That Rainy DayA Story by Anonymous Me
The rain came pouring down just as the first scream went piercing through the air. The gruff pitter-patter of the water droplets increased in fury and noise, as though it was battling the woman for the glory of the louder sound. Amara would have gladly handed over the deciding crown of noise had the screams been voluntary. She waddled to the bathroom with as much speed as her swollen ankles could muster. Both hands clutched the sides of her big, round belly. When the bathroom door came into view, another contraction forced her to her knees and scraped another screech up and out of her throat. She held onto the doorway of the twins’ unfinished nursery for support as she clambered to make her way to a squat, two alarming words blasting on repeat in her mind.
She was just barely finishing her second trimester. Through a mental haze brought on by the excruciating pain, she struggled to calculate the time before her due date. Three months. One week. Four days. Her abdomen ached and sweat crowded her brow. She began to shake beneath the almost unbearable pain and the fear for the health of her unborn children. A blinding rush of agony threw her back off of her feet and flat onto her back, leaving her with less leverage than she had started with. She struggled to raise her neck to assess her situation. Her eyes overflowed with tears when she saw the nerve-wracking pool of dark red blood widening between her legs, turning the white carpet a sickening pink as it sunk in around the edges. She felt the warm blood uncomfortably pasting her maternity dress to her skirt and struggled to prop herself up onto her elbows.
Gasping, she heard the latch on the door to the garage open and heard the first thick steps of work boots against hardwood floors. She tried to call out to her husband but the pain swallowed up her voice. She listened impatiently as he tossed his car keys onto the white tile of the kitchen counter and then heard the softer sound of him setting his yellow hard hat beside them. She heard the sucking sound as the fridge opened, and the notes he whistled floated down the hallway and back down to her. Unreasonably, she despised him for being so calm.
“Mara,” he called sweetly, “I’m home. How are my girls doing?” When he turned the hallway, she shot him a desperate look.
“What happened?” he asked, his eyes widening to mirror her own. His voice elevated in panic. She tried to smile to sooth him, but another scream wrenched out of her vocal cords and a back-arching contraction coursed through her, lifting her up and then slamming her back down.
This was impossible.
This was impossible.
But as denial struggled to find its place on the scene, the signs of an early labor only became more evident. Amara let out a war cry of begrudging compliance as she gave in to natures will.
She pushed as hard as she could. She pushed until there was nothing left. And then she pushed past that, all the while beseeching God in prayer"begging him that he keep her children safe and healthy. At some point in those five hours she felt her husband grasp her hand and brush the wet strands away from the crown of her forehead. She looked at him, wanting to say something vicious. But she couldn’t even scream through the pain anymore. Her voice was hoarse and dry. She couldn’t waste what little breath there was left inside of her on words that she didn’t mean.
Instead, she tried to listen to Chris’s words of encouragement, but the words took on color and personification in the air hiding behind her blurred vision. They then glided down the hallway as a mirage brought on by the lack of blood in her system.
With one last big push and a final word of prayer, she heard the second cry of another healthy baby. Innocent and serene. Perfect, however premature.
While her husband cut off the umbilical chord, she imagined the way her children would look. Her eyes. His nose. Her father’s thin brows. His mother’s lengthy lashes. Her furious red hair. And Chris’s excited smile. She extended a weak hand toward Chris, the only means she had for requesting to see her children. When he angled them toward her, she saw that each of them were far more beautiful that she could have ever imagined. Too beautiful for the written word. One of them curled her tiny hand around Amara’s index finger, while the other weakly grabbed at the air. Just happy to be alive and already so eager to taste the world.
“Mommy loves her baby girls,” she said, riding those five words across one last breath. Amara dug her fingers into her hands so that something might hurt worse than leaving them behind. It was a foolish attempt at distraction. Nothing could generate more pain than being ripped away from those you loved before you had a chance to earn their love in return. Tears streamed down her face, ignoring her mental pleas for them to cease. Chris smiled at her, mistaking them for motherly tears of joy. He lowered a work worn hand to her face and wiped away a series of tears with his loving thumb.
“You are going to be a great mom,” he said. It was too much for her. And she kept on trying to be strong, even though she had every right to break down. She gave him a sad, trembling smile and shook her head so slightly that it could not be noticed by her beloved, and already emotionally overwhelmed, husband. She turned her face away from him to save him from the sight of the now uncontrollable tears. Still wanting him close though, she held his hand to her face with her own weak one.
The scent of new baby swirled around with the stench of blood in the air and wafted towards her nose, and her chest shook violently with heavy sobs in response.
She thought of all the things she was going to miss. Her daughters’ first day of kindergarten. Their wedding days. Her own twenty-fifth anniversary. The look on her parent’s face when they laid eyes on their granddaughters. Throughout all of these moments and milestones, her children would not even notice her absence.
With a final sigh and a mouthed goodbye, she allowed herself to withdraw from her family and therefore from the world. Death did not take her quick enough to keep her from hearing the sharp intake of Chris’s breath as he realized that he would raise their children alone with only the memory of her love as an aide.
© 2012 Anonymous Me
Added on March 20, 2012
Last Updated on April 4, 2012
Abouti have a lot of things to write here but none that I feel that you really need to know. I guess i can tell you that i love to write. It's the only time when i am truly forthcoming. I've been told that.. more..