These Rainy Nights

Night Four

I woke up in a cold sweat, in the middle of the night. When I checked the alarm clock, it was only three in the morning.

Three in the morning and here I was, wide awake, bathed in sweat.

The beeping still rang in my ears, never letting up.

It was like I was there again, at your bedside, squeezing your hand like a lifeline. Like your palm in mine was an anchor, something that could've stopped this from happening. Like I was there, stroking your hair and telling you it was okay, after the papers were signed and the reality was clear. I could connect the dots, connect the pieces, but I didn't want to. I didn't want to complete the puzzle, finish the picture, because I knew what that meant. I knew what the picture meant.

I couldn't fall back asleep. It wasn't from lack of trying, but when I started to finally drift, and start to float into the sea of blissful unconsciousness, my mind found its way back to you. No matter how many turns, how many detours I tried to take, I always thought of you.

I can't even think of our future with our daughter without sobbing, because it was a future I had imagined with you. You, her father and me, her mother, all living in one happy little household. It was a fairytale future, where you and I would raise her and hold her when she cried, and sing her to sleep. Where we would read colorful storybooks and eat dinner together every night, and she would sip chocolate milk and we would share a glass of lemonade or wine as we all watched the sunset. Where, when she was born, you would've been there, right by my side, and she would get to be held by her father. And she would look just like you. She would have your nose and her eyes would darken into the shade of caramel, just like yours. And when we would go in public, people would've pointed out how much she looked just like you.

Dr. Harvey knew when I came in. It's the trouble with living in such a small town, everyone knows your business before you know it yourself.

Dr. Harvey was no different. She offered quiet, typical words of condolences while I bit back tears.

But when she put on the cool liquid for the ultrasound, I let a sob escape. A scrunched, tight-lipped sob.

You used to hold my hand and stroke my knuckles during this part. I would look at the screen and you would squeeze my hand as the cold liquid was rubbed on the bump. And you wouldn't let go, not when the picture of her came on, or where we later heard the heartbeat. Not until we left.

Her heartbeat, when we heard it together, it was beautiful. I couldn't believe that a life, a human life, was growing inside of me. That this would be our baby and ours alone, and she was alive.

But when I heard it now, on the fetal monitor, it reminded me of you. How I heard your heartbeat in the hospital that day, and I was also reminded how you wouldn't get to hear hers again. And a few more stray tears fell down my face and slid down the same path as the dried ones.

Dr. Harvey only gave me a sympathetic look. I think she knew there wasn't anything she could say to make it better, and to be honest, I was grateful she didn't try.

It's not like breaking a picture frame or losing a ring. It's a life, a person, who meant everything and more to me, lost. It's someone who you can't ever get back. Who you will never see again. It was you.

"The baby looks good, and healthy. More than likely, you will carry her to term," she said. "Have you felt any movement?"

I shook my head. "Am I supposed to?"

She noticed the timidness in my voice and was quick to reassure me. "Around this time is when women start to feel the fetus moving. However, each pregnancy is different, and it could come at any time. It could be an hour, or a day, or even a few weeks from now. But she looks perfectly healthy."

I nodded, taking a shaky breath. I don't know what I would do if I lost her, too.

At the last appointment, Dr. Harvey asked if we had any names in mind. All focus in our lives were on her, so of course we had plenty. Deciding on one, was the difficult part.

But this time, Dr. Harvey didn't ask. She didn't ask if I had a name for her.

But I do. I do now.

I am holding the little bump that will grow even larger. So large, I won't even be able to see my toes anymore. I held the bump as I decided her name. The one you picked out.

Evie.

I whispered the name, over and over, and each time, it fit better than the last.

Gemma, she used to call daily about names.

"Did you decide on a name yet?"

"No," I would answer. "We do have a few in mind, though."

"Well, you better decide soon. She'll be here before you know it."

She stopped calling. After the incident, she didn't call anymore.

I'm waiting here, on this still, silent night, waiting on her call.

'Evie', the word just hanging off of my lips. It felt so natural, so rational, that her name just fit. Fit, like your hand in mine.

It was perfect.

She is perfect.

(949 words).