Where it began ...

Red. The colour my eyes had been after having spent what felt like days sobbing. With my eyes stinging in the corners now, I reach over to my – our, vintage bedside for my peppermint tea and a napkin.

“Babe!” I hear from the room next door and a resistant smile teases at my lips. He runs through our bedroom door, kiddish, as he always had been.

“Babe, what’s wrong?” He comes to a halt when he notices my tears. Though, this practice was not unusual of me. Call it depression, anxiety, bipolar, borderline – call it whatever you want but this was me, if not at the very least, once a week. But he always seemed just as surprised … or hurt. Affected. I loved that about him, the way he made me feel seen.

He wanted to tell me that the doctor had called. That she had great news and wanted to see us in person. Great news, the words felt suspended in my mind. I immediately felt confused. I mean, I knew exactly what the call was about yet somehow that didn’t make it any more palpable.

Sam and I were struggling to conceive. It was my fault – I know, I know it’s nobody’s fault, but still it was mine. The burden was definitely mine. We did the tests, I would know. Two years into our marriage may not seem that long but it felt like an eternity to me – us. Waiting, wondering. Sam was always so supportive, but what other choice did he have?

“YOU’RE PREGNANT!” Dr. Freda exclaimed before we had barely even walked through her office door. Tears. Different ones this time, and not only on my face but everyone else’s. Nice for a change. I couldn’t tell whether I was excited or terrified - perhaps a bit of both. The only persistent thought I’d had in my mind was ‘would it work out for us this time?’

***

Blood-red. I could scatter my brains thinking about different names for it, but that’s exactly what I was seeing, and it was everywhere. I’m standing in our apartment, but it felt like I had just woken up. I was groggy, lethargic, and covered in blood. Mine? I couldn’t tell but with that much blood there is no way I would still be alive, nonetheless able to walk.

I slowly begin to ease through the tight corridor of Sam and I’s apartment, creaky wood floors and an overdue paintjob – let’s call it teal. Room one: master bedroom – although there was nothing ‘master’ about it. Sam and I always had plans to renovate but on a waitress salary, and with Sam always between ‘ideas’ it was never a priority. That teal colour from the hallway swept into every room, looking more and more faded the closer it got to any natural light. This was especially the case with this bedroom, complimented by an array of dusty oak furniture. Aside from this, the room was empty.

Room two: bathroom. Black and white checkered tiles on the floor. Same shitty fucking paintjob. Empty.

Room three: nursery. The only room in the house we painted ourselves - pink. We knew we wouldn’t hear the end of it if we had a boy. The truth was, we didn’t really care. For some reason the colour pink had been on sale and we were just excited to meet our little pea – whether the colour was pink or powder blue or red… Red. I re-focus on my stained clothing. Room three – empty.

I am home alone and none of this is making sense, have I lost too much blood? I begin to feel dizzy; I go to lay down.

***

Crimson. A better synonym than blood-red now that I’ve had more time to think about it on my therapist’s couch. I have replayed the vision as if it were a fond memory … over and over, and … you get it.

The ‘episode’ is what people in my building were calling it, from what I had heard through the grape vine. Not to be confused with the light-hearted and binge worthy Netflix series ‘episodes’ that people seemed so deeply invested in these days. Waste.

Apparently, the neighbours had heard me screaming in the middle of the night. Something completely nonsense I’m sure, considering I was asleep when it happened. But knowing my ‘history’ they decided to call for backup. Nice of them, really. Anyway, that has led me to this here green velvet chaise … waiting comfortably for my appointment.

Basically, that whole thing about me waking up in my apartment covered in blood … yea, that never happened.

My therapist tells me that this happens a lot with PTSD. Something about your mind replaying events while you’re awake or even asleep, but with additional details or in the wrong order or … something. To be honest, I can’t focus long enough these days to know what she’s really talking about. Dreams or reality; everything these last few months has felt like a nightmare.

What I can focus on is that the last memory I have with Sam is a happy one, we were finally pregnant. By virtue of Dr. Freda’s announcement, we were having a celebratory lunch in our favourite café at the foot of our building. I remember it raining, a lot, the most rain we had had in years as relayed by our waiter. I remember Sam and I joking that we should run into the street and kiss in the rain like Rachel McAdams and Ryan Gosling in the notebook – and I remember it only being funny because of the high we were on. I remember smiling at Sam from across the table and feeling happy – truly, soulfully, and genuinely happy for the first time in a long time. But after that, after that everything is black.

***

Cherry. The flavour of Jell-o the nurse placed on my tray with a yellow post-it: ‘just what you ordered :)’. Although I have no recollection of requesting this.

My eyes are barely open, and the calmness around me is overwhelming. I’m in the hospital now, alone. Not even a doctor. I’m in a private room it seems, but I don’t know why or how. I feel weak and have a migraine that feels like the world’s worst hangover.

The old TV set in front of me is playing Friends re-runs, and aside from my Jell-o everything is sterile, white and blinding. I slowly close my eyes, but as I do so I reach over to the tray next to my bed – in a way almost just to confirm it was real, whatever drugs I was on were strong. I fleetingly wish the hospital tray was our vintage nightstand and think about Sam, where is he? Then finally, a nurse.

“Good morning, Ms. Luriel. How are you feeling?”

Dumb Question. Feeling fucking great, fantastic, never better! “Exhausted, confused.” I force instead.

“Understandable, you have been through a lot.” She responds.

What have I been through? “Where’s Sam? The baby… I’m pregnant, you know? How long have I been in this bed? Bring me Sam!” Words upon words spewed weakly out of my mouth through long heavy breaths.

“Just try to relax and…” the nurse’s voice trails off as a doctor escorts my mom into the room.

My entire existence went into shock almost as soon as my mom began to speak. Everything from my vision to my hearing blurred in and out, like a movie scene where they try to convey dizziness, as she began to describe the events that had taken place – two weeks ago.

A car had driven into the front window of the café at the foot of our building. Sam and I, having been sat right at the front of the restaurant were the only two that were injured … killed. I had experienced severe trauma to my head, excessive internal bleeding, and had been fortunate to be alive. The doctors say that I’ll have to be closely monitored as the trauma will almost certainly continue to affect me physically and emotionally. Sam didn’t make it, the paramedics said that he had succumb to his injuries later that same day … but had in his few short breaths managed only to alert the paramedics to my pregnancy. Mom told me that by some miracle they believe the baby could be fine, but that it was too early to tell …

Mom began to spiral into some unimportant details about how the rain made it difficult for the driver to see, or brake, or whatever, and as she continues to divulge the horrific details of the accident, my mind fades away to a distant memory:

Me. Nervously adjusting my dress, checking my lipstick in my pocket mirror and walking through the glass doors of a restaurant. A nice one, like the ones where they give you cloth napkins instead of the paper ones. I remember being impressed by his choice.

“Hey, I’m looking for Sam. I think he made the reservation in his name.”

The host nodded and walked me through to the table, I recall hoping that he would look just as good in person as he did in his photos.

“Special occasion?” the host asks me on the way through.

“First date.” I smile shyly.

The host smiles back knowingly, and as we approach the table she pulls out my seat.

“Can I start you off with something to drink?” she asks.

“Yes please, I’ll have a glass of Merlot.”