The Car Ride Home

This story contains mentions of suicidal ideation, as well as pregnancy loss or miscarriage. Please don't read if these topics might affect you. Take care. XO.

The Car Ride Home

By: Halle Giannelli

I sit up in bed while my husband packs the remainder of our belongings for the car ride home. I only packed a couple bags, but over the course of my two night stay, the collection of items has grown. A care package from Mom. A bouquet of flowers from work. A folder of documents from the billing department I wish we could leave behind.

“All set. Are you ready to go?”

“The nurse said it’s hospital policy that I leave in a wheel chair. He’s on his way now.”

“Okay. Should I pull the car around, or wait here with you?”

I hug my arms around my chest, and he nods.

“I’ll stay with you.”

“Thank you.”

Nathan sits next to me on the bed. His weight jostles me a little and I place a hand on my abdomen.

“I’m sorry did I hurt you?”

“No, it’s honestly fine. Please, sit with me.”

He does and I think how foreign it feels to be close to him again. Does he feel the distance between us too? I reach for his hand. If I can hold him close, maybe he won’t leave. He intertwines his fingers through mine, which should be reassuring, but isn’t. The sick little voice in my head tells me he only does this out of habit.

“I love you, Sarah.”

“I love you too.”

He’s said these words a million times since we got here. Over and over and over. He repeats it, like maybe I can’t hear him. I say I love him back every time, but that’s not the real problem. How can he claim to love me, when he doesn’t really know me. The woman he loved died, and I’m not sure he really understands that yet. After six years of marriage, we’ve become strangers to one another.

“I think we will both feel so much better when we get home. Think how good it will feel to sleep in our own bed,” he says.

I humor him.

“A shower alone will be nice.”

This isn’t a complete lie. The nurses have insisted on supervising my showers, even now that my bandages are off. I didn’t really understand this at first. I’m capable of standing and washing myself. They mostly just wait by the door. I finally pieced it together yesterday. They aren’t really there to help me shower.

Two knocks sound on the big wooden door.

“Come in,” Nathan says, throwing the last bag over his shoulder.

A tall man in navy scrubs enters the room, wheel chair in tow

“Mrs. Green?”

“That’s me.”

He wheels me all the way to the parking garage, where he abruptly stops.

“You all have a safe drive home,” he says after depositing me onto the curb.

I think it’s strange that they make a fuss over taking you out in a wheelchair, just so you can walk all the way to the car, but I say nothing. At this point I would walk all the way home if I had to.

Nathan is holding my hand again, and even opens the car door for me, which isn’t something he’s done in recent memory. I know he’s trying, I just don’t know what he’s trying for. I don’t have the energy to ask.

“I’ll take it slow okay? That way there won’t be too many bumps."

“I’m fine.”

I feel his eyes on my cheek, which I know is slick with tears. I don’t want to cry over every little thing, but none of this is how I imagined it and it’s killing me. Finally, he looks away and puts the car in gear.

The half hour drive is loud, but not because we're speaking. The silence is loaded with words we’re afraid to say. Questions and answers we don’t dare breathe into existence.

Things like:

Do you still love me?

Is this all my fault?

Do you blame me?

Do you hate me as much as I hate myself?

Also,

Please don’t leave.

Dear God, please don’t leave me alone.

Instead, Nathan asks, “What do you want for dinner?”

The mundaneness of it shocks me out of my stupor. I blink open bleary eyes.

“What?”

“We can order takeout. Anything you want. I’ll even eat sushi. Seriously, it can be anything.”

“Why sushi?” I ask.

I know why he said it. I’m asking because a hateful part of me wants a reason to get angry with him. A reason to hate him as much as he surely hates me.

He thinks for a moment and says, “Because you’ve been talking about how much you miss eating sushi. I thought it might make you happy.”

And that’s all it takes. Sobs pour out of me in uncontrollable waves.

“I’m so sorry. Baby, I’m just so sorry. Please.”

This is Nathan’s mantra as he rubs circles on my back. At some point he must have pulled the car over. He looks upset, scared even, but still he doesn’t cry. I haven’t seen him shed even a single tear, and it makes me want to scream at him until he can’t stop. Until he’s just as fucking broken as me.

I take a deep breath. I don’t want Nathan to hurt. No one deserves pain like this. These thoughts aren’t real, and the voice in my head isn’t actually me. This is some sick twisted version of Sarah Green I didn’t know existed until now. The doctors warned us this could happen.

“I’m sorry. I’m okay now. Please, just take me home,” I beg.

***

I don’t eat sushi when I get home. I don’t eat anything. I sleep in my own bed under piles of blankets and pillows. Cocooned like a caterpillar—doomed to never know what it means to spread my wings and fly. I sleep for hours. Briefly, I wake to the sound of the microwave beeping. Nathan pops his head in to ask if I’ll eat soup and crackers. I pretend not to hear him, but we both know I’m awake.

It’s pitch black outside when I’m forced to use the restroom. Nathan isn’t in bed next to me, and I wonder if he’s decided to leave after all. He isn’t in the kitchen, but I find a note next to my prescription bottles, reminding me what pills to take and when. Nathan hasn’t left. I’m sure of it. I’m suddenly so sure of this fact, that I would stake my life on it. He’s seen me in the darkest moments of my life, and guided me home safely. This little note may not be much, but right now it’s the only proof I need. This man loves me and nothing will change that.

I wash down a pill with water from the tap. A quiet noise echoes down the hall. At first I think I’m imagining things. Nathan is crying.

He sits on the floor, legs crossed and head down. He looks so small in this great empty room, and that’s when I realize. The nursery is empty. No crib. No changing table. No diaper pale. No baby.

I sit next to him on the floor, but for once I’m not crying. I hold him while he breaks down. I stay strong for him, just as he’s been doing for me. He’s lost in the dark, but I’ve already been there. It’s my turn to be the light that carries him home. All of the emotions he’s held in for the last two days are laid bare before me, and I can finally see that I was never alone in my grief. I’ve never felt closer to him than in this moment.

When I feel his body still under my arms I ask, “Where did you put everything?”

“In storage.”

I nod, and wipe away his tears.

He says, “We’ll need it all back one day.”

“Yes, we will.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

I was wrong before. We aren’t strangers after all. We are the same Nathan and Sarah we always were. Only the pain is new, but we will get through it together.