never good. I turned my face to the wall and cried in a way I hadn’t ever cried before—it came from deep within me, something guttural and barbaric.
Henry said, “Heidi, listen to me. Heidi, I’m here. Look at me.”
But I was gone, lost inside of myself.
By the time I was dressed, we’d gotten a message from my doctor’s office telling us to come straight over. There, we heard the news. The baby no longer had a heartbeat. It had died within me.
Henry had to call my mother. He said, “This baby didn’t make it.” Henry told me later, in bed, that he felt that he’d failed, that he’d done something wrong, that it had been some genetic deficiency on his side.
I wasn’t ready to share the blame. It was a miscarriage, and I was the carriage. I imagined myself rattling overcobblestone, a wobbly thing on wooden wheels. I said flatly, “It wasn’t your fault. I can tell you that as easily as you can tell me the same.”
Eventually, I was able to whisper that I felt sorry for him. “I got to hold the child inside of me, and you never did.” It seemed like a gift to have been able to carry the baby with me, for a short time.
“Good God,” he said, and he got out of bed and paced. “You cannot be sorry in any way. I’m only a beggar here.” I understood what he meant. He was a beggar. He’d gotten more than his share. We’re all beggars, really. He climbed back into bed and put his face next to mine on the pillow. He was so beautiful—his soft blue eyes, his beautiful teeth that were so very slightly crooked.
Then there was the sterile hour that Henry spent alone while I was having the small surgery that often accompanies a miscarriage—as if the emotional loss weren’t enough, there was the physicality of it all. Henry read about sports. He told me later that he’d never felt farther away from me. He looked around the waiting room: old men turned inward, women his mother’s age knitting some fabric out of idle chatter, the news prattling on in high spirits. He didn’t know that what would come next would be a flood of miscarriage stories. It seemed like everyone we knew could tell at least two miscarriage stories: mothers, daughters, children, wives, friends. Henry said, “Miscarriage. It’s another secret society, like the secret society of married people, but this one we joined by accident, just by living.”
“How many more secret societies are there?” I asked him.
“I don’t want to know.”
I would find out later about the secret society of young widows—the way people would introduce one young widow to another, how they would want you to talk about your losses. How many times did my mother tell me that I should spend time with my Aunt Giselle? “Maybe she’ll have something important to say.” I already knew the truth, that when it is only you and another widow, there is nothing to say. Nothing at all.
After the operation, there was a leak in the house. Henry tore up the bathroom tiles, went rummaging through the house’s piping looking for the source of the leak. Henry wanted desperately to make something right.
And I tore into pastries. My mind was filled with elaborate designs. I created gorgeous wedding cakes. We had the Cake Shop by this point, but we hadn’t yet developed more than a small, local following. Henry called in professional photographers. The business began to rev up.
A few months before Henry died, he confessed to me that he still wanted another child. “I don’t care about money or stuff. And I don’t mind the diapers or the sleeplessness, of course. I am not in it for the pride in that first step or any of that. It’s more of you that I want—one more angle, one more topic of conversation, one more knowing glance we give each other in the day before we both fall asleep. That’s what children offer, isn’t it? Isn’t that what Abbot’s given us—a lifetime of more conversation, our own common ground? He’sgiven us more of each other. Is that
Henry said, “Heidi, listen to me. Heidi, I’m here. Look at me.”
But I was gone, lost inside of myself.
By the time I was dressed, we’d gotten a message from my doctor’s office telling us to come straight over. There, we heard the news. The baby no longer had a heartbeat. It had died within me.
Henry had to call my mother. He said, “This baby didn’t make it.” Henry told me later, in bed, that he felt that he’d failed, that he’d done something wrong, that it had been some genetic deficiency on his side.
I wasn’t ready to share the blame. It was a miscarriage, and I was the carriage. I imagined myself rattling overcobblestone, a wobbly thing on wooden wheels. I said flatly, “It wasn’t your fault. I can tell you that as easily as you can tell me the same.”
Eventually, I was able to whisper that I felt sorry for him. “I got to hold the child inside of me, and you never did.” It seemed like a gift to have been able to carry the baby with me, for a short time.
“Good God,” he said, and he got out of bed and paced. “You cannot be sorry in any way. I’m only a beggar here.” I understood what he meant. He was a beggar. He’d gotten more than his share. We’re all beggars, really. He climbed back into bed and put his face next to mine on the pillow. He was so beautiful—his soft blue eyes, his beautiful teeth that were so very slightly crooked.
Then there was the sterile hour that Henry spent alone while I was having the small surgery that often accompanies a miscarriage—as if the emotional loss weren’t enough, there was the physicality of it all. Henry read about sports. He told me later that he’d never felt farther away from me. He looked around the waiting room: old men turned inward, women his mother’s age knitting some fabric out of idle chatter, the news prattling on in high spirits. He didn’t know that what would come next would be a flood of miscarriage stories. It seemed like everyone we knew could tell at least two miscarriage stories: mothers, daughters, children, wives, friends. Henry said, “Miscarriage. It’s another secret society, like the secret society of married people, but this one we joined by accident, just by living.”
“How many more secret societies are there?” I asked him.
“I don’t want to know.”
I would find out later about the secret society of young widows—the way people would introduce one young widow to another, how they would want you to talk about your losses. How many times did my mother tell me that I should spend time with my Aunt Giselle? “Maybe she’ll have something important to say.” I already knew the truth, that when it is only you and another widow, there is nothing to say. Nothing at all.
After the operation, there was a leak in the house. Henry tore up the bathroom tiles, went rummaging through the house’s piping looking for the source of the leak. Henry wanted desperately to make something right.
And I tore into pastries. My mind was filled with elaborate designs. I created gorgeous wedding cakes. We had the Cake Shop by this point, but we hadn’t yet developed more than a small, local following. Henry called in professional photographers. The business began to rev up.
A few months before Henry died, he confessed to me that he still wanted another child. “I don’t care about money or stuff. And I don’t mind the diapers or the sleeplessness, of course. I am not in it for the pride in that first step or any of that. It’s more of you that I want—one more angle, one more topic of conversation, one more knowing glance we give each other in the day before we both fall asleep. That’s what children offer, isn’t it? Isn’t that what Abbot’s given us—a lifetime of more conversation, our own common ground? He’sgiven us more of each other. Is that
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