My brother's baby died yesterday.  Kim was supposed to have him on the 20th but she went in yesterday and they couldn't find a heartbeat.  Today she is going to give birth to him, his name was Owen Christian Loy, and they will have to have a funeral because he was full term.  And yes, they were naming him after my brother Chris who died exactly six months ago today.  So much loss lately.  As though life is inconsequential.  I think what breaks me down the most is just that my brother loved Chris so much as was devastated by his loss and now this...he loses his son.  My brother Chris lost Jason at five months!  My brothers!    

I am boring him.  I can see that from his expression.  He’s sitting by me in the car nearly asleep.  I feel queasy.  “I’m boring you, aren’t I?” 

     “What?  Oh no, of course not.”  He says and puts his hand over his mouth to stifle a yawn.  It kills me.  I know if I wasn’t pregnant he would leave.   He’s always watching other women, longing for anything other than the melancholy tears of his wife and my mourning, overwhelmed stare. 

We are in the car heading towards the store parking lot where his truck is parked.  My husband is at home watching my two other children.  There is fog on the road and I have to squint to the see the lines. 

“Are you doing anything this weekend?  Other than dreaming about being with me?”  I laugh.  He doesn’t think it’s funny but looks over at me and offers a tight smile. 

“Honestly, I am going to the canyons this weekend with Richard to bike.  I need to get away for a while.”  I feel a surge of jealousy rise from the pit of my gut.  He just got away with me but then, maybe it’s me he wants away from.

“I will be thinking of you the whole time.  And this little guy...”  He says and reaches over to pat my belly. 

“Oh and what if he’s a girl?” 

“He won’t be.” 

“I don’t know.  I kinda feel as though I am cooking up a girl.”  I laugh but he looks more somber than ever. 

“Don’t even joke around like that.”

“Well, I am not doing much this weekend myself.  I am going to finish reading that novel I was telling you about, the one with the lady who hid a man under her four skirts, remember that?  And then just spend time with the kids and the husband.  I don’t get to go on big hiking trips like you.”  I look over at him and his eyes are half closed again.  He didn’t hear me.  I push on the gas pedal a little harder and grip the steering wheel until my knuckles blanch.  He’s waiting for us to talk about her, always his wife, and how it would hurt him to lose his kids and that this relationship is the best thing that’s ever happened to him but he would never forgive himself…never, never forgive himself.  He checks his watch to kill the conversation. 

“Geez, look at the time!”  He says brightening up.  It’s only four but I know what he will say next.  “I have to get home early tonight because it’s my turn to cook dinner.”

“That’s alright.  I have to cook dinner too and besides, I am sure the house needs a few hours of recovery work.”  The parking lot is straight ahead and I am relieved this ride is almost over.  “Well, today was fun though, wasn’t it?”

“Oh yeah!  It was great.  Really.” 

“Have fun making dinner.  Try not to burn your house down.”  He chuckles and I give him a small smile.  “What are you going to make?

“Chicken and rice.  The boys never get tired of my chicken.” 

I pull into the parking lot next to his bright red truck that stands out like neon in a world of grey.  There are people all around getting into their cars, pulling out strollers, buckling babies into car seats, unloading groceries.  I do a quick scan to make sure I don’t know anyone.  I am afraid they will recognize me or even him.  We both feel this.  We always have.  He leans over and kisses me.  I feel his arms wrap around my waist and I cringe because I know I have flesh pouring out over the top of my jeans because of the baby.  He will feel the imperfections, the loose skin.  I push his arms away and laugh. 

“No more.  I have had enough for one day.”  I cannot squelch the bitterness gripping me.  He wouldn’t like me if I were fat.  He would leave for someone better. 

“Bah.  You’re just hormonal.”  He says and smiles his lady killer smile. 

“Yeah.  Hormones.  Whatever.”  I roll my eyes.  He gets out of the car and walks over to my window.  I roll it down and wait for him to lean in.  He kisses me. 

“Bye sweety.  I love you.”

“I love you too.”  I watch him climb into his truck.  He rolls down his window and looks over at me.  The wave, the smile, the wink.  He starts his car and drives off, leaving his arm dangling out the window.  In a moment he will turn up the radio and take his shirt off.   

I get home and the kids rush at me.  They’re hungry.  My husband sits on the couch watching his endless episodes of the Dukes of Hazard.  He does this every day, three hours of television, dinner and sleep. Always the same mind numbing routine.  The kids have jelly smeared all over their faces and I can tell they’ve broken into the refrigerator and eaten straight from the jelly jar.  “Hey!  Did you feed the kids anything?  They’re starving.” 

“Nah.  They found food.”  He chuckles and this makes me angry.  I go into the kitchen and go through the cupboards.  There’s no food.  Nothing but crackers and boxes of macaroni and cheese.  I pull out the macaroni and cheese and start to boil the water.  I can’t help but wonder why I am here.  No part of me wants to be this woman with this man in this house and yet, I cannot leave my children.  As I think this the baby lurches in my womb and I remember that I am more trapped in this than I ever have been.  My husband doesn’t know that this child might not be his.  The water boils and I add the milk and butter to the macaroni and feel a wave of nausea.

 These children, my children, to feed and take care of and I can’t.  Not alone.  I am sick.  I dish them out the food and go lay on my bed.  Think of Jon. 

I think of his arms.  And his brown, hard chest.  I never figured we would know each other more than just as hallway friends.  But he started coming around a lot, come to my desk and lean in, flash me his perfect white teeth and perfect tanned biceps.  We went to lunch one day and then to a low lit garage in his car after that.  We saw each other every afternoon and maybe I felt like I was falling in love with him.  Then one night I was at his house because his wife was on a business trip.  There was a huge family photo in the front room, just over the fireplace, and his wife sits in the front with her arm draped over Jon’s knee.  She has smooth, dark hair, is plump and cheeky.  Their children stand stoically behind them.  Happy family.  His wife has Native American art pinned to the walls and a grey and white blanket with the head of a wolf draped over the couch.  I pretend like I am studying it, pretend like I respect this kind of art and the person who would buy it.  I pick up a small, blue and white jar and find little butterscotch candies in it.  I fondle the Native American porcelain.  I can’t help but wonder why she is so attracted to this kind of hokey, trifling junk. 

Jon grabs me and pulls me down on the outdated, shag carpet beneath the family picture and I keep looking up, thinking about his family and how I will never be more to him than this moment on his carpet.  She can take a photo and hang it over the fireplace. I am nothing more than the wet stain I will leave when we’re done.   

And then she walks in, drops her bags on the floor before she sees us.  Her eyes grow wide with horror when she sees me, I quickly get up and put my shirt on.  Jon rushes to her, tries to lead her out but it’s too late.  She tries to grab my arm but she’s slow and I laugh because I don’t know what else to do but I cannot believe I am laughing.  Jon yells at me to go out the other way, through the kitchen door and I dash out but even then, I can feel her presence following me and I wonder if she has a gun in the house.  With anger like that.  When I get home I make sure I lock all the doors, the windows, turn off all the lights and my husband only sits there watching the television.  He doesn’t say a word and I feel like it’s because he already knows everything.  She’s called or Jon called and told him everything.  I tiptoe around him.  I make him a cheese sandwich and sit on his lap.  I run my fingers through his hair and I have never loved him more than at that moment.  His eyes don’t move from the screen and I laugh with him as Boss Hog once again concocts a scheme to catch Luke and Bo.  For hours.  It seems like hours. 

It’s been a week since then.  She still hasn’t called to tell my husband, not yet.  The moments I have shared with Jon, we don’t discuss it.  We act like it never happened but I wait for the moment.  Her moment.  I put my hand to feel the baby’s foot, pushing out like a perfect embryonic sculpture in my stomach.  These quiet moments are all I have.  I start to doze off until I hear the phone ring.  I jump up, thinking that it could be her, and that if I can only get to the phone before my husband, my secret is safe.  I have been doing this for a week now, unable to ever really rest.  But I am not quick enough and my husband answers.  I try to listen to what he says, but the door is shut and all I can do is strain forward, hearing only small words and mumbles.  I go over what my mother told me to say if ever my husband confronts me.  She told me that if he ever finds out, tell him that it was a one night stand.  Tell him that I never saw the other man more than one time.  Tell him that I have never loved any other man and everything will be okay.  My heart, though, races and a feel myself breathing too quickly. 

My husband opens the door and looks at me.  His eyes are wild and unfocused.  He sits down beside me and holds his hands in his lap.  I ask him, “Is everything okay?”  and for an agonizing few seconds he doesn’t answer.  And then he cries.  Softly, sweetly. 

“My mother is sick.  They said cancer of the stomach.”  He says this through sobs.  I can’t answer him, can’t say anything but I grab his hand and hold it tightly.  “She has six weeks, she said.  That’s all.”  I start to cry with him and we sit there for a while.  Only I’m not crying about his mother and all I can think about is that I am saved.  If only for another day, I am saved.  

The very worst thing about living in Utah other than just having to live here is the assumption that I am Mormon or was Mormon and yeah, I was Mormon and this makes it even worse.  

I could drown in eyes like that

So much so I have to look away or be lost 

You’re forbidden.

Sucking in the stale air of another

The stale breath of fidelity , another,

Day of loose thinking, uncontrolled thinking,

Who cares about thinking, for the birds,

Is what you would say.

Trembling in the gore of your inflamed lungs

Pink, black, fresh and pretty lungs that you think

Too much about.  

“Do you think he was afraid in those last few moments?”  Her eyes were big and desperate, looking straight into mine. 

“No.  He was disorientated.  He was foggy.  There is no way he knew what was happening.  I was there.” She seems satisfied with this.  We sit back and watch everyone, like ants, walking in pairs, lines, some of them approaching the grave and others staying far back by the trees, talking to each other in groups of three or four.  My mother sits alone under the canopy holding her face in her hands.  Everyone has left her but they all watch her from the corners of their eyes.  They don’t know how to handle her grief.  My sister and I don’t either and so we sit back a few rows and feel that all we understand is each other.  My father never showed up, mumbling something about how the spirit has left and this is only a body and he’s not here anymore and why should he come to the funeral that means nothing and would mean nothing to my brother.  Everyone is angry with him but then, everyone is always angry with my father. 

My sister and I get up because my younger brother is waving us over.  My cousin from Las Vegas is here.  He’s huge, muscular, bald, littered in tattoos.  He busts gangs for a living.  We walk up to him and he doesn’t know what to say.  His face isn’t streaked with anguish like ours.  He barely knew my brother and all his memories of him would have been from Christmas at our grandmother’s house back before he could even use a fork by himself.  We talk for a moment about his job, his baby, and I turn to look at his wife who isn’t saying a word.  She’s tall, thin and very blonde.  Her face seems perpetually locked in a grimace. 

My sister nudges me, giving me that look that she wants to leave, she is about to break down again.  So we walk back over to the chairs and sit down.  My mother has stopped crying.  She sits, slumped over, staring at the ground.  Someone is standing in front of her with their hand on her shoulder.  He is trying to get through, almost shaking her, bending down to make eye contact but she doesn't look up and he puts his hands in his pockets for a minute before walking away.  

“Are you sure he didn't suffer at the last minute?”  My sister pleads at me with her eyes. 

“No.  He didn't.  I promise.” 

But in those last few minutes he did wake up.  I was at home, folding laundry, and my brother’s wife calls.  She tells me to rush over to the house as soon as I can but it takes me 20 minutes even with the gas pedal pushed nearly to the ground the entire way.  I came into the room and he seemed asleep, mostly, and then suddenly he wasn't.  He starting kicking his legs and my mother reached out to him, put her hand on his shoulder and she’s terrified because he’s trying to wake up.  His wife screams “Wake up!  Just wake up!” and he tries.  His eyes open, just for a moment.  He looks right at my mother and his eyes are suffused and bright with terror.  For a moment.  Just before. 

I don’t tell my sister this.  I just sit with my hands in my lap, try not to see the people milling around, acting in their bereavement, as if they understand everything that happened.  

I’m a contrived beauty.

If I were grim faced Hester Prynn

Framed in a solemn, white hat and loose, billowy drapes

Of religious chastity

I would fade into a sea of pale, droning faces

Yearning, like all of them, for the slightest indication

I was something singular. 

But that’s not me. 

I find the means from bottles

And jars, pallets, sprays, boots,

Liquid fantasy

And all the singularity I receive ordinarily  

Is wholly contrived.  

You’re such a mess.

Look at your feelings spilling all over the floor

Your heart clutched in your fist.    

It’s immature, all this blood and pain. 

And then the tears, loathsome.  It’s not death.  Not this. 

Have you tried the egg salad croissant?  That’s worse than death.

But death isn’t worse.  

Death blows smoke into your brain, languidly soaks every dark corner
Until you hide a serrated knife under the seat of your car.

For safety.  For comfort.  Just in case you decide to let go of the heart in your fist. 

You reach under the seat to make sure the knife is still there

Gleaming with the charm of a vampire, panting, scratching ….

There are lines carved into your arm, the battered map to oblivion: 

Tender supplication.    

I’ve tried the egg salad croissant. 

The flaky, sodden bread spongy and sad at the bottom

A mess

Worse than death.