It shouldn’t bother me that Mark doesn’t wear his new wedding ring but it does. I tell myself that it will likely fall off the prosthetic or that Mark fears it will draw attention to his rubber hand, but I also think he could just wear the damn thing.

Today is Tuesday which means we have support group. I need to tell Mark I’m not going to go anymore, but the right timing hasn’t come up. There really isn’t any good times at all since what happened, so I often think that I might as well just use anytime to tell him less than great news.

I’m not getting anything from it. We all talk about the children we’ve lost and, if anything, I feel more sadness than support at the end of it. When we first started going, we told the story of how it happened - our child and Mark’s hand disappearing into a mystical tunnel in the snow, but it was too absurd to even really say without questioning it yourself. I think people either thought we were lunatics or we were speaking in metaphors. We’ve since just moved on to say Wayne “went missing” last winter. It’s vague, but I’m sure it conjures up the signs and milk cartons from movies in the listeners’ minds and they nod and we continue.

We then spend the next five minutes of our spiel talking about the distance that has come between us, the emptiness life has brought to each of us, and the faux positivity we believe the future has in store for us. As I do the majority of the talking (and crying) I always expect Mark to put his hand on my back somewhere in this routine, but he never does. He remains silent in a daze, his right hand in his pocket; his prosthetic carefully tucked in the other.

I love and resent him in equal parts.

“I’m not going,” I tell Mark as he struggles to put on his shoes the way he used to. He looks up at me and I hope that my baggy sweatshirt and gym shorts explain how serious I am about this statement.

I expect a fight, but he shrugs and continues to fidget at his laces like a child. I almost think I want a fight, or at the very least a conversation about my decision, but he clearly gives zero fucks about it. Without knowing why I kneel down in front of him and help him finish tying his shoes. I picture him kicking me in the face when I finish; it would be the perfect opportunity and he clearly hates me enough to, but again, nothing.

We both stand and I help him with his fall coat. No words are spoken as he reaches for the door to leave.

I want to tell him I love him, but when I open my mouth I say “I’m sorry” instead. He doesn’t look back, but he mutters, “I’m sorry too” and then he’s gone.

Some time passes and I’m still a mannequin in the foyer. I nearly scream when there is a quick knock at the door in front of me. My brain replays the moment a few times and I’m not sure if I did scream or if I just imagined doing so. I feel odd being able to respond so quickly so I pause before taking the two steps over to the door and answering it.

A boy stands in our doorway and as I open my mouth to ask who he is, I realize it’s Tommy Gregor. Even without looking at his worn clothes this time.

“Hi, Tommy.” I say, then wonder if “Mr. Gregor” was what I should have said. Or would that be too boarding school teacher-esque?

I wait for Tommy to explain why he is here, but his mouth is firmly shut. The silence is nearly awkward.

“...Can I help you with something, Tommy?”

“No.” he says, “sorry, I shouldn’t have knocked.” he turns to walk away.

“Wait. Tommy, please, what is it?”

My long since crushed hopes stir. In a quick second of daydreaming, Tommy tells me Wayne is still alive. In a treehouse. On a boat. In Tommy’s basement, posing unnoticed as one of the countless Gregor children at the dining room table each evening.

Tommy doesn’t turn.

“Tommy?” I ask again; my imagination projects another reel of possibilities.

“I think…” he starts, then corrects himself, “I know that Wayne is still alive.”

Do I fall to my knees?

“What are you saying? What do you know?”

“Wayne is still alive. We can find him when winter comes.”

“How? I don’t understand!”

Without another word, Tommy jumps off the two stairs into our front lawn and off into the night. I see him go in the way of his house, I think to give chase, but I know I won’t catch him and I know where he lives (insert maniacal laugh).

I go put on tennis shoes and get in the car, but when I get to the Gregor’s house, I find myself driving right past it. I picture myself knocking like a lunatic at the door demanding Tommy to explain where my dead child is.

And there it is; the word I’ve been putting off since he disappeared. No, I remind myself, since his death.

I pull the car over once I pass the houses in our neighborhood and I have the ugliest cry of my career. It hurts the way I’m contorting my face and the noise is somewhere between choking and screaming. I’m worried someone will hear me and knock on the window, and, as most thoughts do at these times, this makes me cry even harder. I’m pathetic. I wish I was the one that died that day. I think this and I start bawling all over again.

And then it stops. I look in the mirror to see if my puffy eyes have anything left to offer and it’s really just a large sigh before I’m putting the car back in drive.

The irony isn’t lost on me that this was the first night I decided to miss support group and so I go. I’ll be twenty minutes late, and in shorts - which is a mixed bag decision for Minnesotas depending on which side of winter you’re on, but I know it’s where I need to be. I was selfish to have Mark attend on his own. I should have been there as much for him as for myself. More?

I’m a garbage human, I think, and then I arrive at the church and find Mark is nowhere to be found.

That fucking bitch.

Next Chapter: Chapter Three