I Will Always Carry You

-Isabella Swann-

There is a fissure in my heart, torn open, ripped along that familiar fault-line like a zipper undone. Pain is bleeding onto the floor, seeping into the crisp white sheets,

leaking from my arteries into the crevices between my organs. I am drowning in heart-ache.

I am hollow inside.

.

They gave me morphine. They gave me hopeful smiles, a benefit-of-the-doubt, and salt-sugar-water through a tube. They pumped me full of AB positive and coagulants and prospects. They laid me on a bed, sheets tucked tight over my legs, and promised answers to the questions I didn't know how to ask. They sent me Paul and he gave me love and comfort.

But none of them could give me what I was so suddenly, horribly, indefinably lacking:

A tiny heartbeat, steady, purring along with mine.

A kick here and there, a gentle nudge from within to remind me that I was no longer simply me.

A lump under my shirt; a belly that did not quake with hunger. A hunger for a baby wrapped safely within.

.

.

He's dead.

They haven't told me, but I can feel it.

I am hollow inside.

.

Paul doesn't know what to say. I can tell, because I don't know what to say either. He can't even meet my gaze, and I know why. Teardrops seep down his cheeks, dribbling on his ruffled and stained shirt [stained with our baby's blood.] I can feel his own fissure breaking and popping as his hand shakes in mine; he covers it up with a cough and a sigh, but I know, because I can feel my own heart throbbing in unison.

Together, we break down within while our exterior remains intact. Like two stones cast together, a spark is transferred; like hydrogen we bond together [diatomic and hopeful], but when we breathe in, we combust-explode-ignite. And what is left in the aftermath is two people breaking, trembling, breathless.

He sits in a chair beside me, one hand in mine, the other tangled in my hair; comfort for him, or for me, I have no idea. His face is turned away, water droplets falling, eyes roaming the tiny room, searching for clarity.

I am numb and can no longer function. I do not think, I do not feel pain or joy or shock, I do not blink except to acknowledge the motion: that there is a part of me that is still alive. All that exists is the involuntary: kidneys processing toxins, lungs expanding [shrinking], throat forcing down saliva and stomach acid.

When someone finally comes, I no longer know how to move. I simply lay, face half-buried in the pillow, and inhale [exhale.] Paul is the one that turns, hands open in front of him, eyes and tears and heart pleading for any kind of news but the one we expect.

It is Carlisle.

"Paul, Bella…" he whispers. I make no move to acknowledge my name; names no longer matter, I no longer matter, nothing matters at all. "Bella," he repeats, "I have some good and bad news…" I feel both of their eyes on me, but I cannot response. I blink, and it is enough for Carlisle.

"The good news, is that Bella is perfectly fine," Carlisle says, his words directed more to Paul than to little statue me. "She suffered some blood loss from the trauma, but we've given her a couple of pints, and she's going to be right as rain in a few days. There may be some soreness from the, well…" he trails off, and his words fizzle out like the carbonation in a soda. "She'll be fine," he repeats, as if this is information enough.

There is a break in his words, and Paul is the one to shatter the silence.

"So…what about the baby? It is okay, isn't it? He? She? The baby?" He clamps his mouth shut; things must be really bad, if Paul is babbling.

I hear Carlisle sigh. "That's the bad news…" My ears strain to take in his words even as my body shuts down against them. I do not want my pain verified. But I must hear. "…you lost the baby, Paul, Bella. I'm sorry. We did everything we could, but…but it had suffered too much trauma."

"Did I hurt it?" Paul speaks the words that resound through my agonized mind; his voice cracks. "Was it me? I made her run."

There is the sound of movement, though I cannot tell if Carlisle is shaking his head yes or no. "It wasn't anyone's fault, really. It's just the natural way of things, unfortunately. Miscarriages happen. It's the body's way of saying either it cannot care for the fetus or that the fetus is unhealthy."

Angry red lines flash over my vision. Unhealthy? My baby was beautiful, perfect. How dare he say I couldn't care for it? I did everything! …didn't I?

"…jesus…" Paul hisses.

"I know it's hard, but the others fetuses are fine."

A sound of static in my ears. Blood pulsing. Air won't go down my windpipe. What did he say?

Paul: "…the other fetuses? ….the other babies? What other babies?"

"Oh…" Carlisle sounds taken-aback. "I…I just assumed you knew. Yes, um, Bella is pregnant with triples-well, twins now. They're quite healthy."

Twins? Triples? Under the covers, my free hand finds my stomach and presses against it. Sure enough, a moment later, a tiny thump is uttered in greeting. I can't breathe.

Carlisle leaves us alone to talk, but I cannot speak, cannot even blink.

Paul's hands find my face, his voice low and happy. "Bella, did you hear that? Twins! Can you believe it?"

No, I can't.

"Bella! Can you hear me, love? It's going to be okay, alright. We'll still have a family."

But he's wrong. It will never be okay; I will never be alright again. He is not a mother, he cannot understand how it feels to carry something for so long, and then to have it torn from you-ripped from your arms. He cannot understand that I will mourn for the rest of our lives. He cannot understand why I will continue to cry for months to come.

He cannot understand that you cannot replace one child with another.