Blackberry Winter

Chapter 8




CLAIRE

The cab pulled in front of the apartment building and skidded for a moment on the icy streets until it came to a jarring stop. The streetlights made the sequins on my dress shimmer. I sighed, longing to be in sweats and a T-shirt.

“He’s a lucky man,” the driver quipped, eyeing my dress.

“I’m sorry?”

“Your date tonight,” he continued.

“Oh,” I said. I guess he didn’t notice my red eyes and tear-stained cheeks. “Yes.” I shrugged and handed him a twenty before stepping out onto the sidewalk. “He doesn’t know I exist anymore,” I whispered to myself after the cab drove away.

Gene opened the door for me, and I gathered the hem of my dress before it caught on the hinge. “Home early tonight? I thought you and Ethan were at the—”

“You know I don’t like all that glitz and glamour,” I said, before he could press further. “Besides, this dress is itchy.”

Gene looked at me for a long moment. “Claire, how are you doing?” he asked, his eyes big and kind and filled with so much goodness. “Since the accident,” he said, faltering, “you haven’t been the same.”

I nodded. “You’re right,” I said. “I haven’t.”

He wrapped his strong arm around my shoulder, and it gave me permission, somehow, to feel the feelings that hovered inside, the ones I’d tried so hard to keep hidden, to not feel. “Today’s the anniversary, isn’t it?”

“Oh, Gene,” I cried. “Sometimes I feel as if my heart is going to burst.”

“Then let it,” he said, stroking my hair the way my father used to when I was a little girl. “You’ve been carrying this burden too long. Let it out. Let it all out, dear.”

I closed my eyes, letting the memories pour out like a mudslide, destroying the stiff little world I’d created for myself, the emotional armor that protected me from feeling the pain of the past. I closed my eyes. And I remembered.

One year ago

“Pink or blue?” Ethan asked, nuzzling my neck from behind.

I turned to face him, and he held in each hand a tiny outfit—one, a dusty blue sweater with light blue leggings; the other, a pink dress with white tights and ruffles on the bottom. My heart melted. “Either way, this baby is going to be well dressed.”

Ethan eyed the pink outfit, smiling to himself. “I think she’s going to be a girl.”

I shook my head. “A boy.”

He pulled me close, rubbing his hand lovingly across my enormous belly. We’d decided to be surprised by the baby’s gender, despite considerable protest from our families, most notably Ethan’s. “Do you know how much I love you?” he whispered into my ear.

I grinned, planting a firm kiss on his cheek, noticing my running shoes by the door. “I’m going to sneak out for a quick jog before dinner.”

Ethan frowned. “Claire, I wish you wouldn’t. You’re pushing yourself too hard.”

I admit, the sight of me in all my eight-months-pregnant enormity jogging down the streets of Seattle had elicited some shocked stares, but I’d researched running during pregnancy, and everything I’d read on the topic indicated that it was generally safe. And while my doctor wasn’t thrilled with the idea of me continuing my four-mile jogs into my third trimester, she didn’t forbid them either. I stopped when I was overly winded and stayed adequately hydrated. Besides, as a lifelong runner, for me, giving up jogging would have been like giving up breathing.

“Ethan,” I protested, “you know that Dr. Jensen says running is perfectly fine during pregnancy.”

“Yeah, maybe in early pregnancy,” he said. “But it can’t be a good idea now.”

“The baby’s not going to fall out,” I said, laughing. I rubbed his arm. “Honey, everything’s going to be fine.”

I reached for my iPod, pushing the earbuds into my ears. “I’ll be back in a half hour,” I said before he could say another word.

I waved to Gene as I made my way out to the sidewalk. The May sun beamed down. The mild air hit my cheeks as I turned the volume up and began to pick up my pace. I felt the baby kick inside as I bounded past James Street, and I wondered what it would be like to push a jogger stroller. Like anything else, I knew I’d get used to it. I imagined my mornings with my baby in tow. I’d tuck him into his seat and we’d go jogging together.

Him.

My little boy. Or maybe little girl, as Ethan had predicted. My heart raced, too fast now, so I slowed my pace and took in a long breath of the sea air wafting up from Elliott Bay, salty and crisp. I turned the music up louder, then regained my pace, just as something appeared in my peripheral vision. A car. Red. Coming close. Too close. The music blasted in my ears as I lunged left, my left shoe catching on a large crack in the sidewalk. For a moment, it felt as if I was flying, gliding weightlessly through the air, until the fender hit my body. I didn’t feel the impact, not really. My body’s shock response blunted the pain. There was only pressure and what felt like a pop deep inside. And then everything went black.



I opened my eyes and squinted. The overhead light, piercingly bright, made my weak eyes flutter. Ethan hovered to my right; Mother to my left. Both wore blue surgical gowns and caps. The room blurred, and I closed my eyes tightly, opening them a moment later with greater focus. Why can’t I feel my legs?

“Ethan,” I whispered, “what happened? My legs—they’re numb. What’s going on? I was running…” The memory came slowly at first, and then it hit just as vividly as the moment the car had struck. “A—a car,” I stammered. “A car hit me. Ethan…the baby!” I glanced down at my belly. It appeared smaller. I panicked, placing my hands on my stomach. It felt soft, mushy, empty. I screamed. “Where’s my baby? Where’s my baby? Where did they take the baby? Bring him to me!” I sat up, and even though my legs lay lifeless and numb, I lunged toward the edge of the bed, determined to get up, to find my child.

Ethan jumped forward, pulling my arms gently back to the bed. “No, Claire,” he said softly. I detected defeat in his voice, grief. “The baby—”

“Stop!” my mother cried. I turned to face her, but she looked only at Ethan. “She’s not ready yet. Give her more time.”

Ethan shook his head. “She should know.” He turned back to me and looked at me with a face that broke my heart. He didn’t have to tell me. I already knew. I stared at the wall as the words passed his lips, the words that would change my life forever. “The baby didn’t make it.”

The room began to spin.

He sat down in a chair by my bed. “I held—”

“No!” I screamed. “Don’t. Don’t tell me.”

Ethan looked at me through tear-flooded eyes. “Why? Don’t you want to know whether we had a boy or a girl? Don’t you want to know that I held our child in my arms for a brief moment before—”

“Don’t,” I sobbed, burying my face in the pillow to my right.

“They brought the baby to you,” Ethan said, wiping a tear from his cheeks. “You were unconscious, but you—”

“Stop,” I cried. “I can’t bear it.”

I looked down at the bloodstain on my chest, and I began to tremble so violently that a nurse rushed over and injected a needle into my arm, letting the cool contents of the syringe seep into my vein. As my body went limp, I lay trapped inside my mind, haunted by the baby I would never know and the husband who I feared blamed me for it.