The Cable Guy
of Bethany
He woke up first.
His first thought, "why am I awake?" and the second, "why is the bed wet?"
He glanced at the night stand on her side of the bed, wondering if she had spilled water as she drank, half-asleep. But the glass was there, half-empty.
He stretched over her sleeping form to pull on the lamp switch. Another look at the sheets made him choke up.
He shook her shoulder as gently as he can, and when he bent to her ear to whisper he prayed his voice wouldn't crack.
"Wake up," he said, soft and like static anyway. A few more tries and she stirred, yawning and cranky.
"Ugh! I actually fell asleep tonight!" she whined, but all accusations faded when she saw his face. He didn't need to tell her that something was wrong.
"Don't look down," he pleaded with her, knowing she'll do it anyway. "I'll call for an ambulance."
He slipped out of the sheets and walked out of the room as calmly as he could, but his fingers still trembled when he punched in the numbers.
He heard her scream, and in his mind it was as red as their sheets.
-
"We need you to push, honey," the nurse urged, and he felt like snapping at her. And he did.
"Can't you see she's in pain?!" he exclaimed, hopeless and helpless in the entire situation. He can only hear the doctor's words when they first got there.
It was too early.
"Don't yell at her, idiot," she told him through a clenched jaw, features scrunched up like losing lottery tickets. "It's not her fault."
He knew she was right. But whose fault, then?
-
"Larry," she said, her voice so low and quiet. "Welcome to the world, Larry."
She cradled him in her arms, her hair sweaty, her shoulders tired. He stood to the side as if watching the scene from behind a television screen.
He was too small. He was barely bigger than his palm. It was obvious what would happen. It was too early. He was too small.
"Why couldn't you wait a little longer, Larry?" he said bitterly, looking at the motionless face. He had a face. His eyes were closed, his mouth agape, his nose tiny, but he had a face, stuck in a permanent, soundless cry. All they ever had.
He wished she hadn't heard him, but she did. She had no words for him, not even a gaze. She tucked Larry to her chest, fingertips tracing his penny-wide cheeks.
-
They spent the night at the hospital, but they had to go sooner or later. They left Larry with the doctors; they'd bury him in the weekend, but they had to go.
The reality dawned on him as he started the car.
"Oh God," he wailed, a huge, dry sob that didn't sound like the words it tried to form. "Oh God."
Beside him, she put on her seatbelt, eyes closed, teeth like a row of arrows on her bottom lip. When hours passed and he still wasn't done they switched places and she drove them home, her belly sunken and taunting.
-
She never smiled around him anymore. But to be fair, neither did he. He tried, sometimes, reaching out to touch her shoulder, always a little bit colder than before.
The worst part wasn't breaking the news to everyone else, or clearing out the baby things they had bought to donate to a nearby orphanage. Maybe they should have kept them, but it was too late now.
No, the worst part was him looking at her, and she looking at him - and knowing, knowing that this had changed them both indefinitely.
They couldn't go back to a time without Larry, who was too early, too small, too young to live.
-
"I want to leave," she told him, bags already packed in her head, and his. He felt this coming, but he wasn't ready.
"Why?" He swallowed, holding his ground as everything began to end.
"I can't be here. I can't be here anymore." She was already crying, all the tears she didn't shed weeks ago.
He would be lying if he said his eyes were dry, at the sound of her so hollow. "You can't be with me?"
"He looked like you, did you know that?" she lashed out suddenly, fists curled like she wanted to hit him and never stop. "Did you know that?"
"I thought he looked like you." It was the reason they couldn't look at each other at all.
"I can't, I can't. This hurts," she wept into her hands, and when he embraced her she didn't pull away or laugh. They shook together, between them a boy that was never really born.
"I miss him," she confessed, face wet and hot with agony. "I miss him, is that stupid?"
"No, no it's not." He bit onto his tongue to keep the sobs at bay, but they broke him. "It's not."
She waited, a moment or two before she spoke. "Why should I believe you?
"You're an idiot."
There was no amusement in her tone, no smile in her eyes, but his heart kickstarted with a sliver of joy. She sobbed into his neck in a way that couldn't be mistaken for a laugh, and he held her, he held her. They held each other.
They still had love.
His first thought, "why am I awake?" and the second, "why is the bed wet?"
He glanced at the night stand on her side of the bed, wondering if she had spilled water as she drank, half-asleep. But the glass was there, half-empty.
He stretched over her sleeping form to pull on the lamp switch. Another look at the sheets made him choke up.
He shook her shoulder as gently as he can, and when he bent to her ear to whisper he prayed his voice wouldn't crack.
"Wake up," he said, soft and like static anyway. A few more tries and she stirred, yawning and cranky.
"Ugh! I actually fell asleep tonight!" she whined, but all accusations faded when she saw his face. He didn't need to tell her that something was wrong.
"Don't look down," he pleaded with her, knowing she'll do it anyway. "I'll call for an ambulance."
He slipped out of the sheets and walked out of the room as calmly as he could, but his fingers still trembled when he punched in the numbers.
He heard her scream, and in his mind it was as red as their sheets.
-
"We need you to push, honey," the nurse urged, and he felt like snapping at her. And he did.
"Can't you see she's in pain?!" he exclaimed, hopeless and helpless in the entire situation. He can only hear the doctor's words when they first got there.
It was too early.
"Don't yell at her, idiot," she told him through a clenched jaw, features scrunched up like losing lottery tickets. "It's not her fault."
He knew she was right. But whose fault, then?
-
"Larry," she said, her voice so low and quiet. "Welcome to the world, Larry."
She cradled him in her arms, her hair sweaty, her shoulders tired. He stood to the side as if watching the scene from behind a television screen.
He was too small. He was barely bigger than his palm. It was obvious what would happen. It was too early. He was too small.
"Why couldn't you wait a little longer, Larry?" he said bitterly, looking at the motionless face. He had a face. His eyes were closed, his mouth agape, his nose tiny, but he had a face, stuck in a permanent, soundless cry. All they ever had.
He wished she hadn't heard him, but she did. She had no words for him, not even a gaze. She tucked Larry to her chest, fingertips tracing his penny-wide cheeks.
-
They spent the night at the hospital, but they had to go sooner or later. They left Larry with the doctors; they'd bury him in the weekend, but they had to go.
The reality dawned on him as he started the car.
"Oh God," he wailed, a huge, dry sob that didn't sound like the words it tried to form. "Oh God."
Beside him, she put on her seatbelt, eyes closed, teeth like a row of arrows on her bottom lip. When hours passed and he still wasn't done they switched places and she drove them home, her belly sunken and taunting.
-
She never smiled around him anymore. But to be fair, neither did he. He tried, sometimes, reaching out to touch her shoulder, always a little bit colder than before.
The worst part wasn't breaking the news to everyone else, or clearing out the baby things they had bought to donate to a nearby orphanage. Maybe they should have kept them, but it was too late now.
No, the worst part was him looking at her, and she looking at him - and knowing, knowing that this had changed them both indefinitely.
They couldn't go back to a time without Larry, who was too early, too small, too young to live.
-
"I want to leave," she told him, bags already packed in her head, and his. He felt this coming, but he wasn't ready.
"Why?" He swallowed, holding his ground as everything began to end.
"I can't be here. I can't be here anymore." She was already crying, all the tears she didn't shed weeks ago.
He would be lying if he said his eyes were dry, at the sound of her so hollow. "You can't be with me?"
"He looked like you, did you know that?" she lashed out suddenly, fists curled like she wanted to hit him and never stop. "Did you know that?"
"I thought he looked like you." It was the reason they couldn't look at each other at all.
"I can't, I can't. This hurts," she wept into her hands, and when he embraced her she didn't pull away or laugh. They shook together, between them a boy that was never really born.
"I miss him," she confessed, face wet and hot with agony. "I miss him, is that stupid?"
"No, no it's not." He bit onto his tongue to keep the sobs at bay, but they broke him. "It's not."
She waited, a moment or two before she spoke. "Why should I believe you?
"You're an idiot."
There was no amusement in her tone, no smile in her eyes, but his heart kickstarted with a sliver of joy. She sobbed into his neck in a way that couldn't be mistaken for a laugh, and he held her, he held her. They held each other.
They still had love.