My Husband Let Our Baby Die

The café in SoHo has large windows and too much light. I sit near the back because Zayla chose the table up front, right where everyone walking by can see her. She's wearing a cream sweater that probably costs more than my rent. Her hair is perfect. She looks like someone who has never vomited into a trash can or cried until her throat closed.

She ordered for both of us before I arrived. Two lattes. Hers has some kind of design in the foam. Mine is already going cold.

"I'm glad you came," she says. Her voice is soft. Warm. Like we're friends. "I know this is hard."

I don't say anything. I just look at her and wait.

She leans forward a little. Concerned. "I wanted to talk to you. Woman to woman. Because we both care about Judah."

I wrap my hands around the cup. It's something to hold.

"Darren and I—" She pauses. Looks down. When she looks back up, her eyes are shining. "We didn't plan this. It just happened."

I nod. I don't know why I nod. My body is doing things without asking me.

"But I think it's important that we're honest with each other." She reaches into her purse. Pulls out something small. Slides it across the table.

It's a pregnancy test. Two pink lines.

I stare at it. The lines are very clear. The plastic is white and clean. It sits on the table between the lattes like a tiny bomb that's already gone off.

"I'm twelve weeks," Zayla says. "Darren asked me to move into the penthouse. Permanently."

The café is loud. Someone is laughing at the counter. The espresso machine hisses. A chair scrapes against the floor.

"I wanted you to hear it from me," she continues. "Because I think you deserve that. And I want you to know—" She reaches across the table like she's going to touch my hand, but she doesn't. She stops just short. "You're free now. You can finally live your life."

She smiles. It's a kind smile. A smile that says she's doing me a favor.

I look at the pregnancy test. At her perfect sweater. At the latte with the foam design.

Then I stand up.

I don't say anything. I just pick up my bag and walk out.

I make it four blocks before I have to stop. There's a trash can on the corner of Spring and Broadway. I lean over it and throw up until there's nothing left.

People walk past me. No one stops.

—

Angela's apartment smells like lilies and money.

She serves lunch on china that's older than I am. Little sandwiches with the crusts cut off. Tea in cups so thin I'm afraid to hold them too tight.

"Thank you for coming, Caroline," she says. She's wearing pearls. She's always wearing pearls. "I thought it was important that we talk."

I take a sandwich. I don't eat it. I just hold it on the small plate and wait.

"Judah has been so much happier lately," Angela says. She's not looking at me. She's looking at the tea she's pouring. "It's wonderful to see. Children need stability."

"He does," I say.

"Zayla has been such a positive influence." She sets the teapot down. Looks at me now. "She has a real artistic sensibility. A refinement. I think she understands Darren in a way that—" She pauses. Smiles. "Well. In a way that's very natural."

I nod. I'm good at nodding now.

"The divorce must be difficult," Angela continues. "But I do think, in time, you'll find it liberating. Once you stop holding on to things that were never really yours."

I look at the wall behind her. There's a family portrait. Professional. Expensive. Everyone is smiling. I'm in it, on the far edge, slightly apart from the others. The photographer said it was better for the light.

"I appreciate your concern," I say quietly.

Angela sips her tea. "I just want what's best for Judah. I'm sure you understand."

"I do."

We finish lunch in near silence. When I leave, Angela walks me to the door and kisses the air beside my cheek.

I take the elevator down and walk out into the September afternoon, and I realize I will never be invited back.

—

At night, I call my mother.

She can't talk. The ventilator won't let her. But the nurses say she can hear.

I sit in my small apartment with the phone pressed to my ear and I read to her. Jane Eyre tonight. I read about a woman who had nothing and wanted everything and survived anyway.

My voice is steady. My hands are shaking, but my voice is steady.

"I'm still here, Mom," I say when I finish the chapter. "I'm still here."

There's no answer. Just the sound of machines breathing for her.

I read another chapter.

It's the only love I have left to give.