I remember two sentences my dad said to me at lunch several years ago.
And I will remember them for the rest of my life.
And I will remember them for the rest of my life.
At that time, My Beloved and I, having undergone
past failed fertility treatments, began a brand new series, certain that these
finally would work. They did not. Each month felt like a death that kept on
dying. Hope and crushing, hope and crushing. I don’t even know the person I was
then. I felt utterly lost to myself. My family never spoke of it because there
are things considered too shameful to mention, and this fell under that
heading. So they simply didn’t speak of it. MB and I wandered, shattered, on the
fringes of normal life. And the heavy, lingering sorrow that had stolen my
hopes seemed to have taken my voice with it, too. I was mute. I could not give
voice to the shame, breathe out what was being carefully ignored. MB and I were
bereft and broken and hopeless.
In the midst of our failed treatments, my
sister got pregnant. She had two boys and had always longed for a girl. So had
I, secretly.
And … a girl it was.
I remember the day my sister called to tell me
she was having a girl. I heard her voice on the answering machine and somehow
knew exactly why she was calling, exactly what she was going to
say, and I could not bring myself to pick up the phone. I stood inches from it,
my hand outstretched but paused in midair. From where I was, far from her, I
could see her joy; I could see it. The very air swirled pink and perfect
with the news of a girl. And I, with my selfish sorrow and small heart, sank to
the floor and cried and cried, the ugly cry that no one but God ever sees you
cry.
Around this time, my longtime bachelor brother
finally got engaged. There were echoing choruses of “Hallelujah!” all around at
this news. Even I could manage that one. My family fairly exploded with
the sheer elation of it all. A new baby girl, a wedding in the works. It was
like having a whole year of Christmas where every gift is perfect; a whole year
of parties with everyone you like and no one you don’t.
But My Beloved and I still went, quietly, to our
treatments. And still, quietly, they failed. I was breaking in two from the
overwhelming weight of joy and sorrow.
One day that year, my dad called to invite me to
lunch. We met at Marie Callendar’s because he likes Marie Callendar’s and when
he’s at Marie Callendar’s, he likes to order soup, which he did.
As we chitchatted about this and that, I was
growing more and more nervous. He was working up to say something, I could
tell, but I hadn’t the faintest idea what it would be. He’s not the
demonstrative type. Emotions are private, you see.
He cleared his throat several times, in that
compulsive way he has. I knew then he was nervous, too. Finally, he looked at
me with those dark blue-grey eyes and said:
“I know your brother’s and sister’s happiness
must be breaking your heart.”
I couldn’t breathe. I had ordered soup, too, in
silent solidarity, and saw my tears dropping onto its surface. Then with a
choked voice I’d never quite heard before, he whispered:
“I’m so sorry, honey.”
And I was gone. I began to shake. Tears streamed
onto the table; heads around us turned. I was quiet, but I was just gone. My
father, who had never, ever spoken to me about it, understood.
He understood.
And he had said all he would. He mentioned it
once and never again. Still, in that singular moment, I no longer felt
invisible. I was seen. I was seen. I felt warm and alive and understood
by someone I'd been sure did not, could not, understand.
I know they were just two sentences spoken softly
over bowls of steaming soup, but they were among the best things my dad has
ever said to me.
I was less broken for hearing them.
