Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 145606 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 728(@200wpm)___ 582(@250wpm)___ 485(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145606 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 728(@200wpm)___ 582(@250wpm)___ 485(@300wpm)
She was right. I hadn’t shed a tear since they had put my brother in the ground. Hadn’t spoken a word of him if I could avoid it. I couldn’t. I couldn’t open that dam, because I was afraid if I did I would never plug it back up. I couldn’t let myself let go of the carefully put together pieces of my soul. I would shatter.
I stood up abruptly, dusting my hands off on my already dirty dress. “Mum, I don’t need to talk okay? Just let me be. Please stop pressuring me when I don’t have anything to say.”
She stood too, eyes glistening. “Gwen…” she looked as if she was going to push it.
“Okay my two best green thumbs, time to go, I’ve got us booked in for three.” Amy stood on the porch, her heels not permitting her from venturing onto the grass.
I would have laughed if I had had the ability, my Manhattanite best friend may have settled into life in the country all right, but she was yet to adopt the gumboots that were second nature around here.
“What are you smirking at Martha Stewart? I know for a fact you’re in desperate need of a manicure,” she shot at me.
Amy was trying as hard as she could to hide her grief. But it leaked out every now and then. I would watch her face grow dark and tears well in her eyes when something she said or did reminded her of…him. I was trying to ignore my own suffering as best I could, so I focused on hers. She had lost him too. The man she loved. We were both as broken as each other, trying to hide our wounds as best we could. The breeze rustled my dress and my thoughts ventured downward to the round bulge of my stomach.
“I’m coming, just give the pregnant woman some slack, I’ll be waddling soon.” I made my way through our garden, Mum at my side.
“Soon?” Amy raised a brow. “I think I detect a slight waddle now.”
I gasped, grabbing my mother’s hand, turning to her in horror.
“Did you hear that Mum? She said I waddled. I’m not waddling. Am I?” I asked desperately.
My mother smiled through the pain that was in her eyes and touched my stomach lightly. “Well I wasn’t going to say anything…” she joked, sneaking a glance at my so called best friend.
“Oh you two are pieces of work, making fun of the pregnant lady. You do get how delicate my hormones are right now? And that I’m holding gardening scissors?” I glared at them both, shaking my weapon threateningly.
My mother rolled her eyes lovingly. “Shears, my doll, they are called shears.”
“Whatever.” I tossed the shears on our outdoor table just as my father emerged from the direction of the shed.
“What are my girls bickering about now?” he asked, looking at the three of us, pretending to glower.
I rushed up to him clutching his arms dramatically. “Daddy, please tell these evil women that I do not waddle. I’m barely pregnant!” I exclaimed falsely. Dad hauled me into his arms and put his chin on my head.
“You, my beautiful girl, do not waddle,” he reassured me.
I sighed into his embrace.
“You galumph and it’s adorable,” his voice was amused.
I extracted myself from his arms and glared. “You are all bullies. My own family! I know if Ian was here he would…” I stopped abruptly, hands over my mouth as the dark shadow of my words settled over us all. The smiles and jokes were gone, replaced by sadness and grief, I struggled under the weight of it. I hadn’t said his name since…No.
“Mouse,” Dad said softly, his voice raw.
I took a deep breath and pulled myself together. “Excuse me everyone, I’m covered in garden scum, I must change before we head to the spa. I would frighten the public like this.” My voice was saturated with forced cheerfulness and I ignored the worried faces of my loved ones. Without waiting for a response I quickly dashed back into the house. When I reached my room, I slammed the door behind me, collapsing against it, closing my eyes. I mustn’t let myself think, about it, I mustn’t remember.
I went to my closet, eyes avoiding every picture I knew would destroy me. I had memorized where they were, I knew where I couldn’t look. I could have taken them down. But that would mean touching them, god forbid I got a glance at the photo inside the frame. It was worse in the rest of the house. My mother decorated in memories.
I distracted myself with what I was going to wear. And that was a good distraction; my growing belly had a huge effect on my fashion choices. I had pretty much had to overhaul my entire wardrobe, not that that was a chore. Plus I would’ve had to do it anyway considering most of my stuff was in the States. Tut tut Gwen. I mustn’t let my mind wander that way either.
My stomach went from flat to baby bumpin’ almost overnight. The doctor was right. At least I had bypassed the awkward ‘is she fat or pregnant’ stage. I was definitely pregnant. At four months, I had kept my small frame, which made my baby bump all the more prominent. I was all belly and boobs. I was more than a little pleased my lady lumps had grown a bit bigger. I chose a mocha colored maxi dress that was tight and gently hugged my belly. I slung a braided belt just underneath the swell of my stomach and wrapped a scarf around my neck. I put on some boots and a denim jacket to ward off the chill, it was autumn at home now, the weather was slowly warming up, but the air still had a bite. I inspected myself in the mirror. My hair had grown a bit longer and thanks to the same hormones I mostly cursed, it was full and shiny. That was the only thing I had of the so-called pregnancy glow. Due to constant morning sickness, which had barely let up, my face looked sallow. The makeup which usually covered the dark circles under my eyes was absent so my lack of sleep was obvious, the worst thing was my eyes. They were empty. I tried as hard as I could to plaster on a fake smile, to seem like I was healing, hell sometimes happy. But I couldn’t hide the dead that was staring back at me, the life that was gone from my eyes. It took all of my effort just to get out of bed every morning, to act like every breath I took wasn’t agony.