Grief Is Where the Heart Is
A short story about lost love
Tonya paced the halls of the hospital maternity wing. Her fibroids made her feel comfortable taking on the role of “pregnant” and the maternity nurses were far too busy with patients in labor to notice that this patient was not their patient.
She brushed her curly red hair with her hand and swooped it into a loose ponytail she carelessly swept over her left shoulder. Her hair had grown so long since Paul died. She could see the night now, how she was driving home from one of their dates when the hazy night fog glowed in the full moon. She worried about getting into an accident on these back roads with all the curves and esses and drivers quick to glance at their cell phones. Not that she was any better. Tonya knew this. Her shit stank just like everyone else’s and even though she knew it was dangerous to glance at her phone while driving, she’d do it occasionally.
That evening, she’d tossed her phone in the glove box and locked it in. She didn’t want the temptation to look when the phone lit up or dinged; these signals always felt like they were summoning her immediate attention.
She was born in 1975. Now, in 2005, everything felt so urgent. Ugh.
“How ya doin’ hon?” a kind nurse inquired.
Realizing she’d look out of place on the maternity ward, Tonya took a few deep breaths and produced a slightly frightened, slightly excited smile. “Pretty good. Long night ahead. My second go.” The nurse eyed her street clothes and Tanya’s stomach. She nudged her glasses back up her nose and sighed. She didn’t have time to deal with this right now.
“Okay, hon, hang in there. I’ll call someone over to help you.”
Tonya nodded her head and muttered a shy thank you, realizing she’d be busted soon.
Did the miscarriage count as the first go? Tonya decided it did. The nurse didn’t need to know. Not even Paul had known.
Tonya put her earbuds in and continued to pace and breathe. She didn’t want to remember. Instead of forgetting, Massiat sang in her ear. The same song she heard that night on the way home. She’d listened to the song with Paul and as she drove home through the sliver of night, it sailed and sung through Tonya’s car speakers.
Gripping the steering wheel, staring into fog ghosts, she’d let herself linger over their goodnight kiss. She’d tasted the vodka and olives from their dirty martinis as their tongues overlapped, twirled, and sucked. He’d bitten her bottom lip gently while letting his hand drift from the small of her back to her apple-shaped butt. He massaged into the meat of her bottom and brought his mouth to the crook of her neck to gently whisper, “I love you,” before kissing and nibbling, gently sucking. By the time she’d left her panties were wet and she felt her whole body on fire with desire. Unfortunately, he didn’t have his own place yet. They’d made a date to finish this part of their reunion the next day— back at Tonya’s place. To most, it’d seem strange to put this off, but they both enjoyed the delicious — almost painful — anticipation of waiting.
Singing along in the car, Tonya rolled the window down and let the drizzle anoint her skin. She could feel the glow of lust and love plumping up every cell of her being. She was smitten. They’d gotten through the worst of his deployment. They’d finally be together again.
Votre cœur fait de pierre, capricieux et rêveur a lâché des soupirs accablés
It was a sad song but this was a delicious part and she dug into the melancholy of love as she pulled into her driveway and slipped out of her car into the night. Rain-muted stars and gentle moonlight created rainbows in the streetlamps. She ran one hand through her damp red curls and let her other caress her hip and leg.
She leaned in to get her cell phone. Inside, she poured herself a glass of Pinot, sipped in its luxurious taste and lay her head on her soft flannel sheets, allowing decadent, delicious, intoxicating dreams to enter her subconscious.
At 6:18 A.M., she’d gotten the call. At first, her green eyes were dry and her heart didn’t pound. She felt nothing. She lowered herself to the ground, the phone resting on her shoulder. On the other end, Paul’s sister, with a regretful tone and words that didn’t make sense.
Tonya managed to squeak out, “Thanks for letting me know. I’m sorry. Bye.” Then, she hung up. She looked at the fridge and it suddenly seemed 40 stories high. She looked at the ground and wished it would swallow her up. Using her arm strength, she forced her legs into an upright position.
She went to the computer and brought up the French song — their song — the one whose lyrics she didn’t understand, but didn’t need to. The one with the beautiful voice, the one she’d decided was about the happiness of being in love. The music began to play and she wailed.
She wailed and sobbed. Her bright red curls and vivid green eyes darkened and dulled. How could she go on? Why? Why did he do this?
On the day of Paul’s homecoming, Tonya spent an entire hour primping. She never got made up. But, this was special. She looked at her freckles — the freckles she’d once hated that reminded her of confetti or cupcake sprinkles thrown haphazardly — at her skin. She pulled out her deep purple dress — v-cut, short skirt, low back, one-inch straps. Her new pushup bra made impressive cleavage. Her butt looked extra bubbly and lifted. The dress was flattering to her 5'8" 170 lb frame. She let her curls dry naturally. As they dried, they quadrupled in size. Her pouty lips and high cheekbones with those daringly big curls seemed to say, “This is me. All me. Take me as I am.”
Paul loved her curls and freckles. He didn’t mind when she donned heels and stood over his 5'8" frame. In fact, he loved it. And, she loved that about him.
When she’d picked him up at the airport, they’d both had glassy eyes. He was in uniform and she patiently waited for her turn as strangers walked up to him, saying “Thank you for your service.” She felt proud of this man, her man.
Finally, there was a break from the fawning admirers and he wrapped his arms around her shoulders. They softened and allowed their bodies to melt together in a comforting embrace. The luggage carousel spun. While all the passengers gathered their suitcases, Tonya and Paul stayed in this embrace. Time paused until only his bag was left. They chuckled, retrieved it, and headed into the afternoon, to her car, and then to his parent’s home.
They knew words were slow to come during these reunions, of which this was their fifth. First, their bodies connected in hugs and held hands. Then, their eyes. Stilted language, then sex. Then, slowly, words would enter their day-to-day as they became companions again.
He was back from Afghanistan and wouldn’t talk with her about his time there. She knew better than to ask. He told her the last time she inquired what service was like, that he just wanted them to be together, to forget his time away. He wanted a fresh start, the American dream: to live happily ever after, have 2.5 kids, 1 dog, a 2-car garage, good jobs, and a home bought and paid for. It didn’t seem like too much to ask.
She snuggled into Paul. He’d changed out of his uniform into sweatpants and a t-shirt. His muscles bulged. His pants outlined a bit of a bulge too. They allowed one long, passionate kiss before snuggling into each other again, holding hands, knowing words weren’t necessary. At least not yet.
He made them green tea and set it on the coffee table. She glanced at the grandfather clock when it chimed 3 o’clock. His parents would be home from work in a couple of hours. She’d taken the day off from her grad school classes.
She’d missed him so much that her heart sometimes felt it was in a vice and the grip wouldn’t lessen until he was once again safe in her sight.
Paul was dead. He died. Asphyxiation. Later that night. After heavy drinking in his bedroom. His parents had no idea. It wasn’t fair. Goddammit. It wasn’t fair.
Tonya slipped by the nurse who’d first asked about her. She went through the revolving hospital doors and somehow drove herself back home to her apartment.
She’d just gotten the news yesterday.
Tonya felt a lump rise and stick in her throat. She imagined dough rising forever in this spot, making it harder and harder to breathe.
They’d waited an entire year to be together again. She hadn’t understood the extent of his PTSD. He kept his heartbreak hidden from everyone, even her. Didn’t he know he didn’t have to do that with her? She gripped his unwashed t-shirt and buried her face in the soft cloth, his scent. The last living parts of him she’d ever get to snuggle. She greedily wrapped herself in the shirt, her tears falling haphazardly down her face.
The music played. She looked up the translation —
“Your heart under the headstone your heart, this fool now is gone the wind has swept it away like all the other hearts Strange and lonesome your heart, this fool got wasted away; benevolent and confined evanesced well before it’s time” — Maissiat
— and fell to the floor until her tears turned into dry heaves and she couldn’t do anything but curl into a fetal ball and stare at the weave of her pants.
She’d made a habit of sneaking into the maternity floor and imagining their “happy ever after” starting with the birth of their first child. She’d play pretend until her heart threatened to burst through her skin, and then she’d shakily find her way to her car, turn on the song, and sob. No one can tell you the right way to grieve.
She found herself tonight, wandering the maternity hall, her cells threatening to kill her with their expanding sorrow.
“Miss? Maam? Which room are you in?” A different nurse eyed Tonya, looked her over suspiciously.
Tonya looked at her jagged fingernails, her winter-chapped hands. She glanced at her belly — she looked like she could be what, 6 months along? The fibroids began to grow and grow after he died. She decided to pretend like she was pregnant. To pretend like they were pregnant. She wasn’t ready to let him go.
“I’m sorry.” Her voice trailed off and when she spoke, the sound was very small, “I was pregnant. She didn’t make it. The father died — suicide.” It was all she could manage to speak. Tonya found herself sliding down to the floor again. The only thing she couldn’t come crashing through.
Suspicion turned to sympathy, “Oh, hon. Is it okay if I put my arm around your shoulder?” Tonya nodded yes. And, they sat on the floor that way for a very long time. The nurse offered to have coffee with Tonya after her shift. Tonya agreed and made her way to the hospital cafeteria to wait.
Maybe, just maybe, the vice would loosen its grip.
Author’s note: The French and English song lyrics and a link to the song is below. I didn’t have this song in mind when I wrote it, but when I found it, I knew it was the one.
Le départ
Votre cœur sous la pierre, votre cœur, ce fou s’en est allé, le vent l’a balayé comme tous les autres cœurs Etrangé et solitaire votre cœur, ce fou s’est consumé; Bienveillant et borné s’évapore bien avant l’heure
[Refrain:] Ô lourdes peines, ô serments décimés; je vous hais de vous avoir tant aimé
Votre cœur fait de pierre, capricieux et rêveur a lâché des soupirs accablés compressés, harassés d’aigreur Maintenant comment faire votre nom sur la carte est rayé, nulle part où taller, votre cœur c’était le monde entier
(refrain)
Nul éclair de chaleur votre cœur c’était tous les étés; allez en paix mon cœur puisse un jour le mien vous retrouverThe departure
The departure
Versions: #1#2
Your heart under the headstone your heart, this fool now is gone the wind has swept it away like all the other hearts Strange and lonesome your heart, this fool got wasted away; benevolent and confined evanesced well before it’s time
[Chorus:] Oh grave woes, oh broken vows I hate you for having loved you so much
Your heart made of stone, capricious and dreamy has unleashed overwhelming sighs packed and troubled with bitterness What is to be done now your name is struck off the list there’s nowhere to go your heart was the whole world
(chorus)
Not a glint of warmth your heart was all the summers; go in peace my heart, may mine find you again
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