sotto voce
Sometimes Samantha dreams of a little girl with blonde hair and almond-shaped eyes. Some nights the child is just an infant, her pink face scrunched up as she cries to be fed. Other nights she is five or six, her hair in pigtails, freckles on her nose.
And every morning, Samantha wakes with an aching loss where her heart used to be. She can't help wondering what could have been (should have been!) and wishes that, just once, life had dealt her a fair hand.
She supposes this is her punishment for what happened. Penance for tearing apart what God had joined together. (It's always the preachers' kids who throw their lives away, she thinks.)
Still, she doesn't regret the affair, only that it ended badly. She didn't mean to fall in love with him.
But she had. Fat lot of good it did her.
He broke her heart with two words and a kiss. She wanted to say she loved him, wanted to keep him with her, but she kissed him back and said goodbye, and meant it.
("I know I said it was over but I miss you - just one more night. Let me say goodbye properly." How could she refuse?)
It's Barry Mashburn's fault. If she hadn't been shot, if Jack hadn't gone into that stupid bookstore to get her, if he hadn't felt so damn guilty and gone back to Marie, if she'd just taken her birth control pills properly-
Wait. That has nothing to do with Barry Mashburn.
Except, indirectly, he killed her baby.
(A baby with Jack! Her heartbeat quickens in excitement and fear. A child! Something to bind them together.)
(What do you mean, a miscarriage?)
The doctors said she'd gone into shock from the blood loss. Her body, faced with too much stress, aborted the child.
(Her heart in a thousand pieces, she decides Jack must never know.)
Three months of sleepless, lonely nights and she aches to have him hold her. But there's a distance between them now that wasn't there before. He's trying to make things work with Marie and Samantha really just wants him to be happy.
Only, she wants to be happy too.
Six months, and she finds herself at a baby boutique one Saturday. There is a dull pain where the baby should be. Samantha wanders through the store and ends up buying a pair of pink booties for the child she'll never have.
(Her name is Grace and she lives life full-speed ahead, skipping everywhere, never without a smile.)
Eight months, and she's collecting booties for no reason that she can think of except that it helps. Sort of. She accidentally brushes against Jack in the elevator. He pulls back as if he's burned, but the hunger in her soul is reflected in his eyes.
(They pretend it never happened.)
She works out the due date and spends the entire day imagining where she should be. (Push! Harder! Breathe!)
A week after that, she falls apart.
Only a sicko kidnaps a newborn from the hospital, Martin says. Samantha nods, not even listening as they question the distraught mother. It's killing her to be here, to have to look at all the babies in the nursery, to think about what should have been.
The hospital chapel is quiet. Samantha kneels at the front and tries to pray, but the words won't come. Of course, she thinks. You have to believe in God if you want him to hear you.
Something comes loose inside her. She slumps forward and starts to cry. Her tears wet the sleeves of her jacket, she bites into the material to keep from making a sound and eventually ends up curled on the floor, whimpering, one hand pressed against her empty belly.
Martin finds her like that. Unable to reach her, he calls Jack, who takes her home. (After all this time, he still has a key. How odd.)
He runs a bath for her, undresses her, and helps her in. She's too far inside herself to realize what's happening, and meekly lets him do what he has to.
He finds the booties when he's looking for her pajamas. Returning to the bathroom with a tiny yellow one in his palm, his confused, "Sam?" penetrates the fog surrounding her mind.
"Sam, what's going on?"
She shakes her head. He can't know. He must never know.
"Samantha. Let me in, please. I'm worried about you."
She sees the concern in his eyes. Sees the tenderness, and it undoes her.
"They're for Grace."
"Grace?"
"I'm so sorry, Jack. I shouldn't have gone in there. I didn't know. I wouldn't have gone in there if I'd known."
"What? What are you talking about?" He dries her off then helps her get dressed. After all this time, it feels good to be looked after.
"The bookstore. I'm sorry I got shot."
"That wasn't your fault."
She shakes her head. "Should have told you about the baby."
"What baby?" Oh, but he knows. She sees the truth in his eyes as he pieces together what happened.
"I'm sorry. Sorry. So sorry."
He cradles her on his lap and he's crying too. And they're both apologizing and clinging to each other. And then they're kissing and it's so good to be back in his arms.
Vaguely, she realizes this is what started the problem.
(Maybe this is her second chance.)
He pulls away. "Shit. Sorry."
Then he kisses her forehead and smoothes her hair away from her face. "I didn't bring you home to seduce you."
She nods.
"Why . . . Why didn't you tell me before?"
"What could you have done?"
He doesn't answer.
"I'm okay," she lies. Then, "You should go now. I'll be fine."
"Sam-"
"Really. It just hit me today - all of a sudden - seeing all those babies at once. I'm fine."
He stands, and it's clear he's torn. Does he go home to his family or does he stay with the woman he loves?
She decides for him. "Go, Jack. I'll see you at work tomorrow."
"If you need anything . . ."
"Thanks."
Her smile fades when she hears the door close behind him. It's then that she notices he took the bootie with him.
(Jack, I'm so sorry.)
Clutching the bootie's mate to her chest, she cries herself to sleep.
(Grace holds her mother's hand and says, philosophically, "It's okay to be sad, Mom.")
And life goes on, one day at a time. Maybe she'll wake up one morning and it really will be okay, but for now, she pretends that she's healing.
After all, what other choice does she have?