Page 38 of Infinite
I touch her face, holding her cheeks and pushing the tears away.
“I’m so afraid to feel.”
“I’m so afraid that, if you don’t, you’ll never come back.”
Ashton shakes her head, shoving my hands away, and looks back at the bassinet. Her arms wrap around her stomach as her eyes close.
I sit beside her, unsure of what else to do. How different this day is from the day the bassinet was brought here.
“I’m weak like the base was, I lost it all, and . . . I hate myself. I’m so empty, so alone, and so fucking sad.” My hand reaches out to take hers. Our fingers lace, and she sobs. “I hate myself. I hate this world. I hate this bassinet and that my baby will never be in it.”
“Maybe there won’t ever be,” I say carefully. She turns to me, wonder in her eyes. “But you’re not empty and you’re not alone. My heart is just as heavy, but I know that we’ll make it through this. We don’t have any other options.”
Another tear falls down her face. “You would’ve been a great father.”
My heart thuds, and I fight back the urge to scream. “Only because I would have been doing it with you.”
She leans into my side, and I wrap my arm around her, holding her tight. I allow another tear to roll down my face in memory of the child that will never know how much we loved them and how much we mourn their loss.
13
Ashton
“You move to Virginia in three days, and you haven’t said a word about your job,” Mom says as she spoons the chicken stew into a bowl.
What’s there to say? I’m unemployed—or, as Clara says, on a leave of absence. She wouldn’t accept my resignation. She explained that I needed to give her at least three months of medical leave before she’d speak of long-term options. Apparently, between the rest of my vacation and short-term disability, this was not up for discussion. So, it’s been six weeks since my miscarriage, and once the rest of the time runs out, she can’t say shit.
“I don’t have a job.”
She huffs. “Thanks to your friend, you still do. If you don’t mess that up.”
“Yeah, thank God for friends,” I say as I shove a spoonful into my mouth.
Mom ignores the comment, but the look she gives me makes it clear she heard it. “You didn’t bring Quinn tonight?”
I glance at the place setting beside me. “No, he’s working.”
In other words, it’s his turn to check in on Aaron. As a unit, they decided to have him committed again, only this time, he’s at a different facility that is between Virginia Beach and New York and has more options for PTSD treatments. They all thought it was best, and I . . . just don’t care.
Whatever to it all.
It’s my new motto on life. The more time that passes, the more I’ve learned to embrace being numb.
After I lost it a few weeks ago, I’ve gone back to my safe place. When I’m there, everything seems peaceful. It’s nice and calm and nothing riles me. Nothing makes me angry. I don’t have to fight. Quinn has been trying, bless his heart, but after I closed the door to the bassinet room, I closed my heart off again.
“At least one of you is,” she says, and I eat another spoonful.
“Yes, Mom, Quinn is working and I’m taking some paid time off while I figure out what I want to do next.”
She sits. “In Virginia Beach.”
“Yes, in Virginia Beach.”
We told my parents last week about the move. Quinn wanted to tell them sooner, but I thought it best to wait. I wasn’t sure we’d still be together by moving day and I wanted to be sure we had somewhere to live. Once it became clear that both were happening, we told them. My mother cried, whereas my father seemed genuinely happy about it. He said something about moving on with life. I wasn’t listening too closely. Quinn handled most of the discussion as I pretended to eat.
However, he’s not here tonight, which means I have to manage to at least appear engaged.
“Did you see Clara for your checkup this week?”
