Lamentation: A Short Story

There are moments in my life when I question why I am here. Did my mom pray hard enough to get me and keep me? Did I survive because I was destined to be here?

I guess my unborn did not survive because she was not destined to be here. What a morbid thought to have in connection with something that is supposed to bring so much joy into a person's life.

But it’s only been seven months since she left us, or me rather. I’m entitled to grieve . “Honey, are you ready?” my husband calls over to me. He walks toward me, his left hand cradles my lower back, while his right hand gently touches my left. He hasn’t touched me like this in a while. “You need to clean your ring.” He gives me that look. That look that your father gives you when he disapproves of your outfit. 

Howard proposed to me eight months ago. We had already been together for three years. We got married four months after the proposal. Howard said we were “too old to wait” to get married.

I think it’s because he discovered we were pregnant. An illegitimate child is not boardroom conversation.

The wedding was not the glamorous, Old Hollywood dream I always imagined for myself. It was quite rushed, and although we always planned to have only our friends and immediate family present, it felt so lonely.

Keeping the pregnancy a secret did not help either. This was the moment our unhappiness began. “One more minute please my love,” I say to him, but I really mean one more hour. I do not want to go to this dinner party. 

His arrogant friend, and business partner Harold is hosting it in his brand new $3.5 million dollar home and thought the best way to modestly show it off would be through hosting a dinner party.

The Ceci New York invitation and miniature bottle of Veuve Clicquot that accompanied it screams everything but modest.

I put on my last emerald earring, smooth out my black, satin party dress, and do one last check in the mirror.

“Why don’t you wear the diamond studs I bought you for your birthday?”, Howard inquires, as I take one last glance in the floor length mirror wondering if I should wear the black trench coat or the nude duster. 

Before meeting Howard, these emerald earrings were (and are still in my opinion) the most valuable pieces of jewelry I owned. They were worn by my great-grandmother, and passed down to my grandmother, who passed them down to my mother, who gave them to me.

The jewels are vintage, and meaningful. Howard should know that. When we first met, I was wearing the earrings and he found them to be lovely. He found the story to be quite endearing.

“Darling, you know these mean a lot to me, and they are my favorite piece to wear with evening attire.”

When I discovered I was pregnant, I would talk to my unborn about the earrings she would one day inherit. “Hello in there my darling. One day these will be yours.” Some might consider that premature seeing as though I was still in my first trimester, but I was so excited.

Howard looks at me, as though he is waiting for me to change my mind, and then he kisses me on the cheek. “Very well, we must be on.” 

We exit our New York apartment, and walk onto the elevator. “Good evening, what floor please?”, asks the elevator attendant. As Howard tells him we are heading to the lobby, a little girl and her mother get on. I always forget that we are not the only ones who live on the penthouse floor, although it often feels that way.

It’s so quiet and I rarely see any neighbors, if I can call them that. I smile at the little girl who is tightly cradling an American Girl doll. Her chestnut ringlets frame her sweet, round face. She has a button nose, and her cheeks have a rosy tint. She is wearing an emerald, peplum coat and her white stockings brightly peek out of her gold mary janes- the mary janes that she keeps clicking the heels of.

“There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home,” she chants. “Mommy, can I get red, sparkly shoes like Dorothy?”.

Mommy, there’s such a sweet ring to that name.

“Hush sweetheart!” Her mother’s eyes shift between her child and the floor display panel. She holds tight onto her daughter’s hand and shifts in her shoes. When we get down to the lobby, we let the mother and her daughter off, and they hurry off out the door into a parked car.

They must have been in a hurry. Hurry. Why are we always in such a hurry? Stop and smell the roses is what my mother would always say. Not in New York. There are no roses to smell, just concrete, busy streets and busy people. The occasional smell of roasted chestnuts or dirty water dogs wafts into the air followed by the sight of a rat and a heaping pile of trash outside of a restaurant.

I hate it here.

There really is no place like home.

“Anya, our driver is here.” 

A black, Cadillac escalade pulls up to the curb, with blacked out windows.

“That’s for us?” I ask surprisingly, while pulling in the collar of my trench coat. “We could have just taken an Uber.” He lets out a laugh that makes me shrink ten inches- the type of laugh that reminds you that you’re from two different worlds, and that you haven’t successfully learned to navigate between the two.

“We’re going upstate. Ubering from Manhattan to upstate would cost a fortune, plus, Harold is paying for this.”

Of course he is. Good ole’ modest Harold. I chuckle to myself.

“What’s tickling you?” he asks me. I always thought that was a cute way for him to ask me what was so funny.

“It’s just, Harold preaches about humility, but he’s so flashy!”

Howard starts clicking his jaw. He usually does this when he’s about to disagree with me. Harold and Howard grew up together.

“His family practically took me in,” he would always say. Harold could do no wrong.

“We are lucky to have a friend like Harold,” he expressed after letting out a sigh.

That’s it? That was the end of the conversation? What happened to the light hearted, charming, warm man that I fell in love with? Things have been so different since we lost the baby. Let me rephrase that- since I lost the baby. I know he said it wasn’t my fault. It’s just been hard not to wear my guilt lately. He’s been so cold. 

I gaze out the window staring at the many brightly lit, high-rise buildings, turn into Oaks, Beech’s and Poplar’s blanketed by snow and frost. Winter’s were never as brutal in Charleston. Such a magical place, Charleston, with the French-style homes and palmettos. Around this time of the year mom would adorn our quaint, two-bedroom home with winter foliage and white poinsettias. Dad would attempt to put lights up outside the house, only to struggle and end up needing help from a neighbor. Life was good then. I miss them.

“Honey, Christmas is in two weeks and I think I should visit my parents.” Howard agreed, and said he’d come with me. “Thank you,” I replied. But, I didn’t feel so thankful. 

The car pulls up to an iron gate that had to have been at least seven feet tall. The driver rolls down the window, and into the intercom, in a thick, Irish brogue says, “Mr. and Mrs. Howard Cromwell are here.” The fence opens up immediately and we drive down a long road that wraps around the ornate facade of the house.

“Enjoy your evening Mr. and Mrs. Cromwell.” Before I have a chance to respond, my side door opens and a white gloved hand extends itself to escort me out. “Thank you,” I say, feeling out of my league.

My husband grabs my hand and continues escorting me up a very wide, split staircase. Holy shit. I can’t remember exactly what Harold did to amass so much wealth.

Then it hits me, he didn’t do anything. He just happens to be blessed with parents who left him a robust trust fund. Being business partners with Howard is just a hobby.

As we approach the double doors, we are greeted by Harold.

“Howard, my good man, thank you for coming!” as he and Howard exchange the manly handshake men do so well. He leans in to give me a hug.

“Good to see you Anya.”

“Harold your home is beautiful. I can’t stop admiring the doorway,” I admit.

“Isn’t it a beaut? It’s made out of wrought iron and two hundred year old wood. Come in please!”

As we stand in the grand foyer of the house, a server comes by with a serving tray full of champagne. “Don’t mind if I do!” I excitedly reach for the champagne flute. I need to loosen up. Howard leans in close, and whispers in my ear “Take it easy tonight.” He needs to loosen up too.

Ignoring his comment, I decide to distract myself and spot this woman across the room. She is tall, with a slender yet curvy body. She has thick, long brown, no, black hair. It’s worn in an Old Hollywood glam style. She has the Veronica Lake swoop over her left eye. Her dress adds even more to the mystery. It is a mermaid gown, made entirely of emerald sequins, with a modest front, but strappy, revealing back. She begins walking toward us, and is met by Harold. “Howard, Anya, meet Yasmin. My fiance!” How could I have missed the four carat, diamond asscher attached to her finger? 

I would have never thought in a million years that Harold would settle down. For as long as I have known him he struck me as the Yale Club, rugby, playboy type.

“Congratulations you two! We should toast!” Howard elates.

Harold calls the server over and grabs three glasses of champagne. He hands one to everyone except Yasmin.

“Don’t mind me,” she chimes in. I notice her rubbing her stomach. “I’ll have to toast with water. We’re expecting!”

Congratulations chime out. Harold looks so happy, and Howard even happier. There is a smile on his face that I hadn’t seen since our wedding day, or since he found out I was pregnant.

Harold is embracing Yasmin. Howard is gazing at the happy couple. I gaze out the window of this perfect house.

I sneak another glass of champagne in, and watch the three perfects engage in cheerful banter.  Would Howard shower me with the same love and attention if I had kept the baby? Would I get my husband back?

Maybe our unborn knew her parents were unhappy. Maybe she went “home” and asked God for a better family. Maybe it’s the order of events, or maybe it’s the champagne, but hot tears slowly run down my cheeks, and slowly my back heels begin clicking together, and slowly I whisper “There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.”