The second hand tracked its wide orbit around the perimeter of a large clock on my bathroom wall. It felt like a watched pot. I shifted my eyes toward a pregnancy test sitting next to the sink. Within its small window, a test strip was conversing with my urine, while I eavesdropped. Finally, it delivered its verdict. You are pregnant. Again. I thought I sensed an accusatory tone in its voice. I started to hyperventilate. The second hand in my brain spun at light speed. At forty-five years old, I could not imagine going back to the beginning again with a new baby.
When morning sickness spread over me like a weighted blanket, I lay in bed deliberating. I thought of all the little heartbeats I had spied on ultrasound monitors. Five miscarriages, one abortion and two beloved babies. I recalled the little Bodhisattva, Baby C, and how close I had come to a selective reduction, which could have taken out one of my twins. The thought made me wretch. After everything I had gone through, an abortion seemed unimaginable.
My eighteen year old self visited my thoughts, pregnant and distraught. Her skin was as smooth as milk. I took her in my arms and told her she had done the right thing. I told her it would all turn out OK, that she would have the perfect babies when she was ready. I tried to do the same for my forty-five year old self, who was also struggling to find her way. She would locate the answer in her own heart. It was nobody else’s choice.
“It’s really up to you,” Randy had said. “I’ll go along with whatever you want.”
Aside from the one comment, I have no memory of my husband being there during the next few weeks. In my solitude, I practiced the art of surrender. I gave myself over to fate, if it even existed, trusting that I could handle whatever happened. I talked myself into wanting a baby. Surely a singleton would be easier than the frenzied pace of newborn twins. I tried to feel the presence of a being inside me, its spirit or its physicality, but unlike my previous pregnancies, I felt nothing.
I went for an ultrasound alone. Randy had disappeared into his work and I told him it was fine. It felt easier to forge my own way than to yearn for his half-hearted support. I stared at the ceiling of the darkened room while the doctor deciphered the kaleidoscope of images on the monitor. That single source of light painted her cheeks and forehead with highlights. The room was silent except for the click of the computer each time she set her cursor to a measurement.
She turned to me and said, “Your baby stopped growing almost immediately. This is known as a chemical pregnancy. It’s a term that is used when the loss occurs before the fifth week.”
I nodded, feeling a melancholy sort of relief. This could explain why it had never felt real.
“Is this sad news for you?” she asked, diplomatically.
“Not really,” I told her. “I wasn’t trying to get pregnant, and when I researched it, I saw that there’s an eighty percent chance of miscarriage at my age.”
Her eyes were sympathetic.
“I was using a contraceptive gel. We were camping and I thought the diaphragm would be annoying.” I felt desperate to justify myself now. I didn’t want her to think I’d been cavalier. It occurred to me that I was carrying the blame and leaving my husband out of the equation. I felt my face go red.
For a moment, I missed the baby that I hadn’t wanted. A chemical pregnancy wasn’t a baby, I reminded myself.
“We’ll be traveling then,” I said, feeling heartless somehow. “It’s just that it’s our first vacation in six years. My mother is taking us to Hawaii.”
She picked up a pen. “I can prescribe you some progesterone to delay the bleeding.”
In the Maui hotel lobby, we were given vibrant purple leis. Randy and the kids rushed over to a koi pond where a cluster of orange and white ghosts lurked beneath the surface. I glanced around nervously and then leaned closer to my mom.
“I feel like I should tell you something,” I said. She tilted her head and waited. “I was pregnant recently, but the doctor says I’m going to miscarry soon.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she replied. “Were you wanting another baby?”
“No,” I said, feeling like the pregnant teenager I had once been. I wondered if she was judging me. Shame, guilt and trauma piled up in the nest of my heart and I couldn’t meet her eyes. Instead, I fixed my gaze on a tropical plant with big waxy leaves.
“I’m scared it’ll ruin our trip,” I said.
“I won’t let it,” she declared, as if she had the power to rescue me.
She hugged me awkwardly, crushing the plumerias on both of our leis.
I took the progesterone and obsessed about blood seeping through my swimsuit into the turquoise pool. Hormones cascaded around inside me, plunging me into sadness. On the seventh day, my period arrived in the hotel bathroom. I sat down on the bed next to Randy.
“I just got my period,” I told him.
“It’ll be OK,” he said, and carried on tying his shoes. I watched the side of his face, his cheek smooth, a tiny dollop of shaving cream next to his earlobe.
“Will you give me a hug?” I asked, wishing he could ease my pain. We were both accustomed to tending his needs, not mine. He put an arm around me and sat quietly for a minute as if gauging how long he had to oblige me. Then he picked up his daypack and filled it with snacks. We were scheduled for a boat ride.
The doctor’s words came back to me. Just a heavy period. So, I took an Advil, filled my bag with maxi pads and went into the kids’ room to get them dressed.
An hour later I stood on a pier with my mother, Randy, and the children, waiting to board a glass bottom boat. Randy held up a laminated card with colorful drawings of the fish we might see. He was reading out loud, “Ornate Butterfly, Pinktail Triggerfish, Yellow Tang, White spotted Damsel, Spiny Puffer.”
“I want to see a Puffer!” Rowan shrieked.
Chloe put her fingertip on a fish that she liked.
The sun glinted off the morning ocean in shards and I sized up the large yellow cartoon of a boat that we were about to ride. I had booked it months in advance and couldn’t wait for the kids to see the underwater world this way. It was rare for me to plan ahead, but for some reason I had fallen hard for this particular tourist attraction.
We were herded toward the gangplank, but first we were told to pose for a photograph which they would later try to sell to us for a ridiculous price, and I would buy it because I looked inexplicably vibrant and happy, like the person I wished I had been that day.
The excitement was palpable and the kids leaped around in their sandals while holding their father’s hands. I wanted to catch up to them, but I was encased in my own little ecosystem. The heat and humidity pressed down on me and my stomach was queasy. My mother walked next to me, Randy never glanced back. My abdomen was cramping and it occurred to me that I shouldn’t board this yellow submarine, but I thought I could change reality with the sheer force of my determination.
As I stepped off the ramp, the ocean swelled and I swooned for a moment, then hoisted myself onto the boat. The kids were ahead of me, descending a steep staircase into the bloated belly of the submarine. As I reached the top, I paused. A blue glow emanated from inside, where the ocean light seeped through a panel of windows. I caught a glimpse of my curly haired daughter silhouetted against the glass. I gripped the banister and each footfall rang with a metallic echo. Glancing back at my mother, stars began to swim in my eyes. I ducked my head to catch my breath and all at once I knew I was going to faint. I sat abruptly on the cool metal with a whole line of people behind me. My senses receded, as if caught in a rip current, and then I ceased to exist for several minutes.
Time rolled forward without me and eventually I noticed voices in the darkness. My vision was the last sense to return. It was like ascending from a place deeper than sleep, the sun’s rays refracting through water.
I heard myself saying, “I’m back now.”
And there was my mother looking startled, her white dandelion puff of hair backlit and haloed. Two unfamiliar men, crew members, stood nearby with tanned feet in orange flip flops. That’s when I realized I was sitting on a plastic bench on the upper deck with no memory of moving to this spot.
“I’m back now,” I repeated.
“Don’t you remember a nurse helping you?” my mother asked.
I frowned, confused.
“A lady, a passenger, who happened to be a nurse. She checked your vital signs and made sure you were alright.”
I recalled none of this. I felt that I had only just arrived. I looked around to get my bearings. The low vibration of an engine rumbled up from below. We were fifty feet from land, moving in the wrong direction, toward the dock.
“Where are the kids?” I asked.
“They’re with Randy downstairs.”
“Where’s Randy?” I asked, still unable to make sense of it all.
“He’s down with Rowan and Chloe. I told him you fainted and he said he would stay with them. I’m taking you back to the hotel,” she explained.
I couldn’t understand how so much had happened while I was unconscious and I was embarrassed that the boat had turned around because of me. Once we were within stepping distance of the land, the captain indicated that we should go. My mother took my hand and I trailed after her like a child. The tan sailors with their wind-blown hair watched us disembark.
“It’s OK. I’m just having a miscarriage,” I said, as if I owed them an explanation. Right away, I was mortified.
“Well, that’s a first,” the captain said, to nobody in particular. His nonchalance made me feel like a fool.
We stepped onto solid ground and watched the glass bottom boat head out to sea.
My mother made sure I was settled in the hotel bed and drove back to the marina to pick up the family. She had tried to take me to urgent care, but they wouldn’t accept my insurance or even cash. I doubted they could have told me anything new or helpful. It took hours for Randy and the kids to return. I felt adrift in the empty room, my texts unanswered. I wanted them to be concerned about me. Rowan and Chloe knew that Mommy was a little sick, but nothing more. Eventually they arrived carrying crinkly shopping bags. The children had chosen a few gifts for me. A picture frame, a bracelet. I didn’t want to be ungrateful, but I would have traded their sweet gifts for their presence.
I rested for twenty-four hours until I could no longer sit still. I woke when the sun was just barely aloft. It was my birthday. I reached a foot toward Randy, but his side of the bed was empty. The door groaned open.
“Randy? Where are you going?” I asked.
“I thought I’d go see if I could rent a surfboard for the day,” he said.
“But it’s my birthday,” I said.
I heard him surrender the open door and then he came around the corner. He had on his bathing suit and a white swim shirt. I sat up. The pillow held an imprint of my head. I wiped some loose strands of hair out of my eyes. The bed slumped when he sat down.
“You were just going to leave for the day without telling me?” I asked.
“I guess,” he shrugged, like an apathetic teenager.
“On my birthday?” I repeated. My stomach was hollow and aching.
“What did you want to do today?”
“Yesterday I told you about that hiking trail near the wind turbines. I thought we agreed. My mom is planning to watch the kids.”
“OK fine, we can do that,” he acquiesced.
The trail was reminiscent of the hikes we knew at home, arid and strewn with boulders. Terracotta dirt. The occasional wind-stunted tree. It climbed the flank of a large mountain, which was sprinkled with sun-dried grass, pale as sawdust. The ocean below was a frothy turquoise at the coastline and deep cobalt where it extended to the edge of the planet. We talked sporadically, avoiding any controversial topics. The kids, the landscape, the weather.
Maybe it was reckless to be here after my fainting spell, but being bold felt like the antidote to being powerless. We were in our element and our legs were accustomed to hiking at higher elevations. After a few miles, we crested the hill to dozens of wind turbines, so proud, they were almost animate, marching in single file. As they whirled, they whistled, a cacophony of piercing screams, just like fireworks. It was an eerie and beautiful scene, the shrieking, towering giants and their triple scythes, harvesting the wind.
We ate lunch in all that otherworldly noise and then headed back down the way we had come. When we were near the trailhead I couldn’t help myself.
“Can I ask what’s been going on in your head lately? You seem far away.” It was all I could do not to hate him for abandoning me.
He was trailing behind and it took so long to answer, I glanced back to make sure he was there.
“I’m scared of getting depressed,” he said, in a small voice. “Your sorrow could drag me down deeper than you know.”
I felt a tug on my heart, the familiar sensation of leaving my own experience to inhabit another’s. I was so seduced by his vulnerability that I sidestepped my resentments. I could sense his precarious footing and the terror of depression. The urge to comfort him flooded my brain. I stopped and put my arms around him.
“I understand,” I said.
When he hugged me back, I recognized that this was the way to bring him close. My head still against his chest, I listened to the ocean breathe. How easy it was to abandon myself. On the horizon, a film of afternoon sunshine skimmed the surface, scuttling the line between sea and sky.