An Apology for an Apology

An Apology for an Apology

Written by Eliani J. Sanchez

WARNING: This short story is centered around the impending loss of a child. Please read at your discretion. If you need to speak to someone, I encourage you to call 988 for the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline.

Prom

“We have to talk about it!” Fisher nearly shouts, in my ear, over the music.

           “No, we don’t!” I argue, looking around ensuring that no one else is paying attention to us.

           “Someone is going to notice eventually, it’s not like you’ll be able to hide it,” Fisher replies.

           “Fisher… I am terrified. I don’t want to talk about it,” I nearly plead.

           “Laena, you’re pregnant. We have to talk about this,” Fisher now argues, using my same pleading tone.

           “Fine.”

I drag him through the crowd and away from the loud music. I find a quiet corner in the grand hotel ballroom our high school rented, my elaborate dress swishing and swaying.          

           “You want to talk, then talk.”

My chin juts out and Fisher looks around one last time to ensure we are relatively alone.

           “You have to tell him Laena,” Fisher says.

           “He left. He broke up with me. Why should I tell him?” I reply, anger rising.

           “He still needs to know… given the delicate situation.”

           “Don’t!”

I shake my head. "I'm sorry."

I hate losing my temper. I hate raising my voice.

           “I’m your best friend, and I would never tell you something to hurt you. So, please hear me when I say he deserves a chance to say goodbye. He deserves to know.”

           I’ve always thought that Fisher was perfect. He never loses his temper. His voice is always kind. He’s never annoyed by the minor inconveniences that seem to plague me. Fisher has never judged me or my choices. He’s honest and quick to admit when I don’t have his support. Even now, as he stands before me in his perfect tux, his body nothing but budding masculinity and his hair perfectly shaggy and messy, I believe him.

           “It’s one thing to get pregnant as a senior, by the guy that can’t even give you the time of day no less – but it’s another to find out that he won’t survive.”

Fisher looks at me with eyes so gentle and compassionate. “No matter what I do, my son will die – and that’s if he survives the delivery. How do I explain that to someone who doesn’t care about me? Why should I?” I ask.

           Fisher takes my hands in his. He looks down at my belly.

           “Sometimes, we must put our own feelings aside so we can do what’s well and truly right.”

"Okay Obi-Wan," I try to tease.

           There’s a noise behind us, and Fisher and I turn, one of my hands still in his.

           “Well, isn’t this cozy,” Strange says.

           William Tyler Strange. Captain of the rugby team. The boy next door. My on-again, off-again lover, and the father of my child.

           “I always knew you’d try to steal my girl Fish, but I never expected it to go down in such a cliché way.”

           Strange takes a step towards us and Fisher and I stay where we are to show that we are unaffected.

           “My name is Fisher,” Fisher says.

           “Yeah whatever – I was looking for you.”

Strange sets his gaze on me but it no longer has the same effect. I used to shrink when he looked at me. I used to stay up for hours at night trying to turn into the perfect Barbie version of whatever he wanted. I’d watch him walk through the hall, full of confidence and charm. I’d cross my fingers and toes, begging for just a glance from him but now… now I feel empty.

           “What?” I ask.

           “Fish can we have some privacy?” Strange asks, and for once there is a serious tone in his voice that makes Fisher and I pause. I feel Fisher look down at me. I meet his gaze and nod.

           “I’m getting a drink.” Fisher clears his throat, squeezes my hand, and walks away.

           “What?” I ask Strange again.

           “I hear a rumor.”

           My heart sinks.

           “Okay?” I keep my tone even or at least I try to.

           “I heard a rumor that you’re pregnant.”

           I let his words hang in the air as I try to think before I speak.

           “Are you pregnant?” Strange asks after he grows impatient with my lack of response.

           All I can do is nod.

           “It’s true?” He asks.

           I nod again.

           “How far?” His voice cracks and it makes tears well up in my eyes.

           “Halfway,” I whisper.

           Strange does this thing when something overwhelms him. He nods, over and over, as if he’s trying to shake all the uncertainty in his mind back into place.

           “Did you know when we split?” He asks.

           A teacher catches my attention. She’s in the corner watching us but considering that there is a decent distance between Strange and I she seems disinterested in our conversation.

           “I was going to tell you, but you broke up with me first,” I reply.

           “Why didn’t you tell me?” Strange asks.

           Now I see red.

           “I didn’t tell you because you spent half an hour explaining to me that you did care about me, while also stating five contradictory reasons why you don’t, and why we should quote-unquote see other people. I’m not spontaneous enough. I’m not sexy enough. I’m not cool enough. I’m too dorky. Despite Fisher being incredibly gay, we are too close.”

           Strange drops his shoulders, a red tinge climbing up his neck letting me know he’s embarrassed.

           “That’s not considering that we’ve been on and off for years and you’ve always told me that if this ever happened you wouldn’t do anything. It’d be all on me.”

           “It’s different when you hear it. I swear. I heard that rumor and I felt my stomach fall to my butt and I… I want to do better. I want to try.”

           I look at Strange, and I mean really look at him. When I first met him, we were fourteen and he was skinny with greasy flippy hair, and I was still trying to figure out how to tackle the coils I got from my mother. Over time, through mutual friends and shared classes, we found our way to each other, and that was that. We fought. We grew. We ripped each other apart, but I have never loved anyone so much… until I saw the first ultrasound of the baby we made. Now he’s built. Now he has cropped hair and a sure stance and a cocky attitude that drives me crazy and fires me up. He’s toxic, and we are nothing but madness together, but I would survive it all over again.

           “Laena?”

           Strange takes another step towards me, extending a hand towards my belly. The sight makes a few tears fall.

           “Can we just try?” He asks.

           I feel his palm land on my belly, strong and firm. His long fingers are covered in scars from getting stepped on, on the rugby pitch and working on his secret wood carvings. I put my hand on top of his and he gives me a shy smile, mistaking my touch for agreeance. I take a deep breath before I speak.

           “The baby has a rare heart defect. There is no cure, according to specialists, and when I deliver him, he will most likely not survive. It might take minutes or hours. I am unsure.”

           Strange looks at me like I spoke another language.

           “No.”

           He shakes his head, his hand still on my belly, looking at it as if he has X-ray vision and can see our son clearly enough to argue that he’s perfect.

           “He?”

           I watch as Strange lifts his chin to look at me. “You said he?”

           “It’s a boy,” I shrug before I cry.

           I cry the way I’ve wanted to for weeks because Fisher was right, I should have told him, not for him but for me. This was an added weight to an already unbearable situation. It was more heartache, and there’s something cathartic about the way Strange is holding me so tightly right now. I can feel it – the moment he realizes that no matter what we’ve been through, I needed him, and he wasn’t there. I can feel the decision to stick this out to the end. I can feel it when he realizes that he and I are the only ones who will understand this impending doom.

           “I’m sorry Laena.”

           “I’m sorry too,” I reply.