Me Minus Hope

Two-year old Autumn is finally asleep and the house is quiet.

It’s always hard in the fall when familiar things creep in, wringing my heart—the smell of heat in the house—the rain of red leaves in the yard…and ghostly images of Hope at the foot of my bed.

It’s been three years since that October day when Tessa phoned with the news that Hope suddenly passed away—dead at twenty-nine of a cerebral hemorrhage.

I remember the confusion at the hospital—a nurse holding my hand—Tessa, helpless and alone, staring through the glass windows, as if I were Jason sailing away, leaving her on some forlorn shore…and perhaps, in a way I was.

Yet, there I stood—arms empty—justly punished by God, for forsaking the wife of my youth, and longing for her best friend.

If I was unfaithful, it was in my heart—but still, in that moment, I knew why Fate unfolded as it did.

Later, when the doctors called me in, I didn’t comprehend.

“Your wife is brain dead, Mark, but we’re keeping her alive.”

“Why? Why, in God’s name?” I croaked, so blurred and filled with pain I could scarcely think.

The doctor’s eyes were sad. “She’s pregnant, Mark—didn’t you know?”

My blank stare answered for me.

“The fetus is thirteen weeks old,” he whispered, “and it’s possible Hope didn’t even know—it happens.”

Or, she didn’t tell me, I grimaced inside. Or maybe, she was struggling to tell me, waiting for the perfect time—a better time, in our up and down lives.

Then, it hit me—our anniversary—October 12th. Just three days away. Was she waiting until then?

“What do you want us to do, Mark?”

What was there to do? Left up to me, I wanted it all back, but that wasn’t going to happen. Aside from that, the answer was obvious—to remain faithful, at least in death, to Hope and our unborn child.

And so I did.

For four months, the doctors kept Hope alive with me by her side.

And then, one sunny day in March, little Autumn was delivered by Caesarean section at 27 weeks old, and Hope was taken off life support to die the same day.

Tessa stood by my side at her grave—we hadn’t spoken since the day Hope went into the hospital. I couldn’t. I was too filled with guilt and remorse.

Somehow though, I think she understood, although my longing for her was never voiced.

The heart always knows. After that, we didn’t speak again.

Occasionally, she’d phone, or send a card. I knew I should at least reply, but couldn’t.

I was turned to stone—except toward Autumn—she alone was my reason to go on.

© 2020, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

Photo