No Body, No Crime

PART TWO :: August Slipped Away like a Bottle of Wine

TW:: Somewhat-graphic description of miscarriage

AN:: I do not speak from experience for this chapter (or any chapter, for that matter), this is merely what I was able to come up with from my research. If there's something factually inaccurate, please let me know and I'll adjust it. Happy reading! 

A month had passed since I'd stood at the base of the driveway, squinting to block out the cloudy blue sky on that bright day. So much had changed around me, yet I still felt like the same Marjorie Baker I'd been before. Had I known how quickly everything would change, I would've relished in those moments, savoring every sip of coffee and every time I smirked at the box of tampons stowed away underneath the bathroom sink that I wouldn't be using for the next nine months.

Everything was fine. It was good. Not the "fine" and "good" that so many teenage girls give when someone asks them how they're doing and if they're okay, but a genuine good. Nothing crazy had happened in town, and the neighbors seemed to be warming up to me just fine. Robin and I were delighted. We were planning a small, intimate wedding ceremony with just our families and closest friends, and I was excited to start as a teacher for the local elementary school in the fall. I'd be a high school science teacher, which I was thrilled about, and I'd been offered the opportunity to teach a high school forensics class, which I was over the moon about. And then August 31st happened.

The details of the last day of August were fuzzy. All I could remember was blood on my pants, my chair, and at one point in my hair. Medically speaking, it wasn't all over the place, but my vision was blurred, and everything seemed to have a bloody tint. However, that may have just been my natural emotional pain response- seeing my most significant fear come to life around me. I felt like everything was spinning out of proportion, out of control. The wine-colored blood stared at me as a painful reminder of what I was about to lose. I remembered the pain. The cramping was rough, but it was nothing compared to the hole being ripped inside me—my baby. We'd discovered that our winter-spring chicken would be a boy: little Augustine, my little Auggie. And yet here I was, mourning the loss of August.

I remembered crying, Saltwater creating ugly black mascara lines down my cheeks as I wept, sitting on the edge of mine and Robin's bed. I didn't care that I would get blood all over the quilt. I didn't care how I looked or what Robin might think.

I remember hearing the front door unlock and hearing Robin call for me. He must've listened to my crying- I wouldn't've been surprised if the entire neighborhood heard- because I heard him sprint up the stairs.

"Marj, what's wrong?"

I'd been weeping so hard that I couldn't even say a complete sentence.

"I- the- the baby-" I tried to say.

My efforts proved futile. Every time I gathered enough strength to pause my crying and try to say what was happening, I was broken back down again.

Robin, bless his soul, seemed to understand that there was some kind of emergency with the baby. I watched him scramble around, figuring out what to do, say, what was wrong.

At that moment, my suspicions about my imagination increasing the amount of blood around me were proven correct, as Robin didn't notice the blood until several moments later.

I watched as his eyes noticed the red on my pants. His face seemed to rapidly shift through a thousand and one emotions within a second. Shock. Confusion. Disappointment. Pain. Anger. My heart somehow found a way to break even more.

"We lost him, didn't we."

It wasn't a question. There was no doubt in his voice. We knew that our little Auggie was gone, forever. The baby we'd prayed so hard for had been reduced to the equivalent of a particularly intense period.

"I'm going to get us some help. Don't move." Robin slipped out of the room, leaving me a sobbing mess.

I don't know how long passed between when he left and when he returned with one of our neighbors, a sweet old lady named Betty. She invited me over every Sunday after church for lunch, a cup of tea, and the chance to hear more about her life and the stories that made her who she was today.

She poured something down my throat. I prayed it was something to wake me up from this nightmare or a shot of tequila or poison. All three sounded like good options.

"Drink that, honey. It'll help."

She sounded far away, and my vision started swimming. Robin's concerned expression seemed to turn blurry. I felt confused. Lost. Disoriented. It reminded me of when I was little, and I'd steal my momma's glasses and then try to walk around our apartment, bumping into furniture. I heard whispers that sounded far away. I couldn't pick out any words.

Then, all went dark.

I wish I would've remembered more of that day. I knew why I'd been blessed with selective amnesia of that event; my mind couldn't bear to store the memory of that intense pain. But I couldn't shake the feeling that if I could just remember a little more, if I'd been thinking just a little clearer, I would be able to pick out more of those whispers, something to explain the phrase I was so sure I'd heard Robin whisper to Betty when I'd been slipping out of consciousness.

"What do you mean, Este's alive?" 

A/N :: This one's definitely a short one