Chapter Eight – THEN

 

My heart hurts.  My throat feels permanently constricted from the lump of despair that has taken up residence in my esophagus. God, it hurts so much.  I sit silently in the church beside Celia, both of us dressed in black, as the preacher finishes the service and ‘He ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother’ – the Bill Medley version – starts to play.  My shoulders shake as silent tears roll down my cheeks.  On my left side, nearest to the aisle, is Kyle, and as the first strains of the song stream through the church, he gently puts his arm around me and strokes my shoulder with his thumb.  I pat his thigh, an unspoken gesture of comfort from one grieving person to another.

After the song finishes, Kyle, Tom, Blake, Stuart, and my two brothers, Thomas and John, slowly carry Brant’s dark wood casket out of the church.

“We’re so sorry for your loss.” 

“If there’s anything we can do, you know where to find us.”  I want my boyfriend back.  Can you do that?  Of course, I don’t say those words, but I feel like it.

“I’ll stop by later and drop off a pot roast, dear.”  Oh god, not a pot roast.  I sob violently, reminded of the last meal I cooked for Brant.  Only he didn’t get to eat it.

Died on impact.  That’s what the police told us.  At least he didn’t feel pain.

“The service was beautiful, Liv.  Brant would be happy.”  Would he, though?  Would he be happy?  Or would he be pissed because he’s no longer alive?

“I know it’s probably not the right time, but congratulations on your pregnancy.  Brant would’ve made a fantastic father.  Such a shame.”  Yeah.  Thanks for the reminder.

I hear their words of condolence, but they sound far away, barely penetrating the numbness in my brain.  I respond to each and every person with a mumbled ‘thank you’.  I can’t wait to get home.  I’m sick of people.  I’m sick of hugs.  I’m sick of the pitiful looks and sad smiles.  I just want to lock myself inside my apartment and soak in a hot bath until the water turns cold and my skin goes wrinkly.  I don’t want to be here anymore.

“We’re going back to the hotel, Liv.  We’ll stop by later, okay, love?” my mom says gently.  My two brothers and my parents flew in yesterday for the funeral.  I think they’ll fly out tomorrow or the next day.  I won’t be much company so there’s no point in them sticking around.  My sister, who lives in Italy, couldn’t make it, but she has been calling or texting me every day since the accident.

“Okay, Mom,” I reply numbly.

“Everything’s going to be okay, Liv.  You’ll see,” she tells me, kissing my cheeks.

“We’ll see you soon,” dad says, giving me a hug.

“Thanks for coming,” I say, my voice as hollow as my heart feels.

“Look after yourself, Livvy,” my brother John says, engulfing me in a bear hug that’s quickly followed by one from my other brother Thomas.

“I will.”

They didn’t know Brant well.  They had only met him once and spoken to him on Skype a handful of times, but they love me, and they love the baby I’m carrying, so they made the effort to travel across the world to support me today.  It means a lot to me, but right now I can’t feel anything more than sorrow.

 

“Come on, Liv.  Let me take you home.”  Kyle’s words bring a moment of reprieve to this hellish day.  Celia drives with us and Kyle walks her inside her place, getting her settled before returning to his truck to take me to my apartment.

“Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” he asks as he comes to a stop in the parking space outside my place.

I nod.  “I just want to be alone,” I murmur.

“You’ll call me if you need anything?”

I nod again.  Slowly.  Sadly.  “I will.”

His fingers grip my chin and he turns my head so my eyes find his.  His features blur through my unshed tears.

“We’ll get through this, Liv,” he states hoarsely.  “I promise.”

“I hope so,” I whisper.

 

 

 

The bright red illuminated numbers on my alarm clock say 1:03AM.  I lie awake in the silence of my apartment, wondering what startled me awake.  My top teeth sink into my bottom lip as I realize it’s six months today since Brant passed away.  Six months of moving through every day, knowing I’ll never see Brant again.  Six months of going through the motions, attending prenatal appointments, sonograms, Lamaze classes… all alone.  Six whole months of crying myself to sleep every night, of living with this unrelenting ache in my chest.

A blanket of sadness washes over me as my hands automatically go to my beach ball-sized stomach.  That’s when I feel it again.  A tightening.  A cramping pain that begins at my spine and radiates around my stomach until it reaches my bellybutton. 

“Oh, god,” I whisper.

I wait for the pain to subside before I struggle to get out of bed.  Then I make my way into the bathroom.  I climb into the shower, hoping the hot water will ease the tremendous ache in my back.  When the water begins to turn cold, I step out and dry off, pulling on fresh pajamas and my robe.  Then, I find my cell and call Celia.

With Brant gone, Celia has become my rock.  We were close before, but we are even closer now, so it made sense to ask her to be the one beside me while I give birth.  I considered asking my mom, but we’re not that close and she’s the kind of person who would make things even more stressful in the delivery room.  She would panic and make the situation more dramatic than it needs to be.  Plus, her and my father are currently in Italy, visiting my sister and her husband.  They booked their vacation a year ago and it wouldn’t have been fair of me to upend their plans.  Celia was the logical choice for me and I’ll know she will do her best to help me through this.

“Sorry to wake you,” I say, when she answers the phone, her voice thick with sleep.

“Is everything okay?” she asks, immediately alert.

“Not really. I think I’m in labor.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Just as I end the call, another pain ripples through me and I cry out, hunching over, thankful for the counter to hold me up.  A few minutes later, Celia arrives, takes one look at me grimacing in pain, and orders me to the car.  I waddle out and climb into the passenger seat while she grabs my hospital bag and locks my front door.

“How far apart are the pains?” she asks efficiently as she pulls out onto the road.

“I’m not sure.  I woke with pain just after one,” I say, clutching my side and inhaling sharply as another contraction twists in my stomach. “Jesus,” I groan, holding my breath and gripping the dash.

“We’re almost there,” Celia assures me calmly.  “Don’t hold your breath; breathe through the pain.”

I exhale in a rush and suck in more oxygen.  Celia speeds into the emergency lane at the hospital and climbs out of the car.  She grabs my bags from the backseat and mutters, “Shit.”

Before I can ask what’s wrong, she reopens the driver’s door and turns the vehicle off.  Then she comes around and helps me out.  A male nurse’s eyes widen as he spots us coming through the doors.  He wheels a chair toward me and I sit down immediately.

“Thank you,” I grit, clenching my teeth together as another contraction sweeps through me.

I’m wheeled into a delivery room and checked over by another nurse who tells me I’m in active labor and doing great.  I manage through the pain for the next six hours, until I can’t take it any longer.  In all that time, with all that pain, I’ve only dilated two centimeters.  I’m exhausted.  Each time I drift off to sleep, I’m awoken seconds later with another contraction.  I finally opt for an epidural, and when the drug takes effect, things start progressing quickly.  Within an hour, I feel the urge to push, and thirty minutes later, I’m a sobbing mess as I cradle my newborn baby girl in my arms.  She’s the image of her father, and the most beautiful human I’ve ever seen.

“She’s perfect,” Celia says, stroking the still-damp tuft of blonde hair on my little girl’s head.

“She is, isn’t she?”  I can’t stop staring at her.  The love I’m feeling is all-consuming.  My chest feels as if it will explode any second now.

“Any ideas on names?”

“Matilda.”  I smile down at her.  “Matilda Olivia Westwood.”

Celia makes a soft whimper beside me.  Her voice thick with unshed tears, she whispers, “I’m glad you’re giving her Brant’s surname.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” I reply.  “Thank you for being here, Celia.” I give her hand a squeeze.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” she tells me, repeating my words.