Before Dinner on Saturday

TW: infant death

There was a mournful silence in the room. To anyone who wasn’t familiar with the usual dynamic, it may have seemed comfortable; cozy. Usually there was music. Usually Carmen would be beside Matt near the stove, and they would be dancing and laughing as they prepared their meal together. Sometimes there was wine. Sometimes there were disasters when the recipe didn’t work out as planned, or when they lost track of time and burnt the food to a charred mess. There was a fine line between caramelized and burnt.

Today Matt was at the stove by himself. He wasn’t sure that Carmen was going to want to join him today, but he set her spot anyway. He had been doing so for the past five nights. Carmen hadn’t been able to get out of bed. He felt like, even though they were partners, and even though this was their shared loss, he would never know exactly how she was feeling. All he could do was take care of her, be there for her, let her know that he loved her, and that he was mourning with her. There was a hollow feeling in his chest, and he took a deep breath to try to push it away. He tried to quiet the ache that he felt, or at least to drown it out with the busyness of day-to-day activities, like spending most of his Saturday preparing a stew from scratch.

He selected the veggies and meat at the farmers market that morning, and got the mushrooms from a collective that foraged locally. Carmen loved them -- both the mushrooms and the people in the collective who were passionate about educating people about eating locally grown, sustainable foods. Matt immersed himself in the process of scrubbing each vegetable, peeling the carrots and onions, dicing the celery, carrots, and onions. Peeling the garlic, dicing the garlic. Scrubbing the mushrooms. Breaking down and deboning the chicken. Seasoning the chicken. As he peeled, diced, chopped, sliced, and seasoned, he worked on concentrating on each individual task, not allowing himself to get swallowed up by that nagging grief. By the time the roux was developed and the stew was simmering, Matt could no longer ignore his emotions. He sat on the kitchen floor and pulled his knees up to his chest. He didn’t cry, but he did allow his shoulders to relax. He didn’t realize how much tension he was carrying.

A little under an hour later Matt got up and continued preparing dinner. Carmen took her seat at the already set table. She could hear the scraping of the spatula against the cast iron as he emptied the last of the thick stew from the cast iron pot into the ceramic serving dish. The whirr of the range hood fan must have drowned out Carmen’s footsteps because Matt hadn’t yet noticed her presence. The oven timer dinged and he pulled out some freshly baked dinner rolls. They weren’t from scratch; they were the kind that you buy frozen and then bake at home. They still created that delicious heady, freshly-baked smell.

Carmen felt her stomach growl and she let out a quick, soft, surprised gasp. She hadn’t felt like eating for days. She hadn’t felt anything for days. Matt turned away from the oven to grab a basket for the bread from the kitchen island.

“Hey,” he said, gently, when he saw Carmen. He offered her a small smile, but his eyes were sad and sympathetic.

“Hey,” Carmen replied.

“I made chicken stew with lots of mushrooms… One of your favourites.”

“It smells great,” Carmen said, willing herself to smile. But that small allowance of emotions opened the floodgates, and her breath was released in a shaky, violent sob.

Matt made sure the stove and oven were off, and knelt beside Carmen, taking her hands in his. She leaned down and pressed her forehead to his. They cried together as the dinner rolls cooled and the stew developed a film on top. Carmen slid from her chair onto the floor, and into Matt’s arms. They had been trying to start their family for years. Before they even started trying, they made sure that they were in good health, and had been watching what they eat, taking vitamins, and staying active. As the months passed they started to get concerned. After a year they went to the doctor. They were told that they just need to be patient with themselves; these things take time. They gave it another six months. Carmen tracked her cycle meticulously. She took her temperature to make sure that her body was ready. They meditated, they prayed, they tried all of the relaxation and meditation techniques, even the ones of which they were skeptical. And then finally, it worked! But at the twenty-two week ultrasound, there was no heartbeat. Eight days later, they found themselves on the kitchen floor, holding each other tightly, as if for survival, oblivious to the continuing whirr of the fan, the phone ringing, and the music that blared from the neighbours’ backyard patio. At that moment, it was just the two of them. Again.

Carmen calmed herself first. She peppered Matt’s forehead with tiny kisses and stroked his hair. “I’m so sorry,” she said, “I’m so, so sorry…”

Matt wiped his face on his sleeve, “Not your fault, Carm,” he whispered. “Don’t blame yourself.”

“I don’t… I don’t feel guilty. I just feel… sad…”

“Me too.”

“I want to wait before we try again.”

“Me too.”

“I feel like I need some time.”

“I know Carm. I know.”

“But first?”

“Yes?”

“I need a good meal,” Carmen offered a slight smile.

Mat nodded, “I’ll reheat the food.”

“I really did smell amazing in here earlier,” Carmen said reassuringly.

“Let me tell you about what happened at the farmer market!” Matt immediately felt like he may have been a little too enthusiastic in his tone, but Carmen chuckled.

“Did you harass those nice mushroom gatherers again?”

“I didn’t harass them! I’m genuinely curious to know if they’re only interested in food mushrooms, or, you know, other mushrooms,” Matthew laughed.

“Matthew,” said Carmen, “I can’t let you out in public on your own… next Saturday, I’m coming to the market with you.”

Matthew’s wide, joking grin softened. “That’d be great, Carm,” he said. “That’d be great.”