Bring Me Back

“It’s okay. I do that a lot lately.” I grab a tissue and dry my damp face. Since the accident I’ve set tissue boxes on almost every available surface. I never know when a thought or a sight might strike a meltdown. I lost it this morning when I came downstairs and saw Ben’s shoes sitting beside the door. My mom had promptly tried to hide them in the hall closet, but I wouldn’t let her. I didn’t want to hide his existence.

“I know I haven’t said it, but I’m sorry, Blaire. I’m so sorry this happened.”

I nod once. “Sorry doesn’t bring Ben back,” I whisper, “but I wish it did.”

“I know,” he agrees. “I wish I could make this better for you. Do you want me to put a movie on?”

I shake my head. Ben and I used to watch movies all the time.

“Okay,” my dad says and grows quiet. He soon fills the silence with stories from his working days. I know most of them are funny and I should laugh, but I can’t. I don’t know if I’ll ever laugh again.

My mom returns a sho

rt time later with my milkshake. I take a reluctant sip, and I’m surprised to find that it actually tastes pretty good. Lately, nothing has had any taste. I end up drinking the whole thing, and my mom literally claps her hands together because she’s so happy. I hate that the simple act of me drinking a milkshake makes her happy. It’s further proof that I’ve completely checked out.

“I’m going to bed,” I say a short while later.

They both nod and watch me head upstairs.

I burrow beneath the sheets—sheets I’ve refused to wash—and close my eyes. If I think hard enough I can feel Ben’s arms wrap around me and his lips press to my neck. I smile. I love you, he murmurs. When I open my eyes, though, I’m alone.

He’s gone and he’s not coming back.

Denial is a bitch.

Stage Two: Anger

Two weeks. It’s been two fucking weeks since I sat in front of Ben’s casket. Two weeks since he was lowered into the ground. Two weeks that have passed at a snail’s pace—thanks in part to my refusal to work. I know I eventually have to. I have a car payment and a mortgage and bills to thinks about. I just need time, though.

I close the bathroom door and slip the box from beneath my shirt. I never thought I’d be an adult sneaking in a pregnancy test around my mom, but here I am.

I hold the box in my hands and take a deep breath. “Please,” I whisper. “Please.”

I lift my gaze to my haunted and hallowed reflection in the mirror. I’ve lost weight. Too much weight. My cheekbones are shallow and sharp enough to cut glass now. Dark circles rim my eyes all the way around and my skin has turned a sickly gray color. I don’t look good, not at all. Grief has this way of sucking the life out of you.

I open the box and hold the slender white stick in my hand.

I’d give anything to have Ben here, fighting to be in the bathroom with me. Hell, this time I’d even let him watch me pee. But he’s not here and he never will be. If I am pregnant he’ll never know and our child will never know its father. Maybe it’s selfish of me, but I want to be pregnant. I want to know his child is growing inside me—that I have some physical piece of him left.

I say one last silent prayer and don’t stall a moment longer.

Waiting for the results to come back is some of the most stress-filled minutes of my life. I keep eyeing the timer on my phone, and when the alarm vibrates I lift the directions off the pregnancy test.

Not pregnant.

The words glare up at me. Mocking me.

I inhale a breath, then another, and then I lose my fucking mind.

I scream—a blood-curdling kind of scream. I shove everything off the bathroom counter. Towels, makeup, toothbrushes, lotion—everything, goes tumbling to the floor. I scream and I keep screaming. I can’t stop. I have to let it out.

Knocking starts on the door and the knob rattles. “Blaire? Blaire?” my mom calls, sounding concerned. “What’s wrong? Let me in.” I don’t know whether she’s asking me to let her in the room or to just let her in.

I tear at my hair and I kick the bathroom cabinet.

I’m crying again. I’m so sick and fucking tired of crying and now I’m angry. I never understood the term ‘seeing red’ until now. I seem to see everything through a red-tinged, anger-filled rage. I clench my fists and lean my head back, screaming at the ceiling.

“Blaire?” My mom sounds more urgent now. “You’re scaring me.”