I make room for my grief,
While he makes room to leave me quietly.
But I can feel him slipping away,
As surely as I can feel my sadness taking his place beside me.
Day 335
I’ve slept on my back for the past few weeks.
Sleeping in any other position hurt and so, I got used to it, training my body to do whatever I needed to comfort myself. Comfort wasn’t my friend these days, so I’d do anything for it; even change lifelong habits.
I used to sleep on my stomach. I also used to wonder how I’d sleep comfortably once my belly grew large enough to make that impossible.
Tears build in my eyes and slide down the sides of my face as I understand that I won’t have to worry about that anymore.
There’s no sound in my apartment. Only me and my stuttered breaths fill the quiet. Here and there, Carlos pads around the apartment, sniffing at my closed door and then back to his bed.
I’m unable to be anything to anyone right now.
Sabrina had to go to work today and while my bosses have been understanding, at some point, I will have to as well.
Sabrina’s handled most of my life, contacting my district manager, making appointments, screening calls, even taking Carlos out without prompting or complaint.
The only calls I take are Gavin’s. And those are happening less and less frequently.
So, I just lie here. And think about the last time I’d ever slept uncomfortably.
Growing up, Sabrina and I shared a bed with my mother. She was notorious for sleeping in, missing appointments, and forgetting that her children relied on her to survive.
When we’d wake up before her, Sabrina would tiptoe into the kitchen, figuring out what we could have for breakfast. If there wasn’t anything, Sabrina would go through her purse and walk us around the corner, coins jingling in her little fist, my hand in her free hand.
But there’d been times when we weren’t quiet enough. My mother would wake up and scream at us, telling us to shut the hell up and get back in bed with her.
So, we would be forced to lie there quietly as she slept off her late night.
I hear my front door open. Sabrina is quiet as she moves around. I hear Carlos walk over to her and she opens the front door again, to take him out I assume.
A few minutes later, she’s back. This time, she comes into my room. It’s gotten dark in my solace and I welcome it. Dried tears aren’t something I want her to see.
“Hey,” she whispers. “Hungry?”
“No.”
She sits beside me on the bed and reaches for my hand. I endure the physical touch, figuring at least I could offer her some comfort.
“Any pain?”
She doesn’t know the physical pain is easy to ignore at this point. There’s only emotional grief left tying me to the tragedy.
“Nothing any medicine can fix.”
She squeezes my hand and sighs into the dark air.
“What are you thinking about?”
I pause, debating internally if I want to walk through this particular memory with her. But, fuck it. She asked.
“Sleeping with Mom.”
Sabrina is quiet, so I continue.
“And that one time you accidentally dropped a dish.”
This memory isn’t an easy one and the sound of Sabrina’s sniff is the only tell that not only did she hear what I’d whispered, but she remembered as clearly as I do.
She’d found bread in the cupboard and placed a few pieces in the oven. I was watching her with a smile on my face as she pranced around the kitchen on quiet toes like a ballerina. I’d been playing with my doll on the table, making her follow Sabrina’s movements.
I’m in this limbo between the past and present as Sabrina speaks.
“I’d nearly gotten you fed,” she says as I go through the memory on my own.
One of our only ceramic plates slipped from her grip and hit the floor with a loud crack, pieces scattering over the floor.
We heard a grunt, the old mattress creaking from my mother getting up, and heavy steps toward the kitchen. As soon as she saw the both of us, she screamed profanities.
“She was sick,” I whisper to myself in the dark. “They all said she was sick but . . . no one helped us.”
Our mother snatched the doll I’d been playing with and hit Sabrina over and over, until she was tired and threw the broken thing across the room and stalked off back to bed.
That was the first day I’d ever taken care of Sabrina, washing away the dried blood on the little lumps all over her face, arms, and head.
“They didn’t know,” Sabrina answers. Even now, her anger is nonexistent.
But I didn’t buy it. Yiayia knew the monster she’d raised. Saw the bruises on our bodies and our ribs poking from our hungry little bodies.
“I would’ve been a better mother.”
And there it was. My anguish wrapped in a pretty little bow.
Women like my mother were having children every day.
But I couldn’t even hold one in my body long enough to give it life.
I reach for the phone beside me. It’s set to silent and I check it every now and again to see if Gavin called or messaged.
Gavin: Good morning.
He was up really early. It was nine o’clock here which made it six in the morning in Pakistan.
Me: Good morning.
He responds at once.
Gavin: How are you feeling?
My heart warms from the question. He listened.
I wasn’t sure how honest I was allowed to be with him. Because there used to be a time when I could say exactly how I felt, when I felt it. These days? Not so much.
Me: Mostly sad.
He surprises me with his response.
Gavin: I’m so sorry this happened to you.
Me: It happened to us, Gavin.
The need to remind him makes me feel a little nauseous, like my world is off kilter and I’m trying to keep my eyes focused on him.
Sabrina is now lying beside me. When I glance over, I can see she’s fast asleep in the dim glow of my phone’s screen.
Gavin doesn’t text me back.
I fall asleep still wondering if I’m supposed to feel as lonely as I do.