Elizabeth Grace
Sarah traces the curves of Emma’s cradle and rests her fingertips on the soft flannel sheet fitted neatly against its hand-turned slats. She pulls the tiny mattress out, presses her face against it, and inhales deeply. She feels David’s hand on her shoulder and looks up at him, hugging the bedding tightly to her chest. Her husband kneels behind her and lays his head on hers, his arms circling her small frame, and rocks her gently as her silent tears fall onto the pale pink fabric and spread into darker pink circles.
They meet every day after work in the little room at the end of the hall, the two of them who loved her most. Sarah usually gets there first and though in the beginning he tried to coax her out into the living room, David has come to find an uneasy comfort in their shared evening ritual.
Emma’s first photograph, the ultrasound printout of her at twenty-two weeks gestation, sits framed on the little table next to the rocking chair that had belonged to Sarah’s grandmother. David picks it up and studies the cloudy image, looking for clues.
***
Emma had seemed like a dream to him until she was born, red and wailing, head thrown back in protest. But at that very moment, with him draped in a pale yellow paper gown, his wife on the bed, happy and exhausted, and his newborn daughter thrust unwillingly into the world, David Boyle got the first glimpse of how fragile his seemingly safe world really was.
From childhood on, David had always felt confident and in control. His understanding of life was simple: If you do the right things, everything goes as it should. For twenty-eight years, his experiences supported that belief, but early one spring morning, all that David had come to trust slipped away quietly as he and his wife slept, unaware, just two doors down.
In their first days without Emma, David and Sarah were kept occupied by the frenzied rush of well-wishers who tried to ease their pain with casseroles and awkward words. When David drove his parents to the airport, Sarah was alone for the first time in almost a week and the solitude stung like a prickly rash. She opened the door to Emma’s room and stood frozen at its threshold, unable to step onto the cheery rug decorated with white bunnies, seated for a tea party. She slid her back down the doorframe and sat, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees, until David returned.
That evening, the couple made their way into their daughter’s room for the first time since they’d left it, days earlier, trailing after the paramedics, numb with disbelief. Sarah noticed the velvety blanket draped over the arm of the rocking chair and reached toward it cautiously as if it were a strange dog she feared might bite. They walked together through the room touching Emma’s things, strangely foreign to them now, until finally they sat, defeated, in the nook of the bay window.
Sarah looked at her husband, her eyes searching for reassurance he couldn’t provide, and began to weep. Her cries came softly at first, but then grew until they were great angry gasps, burning at her throat. David watched his wife and wished he had something to offer. Frightened by his own impotence, he closed his eyes and tried to shut out the new reality of his life.
As the days turned into weeks, both David and Sarah grew to look forward to their time in the room, lit by summer’s early evening light. It was only there they felt no pressure to march bravely through the stages of grief, all neatly outlined in the brochures and pages printed from internet articles given to them by friends and family members in their efforts to help. Outside the nursery’s comfortable confines, an unspoken urgency to reach acceptance surrounded them, but in Emma’s room, no one offered sympathetic smiles or amateur psychological advice. There, unlike anywhere else, David and Sarah were free to sit with each other and their memories of their daughter, free to dwell on thoughts of her tiny smile and dimpled thighs, and free to admit, if only to themselves, that a part of them would forever remain broken.
Emma had lived in their home for three months and sixteen days. Add to that the months of loving anticipation, and the year that was Emma’s was one of enormous transformation. Her abrupt departure did little to halt the dreams her parents held for her. They would never buy birthday cakes or party dresses, would never stand proudly at her graduation or sit together, hand in hand, watching as she spoke her wedding vows, but for David and Sarah, who loved her most, thoughts of those events came in waves that brought both comfort and pain.
***
David places Emma’s ultrasound picture back on the table and scoots around to face his wife, who is still clutching tightly to the mattress. He takes it from her gently and places it back into the cradle. “It’s gone,” she says, shaking her head. “I can’t smell her anymore.”
“A few days ago,” David says, taking Sarah’s hand, “I couldn’t remember her face. Remember how she looked when she’d finish nursing? That sleepy, satisfied smile?”
David stops and swallows hard, tears welling up in his eyes. Sarah nods and squeezes her husband’s hand, urging him to continue. “I can’t remember that look. I’ve been trying and trying, but I can’t remember that look.”
Sarah leans into her husband and rests her forehead against his. They stay like that for several minutes, neither of them speaking, and then Sarah sits back. “How do we do this?” she asks him. “How do we let her go?”
“I don’t want to let her go,” David answers, his face crumbling. “What kind of father forgets what his daughter looks like?”
Sarah runs her hands down David’s wet cheeks and then rests her palms on her thighs. “I’m scared,” she says.
“Me, too.”
***
Sarah rubs the sleep from her eyes and draws her robe tightly around her. She heads to the kitchen, where David is turning potatoes and peppers in a skillet. When he sees her, he lays the spatula down, grabs another mug from the cupboard, and slides it toward her. She pours herself a cup of coffee and tops his off, leaning in for a kiss before returning the pot to its spot on the counter.
“What’s this?” Sarah asks, picking up a large envelope and pulling up the open flap. She empties a fistful of brochures onto the table and selects a pale blue one.
“It’s the stuff the social worker gave us at the hospital,” David answers. “I thought maybe it was time.”
Sarah reads the title. When a Child Dies…The Compassionate Friends Can Help. “Oh, David,” she says, setting the paper back down with the others.
“They meet at The Cornerstone Church on Tuesdays,” David offers, keeping his eyes focused on his cooking. “I checked.”
A rush of heat passes through Sarah’s cheeks and she pulls out a chair to sit, her stomach suddenly uneasy. She flips through the pile of brochures, all with similar titles.
“Talking to a bunch of strangers isn’t going to bring Emma back,” she says, and then adds, “and it won’t help you remember her smile.”
David looks up from the potatoes, clearly stung by his wife’s remark. “I’m sorry, David. I shouldn’t have said that.” Sarah gets up and moves to him, raising her arms to circle his neck. “And I didn’t mean it.”
“I know you didn’t.” David puts his arms around Sarah’s waist and pulls her close. He nods toward the table. “Just think about it, okay?”
***
David opens the heavy wooden door and they go in. A few dozen people mill about the room, some standing in small groups. Folding chairs are arranged in a large circle, and Sarah is relieved to see that no one is crying. In the car a few minutes earlier, Sarah confessed she didn’t think she could stand being in the midst of a mass of suffering people, but as she scans the room, she is comforted and surprised by the normalcy of the group. If it weren’t for the paper sign taped to the door, she might have thought she and David had entered the wrong room.
Sarah watches as a middle-aged woman opens boxes of donuts and fans napkins on a card table. When she notices Sarah, the woman smiles and walks toward the couple, her hand outstretched. David accepts the woman’s handshake while Sarah stands stiffly beside him, fists wound together in a concrete grasp.
“Welcome,” she says. “I’m Joyce.” Looking at David, she asks, “Are you the man who called last week?”
“Yes,” David answers. “I’m David Boyle and this is my wife, Sarah.”
“I’m glad you decided to join us,” Joyce tells them. “I hope you feel at home here.” She looks at Sarah and touches her arm. “You lost your infant daughter?”
Sarah’s throat tightens and for a moment she fears she won’t be able to speak. “Yes,” she says quietly, looking at the older woman. “Emma.”
Joyce tilts her head, her face soft with understanding. “I’m so sorry,” she says. “How long has it been?”
David puts his arm around Sarah’s shoulder and squeezes her gently. “Almost six months,” he tells Joyce. “And we just…” He stops, unsure of what to say.
Joyce nods. “You just want to find out,” she says, looking first at David and then at Sarah. “You want to find out how you go on without Emma.”
Joyce’s eyes meet Sarah’s, and she smiles gently at the younger woman. “You’ll never be the same,” she says, placing her hand on Sarah’s. “But you can build a happy life again, I promise.”
Sarah looks up at David, her face mirroring his uncertainty, but she allows Joyce to take her hand and guide them deeper into the room, where they are welcomed into the circle.