Bunny Ears

Your lips are still ruby colored from the cherry popsicle. But they’re so chapped and cracked that the red pools on the drier parts of your bottom lip. I take out my chapstick (also cherry flavored) and slather it on your mouth.

My mind is so numb lately, so when I put the chapstick back into my purse, my forearm hits your navy blue Padres cap. You adjust it (although it’s still crooked) and ask in a high-pitched voice, “Can I sit in the front seat, mommy?”

You have been relentlessly asking me this question ever since your dad stupidly let you ride in the front seat. Every single time I tell you that you can’t sit in the front until you’re twelve years old.

“Sorry, sweetie. Rules are rules,” I tell you as I unlock the car. Your face drops. Red lips curving into a slight frown. Drawn out movements as you open the door, trudge into the back and sit in the middle seat. I don’t like seeing you so sad over something so small, but it seems like these days the most trivial heartaches don’t tug at me as much as they used to. Still. I notice every single indicator of sadness on your tiny body.

I wonder how I looked when the doctor told me about my miscarriage. I wonder if my face looked as numb as it felt. I wonder if the doctor delivers this kind of news so often that he doesn’t even know what heartbreak looks like anymore.

“Ryan, sweetheart, your shoe is untied,” I tell you as I get into the driver’s seat and hear the click of your seatbelt. I check to make sure my rearview mirror is still perfectly aligned to the car’s back window. I don’t know why it wouldn’t be, but you can never be too careful, right?

You grab both of your laces and start to sing the rhyme about tying shoes that your dad taught you. Your voice is enthusiastic. “Bunny ears, bunny ears, playing by a tree…”

I step on the breaks and press the car’s start button. I grip the steering wheel with both hands and think about the day I told you that you weren’t going to have a little brother or sister anymore. You looked more confused than sad.

“Why not?” you asked with your brown eyes looking puzzled right underneath the brim of your cap. Your brows were so scrunched that they almost met in the middle.

Thinking about the way you asked so many questions that I didn’t know how to answer makes me grip the steering wheel tighter. How do you explain chromosomal abnormalities and the uncommonness of a late miscarriage to a seven-year-old boy?

“Criss-crossed the tree, trying to catch me,” you continue to sing.

I get onto Interstate 15 and accuse my brain of being a faulty camera when I start to think about the days that I thought you were going to be an older brother.

“Bunny ears, bunny ears, jumped into the hole.” I sigh when I realize you’re never going to teach your younger sibling how to tie their shoelaces.

“Popped out the other side beautiful and bold,” you finish the rhyme.

It’s been two weeks since I told you about the miscarriage. For days, I was motionless. My vocal chords were paralyzed. I willingly chained myself to my mattress. But I have to put you first, so your dad and I have been keeping you busy with baseball games, more frequent trips to the park, and staying at the beach longer than we normally would. Earlier today, when you asked if we could go get popsicles, I realized that maybe the activeness is my attempt at healing myself, too.

So far, it isn’t working.

I get off of the highway. It’s been silent since you finished your rhyme. I look at you in the rearview mirror and think about how much I love you. I think about how you’re the only person who can make me forget about the emptiness.

I make a left onto our block, but look back at your reflection right away.

“Mommy, am I going to have a different brother or sister someday?”

“I don’t know, Ryan. Maybe someday, but… not any time soon.” My voice is sharp and uneven. I want to tell you that I did every thing right. That I had a healthy diet, took my vitamins, stopped drinking coffee, and got regular medical exams. I want to explain to you that sometimes these things just happen, but how can I tell you something that I’m not quite ready to accept?

“Mommy, why do you keep the black and white picture of the baby on the fridge still?”

You’re referring to the ultrasound.

Before I can say anything, I catch a blur of bright red flash in front of my windshield. My eyes follow the red, and for a moment, I think of blood. I think of how shocked I was by the amount that I lost during the miscarriage. And then my mind’s faulty camera takes me back to the child I will never have.

It takes a second longer to register that the red is actually a kid’s kickball launching across my windshield. I hit the breaks hard, feel myself jerk forward, and watch a little girl follow the ball’s red flash in her own colors, cerulean blue shorts and a yellow shirt.

My breath catches in my throat. I turn my head to look back at you and see a surprisingly calm expression on your face. When I know you’re okay, I look in front of me, and realize that the little girl lives five houses away from us. Her name is Sophia. She looks at me with puppy eyes and pouty lips.

I wonder where her mother is.

I press my foot against the breaks even harder as she crosses the street back to the safety of her own yard. I’ll be damned if I’m the reason that a mother doesn’t get the privilege of watching her child grow up.

I cannot lift my foot from the breaks. A sick part of me that I’m not proud of is glad that Sophia interrupted us. Now I don’t have to answer your question.

I keep the ultrasound, and I don’t know why.

It is a photo of someone I will never meet.