaming for her only son who, on a beautiful morning, hasn’t drowned, who hasn’t even come close.
I shook my head. “I’m sorry,” I said. “We’re not going. We just can’t.” I started toward Abbot again. “Time to go!” I called. “Get your stuff!”
here was a Henry story that I told Abbot only in a blur. He knew that I’d had a miscarriage, that there was a baby that didn’t make it, but it wasn’t a Henry story. How could it have been? It was a story I told myself, and I told it to myself a lot, because the loss of Henry echoed this earlier loss.
Abbot was so perfect—fat, with gummy smiles and purring snores—that Henry and I felt almost guilty wanting another baby, but we did, right away. We didn’t give in, though, not immediately, mainly because Abbot made us dizzy with sleeplessness and selflessness—or maybe Abbot, as the manifestation of us, meant that we were dizzy with self-fullness. In any case, we were dizzy with love.
But when Abbot turned four—years that flew at breakneck speed—we were ready, more than ready. Overdue.
Henry and I knew that the world was going to demand that we hand Abbot over at some point. We weren’t going to be allowed to keep him with us forever. “The more children we have, the more we have to fear. Is that the way it works?” I asked Henry.
“I think so. But it’s more of everything,” Henry said.
This time, I handled the morning sickness better. I had no choice. I had Abbot to tend to. And so did Henry. He couldn’t simply dote on me. After the nausea subsided, right at week twelve, I noticed that my breasts weren’t as engorged, either. At a routine checkup, the Doppler didn’t pick up a heartbeat.
“Not to worry,” the obstetrician told me, wiping the goo off my stomach. “We’ll get you in for an ultrasound tomorrow and just make sure all’s well!”
Not to worry
, I told Henry on my cell phone while getting dressed. But later, while waiting to check out, I heard one of the technicians calling in an ultrasound. “Stat,” she said.
And that’s when it hit me—the possibility that there was reason to worry.
My mother came over to babysit Abbot, and Henry came with me to the ultrasound. We were stoic. He kept telling me that the doctor said there was no reason to worry.
I said nothing.
Finally, the technician took us to a small room and started the ultrasound. The tech said nothing. When I was pregnant with Abbot, the technicians talked through every ultrasound. They pointed out his parts like they were tourguides. “Here’s the vertebrae. Here’s a foot.… If you turn your attention this way, you’ll see Big Ben.…” That’s what it was like.
Henry said, “Is that the baby?”
The tech said, “Yes.”
“So, how does everything look?” he asked.
The tech said quietly, “Your doctor will want you to come in to talk.”
“Oh,” Henry said. “Okay.”
But I already knew, knew in a way that Henry couldn’t, knew in a way in which dread precedes devastating news, the way a phone ringing at the wrong time of night is
“Abbot! Abbot!” I shouted, as I ran across the deck, tipping a small potted plant on the railing that cracked with a thud on the grass.
By the time I was running downhill across the lawn, Abbot was holding on to the ladder, shaking the water from his hair.
“What is it?” my father called to me. “Is everything okay?”
I was breathless. My heart was thudding in my chest. I stopped and doubled over, my hands on my knees. Finally, I stood up and waved. “Everything’s fine,” I called. “Fine.” I turned around, and there stood my mother and Elysius on the deck, the door flung wide at their backs, the cracked pot having spilled its dirt on the grass. I knew what I must look like to them: so gripped by fear, imbalanced by sorrow, terrifiedof living, a widow screaming for her only son who, on a beautiful morning, hasn’t drowned, who hasn’t even come close.
I shook my head. “I’m sorry,” I said. “We’re not going. We just can’t.” I started toward Abbot again. “Time to go!” I called. “Get your stuff!”
here was a Henry story that I told Abbot only in a blur. He knew that I’d had a miscarriage, that there was a baby that didn’t make it, but it wasn’t a Henry story. How could it have been? It was a story I told myself, and I told it to myself a lot, because the loss of Henry echoed this earlier loss.
Abbot was so perfect—fat, with gummy smiles and purring snores—that Henry and I felt almost guilty wanting another baby, but we did, right away. We didn’t give in, though, not immediately, mainly because Abbot made us dizzy with sleeplessness and selflessness—or maybe Abbot, as the manifestation of us, meant that we were dizzy with self-fullness. In any case, we were dizzy with love.
But when Abbot turned four—years that flew at breakneck speed—we were ready, more than ready. Overdue.
Henry and I knew that the world was going to demand that we hand Abbot over at some point. We weren’t going to be allowed to keep him with us forever. “The more children we have, the more we have to fear. Is that the way it works?” I asked Henry.
“I think so. But it’s more of everything,” Henry said.
This time, I handled the morning sickness better. I had no choice. I had Abbot to tend to. And so did Henry. He couldn’t simply dote on me. After the nausea subsided, right at week twelve, I noticed that my breasts weren’t as engorged, either. At a routine checkup, the Doppler didn’t pick up a heartbeat.
“Not to worry,” the obstetrician told me, wiping the goo off my stomach. “We’ll get you in for an ultrasound tomorrow and just make sure all’s well!”
Not to worry
, I told Henry on my cell phone while getting dressed. But later, while waiting to check out, I heard one of the technicians calling in an ultrasound. “Stat,” she said.
And that’s when it hit me—the possibility that there was reason to worry.
My mother came over to babysit Abbot, and Henry came with me to the ultrasound. We were stoic. He kept telling me that the doctor said there was no reason to worry.
I said nothing.
Finally, the technician took us to a small room and started the ultrasound. The tech said nothing. When I was pregnant with Abbot, the technicians talked through every ultrasound. They pointed out his parts like they were tourguides. “Here’s the vertebrae. Here’s a foot.… If you turn your attention this way, you’ll see Big Ben.…” That’s what it was like.
Henry said, “Is that the baby?”
The tech said, “Yes.”
“So, how does everything look?” he asked.
The tech said quietly, “Your doctor will want you to come in to talk.”
“Oh,” Henry said. “Okay.”
But I already knew, knew in a way that Henry couldn’t, knew in a way in which dread precedes devastating news, the way a phone ringing at the wrong time of night is
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