An Anticipated Guest

Four walls of plaster and wooden frames. The old shag carpet was removed and the wood floor beneath restored to its former glory; sanded, stained, and buffed until the sleek wood shined. Two identical doors on perpendicular walls, one led to the hallway and the other to a small closet. The ceiling was two inches too low and the single box window was too small. No way to fix that, at least not yet.

The couple painted the walls a soft yellow in preparation for their guests arrival. They placed the bed on the only empty wall. A plush gray rug in the center of the floor, a rocking chair in the corner, curtains on the window. A dresser, a bookshelf, a basket of toys. 

They count down the months. 

Seven months left.

“No, move the bed. There under the window.” She said. He did. “That's much better.” She smiles up at him and kisses his cheek.

Three days later the bed was back on the other wall. “We can’t have it there! The curtains are dangerous, what if they fall?”

Another month passed and the couple spends a Friday evening in the room hanging art on the wall. A cartoon zoo. Baby zebras, lions, and elephants smile down from the walls with comically cute eyes. 

“What in the world is that?” He asks one evening after arriving home from work.

“Isn’t it lovely?” She beams. “I saw it at an antique shop this afternoon. We need it for the room. You know, that wall above the chair?”

A long hanging shelf with iron fixtures. 

He touches it with a light brush of his finger and shows it to her. Black with dust. She shoos him away.

“We’ll have to refurbish it. Clean it up and give it a fresh coat of paint. I’m thinking gray to match the rug...”

“Right.” He says, “And by ‘we’ you mean...”

She smiles and kisses his cheek.

By the end of the week the piece is out on the curb waiting for the garbage truck (“We can’t hang that! It’s covered with dirt and dust! It’s probably carrying diseases!”) and a brand new replacement from Amazon is on the way. 

In the end, the wall is left empty. “There’s too much clutter in that corner.” She says, and that is that.

Five more months.

The toy basket fills and then overflows. Stuffed puppies and bears, monkeys, cats, and a terrifying toy clown that sang ‘Happy Birthday’ of all songs- a gift from her aunt. The most prized possession, too precious to reside among the lesser toys, earned a special spot in the room. A stuffed pig, once a vibrant pink, now soft with age. Thirty years old. His from childhood. “Pete is his name.” He tells her, an edge of emotion creeping in to his voice. “Pete the Pig.” She looks at him through tear-filled eyes as they place him in the crib.

Four months.

On other subjects of names, the couple disagrees ferociously. 

“John.” He says.

She shakes her head. “Asher?” She asks.

“No.” The response. “George?”

“Is it 1920? Ezra?”

“Michael?”

“Miles?”

“Peter?”

“Like the pig?” She asks. He throws a pillow at her.

“Like my grandfather.” 

They laugh, light. “For a girl?” She asks. They speak at the same time.

“Jemma.”

“Ellen.”

“You can’t be serious.” She says.

“Jemma?” He wrinkles his nose.

And so it goes, long into the night.

Three months. She organizes and reorganizes the closet. She fills the dresser drawers. She does load after load of laundry. The special outfit, a gray and yellow jumper with matching mittens and a white lace bonnet, earns a place in the crib alongside Pete the Pig. 

Two.

Late one evening he comes home from work to find her asleep in the rocking chair. He kisses her nose and kneels down in front of her, rubbing his hands over her belly. 

“I’ve got it.” He says.

“Hmmm.” 

“Honey, did you hear me?” He asks, “I said I’ve got it.”

“What’s that?” Her voice is thick with sleep.

“The name. For a girl. Are you ready?”

She forces her eyes open and looks at him. She is ready. She is ready to shoot down another of his ridiculous names.

He waits a moment longer, letting the suspense build. 

“Emma.” He says at last.

The name hangs in the air between them.

“Emma.” She repeats. He nods. “Emma.” She says again.

The name settles. First inside her mind and then in her heart. “Emma.” It leaves her lips a third time, filling the space until the room seems ready to burst. The entire house doesn’t feel large enough to hold the weight behind that name. 

He says it this time. “Emma.” 

And so it is.

They laugh. They kiss. They take turns saying the name back and forth to each other until it no longer sounds like a word and then repeat it over and over until it does again.

The final month inches on, the house buzzes with anticipation, the couple can barely contain their excitement. 

The room awaits, eager.

And...

Another month. And empty, still.

Four more weeks. 

Five.

Six...

The door creaks open. A sliver of light from the hallway cuts across the room, illuminating the rocking chair in the corner. She enters, ghost-like, and stops on the rug in the middle of the room. She is lost. She means to sit in the chair but finds herself crumpled on the floor instead. She wants to get up but can’t. She stays on the floor instead.

Several hours later he returns home from work. His house is empty and silent. He goes in the front door and up the stairs to his bedroom, meaning to take a hot shower and fall into bed. 

At the top of the stairs he stops cold. The door to The Room is open. They hadn’t been in there since... 

They had a silent mutual agreement not to discuss it. And that meant leaving The Room alone. 

He walked to the door, steeled himself, and entered. 

She laid in the middle of the floor, pale and small like a child. 

She knows he is there but neither speaks.

“Come on.” He says finally. “Come on, let's go to bed now.”

She does not move. 

“Come on.” He tries again.

Still nothing.

“Don’t do this.” His voice is barely a whisper. “Please.”

He stands helpless while she remains, unmoved, on the floor.

“I’m here.” He says. These are the words he has been wanting to say to her for weeks. “I am still here.” Once says them the floodgates are open, he cannot stop. “Come back to me. Come back to me! I’m right here!”

His words bounce off the walls around them and hang like thick smoke in the empty room. 

“We can have another baby?” He says it like a question. It is his final plea. 

He hangs his head. He turns to leave. He stops at the door. 

“You didn’t even know her.” 

They are vicious words, meant to cut deep, meant to cause a reaction.

There is none. She does not speak. He leaves in silence. She does not move until he is gone from the room. She looks at the dresser, the toy chest, the closet full of brand new clothes that will never be worn and toys that will never be played with. The bed that will never be slept in. The yellow and gray jumper collecting dust atop the pristine crib sheets that will now never become wrinkled. The empty rocking chair.

They had taken an empty room and filled it with furniture, clothes, and toys. They’d filled it with life and hope for the future. They’d filled it with her. With Emma. Now the room is stale. Empty once again, despite everything in it.  

“I knew her.” She whispers. “I knew her.”