So much had been torn apart with the miscarriage, so many little pieces of us that needed to be sewn back together. Some days I raged against it with every fiber of my being, but others…others I was as far gone as Tristan, and I didn’t even need to be drunk to get there. It always took a while to hit you head on, and sink in and for something substantial, some hint of the real feeling, the real reaction, to come to the surface, and this loss was not done taking its toll on us.Īfter that, it was a slow motion free fall for us. Tragedy never took its full chunk out of you right away. She protested, telling me it wasn’t, and I didn’t know if it was her tone or my conscience, but I didn’t believe her. “No, no, no,” I whispered tenderly into her hair. I couldn’t stand it, couldn’t take that she was blaming herself for an accident. I should have gone straight to the hospital. “I fell down in the shower that morning, then just went on with my day, thinking everything would be fine. It came out of her in a great, heaving flood.
She’d been crying silently, but now she began to sob. “Jeremiah for Jerry?” I finally found the strength to ask.
“Jared Jeremiah Vega,” she said, her voice devastated. Her hand touched my arm, and I turned to her, sobbing into her neck. I pulled the car over, my shoulders shaking. I was driving her home before she delivered the final blow, her whisper ragged with grief.
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