The Wednesday Sisters by Meg Waite Clayton Page B

ago Easter, and the summer before that, and now.”
    From Brett’s kicked-in expression, I saw she was having as much trouble absorbing this as I was. Three miscarriages in as many years. She set the tea on the nightstand. “But you have Carrie, Ally.”
    Ally choked back another sob, her chin sinking into her soft neck, her face even paler than usual. She closed her eyes, her lids red at the edges and a weak and veiny blue.
    Brett mouthed to me, “It happened Sunday.”
    “I’m sorry,” Ally said. “I’m sorry. It’s just that . . .”
    “There, there,” Brett soothed, setting her hand on Ally’s. “There, there.”
    “It’s just that the baby is there, he’s my baby, he’s my son, I can feel him inside me, and I know . . . somehow I know all about him almost, I
know
him, I can feel his needs, I can feel him saying ‘Take care of me, oh please take care of me’ just in the way I can’t even smell fish and I can’t get enough meat and I have to sleep and sleep and sleep. Then I don’t, somehow, I don’t take care of him. I want to and I try to, I try to do everything so right but I don’t and he . . .”
    And he dies,
I thought. The word she can’t say. Her baby dies inside her. He starts dying inside her and she knows it, and there is the awful rushing to the hospital, and the pain, the wrenching of her gut, and the doctors and the nurses and the sterile instruments and then nothing, just emptiness.
    “I wake up every morning and there’s this moment of . . . of possibility,” Ally whispered. “Of maybe it’s just a nightmare and the baby is fine.”
    Brett tilted her head up, blinking back tears. “I know. Getting out of bed is . . . impossible sometimes,” she said so gently I was sure she did know, and I wondered again what had happened to Brett, why she wore her gloves, why she never offered a word of explanation, why none of us ever dared ask.
    “And Jim, he just curls up around me in bed when he gets home, and he puts his hand on my . . . on my skin, on my belly, and he . . .” She swallowed once, twice, still with her eyes closed, tears spilling from her unparted lids. “He
sings.
” The last word spoken so softly I wasn’t sure of what I’d heard. “He just sings, words I don’t even understand,” she said in the same almost inaudible voice. “He just sings to his baby son as if he’s still there.”
    I set my hand on Ally’s foot under the blue blanket. Outside, a car accelerated. A train whistled. One bird scolded and another cawed. Ally pulled her other foot up, tucked it beneath her leg, still under the blanket. She blew her nose and tossed the tissue on the bed. She leaned forward, and for a moment I thought she might get up, but she only pulled another tissue from the box. Something in the way she held herself made me feel she wanted us to leave now, that she’d drained herself and wanted to be alone. That she regretted, already, telling us about Jim. That she felt she’d shown us something about him she shouldn’t have shown anyone.
    I took a tissue, wiped my eyes under my glasses, blew my nose.
    Brett frowned but made no move to leave. After a long silence, she asked where Carrie was, and whether she was okay.
    Ally’s hand tightened around her tissue, and she looked away from Brett, to the shaded windows. It was a moment before she whispered, “She’s . . . she’s . . .” In the park, a child called for her mother—not my Maggie. Ally closed her eyes, tears streaming again. “. . . my sister’s,” she whispered.
    I patted the sad hump of Ally’s blanket-covered foot encouragingly, giving her space to say more. But it was Brett who spoke, who said, “She’s at your sister’s. Good. Good.” Then, after a moment, “All week?”

    W E ALL CALLED ALLY that next week to see if we could bring her groceries or take Carrie off her hands for a few hours, or if she just wanted some company, but the answer was always no. We suggested we meet in the park