AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“No, Dumplin’. He’s exhausted from all the excitement and you worked all day. Go enjoy yourselves.”
My toddler is predictable. As soon as he’s buckled into his high chair and stuffs a fistful of dinner in his mouth, he grabs for his milk. His lids drift closed while Trig and I exchange blithe glances. Owen’s gone from the terrible twos to endearing in minutes.
Crying over, we eat in blessed silence and talk about all the times Owen has fallen asleep at the table, the way we knew he’d do tonight, and the wonderful moments we’ve spent with our little boy so far.
“I’ll put him to bed,” Trig says, taking our empty plates to the sink.
“No. I want to. Feed Tallulah. She must be starved, and she did a great job waiting in the other room while our food was out. I’ll meet you upstairs after you’ve let her out.”
I move the tray and unbuckle a floppy O, cradling him to my chest. He’s perfect even when he’s a hot mess. Holly’s assured me that two won’t last forever. And with my son’s birthday around the corner, I’m a little afraid of how right she is.
________________
5
________________
There are precious few corny mom activities I enjoy more than tucking Owen in on the evenings I don’t work. We converted his crib into a big boy bed and, after his tub, I can now snuggle my body around his while we read. Running my fingertips through my son’s sweaty red locks and kissing his temple, I realize tonight’s bath will have to wait until the morning.
I stare in awe at the most precious gift Trig’s given me besides his patience and wondering how Tallulah will fit into O’s bedtime routine on Daddy’s nights in charge. Owen is lucky to have a father who participates. I’d love to be a fly on the wall to see what transpires between a man and dog—that his son is amusingly convinced belongs to him—and that little boy.
I don’t need to manage Jake’s club. I do it because it’s something I’m good at. The hustle of activity serving customers from behind the bar allows me to forget my failings. The drama in the dressing room reminds me others have problems too: Aches and bruises that are no more or less than I’ve endured and struggles that are as important in their lives as the ones washing to the surface in my own.
Secretly, I’ve considered leaving and being “just a mom”. I think just being an anything is probably the most important title any person can describe themselves as having because nine times out of ten I’ve found there’s a level of selflessness to it. As much as I don’t want to miss out on anything with Owen, it’s my experience without my daughter that stops me. Those years seemed to drag, but looking back they went oh-so-fast. I keep working because it is selfish. My son will be grown and then who do I take care of? Who am I? And where will I be?
And also, who will be here? There’s a distinct possibility of my husband serving time.
I’ve been to the club when it is closed. Bloodsuckers and the undead do walk in daylight. I’m not so blind as to why Jake seeks out Trig’s help. I simply keep my nose clean when it comes to their business dealings. Pretty comical for the amount of blow that once streamed through my veins.
I ponder all the testing Trig and I’ve passed with flying colors and what my specialist has said as I enter the master bedroom. Walking straight to the mini-fridge that hides all of my medications, I gather the supplies I need. I have no tubal abnormalities. I got pregnant lickety-split when Trig and I decided to have a baby together. Other than my age, there’s no glaring reason for my secondary infertility. I’m the healthiest I’ve ever been—minus the mental state that being unable to conceive puts me in. I’m never sure how finite the moments of happiness are.
In the bathroom, I rip open an alcohol prep pad and wipe it over my skin. In the hallway, I hear Trig’s boots on the stairs and the jangle of Tallulah’s collar. He must be letting her investigate the second floor and I use the time to my advantage. Flicking the air from the syringe, I jab the needle into my stomach. My soul finches, but I never do. The first time I hesitated shooting up was the last. Memories of my former addictions overwhelm the contentment I felt carrying my son in my arms to his room. I wish this shot ended in a euphoric high. Like my personal problems with alcohol, the devotion the junkie who lives within me has for the way the tip pricks my flesh is dangerous. I don’t have the mental fortitude to do this much longer.
Trig spies the empty syringe lying by the sink. His brow creases and I can’t meet his gaze. We know what was inside the vial. Yet, he’s aware I’m at my tipping point and he’s struggling to stop my fall.
Pushing past where Trig stands in the threshold, I break my silence and say the words that have been on the tip of my tongue for months. They’re ones I don’t want to admit. “This is the last time. I can’t do it anymore.”
The emotions going through this are all-consuming. They threaten the life we’ve already created, Owen, and tear at the foundations of our marriage.
My vision hazes and I hide my face in my palms so Trig can’t see the tears streaming down. I’m a failure for conceding defeat. But the inability to get pregnant has made me feel like one anyway. I thought voicing this was the end would stop the hard truth from eating me alive. But it eviscerates me. The grief in my chest is a pain I haven’t endured since I handed my first baby to someone else to raise.
The stark difference? Ghillie was exactly what my real child needed and this sends my imaginary baby to purgatory where they’re abused by a demon and subjugated in despair. Nonetheless, I’m grieving the loss of faith.
Trig’s steady palms encase my shaking shoulders. He spins me around, moving my hands and cradling me to his chest. His cheek rests on the top of my head. His shirt dampens from my heaving sobs. I have the sensation he’d cleave himself in two and pull me all the way into his body if that kind of magic were at all possible.
Tallulah enters our bedroom, forcing her nose between us. Still holding on, Trig guides me to sit on our bed. His dog rests her chin on my knee. I pat her head so that I won’t scare her into thinking I’m the worst dog parent in the universe. A mangled laugh chokes from my throat and I continue crying, using the broadest shoulder I have to lean on. Guilt settles in. No wonder why my husband needs an emotional support animal. I add to his stress by asking for comfort.
Trig plays with Tallulah’s ears, running them between his fingertips. Reassuring her she’s right where she belongs. He consoles me with assurances that seek to mend my broken soul. Showing through his actions and his words that while right now I may not believe I’m enough for me, I will always be enough for him.
“Tell me where you are with all of this, My Love, so I can be there with you.”
“I’m almost forty years old. Maybe I’m not supposed to have any more kids.”
“You’ve held onto hope for this long.” He counters as if to ask what’s unfurled my grip from the fraying rope.
“What if I’ve already gotten everything I deserve?”
“I don’t think that’s possible, My Love.”
