Love Turns With Twisted Fates 2 (14 page)

November 2006

“DIEGO,” I cry out. “I want you to stay.”

I’m this hot mess at his feet, begging him to tell Sasha he
couldn’t do another event. This is the third event in as many weeks. Plus the
two games per week and his obligations to his many endorsement deals, we’ve
really had to trade quantity for quality. Clearly, I’m not handling it well at
this point in time. I miss him so much it’s starting to hurt.

“Izzy,” he pleads with my name. “You know I can’t just
cancel like that. I don’t have anything for the next two weeks. Let’s make
plans to do something special,” he sounds desperate to make this right even
though he knows the only way to make this right is to cancel.

“Whatever Diego. Just go.” The sigh I let out sends a chill
down my spine and back up.

“Bella,”
he wants me to reassure him I’m okay. I
don’t have it in me, so I pick myself up from the floor and drag myself up the
stairs to the baby nursery. There’s a chasm between us and with every shutting
of the door behind him it gets deeper and wider.

He doesn’t say another word before he leaves and shuts the
door behind him. With the latch of the door, I feel the vice around my heart
squeeze just a little tighter.

Curled up on the love seat in the nursery, I hug my legs to
my chest. The task is not as easy as at eighteen weeks as it was at eight. They
say the flutters I’m feeling are probably just her—
yes, I’ve completely
adopted the idea that this little peanut is a girl
—trying out her arms and
legs. But I swear it’s her doing just as her auntie commanded.

I settle my hand over my belly and I feel my sadness ebb and
my thoughts carry me off to slumber. She’s in my arms, swaddled in a blanket as
I dance her around the living room singing to her about opening my eyes to see
her sweet face and it being a good morning, beautiful day. She’s about three
now, head full of curls and eyes that twinkle like her father’s. We’re twirling
around in the bathroom with hairbrushes for microphones singing about stopping
in the name of love. She spins again and she stands before me double in size
and a fish bowl with a floating fish. I lean down and sing softly of loss and
time easing the pain. When she bounds off, in the doorway she stands all
prettied up, but tears streaking her face. Holding her in my arms, I sing of
there being days like this. In the next moment, I’m on stage and she’s in the
center of the floor in a white dress and dancing with her father. I sing about loving
her first and giving her away.

The final image of her twirling the floor with Diego was
fleeting. In the next, there’s darkness and pain. The darkness is infinite and
the pain excruciating. I’m ripped from the unclear nightmare with a cry.
My
cry.

“
Ahhhh
,” I clutch the small bump that makes up my
belly. There’s a tearing pain and it hurts to move. I dig out my phone from my
pocket and try Diego. It goes straight to voice mail. I try again and again.
Each time the same result.

I cry out. The pain is increasing. With Alfred off for the
night, I call Grace. She urges me to try Diego again and she calls 9-1-1.

In my last attempt to reach Diego, I leave a message.

"Diego," thru sobs of pain, "something's
wrong...it hurts...” I cry out again, “...Diego, I need you." The phone
crashes to the ground, and me with it, with the next suffocating contraction.
Contraction?
NOOOOO!!! It's too soon.
The pain is intensifying, but there’s a reprieve
as the darkness returns to pull me under.

Waking in the hospital, I can’t recall how I got here or
why.
Why?
The beeps and ticks in the room prevent confusion from setting
in. "Oh my god." I reach for my belly and it all rushes back.

There’s a pounding on the door, but I’m stuck to the
floor. I register voices getting closer. The footsteps coming up the stairs
sound like a percussion line in a marching band.

Are those bells? No. Not quite.

“She’s in here,” I hear someone shout.

Are they looking for me?

“Oh my,” I hear the shocked gasp of a woman.

Why can’t I snap out of this? Where am I?

“She’s bleeding,” I hear another voice state.

Who’s bleeding? Me? The panic shakes me from my haze.

“MY BAAAABYYYY,” I hear myself scream, but it’s an out of
body experience. I’m wild with hysterics and I think I hear someone suggest
sedating me just before there was nothing.

My sudden movement shakes the bed. That’s when I register
Diego in a somber trance. He shifts to look at me, the sullen expression on his
face is all I need to confirm my worst fear.

“Izzy.” I can’t tell if it’s an apology or a plea, but the
world around me shatters.

“Noooo, please no.” I can’t keep still and the beeps on the
machines around me increase. The plea on repeat, each cry slightly louder and
filled with that much more pain. There’s instant chaos in the room.

“Ma’am, you need to calm down.”

“Calm down? Because waking up to discover I’ve lost my baby
isn’t reason enough to lose my shit? FUCK YOU!” Diego’s eyes go wide with my
curse. He just stares at me and I lash out. “Where were you Diego? Where were
you?” I scream.

They must’ve given me something, because my arms and legs
feel like Jell-O and my mind begins to numb.

Tonight the music died and with it light...and hope.

In a flash, the silence was deafening. It was as if the
world stopped and tilted on its axis. I wanted so badly to find the play
button. How can it not be there? This is my solace. The one place where the
words are just right and the melodies touch on a note in my head and my heart.
The one place where everything makes sense and hope exists.

And it's gone...
she’s gone.

November 2006

I register familiar faces, but I don’t hear a thing.

When those reading my chart can’t mask their emotions fast
enough, I put on a sweet smile to ease them. It seems to work, because relief
washes over their faces every time. It usually earns me an apologetic smile and
a squeeze of my hand.

Yesterday, I lost my baby.

Lost?

Like she could be found.

But she’s not going to be.
No
.

Last night, my baby died.

No more dancing with her in my arms. No more twirling around
with hairbrush microphones. No more songs to help with love and loss. No more
watching her spin across the dance floor with Diego.

But why?

I always get stuck on why. My mind unable to answer the
question. My heart wants to curse fate. This battle between mind and heart goes
on and on, before I eventually give in to the tiredness that’s always present.

Here in my sleep, I get brief glimpses of her. But mostly,
here in my sleep, the pain doesn’t exist.

I am numb.

November 2006

After a week, my hearing returned, but still I didn’t talk.
I opted for a modified sign language. My most favorite gesture was resting my
head on my pressed together hands. Sleep was still the only place I didn’t hurt.

I don’t know how long ago it was or how long it’s been, but
it feels like pain has decided to take a permanent place in my heart. Out of
nowhere, it will grab a hold of my battered organ and I make the only sound
that I’m capable of making—it’s a strangled cry with a sharp intake of breath.
It’s usually just Diego around when it happens. I try to give him my smile to
take away the pain I see in his face, but it seems to make him angry. He
usually tells me to, “Don’t do that, Izzy.” I’m not sure if he’s talking about
my outburst or the smile.

Today, it happened when Grace came to visit. She sat with
Diego and me in the living room. Both of them attempting to make small talk
about nothing important, I stared out the windows watching the rain hit the
panes of glass. I don’t mean to, but I constantly tune those around me out. I
was lost in the counting of raindrops when music filled the room and the pain
gripped my heart and squeezed. Through labored breaths and screams, I was able
to tell Diego to turn it off. When the music stopped, so did the pain.

I went back to my trance-like state, staring at the
raindrops. I think I heard Grace tell Diego to have faith. Something about a
process of grieving. She left without me noticing. I eventually dozed off to
where pain didn’t exist.

When I wake, it’s dark outside and throughout the house. I
see a glow of light coming up the stairs from the kitchen below. I think I hear
Diego, so I make my way through the dark room to the stairs.

What I hear stops me in my tracks.

“Mazzy, I can’t find my Izzy. She just sits there and
stares. When she catches one of us looking, she gives us this smile meant to
ease our pain. Where’s her pain? How is this healthy? Why won’t she talk?”

He’s an endless track of questions. I hear the pain and
terror in his voice and this time when my own pain makes an appearance I hold
it in. “Then, out of nowhere she screams,” he huffs out a breath. “She did it
today with Grace here. Grace suggested I play music. Fuck if that didn’t make
it fucking worse. She just screamed until I shut it off.”

“Music, Mazzy! Music made her do that. The sound that came
from her sounded like she was in the most wretched fucking pain ever.” My
heartbreaks with every confession and it takes every ounce of my resolve to let
him have this moment.

“What am I going to do? I just want my Izzy back. I know we
lost something, but we didn’t lose us,” he pauses as if waiting for an answer.
“Baz, you don’t have to do that.” He pauses, waiting for Baz to finish what
he has to say. “No.” There’s another pause. “Lito won’t take no for an answer
either.
Está bien, hermano.
”

“Mazzy,” he implores, “Lito and Baz will be here, you don’t
need to come, too.”

“You’re right,” I hear the surrender in his voice, “she
probably does need you. But Mazzy, I need her to need me, too.”

The sob that I couldn’t rein in has Diego hastily ending his
phone call and darting up the stairs. He’s shocked when he sees me sitting at
the top with tears streaming down my face. While I can’t find my voice, I
manage to reach out to him.

“Oh, Izzy,” his voice cracks as he reaches out to scoop me
up into a cradling hug. He sits us on the top of the stairs and I nuzzle into
my space between his chin and his collar. He carries me to our bedroom where he
removes the day’s outfit and replaces it with a nightshirt. He gathers me in
his arms again and crawls into bed.

I lay their cradled in his arms, my head tucked beneath his
chin; ear pressed to his chest. The beat of his heart lulling me to sleep, the
rubbing of his hand up and down my arm soothing. “Come back to me, Izzy.” I
hear before I doze off.

November 2006

In less than a week, our home was filled with houseguests.

Lito and Baz got here the quickest. I gave Sebastian the
biggest hug and I sat in the arms of Lito for hours. He rested my head on his
lap and rubbed my back. “Izzy,
mi bella preciosa
,” he cooed. Then he
sang to me “Cielito Lindo.”

“Ay, ay, ay, ay,” his voice was soft, but I could hear the
sadness in it. “
Canta y no llores
.” Sing and don’t cry. “
Porque
cantando se alegran, cielito lindo, los corazones
.” Because singing makes
happy, pretty little heaven, the hearts.

Mazzy followed a few days later. And she cried with me in my
bed. I still didn’t have the voice, but she held me while I fell apart. With a
tear-streaked face, Mazzy promised me things would get better. That when it was
time, fate or “whoever else is in charge” would give me the family she knew I
deserved.

A couple of days after Mazzy’s arrival, Diego went back to
work. Apparently, he’d been home with me every day for almost a month. Every
day since
that
day. I overheard him telling his agent that it was
“strictly practices and games. Izzy is still not one hundred percent and she’s
my top fucking priority. Nope.” He must’ve paused for whatever his agent was
asking. “Not even for Sasha. Don’t care,” he answered back. “Yes,” he barks.
“Have them drop it off here.”

I feel a dip in the couch in the space beside me. “
Bella
,”
Diego coos. I must have dozed off.

When I open my eyes, I’m overwhelmed with the need to speak.
“Diego,” I croak, my voice cracking from the lack of use. His shock at hearing
my voice hurts. The tears I see pooling in the corner of his eyes breaks me all
over again.

I reach up to swipe away the one tear that got loose with my
thumb. With my hand pressed to his face, he leans in to deepen the connection.
His eyes close and as much as I want to talk, I can’t get it to work. I
struggle with my unvoiced apology. He must sense my frustration, because he
opens his eyes and they’re full of sympathy. “Don’t worry, Izzy. I know.”

But he doesn’t.

I stare into his dulled russet brown eyes. He doesn’t know
that I’m sorry I blamed him. That when I woke up from that mess that night the
only thing I could think of was that he wasn’t there for me. The one person
that was
always
supposed to be there for me wasn’t. That, through the
haze of bright lights, stark white walls, and the beeps and ticks of machines,
I felt utterly and helplessly alone. Unsure of what was happening, I was scared.
I blamed him. He looks so apologetic and it breaks my heart and the dam holding
back the tears.

He doesn’t know that I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough to not
fall apart. A heart-wrenching sob shakes me, but I don’t tear my gaze from his.
He doesn’t know that in my inability to accept the fate we’d been handed, I
lost my fight. I let this loss take away my voice and used sleep to escape the
pain. He doesn’t know that sleep was where I saw her. Still, sometimes see her.
Where I got to hold her and watch her grow. He doesn’t know that almost every
time I open my eyes, I wish for nothing less than a permanent sleep where I
never have to say goodbye to her. I beg for sleep in my pain, because there,
she
is with me.

He doesn’t know that this emptiness inside of me feels
permanent. Like the pain hollowed out a space in my heart where happiness goes
to die.

He doesn’t know that I hate how pathetic I am.

Cradled in his arms, he doesn’t know.