Beneath the Pear Tree Leaves

“Now, this doesn’t mean that this is the end of your journey… There are other options, other avenues to be explored.”

The doctor’s words barely break the surface of my thoughts. “I will be here for you every step of the way. Sometimes these things take time, but we can figure it out together.”

Ben’s knee is bouncing up and down frantically next to mine. His hand slides across his thigh mindlessly making his wedding band glint in the soft light.

My husband. My sweet husband. How much more of this could he take? How much more could our marriage take?

How much more could I take?

“Clara?” My eyes snap to Dr. Brennan’s, “Clara, I know this is difficult” her eyes soften, “but don’t give up hope just yet. We can always try…” I nod my head as she lists off her “other options” and “different avenues”. She is passionate about her job. I see it as she waves her slender hands animatedly while she speaks.

She could have been a ballet dancer had she not been called to the medical field. She is tall and svelte with a graceful face; she looks like classical music personified. Distracted, I glance at the photo frames on her desk. In one, there is a handsome man smiling and a little girl, the spitting image of her graceful mother, laughing in his arms. Jealously grips my throat and I rub my neck to rid myself of the feeling.

I continue to nod as she speaks and the smile fades from her features. She knows I am no longer in this conversation. She has probably seen my exact reaction thousands of times. Hollow eyes where hope once burned, shoulders sloped from carrying the burden of failure, pale lips that once enthusiastically spoke of new treatments found on the internet that might be helpful. All of this was and is me now.

Dr. Brennan’s eyes are scrutinizing my face, “Let’s go ahead and let this sink in for a while. You’ve been through a lot today. Although, I do want to see you again and soon. Please make sure to stop by the receptionist’s desk and make an appointment to see me in about two weeks or so. Sound good?”

I stand wordlessly and turn to leave. As I reach for the door handle I hear Ben quietly apologize to Dr. Brennan, “I’m sorry, it’s just… we just thought this was it. Clara and I, we… we just really thought this was it.” His voice breaks a little and I walk out of the room.

Infertility is a bitch.

The car ride home is silent, both warring with our thoughts and losing. Five years we had been trying and failing to have a baby. Five years of numerous doctor appointments and follow ups just to be told the same disappointing information. Hundreds of pregnancy tests and breathless minutes before the inevitable negative sign would show, crushing fragile dreams. Tears and fights. Forgiveness and renewed hope. Rinse and repeat for five years.

It’s raining, again. At least the Washington weather gives me something other than my empty, defective womb to think about. My hand grips the steering wheel a little tighter as I navigate through the downpour. I had insisted on driving after our appointment. I refused to be the sad, barren woman staring out of the passenger side window. I had been her way too many times to count.

I squint my eyes through the deluge, although, it certainly was not helping.

“Clara, turn the windshield wipers up higher so you can see better. It’s quite a downpour today, huh?” I reach for the wiper switch without answering. It is already at its highest setting. The rain is relentlessly coming down in droves. I think about saying this to Ben, but I know it won’t matter. We both sink back into our thoughts for what seems like an eternity. Were we even close to home? How long had we been driving now? The road all looks the same through the drowning windshield and a seed of panic nestles itself in the pit of my stomach.

“Clara. Honey, can we please talk about this?” his voice is quiet and armored. Is he angry? I inhale deeply, immediately defensive and unsure of how to answer. The headlights of the cars travelling in the other direction are blurring in the flood of raindrops pouring down the windshield. My thoughts mirror them as they become muddled and liquify in my brain. I didn’t know what to say, it seemed like it had all been said before.

“Please, Clara, I can’t just sit here in silence.” I wasn’t sure I could either. It was as if the words turned to cotton balls every time I tried to answer. My response was stuck in my throat and by the time I thought I was ready to say something, anything, a new muddled thought surfaced in my mind taking precedence over the thought before.

I remember the days when talking was easy with him. A natural storyteller, a conversation with Ben was like an afternoon at the cinema. His face and body language would contort and shift along with the words that came from his mouth. Stories about his childhood, his day at work or, during times of intimacy, what our future would hold. His words would weave effortlessly from his lips like he had a movie of our lives playing in his mind. He could describe it with such precise detail I felt like we had lived a lifetime without ever leaving our bed.

As I reminisce on these simpler times, I am reminded of how long it had been since we had spoken of anything other than the next doctor appointment or a new treatment to try. Remembering how things used to be feels like a hole in my chest.

“I need to talk about this.” His voice turns to a hiss. He’s so angry but the fog of my thoughts won’t lift. I can feel my heart rate beginning to rise and my grip grows tighter on the wheel. I felt desperate to say anything, but I can’t get my thoughts to focus so I can respond. The air in the car cabin feels thick and I realize I have been holding my breath.

“Clara! Stop ignoring me! Please!” He is shouting now but there is a plea beneath the anger. His sudden change in tone wounds me and I whip my head around to face him. I feel my face twist into a venomous glare and he recoils a little. I open my mouth to shout back at him, desperate for a moment to clear my mind. As I do, I watch his face shift from angry and hurt to sheer horror.

I am barely aware of what is happening but it comes in flashes. Ben’s face growing brighter. His blue eyes look so lovely in bright light. A blaring car horn. The feeling of being weightless. Ben’s mouth open, screaming. His arms raise to his face as the windshield shatters. A sickening crunching noise. A shower of glittering light. Pressure across my chest. Then all goes black.

Ben loves children. In the story of our lives there was always the pitter patter of tiny feet rushing toward our room after a nightmare. There were family camping trips and story times that would last well past bedtime. There were pillow forts and fights that would always end with a peaceful resolution and an ice cream trip. He loved talking about ‘The Firsts’. The first sound of their heartbeat, the first word, the first footsteps, the first day at school, the first love, the first heartbreak, the first graduation, the first time they crash a car. I would hang on every word, my blood red-hot with yearning and glowing with the imagined possibilities. I am lost in these conversations when Ben’s voice breaks through my thoughts.

“Clara…” his voice is hoarse and sounds far away. It is peaceful here in my thoughts. The feeling of Ben’s soft kisses all over my face, neck and especially my belly as he would speak. Both of us lost in a fantasy of our life and the want for it, as well as one another, growing with each moment.

Gradually I become aware that Ben’s soft kisses are actually raindrops assaulting my body.

“God, please! Clara, Baby? Baby, please be okay.”

I open my eyes and as I do a wave of pain rips through my abdomen and radiates down my legs. I open my mouth to answer Ben but the claws of an unseen beast rake through my body. I cannot move. I am deathly afraid to even try. I manage a groan and I hear Ben gasp.

“Thank God! Don’t move, Baby. Just don’t move. You’re okay. You’re okay.” His words are not reassuring.

The pain is originating from my torso and instinctually I want to cover it, protecting it from further wounds but I can barely manage to twitch my finger. I imagine there’s a gaping hole there, gushing blood and exposing my intestines to nature and the ensuing downpour.

I hear Ben speaking quickly on the phone. I can’t make out what he’s saying over the rainfall. It seems to be coming down harder now. I can feel the drops sliding down my cheeks and pooling in my ears. I try focusing on my surroundings. I am on my back and it smells pleasantly of wet earth. The ground is cold and rigid against my spine unlike the plush leather seats of our car.

Our car.

Car crash.

My mind finally puts the pieces together. The moment of desperation, the change in motion, blaring car horn, bright lights, impact. It all came together like a clap of thunder in my mind.

I can’t see the car from where I am lying and I know better than to try and raise my head to look. Ben’s voice is growing more frantic but I choose not to worry about it. Breathing is painful and with the added downpour it feels like I am drowning. I focus on breathing calmly through the weight that has accumulated in my chest. As I breathe in, fresh pain arches across my abdomen.

I think I might die here. The thought surprisingly doesn’t scare me.

Ben is suddenly at my side. Blood is trickling down his face from a cut near his temple and a bruise is developing under his right eye.

Even bloodied and battered he is still extremely handsome. I want to smile at him so he knows how much I love him and that all is forgiven from earlier. I want him to know I want to try again for a baby, for as long as it takes or wherever this journey takes us. I hope I am smiling but I can’t feel my face any longer.

Warmth engulfs my left hand as he grips it in his own.

“Help is on the way, okay? I need you to keep breathing for me.” His blue eyes are wide with pleading and his grip grows tighter on my hand. “Clara, breathe. Please.” His begging voice grows fainter and my gaze travels away from the perfection of his face. My focus travels past Ben and up. I had landed beneath a lush pear tree. Its fruit lay heavy on its branches waving gracefully in the cold wind.

“Clara! Breathe!” Ben is far away now and all I can see is the plump fruit above me. I imagine I am the pear tree. The fruits of my labor tucked close to my bosom as they grow ripe. All while I whisper beautiful words of encouragement until the day they are ready to be plucked from my grasp.

I gasp and watch the pear tree leaves quiver in the wind and as they do, the tears shake loose from my eyes.