F*ck Love

  News of the Della/Kit wedding comes five months later via Instagram (surprise, surprise!), where Della posts a picture of her freshly manicured hand with the caption: He put a ring on it!

  Also, their baby’s lungs are developed, and she can open and close her eyes. We know it’s a her because Della hasn’t stopped announcing it … also on her Instagram.

  I feel sick. Also, stupid caption. #realoriginaldells

  I also feel sick because I’m so mean-hearted. #imsorry

  Della will not get married until she’s had her baby and is back to a size two. I feel comforted by this. It’s not imminent, and I have time to adjust. As for Kit: fuck you, you fuck! I make to delete his number from my phone again, then I start to type a text. I want to send him something angry and mean. Coward! Fool! But I can’t find the words to express how I’m feeling. How am I feeling? I touch the patch of skin that rests over my heart, massaging it. It aches right there. I almost had something, and now I’ll never know it. I’ll never know what I want most. I do text him.

  Fuck you, Kit.

  It doesn’t take him long to respond: Helena…

  The text bubble appears and disappears. I wait, but it doesn’t come. I feel disregarded. Used. And then my phone rings. A chill runs through me when I see his name. I have never spoken to Kit on the phone. I answer.

  I don’t say a word, though he knows I’m there because he says my name.

  “Helena…” I can hear him breathing into the receiver. Harsh breath. I cover my mouth with my free hand so he can’t hear me crying.

  “Helena,” he says my name again. “I’m so sorry. Please believe me.”

  We sit in the middle of that for a few seconds. My heart shakes off the day’s numbness and begins to ache.

  “It’s not what I wanted. I wanted you. I can’t run away from this. This child is part of me.”

  His voice breaks, and I wonder where he is. In the storage room at work? In his car? At the home they’ll share with their child? I can’t hear anything aside from the roughness of his voice as he speaks those words.

  “I know,” I say.

  “I’m a coward,” he says. “I’ve wanted to talk to you every day since I left, and I haven’t known what to say.”

  “There really isn’t anything to say, is there, Kit?”

  “There is. That I’m sorry. That I had no right to pursue you and then hurt you. That it wasn’t easy for me to walk away. I ignited something in your heart, and then left you to burn on your own. Forgive me, Helena. I wanted to protect you from the world’s cruelty, not become it.”

  I can’t. I bend over, wrapping my arms around my belly. There isn’t a way to stop the grief. I’m going to have to let it take its course. I need his words to seal the wound.

  “Thank you,” I say softly.

  And then I hang up.

  I wake up. My phone is ringing. I fumble for the light, knocking things off the nightstand—my water bottle and my watch hit the floor. I reach for my phone.

  Kit

  I sit up, swiping hair from my face. I can’t find my ear! Where is my ear? My topknot has fallen to the side of my head and is covering my ear like a giant fur earmuff.

  “Hello?” My voice is thick, filled with sleep. I look for my bottle of water, but it rolled under the bed.

  “Helena…”

  I get chills at the sound of his voice. When someone calls you in the middle of the night it’s never a good thing.

  “Yes, what’s wrong?” I’m suddenly wide awake, standing up and walking over to the window.

  “It’s Della,” he says. I hear a lot of words after that. I can barely make sense of them before he’s said something else that has me reeling. But the thing that stands out most is, “We don’t know if she’s going to make it.”

  I go to them—all three of them. After stuffing clothes into a bag, grabbing deodorant and contact solution, I wake Greer to drive me to Seattle. I take the first flight, and don’t sleep a second of it. I clutch my hands between my knees and bounce my feet on the floor until my seatmate asks me to stop. I can’t throw the feeling that this is all my fault. It’s illogical, but if I’d been there, maybe…

  Kit meets me at the airport, standing at the bottom of the escalator with red-rimmed eyes and hair longer than I’ve ever seen it. I run, throwing myself into his open arms, and we stand like that, holding each other. I try not to cry, but the way his shoulders sag around me. God. I lose it. People must look as they walk by, but we don’t notice.

  “Is that all you brought?” he asks of my duffel. He won’t look at me when he pulls way. I wipe away my tears and nod. We head for the car in silence. I want to ask him a million things: How did this happen? What can they do for her? What are you feeling? What are you thinking? How is the baby?

  We climb into his truck. I notice the carseat in the back, and my stomach clenches. I quickly turn back around. I don’t want to think about that.

  It’s not until we are on the freeway, rain pounding down from a charcoal sky that he tells me what happened.

  “She had an amniotic fluid embolism.” He says this, carefully; I imagine just like the doctors said it to him. “The amniotic fluid got into her bloodstream during the birth. It made her blood unable to clot, so during labor she started bleeding out. Disseminated intravascular coagulation. After Annie was born, they rushed Della out and wouldn’t tell me anything.”

  Annie, I think. So sweet.

  “They made us wait forever. God, that was the longest day of my life. They wouldn’t let me see her or the baby. The doctor finally came out and told us her kidneys shut down, and her lungs filled with fluid. They put her in a medically-induced coma to allow her body to heal.”

  My reaction is mostly internal; I don’t want to freak out in front of Kit and make things worse. I clutch the edge of my seat with both hands as he speaks. God, Della. She almost died. We could have lost her. And I wasn’t here.

  “Is she…?” My voice cuts—breaks—whatever you want to call it.

  “We don’t know.” He pauses, and out of the corner of my eye I see his hand swipe at his cheek. “They asked us if she was religious. Told us to have a priest come.”

  I wrap my arms around my stomach and lean forward until my head touches the dash. This was not the sort of thing that happened in real life; this was a special on television, a soap opera. The fact that it was happening to my best friend seemed inconceivable. Couldn’t be. I’d get to the hospital and she’d be fine, sitting up in bed holding Annie, her hair perfect and shiny, styled to perfection so everyone could walk in and say, ‘Oh my God! I can’t believe you just had a baby!’

  “The baby?” I ask Kit. “Annie?”

  “She’s fine,” he says. “Perfect.”

  “There’s something else,” he says.

  God, what else could there be?

  “They had to give her an emergency hysterectomy.”

  I get a cold shiver. It runs all the way through my body and out my fingertips. Della was from a big, Italian family. Her mother was only able to have three children before the doctor told her another would kill her. Since as far back as I can remember, Della’s mother had been prepping Della to have the large family she herself had always wanted. Her older brother, Tony, was a bachelor. He had no intention of settling down, and her sister, Gia, was a lesbian. No one in the family would speak to Gia, who lived in New York with her partner and their three rescue dogs. She doesn’t even get pedigrees, Della had said once about Gia’s dogs. She just takes all the mutts. It was an unspoken thing that Della would be the one to carry the large family torch. This was going to crush her. If she woke up.

  Since it’s a Saturday, the hospital is crowded. Visiting families, children holding tightly to parents’ hands. I have to remind myself that not everyone is here for something sad. Babies have been born, kidney stones have been removed, lives have been saved. Kit grabs my hand and leads me through hallways and up elevators until we are on the fifth floor. Everything
on this floor is hushed, somber. I try to ignore the thoughts of panic that enter my mind, but they are loud. They put her here to die, and they told her Catholic family to bring a priest.

  We walk past the nurses’ station to a room at the end of the corridor. I am breathing through my mouth, afraid of what the smells will make me feel. Beggiro is written on the white board outside the door. I brace myself, hold my breath, clench both fists. The door pushes open, and my eyes focus on the hospital bed. It’s strung across with lines: red ones, white ones, all connecting to machinery that stands like sentries beside her. They are loud, protesting her medical condition with beeps, and clicks, and humming. Her mother sits in a chair to her right; her brother is asleep on a cot. I am embraced, spoken to through tears and random Italian words I’ve come to know well over the years. It is only when they are through with me that I approach the bed and get a look at my best friend. My hand goes to my mouth, and I stifle a cry. This is not Della. It’s not.

  She is swollen, bruised; her face is a dull beige, like cooked pasta. I want to brush her hair away from her face-why has no one done that? It hangs limp and dirty. When I turn around, Kit is standing by the door, head bowed as if looking at her hurts him. I touch her hands, which are folded across her stomach, the remnants of pink nail polish still there. They are cold, so I pull a blanket up to cover them. How would anyone know if she were cold when she can’t say it? I want to say something to her. Tell her to wake up and meet her baby girl, but I am crippled by shock.

  I feel a hand on my back—Della’s mother, Annette. “Go see Annie,” she says. “It’ll be good for you. Della will be here when you get back. Come sit with her tomorrow.”

  I nod, wiping my nose on my sleeve. Kit drives me to their little house in Ft. Lauderdale. Keith Sweat is playing on the radio. ‘But I gotta be strong, you did me wrong.’ I suddenly have a terrible headache. Della’s cousin, Geri, is watching Annie, he tells me. I don’t tell him that Geri does recreational coke five days a week, or that she did a stint in rehab for heroine. She is reading a tabloid magazine on the couch when we arrive. She lifts a finger to her lips to tell us that Annie is sleeping. She hugs me warmly, and I can smell the alcohol on her breath. I’ve always been cool with Geri. But I’m not cool with her drinking on baby watch. Not with any baby, but especially not with this baby. I have the urge to tell her to leave and not come back. Instead, I excuse myself to the bathroom. It’s strange to see the baby things strewn about Della’s space: swings, bassinets, soft pink blankets. When I come out of the bathroom Geri is gone. Kit stands in the doorway to the living room, hands in pockets. He’s not looking at me; he’s not looking at anything.

  “Kit,” I say. He jumps a little, and then shakes his head like he’s coming out of a dream.

  “Do you want to meet Annie?” he asks softly.

  “Yeah, I do.”

  He leads me to the back bedroom. The house smells of fresh paint, and before he opens the door to Annie’s nursery, I already know Della’s had the room painted pink. It’s bright, not the soft color I was expecting. I stand there for a minute, blinking at the color before my eyes focus on the crib against the wall. It’s black. I can hear rustling from inside it, like she’s just deciding to wake up. Kit stands next to the crib and waits for me to come over. It feels … weird. My feet sink into the carpet. My hands are stupidly clutched together. I see her hair first, poking out from her swaddling. It’s troll hair, a tuft of black against creamy white skin. Her eyes are open, glassy like newborns usually are. Her mouth opens to let out a cry, and I’m surprised by how soft and gentle it is. I pick her up. I can’t help myself. She’s the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen.

  “Annie,” I say. “I’m your Aunt Helena.” I sniff her head, and then I kiss it. I carry her to the changing table and unwrap her. I want to see the rest—the little bird legs, and the perfect tiny fingers and toes. I’m so engrossed that I forget Kit is in the room.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “Did you want to do this?”

  I feel so bad. I just jumped in without asking. Kit smiles, shakes his head. “Go ahead,” he says. “You should get to know each other.”

  That’s all he has to say. I’m a bonafide baby lover. Kit goes to get her bottle while I change her diaper. Halfway through I start to cry. Della. She hasn’t even held her little girl. This all feels like my fault. I have to stay to help them. At least until Della gets well. I have to do the right thing by all of them. Especially after everything I’ve done.

  Kit and I take turns with Annie for the rest of the night. I’d take all of the shifts and let him sleep, but Kit says waking up with her makes him feel like he’s doing something, and he needs to feel like he’s doing something or he’ll go crazy. I sleep in the office across from Annie’s nursery, and each time she wakes up and I hear her little cries, I want to rush into the room. When it’s Kit’s turn I roll onto my side so I can hear them. He sings to her. It’s so tender it makes me feel the same way Christmas does, like there’s so much good and so much hope. It feels so wrong that I’m getting to hear what Della should be hearing. It’s like I’m eavesdropping on someone else’s life.

  Della’s brother comes to take care of Annie the following day. He brings us paper cups of coffee and mushroom frittata that Annette made. We clutch our coffee and make small talk until Kit suggests we beat the traffic and go. I don’t like leaving Annie with Tony; in high school he smoked a lot of pot and lit things on fire. It’s been seven years, but he doesn’t seem like the responsible choice. I mention it to Kit when we’re in the car.

  “How old did you say he was when he did that?”

  “Sixteen,” I say.

  “I think he may be past that stage,” he offers. “It’s been ten years.”

  “He’s hairy,” I say. “If he tries to kiss her, it’ll scratch her face.”

  “What exactly do you have against Tony?” He turns onto the freeway, and I start to panic. Once we’re on the I-95 we’re going to be stuck in traffic, unable to get off if something happens.

  “I don’t have anything against him; I just don’t want him to be the one watching Annie.” I unbuckle my seat belt. I don’t know what I’m planning to do … maybe jump out of the moving car and run back. Surely I’m not crazy enough to—

  “What are you doing?” Kit says. “Put your belt back on.”

  “One of us has to be with her,” I say. “You or me. The other can go to the hospital. We can work in shifts.”

  “You’re serious?” he asks. “You do realize Tony is Annie’s blood?”

  “I don’t care. Take me back.”

  He doesn’t say anything. He gets off at the first exit and takes a different way back to the house. Tony doesn’t look surprised to see us; he seems relieved when we tell him that he can go.

  “See that,” I wave my finger in Kit’s face. “A non-excited babysitter is a non-attentive babysitter.”

  He grabs my finger, and I laugh.

  “You want to go first, or you want me to go?” he asks.

  I look at Annie, who is asleep in her swing, and bite my lip.

  “You stay,” he says, smiling. “You can go to the hospital tomorrow when some of your anxiety has eased up.”

  I nod.

  I watch as he walks down the driveway to his truck, and before he gets in, he looks back at me and raises his hand to wave.

  It’s only then that I remember how much I love him.

  I’ve never taken care of a tiny human before. It’s all movement: running to get this, running to get that. Washing things, washing the tiny human, never washing yourself. It’s a labor during which you are given very little time to think about you. You. You who are still heartbroken. You who are managing your feelings even as you wrap, and wipe, and feed. Feelings you have no right to have. You do not think about these feelings or put a name to them. Live, live, live. Wipe, love, sleep. They all help me, but somewhere in the first week it becomes clear that I am Annie’s caretaker. Helena knows what she
needs; Helena knows what type of formula she eats; Helena, where are the diapers? Helena, she’s fussy; Helena…

  It’s all true. Annie and I have a system. I figure out that if you rub her back counterclockwise twice, then pat up from her lower back to between her shoulder blades, those difficult burps will be worked out. She has a protein allergy. I notice the bumps on her skin and take her to the pediatrician Della chose, an Iranian woman named Dr. Mikhail. She is stern and gives me the stink eye the whole time.

  “Most new mothers are nervous and hovering. You must have done this before.”

  “I’m not her mother,” I say. “Should I hover more? I trust you, should I not trust you? Do you think I’m too trusting?” I walk to the table where she is examining Annie, and I pick her up. Dr. Mikhail gives me another searing look and takes the baby back from me and returns her to the table.

  “My mistake. Maybe I should prescribe something for your mania.”

  Annie has to be on special formula. When Kit gets home from the hospital, we all go to Target so we can pick some up. He grabs a pack of diapers, and I stop him. “I don’t like those,” I say. “They leak.” He stands back with a smile and lets me choose.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” I tell him.

  “Like what, Helena?” he asks. “Like I’m really impressed with you? I can’t help it.”

  I am flustered. I drop the pack of diapers, and we both bend to pick it up. I concede, and we stand up at the same time; he clutches the diapers under his arm, his eyes never leaving my face. Then Annie starts to cry, and we both go to her. I do not concede. I elbow him out the way to take her out of her carseat. He’s grinning the whole time.