When they first moved in, the forest was big and lush behind the apartment building. It was the entire view through the kitchen window, standing at the sink washing dishes. Birds were often in the ... [+]
Corrie Haldane's work appears in numerous online and print publications, including anthologies Forgetting Something? and Fraidy Cat Quarterly, as well as online with Cosmic Roots & Eldritch Shores, The Quiet Ones, and others. She lives in Ontario, Canada, and finds inspiration in nature, bubble baths, and carefully curated playlists. Find her online at www.corriehaldane.com. "Finding Hope" is in Short Circuit #19, Short Édition's quarterly review.
My wife went to bed fifteen days ago, and she's been there ever since.
We came home from the hospital dazed and empty-handed. Eleanor climbed the stairs, rushed past the freshly painted second bedroom, and crawled into bed.
I followed, pulling the door to the baby's room shut as I passed, so she wouldn't have to face the empty crib when she got up.
But she hasn't gotten up. Eleanor just sleeps and sleeps.
***
The baby came without warning, in Eleanor's thirty-sixth week. We'd been playing Boggle, making words from the jumble of letters before us.
SHOP, I wrote. SWIFT. MIST.
The house was quiet except for the scratch of our pencils. I glanced at the hourglass. Less than half the sand had fallen, we still had lots of time.
TIME, I wrote, suppressing a chuckle. Then TWIST.
Eleanor gasped and dropped her pencil. It rolled across the table and clattered to the floor. She hunched over her distended belly. "Jack. Something's wrong."
I didn't understand. Wrong? Just that morning, Eleanor had pressed my hand against her flesh and laughed as I attempted to identify each knobby bump. Buttocks. Elbow. Head. All of it folded up into an impossibly tight package, like a birthday present we couldn't wait to open.
Without thinking, I tipped the hourglass on its side. As though I could stop time, stop whatever might come next.
At the hospital, Eleanor grabbed my hand, and when it was time, she pushed.
"Your baby is here," the doctor said.
The room was quiet except for my wife's ragged breathing. "Why isn't he crying? Why isn't my baby crying?" Eleanor strained to sit up, reaching for our child.
I slipped my arm around her and whispered, "Shh, it's okay," while doctors and nurses rushed around us. They murmured terms I didn't yet understand, like placental abruption and hypoxia.
Our baby never opened his eyes.
***
Unlike Eleanor, I'm not sleeping much these days.
The first night home, I lay down beside her and fell into an uneasy dream. Our child still swam beneath her skin, a restless fish that we needed to catch. But then, in the way of dreams, I realized that we were the ones floating underwater.
Eleanor kicked her strong legs, propelled herself away from me. I tried to follow, but no matter how hard I swam, I couldn't catch up.
Alone, I drifted until I came to a twisted length of rope, stretching off into the distance. Eleanor must be at the other end.
Desperate to reach my wife, I followed the twitching cord. But it wrapped itself around me then, and squeezed . . .
I jolted awake, choking on salt water. Shaking.
I reached through the dark for Eleanor. My hand came up against her belly, doughy soft, like a fallen cake. She rolled away from me, turning her back into a wall blocking me out.
Since then, I sleep on the sofa, when I manage to sleep at all. She needs her rest, I tell myself. She needs to heal.
The truth is, her grief is too big for me to hold.
***
I enter the dimly lit room carrying a tray of tea, toast, and fruit, and call her name. She doesn't move. It's harder and harder to wake her, to pull her back from the sanctuary of unconsciousness.
I put a hand on her shoulder and give it a gentle shake. "You've got to eat something, sweetheart."
Eventually, she rouses enough to take a few bites of toast, a sip of milky tea.
"Maybe you'd like to have a shower? Or come sit with me in the garden?" I reach for her hand, but she pulls away.
"I'm tired, Jack. Maybe tomorrow," she replies. Like always.
***
I scrape the uneaten food into the garbage. The cold, soggy toast and the banana slices blur and my eyes burn with unshed tears.
I pace the quiet house. Eventually, I sit down at the dining room table, where the unfinished game of Boggle still resides.
I pick up Eleanor's paper, scan her list of words. HOPE, she had written, in big, loopy letters.
Hope. Yes.
Back upstairs, I pause at the bedroom door and listen to Eleanor's slow, even breathing. She's so far away from me. I need to help her find the way back, but I don't know how.
"Please, Eleanor . . ."
I hesitate. Please what? Talk to me? Grieve with me?
"Please come back."
No response.
I'm tired. So goddamn tired. And yet, I still have hope. I slip into bed beside Eleanor. She doesn't move, but her presence soothes me. I close my eyes, and sleep.
***
In my dreams, I'm underwater again, swimming in aimless circles, lost and alone. No matter which direction I turn, everything looks the same.
But suddenly, a tiny Boggle game piece floats by. Then another. I chase the letter dice, collecting them as I go. They lead me deep. Deeper.
At last, I reach the ocean floor. And there, I find my wife.
Eleanor looks at me with sad eyes. I take her hand and pull. She shakes her head, so I pull harder.
That's when I wake up.
I lean over and kiss Eleanor softly on the mouth. She doesn't stir.
Our life isn't a fairytale, and I'm certainly not a prince. I roll out of bed, silently cursing my foolishness, and leave Eleanor alone with her dreams.
***
Downstairs, I wander by our Boggle game once more. I should clean it up, but can't bring myself to do it.
The hourglass still lies on its side. Impulsively, I stand it back up, and watch the sand fall until it's empty, like me. The tears come then, messy and loud.
A hand squeezes my shoulder. I turn to find Eleanor, out of bed, at last. Her unwashed hair hangs around her too-thin face, but she has never looked more beautiful.
Still broken, but hopeful, I pull her into my arms. My hourglass heart turns over. Time to begin again.