When You Were Here

I carried my backpack in front of me to class. And I was this zombie of a person. Just going through the motions of each day until I could figure out what to do and how to say it.”
    I soften my voice. “I would have helped you figure it out. You know that, don’t you? I’m not some idiot who can’t handle complicated stuff.”
    “I know.” She fiddles with a rubber band, a black ponytail holder around her wrist.
    “Why didn’t you tell me?”
    “Because I could barely deal with it myself.” There is a fierceness in her blue eyes, an intensity to them. “Because I knew if I saw you, I would have wanted to keep her. I would have been this stupid hormonal girl who was getting fat, and I’d be like, Danny, let’s have a baby. Let’s play house. Let’s get married and be teenage parents. I would have done that. I would have begged you, and we’d have been this joke. I had to cut you out because I didn’t want to put you in that position. I needed time to be okay with the idea that I was going to have to give her up before I told you. I planned to tell you. I mean, I knew I should tell you. I knew that, Danny.” Now her eyes plead with me. “And I talked to adoption agencies even though it broke me apart to think about giving her up. But I knew I had to. I just wanted to get my act together and a plan together and tell you when it was all sorted out. I wanted to be able to tell you without it messing up your life. Besides, I figured I’d have time to sort it out. I thought I could tell you when I had an adoption agency picked and when I was certain what I was doing. But then I went into labor. And everything happened so quickly. I had to get a cab to a hospital in San Diego and then call my mom and ask her to come down.”
    When she says that, a memory flickers. Kate being gone for a few days six months ago. My mom not even knowing where Kate went. Just that she had to take care of business out of town.
    “And my mom raced down to San Diego, and she arrived a few minutes after Sarah was born. It all just happened so quickly.”
    “Jesus. You were alone when you had her?”
    Holland nods. “I’d never imagined I’d give birth that early. That had just never even occurred to me. I never thought I would run out of time to tell you. I truly neverthought she’d be born before I could say something. But then they handed her to me, and I was overwhelmed with love for her. I was like this fierce lion, and I just wanted to protect her,” she says, her voice strong, the look in her eyes telling me she is both here and there right now. “She was small, so small, she could fit in my hands. Her face was reddish and a little bit blue at the same time. Her eyes were barely open, and her feet were tiny, and she let out this little sound, not like one of those full-bodied baby screams but more like a kitten’s meow.”
    She puts her hand against her mouth for a second, her voice catching. “And I knew I had to protect her, and I had to fight for her. My only thought was I had to save my baby. But I couldn’t. She got an infection, and I wasn’t enough for her. What I had to give her wasn’t enough. I couldn’t do a thing. I failed her completely. She lived for exactly fifty-two hours. Her heart had been beating, and I had held her, and she was this real person. And when she died, all I felt was black and empty. We didn’t have a funeral or memorial service or anything. She was just cremated. That was it. And it was absolutely horrible—this tiny little person turned to ash.”
    I try to picture a baby, a two-pound baby, being cremated. But it’s too awful a thought.
    “And I thought her dying was all my fault. A punishment for not having figured out what to do beforehand.”
    “Holland, it’s not a punishment. The world doesn’t work that way. Bad things just happen.”
    She shakes her head. “I don’t know. That’s how I felt atthe time. And my body. It was just this mess. My body didn’t know she was dead. My body was trying to be a mom. And how could I tell you then? How could I tell you at that point? Just call you up and say, Oh, hi. I didn’t have the guts to tell you I was pregnant, but now I’m not, and now she’s dead, and I feel dead too, and can you please come save me from all this? ”
    I reach for her. I don’t care if she should have, could have, would have told me. I can’t let her, I can’t let anyone , go through this alone again, whether it was her choice or not. She