I sit alone with my laptop and my latte, writing about the death of our newborn daughter.
I swear every baby entering the café is a girl, under four months old. Pink pants, pink hair bows, little pink fans to keep them cool beneath their car seat covers, carefully balanced in $2,000 strollers.
Then twins arrive. Fussy and sweet. The dad is sweating. The mom just wants to eat her breakfast in some semblance of peace. He talks to the cashier about his favorite bands, how he thought he would teach music, how that was another lifetime ago, bouncing ferociously with one baby, as if the faster he goes, the less she might cry.
Rain pours outside, the sky darkening until midmorning feels like dusk.
He leaves the register and turns toward his wife. “I’m going to take them for a run soon. That’s the plan.”
“But there’s no waterproof cover. I didn’t bring a change of clothes. I don’t think that’s a good idea. It’s supposed to let up. Just wait.”
There is no acknowledgement, not even an objection. She stares at her pastry, as if it’s the first time in days her eyes and fingers have been free from the grip of a baby.
“Just wait.” Her demand lands in the space between them.
But he can’t wait.
Both babies are crying now, and no amount of bouncing or shushing will soothe them.
I fight the urge to tell them that our baby died. That I never heard the sound of her cry. That it’s stressful, oh, don’t I know. That it’s hard. So hard.
But it’s beautiful, too.
Look. Two little, healthy babies.
Can I hold one of them?
I reach out my hand and lift one up in my mind.
Instead, I keep typing.
She died before her life began.
They start packing up frantically, blueberry muffin crumbs clinging to her pursed lips.
“Well, this was fun,” he says.
They head through the door, and walk into the rain.
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