She’d been spotting all day. Spotting. That gynecological euphemism for bleeding. Of course she was excused from work, but she wouldn’t hear of me coming home. “There’s nothing you can do,” she told me on the phone. I could hear it in her voice, stay away, don’t come home, let me deal with this alone for awhile.

Of course I objected, “Claire –“

“I’ll be okay. I’m doing everything I should, lying down, elevating my feet.”

“I can’t believe they won’t do anything.” I remarked bitterly about the hospital’s nonchalance. “I mean, you’re bleeding.”

“It doesn’t mean anything, David,” she assured me, her practical side coming out. “My sister spotted for three weeks when she was pregnant with Jennie, and she had a perfectly healthy baby. It doesn’t have to mean…”

I could hear her voice suddenly falter and I wanted to reach right through the phone line to touch her. “I’m coming home,” I said decisively, and hung up.

Perhaps the hardest thing was telling my secretary where I was going and why. I couldn’t say the word. Miscarriage. So I resorted to euphemisms. “Claire’s spotting.” I explained. “I need to go home.” I didn’t want to look at her when she sympathized, choosing instead to roll a sheet of drafts, I left the office within minutes, deliberately without the drafts. I’d scrolled thinking how out of line my life suddenly was, so unlike the circuits I designed.

When I came home, Claire was lying on the sofa, her legs tucked in jeans, bare feet crossed on a pillow, a woven afghan partly masking, her blue sweatshirt. I could hear the shrill nose of a talk show on the television, people’s voices blending like some crowd. Blaring. I shut the door, and Claire looked up at me. Just to watch the evolution of her expression felt like someone had punched the breath from me. I san to my knees beside the sofa, and gathered her into my arms. She started to cry.

“I’m scared, David,” she confessed in a whisper, her arms about my neck. “I started cramping.”
“It’ll be okay,” I said, feeling like I was lying. Nevertheless, I brushed my hand down her back in support. “Did you call the doctor?” I felt her nod. “What did he say?”

She sniffed. “That I should stay down, not to come in unless I passed something.”

‘Passed’ something. Euphemisms again. She wasn’t to come in unless she miscarried. I could think the word, but couldn’t dare say it.

“It’ll be okay,” I said again, pressing her to me tighter, the afghan caught between us. Behind me, Oprah Winfrey was speaking, and the commercials started, one aft the other. The voices and the almost-cartoon music acted like some strangely off-kilter movie score as I dried to say comforting things to my wife. And perhaps I did, bit I really felt awkward and wholly unprepared.

She started pulling away, and I let Clair out of my arms slowly. I smoothed away the strands of brown hair from her face, wiping at her tears. “I’ll make you some tea.” I pressed her shoulder once, then rose, moving into the kitchen.

I ran fresh water into the teapot, needing the normalcy of the act just to calm down. Claire hadn’t been too excited when she’d found out she was pregnant. We were saving for a house, yet failing badly at staying ahead of our debts. We’d always said we wanted a family but the pregnancy had taken us both by surprise—birth control devices do fail. I think I was elated, but kept my emotions from her, being more the supportive husband than the excited dad. It had been only days ago that Claire had actually warmed up to the idea of having a baby, even discussing names with me. We hadn’t prepared for anything to go wrong; after all, we were young.

The whistle blew, and I poured the water over the tea bag, dunking it several times, watching the color change to a rich dark honey. I took the steaming cup into the living room and handed it to Claire. She thanked me, but set the cup on the end table to cool. I sat at her feet. As I so often did, I reached out to massage one of the, hoping to relax her.

“Don’t.” She took the foot away before my hands could completely touch it.

The whole room was full of her tension, even the people on TV. They spoke their minds openly but as the minutes passed we did not. What could I say? How could I take away the pain?

She was having real pain now, the grimacing kind, her fisted fingers griping the afghan, a quick intake of breath. The pains would come and go, like what I heard birth pains were supposed to be; contractions. I covered her hand with mine and waited out each pain, watching in helpless silence as a tear made it way down her face, dropping into the afghan.

“I’m taking you in,” I said at last. “Come on.” I stood up, holding out my hand to her.

“Okay.” Shakily, she took my hand and I lifted her to stand, my arms coming supportively about her shoulder. “But first I should go to the bathroom. I had a cup of tea before you got home.”

I helped her to the bathroom, flicking on the light, remaining at the door after she shut it. Only a minute or two elapsed before I heard her muffled sob, “David?”

I opened the door. Her nose was shiny red, and the tears were flowing freely down her cheek. “What’s…” I don’t think I could have said anything because I knew.

“I passed something,” she wept.

The two steps in to reach her felt like an eternity, and when I held her crying body, I wanted to cry too. “We’ll go to the hospital. You should still be seen.”

I felt her nod. “They’ll want…they want to see it.”

“It?” She had just miscarried our child. How could a child be and ‘it’?

“Um, we have to …that is…um…”

“We have to take them what you passed,” I supplied, resorting to a euphemism.

“Yes.”

“Okay.” I kissed her forehead, letting her out of my arms. “What do we put it in?”

“Um.” She bit her lip, passing a hand through her voluminous dark hair. “I don’t know.”

“I’ll take care of it.” I sounded so in control, but felt like screaming. I crossed the apartment to the kitchen, pulling open cabinets indiscriminately, not really knowing what I was looking for, only looking. A glass Pyrex bowl finally caught my attention. It was small and had a rubber cover. We took it grabbing a wooden spoon from the utensil pot and walked the long distance to the bathroom, though it was perhaps only twenty feet of space. Claire was hugging herself, leaning against the mint green tile. The tears had stopped, but she was in no shape to do anything.

“I am sorry,” she said. “It’s all my fault. I didn’t want it at first.”

I wasn’t prepared to deal with her guilt, but managed a comforting, “It’s not your fault, Claire.”

“I should’ve—“

“Don’t blame yourself. It just happened. Claire, it’s okay.” I looked her in the eyes, her familiar hazel eyes, and tried to send all my reassurance, though I hoped I wasn’t sending her my entire supply. I still had a difficult job ahead of me.

I turned from Claire to the toilet bowl, and dropped to my knees. Thick, bloody tissue floated in the water, no bigger than a quarter. Oh, God, do I have to do this? This was the remains of our child. My child.

A film of sweat had settled above my upper lip, and my mouth was dry, a heavy constriction in my throat. I held my head in my hands for some time, surprised as my eyes teared up.

“David? Are you okay?”

I pulled my head from my hands. “Yeah. I’m all right.”

With renewed determination, I dipped the bowl into the water, scooping under the bloody remnant, using the wooden spoon to guide it within. It was a difficult task—slippery, yes, but emotionally grueling.

“I’ve got it,” I said softly, fitting the rubber cover over the lid, seeing ‘it’ slosh about in the water. I set it down on the tiled floor reverently, swallowing back the lump in my throat.. When I turned around, Claire was on her knees beside me, her arms coming apart to hold me I buried my head in her shoulder.