Moon Over Alcatraz Read online

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  Moon Over Alcatraz

  Patricia Yager Delagrange

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  An imprint of

  Musa Publishing

  Copyright Information

  Moon Over Alcatraz, Copyright © Patricia Yager Delagrange, 2012

  All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.

  ...

  This e-Book is a work of fiction. While references may be made to actual places or events, the names, characters, incidents, and locations within are from the author’s imagination and are not a resemblance to actual living or dead persons, businesses, or events. Any similarity is coincidental.

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  Musa Publishing

  633 Edgewood Ave

  Lancaster, OH 43130

  www.musapublishing.com

  ...

  Published by Musa Publishing, January, 2012

  ...

  This e-Book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines and/or imprisonment. No part of this ebook can be reproduced or sold by any person or business without the express permission of the publisher.

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  ISBN: 978-1-61937-104-0

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  Editor: Brianna Dalton

  Cover Design: Kelly Shorten

  Interior Book Design: Coreen Montagna

  Warning

  This e-book contains adult language and scenes. This story is meant only for adults as defined by the laws of the country where you made your purchase. Store your e-books carefully where they cannot be accessed by younger readers.

  Dedication

  I’d like to dedicate this book to my mom and dad who never lived long enough to know I became an author, and to James, Dylan, and Allessandra, the loves of my life, and to Susan and Kathy who make my life complete.

  Chapter 1

  “Breathe, Brandy, breathe.”

  Weston’s voice came from the side of the hospital bed where I lay propped up, knees bent to accommodate Dr. Farney checking to see how far my cervix had dilated.

  Gritting my teeth, eyes shut, I inhaled through my nose. The pungent odor of sweat wafted through my nostrils. I imagined the crest of a deep-blue wave curling over, white foam churning, crashing down, wave after wave speeding toward the edge of a sandy beach.

  But I couldn’t take in a full breath. I opened my mouth, tried sucking in air, lungs on fire, the pain like a serrated knife to my belly, hands flailing, slapping the sides of the bed to get Weston’s attention.

  “She can’t breathe.” I could hear the panic in his voice. He was scared. So was I. Is this how a first delivery is supposed to go?

  Dr. Farney’s voice tore through the delivery room. “The baby’s heart rate is slowing.”

  A plastic mask lowered over my mouth and nose, and a steady flow of oxygen began pouring through. I shifted my gaze to the right. Weston’s eyes were riveted on my lower body, his brows dipped down, mouth set in a tight line.

  “What’s wrong?” I shouted, my voice muffled beneath the mask.

  Weston leaned down, his body blocking the glare of the overhead lights. “Take deep breaths. They’re using forceps to get the baby out.” He gripped my hand and squeezed then edged toward the foot of the bed. “Doctor, is the baby okay?”

  “Umbilical cord’s wrapped around her neck. She’s twisted in the birth canal.” Dr. Farney’s voice sounded achingly calm.

  Wrapped around her neck…twisted in the birth canal…My baby girl had been due in early June, but she was being born three weeks early. However, Dr. Farney had urged us not to worry.

  The pain was beyond bad. It was excruciating. Suddenly the pressure in my groin subsided. I inhaled one deep breath, then another, and my lower body deflated like a leaky tire.

  “The baby’s not…She’s not breathing,” Weston whispered.

  A deafening silence splintered through the room.

  I tugged on Weston’s hand. He twisted his head in my direction, tears glistening along his lower lashes.

  My mind registered the screams, but my ears heard only the wild thumping of my heart as flecks of black clouded my vision.

  Weston opened the front door of our house on Lauren Drive just a few blocks away from the hospital and I stepped through the threshold. Every chair, each pillow in the front room looked as if it had been reupholstered in drab, lifeless material. Walls, knickknacks, rugs took on an alien quality. I was seeing them for the first time with a new pair of eyes, filtered through a veil of tragedy and disappointment.

  I sat on the couch, squinting out the window. Tiny sparrows flitted between the branches of the oak trees in our front yard. The warmer than average May weather had wilted the white petunias and pink geraniums cascading over the sides of the hanging baskets on the front porch. I’d have to water them soon.

  Maybe if I closed my eyes when I awakened all of this would not have happened. Resting my hands on my stomach, I felt the place where she’d lived for nine months. Now only a small bulge remained which would be gone in a month or two. There was no baby inside of me. There was no baby outside of me. There was no baby, period.

  A heavy blanket of guilt hung across my shoulders like a woolen shroud. I’d destroyed our happiness. On the other side of the room my mother’s gilt-edged mirror reflected an image—a woman with an empty womb, a black void for a uterus. My body had betrayed me. Unable to give birth to a healthy baby, I couldn’t give my husband the child we’d been waiting for nine long months.

  Weston sat next to me and I reached out and grasped his wrist. “Remember the night she was conceived?”

  He bent his head, shaking it from side to side. “Don’t do this, Brandy.”

  “We were living in San Francisco. We made love on the deck. You could see the full moon—like a huge medallion, hanging by an invisible chain over Alcatraz.”

  “Never saw it look that way before,” he whispered then walked over to the window and stood, his back facing me.

  “I thought it was a sign…a good sign…like an omen, you know?”

  He turned back around, his lips set in a tight line. “I’ll get you some breakfast.”

  He walked into the hallway, his steps sluggish. He brought in a tray with dry toast, juice and coffee and placed it on the table in front of the couch then sat down next to me. “I know you’re devastated you lost the baby, honey, but we can—”

  My knee caught the edge of the breakfast tray as I stood up, food toppling onto the floor. Gritting my teeth so hard my temples throbbed, I glared down at him. “Don’t you dare.”

  His jaw dropped open, eyes wide. “What the…? What do you mean?”

  “You know damn well what I mean.” My bottom lip quivered, tears coursed down my cheeks. “You were going to tell me we can have another baby, weren’t you?” His silence was my answer but I needed to hear the words. “Weren’t you?” I yelled, droplets of spit flying from my lips.

  He glanced down at his hands then up at me. “Yes,” he muttered, his face a mask of hurt and pain. “Does that make me some kind of monster?”

  In my heart, the truth was just the opposite. I was the monster. My body had given birth to a dead baby. Something inside me had killed her. Weston had done nothing wrong. But I had. Sometime during my pregnancy I’d messed up, and now I’d have to live with that knowledge. Forever.

  Desperate for sleep, I trudged up the stairs, hoping to wake u
p and discover my world hadn’t come crashing down around me. But at three a.m. my mind stirred. Cradling my abdomen with both hands, I missed the feel of Christine’s nighttime punches and kicks. Slumping down under the comforter, I turned onto my side and prayed slumber would overtake me. A single star appeared behind my closed eyelids and I mouthed a wish that I’d never wake up.

  But I did wake up, and lay staring at the window, mesmerized by the sun’s rays that highlighted thousands of tiny dust motes fluttering near the curtains. Nothing mattered. I couldn’t imagine making the effort to leave my bed, get dressed, walk downstairs, fix a meal. They all seemed like unimaginably complex and exhausting tasks.

  At some point, Weston entered the bedroom and laid a hand on my shoulder. “Honey, would you listen to me for a second?”

  I turned onto my back and stared at him, knowing if I opened my mouth I’d cry a ceaseless ocean of wasted emotion. Not one tear, or a million tears, would bring her back.

  “We both lost Christine, honey, and I’m sad too. You’ve got to get up, take a walk, start writing again, whatever.” He knelt beside the bed and covered my hand with his. “Do this for yourself, Brandy. Or do it for me.”

  Scenes in the hospital played over and over, my mind spinning like a DVD player. If I said anything, it would have to be about my daughter dying before I had a chance to hold her.

  “I’m sorry for getting angry with you,” I mumbled. Weston’s face shimmered back at me, tears veiling my vision. “It’s just…my heart’s been ripped out, and what do I have to replace it? What am I going to do?”

  He lay down on the bed, facing me. “We lost our daughter. You have every right to break down, fall apart, do whatever you need to, babe.” He wrapped a stray piece of hair around my ear and gently rubbed the back of his hand down my cheek. “I’m here for you, whenever you need me.”

  I sat up and leaned back against the pillows, staring at the far wall. “I have a follow-up appointment with the doctor in a month. I’ll talk to her about it.”

  He sat up, gave me a chaste kiss then wrapped me in his arms. “It’ll take time. We’ll never forget what happened and we’ll always remember Christine. She won’t be here with us, but we can be happy again.”

  I squinched my eyes shut tight, trying to turn off the never-ending videotape of the recent past. He’d never know what it felt like to lose a child that had lived inside your body all those months. Maybe we’d both feel better soon. I just prayed what I’d feel someday would be an emotion other than loss.

  Chapter 2

  The following morning at the breakfast table Weston’s barely audible voice broke the silence in the kitchen. “Brandy?”

  I glanced at him over the mug cradled in my hands. “Uh-huh?”

  “I talked with the funeral director yesterday. I told him I’d call him back about our plans—”

  “Christine’s burial,” I said, my voice barely more than a whisper.

  He nodded. “Your parents passed away. My mom’s in the care facility in Chicago. We don’t have any close relatives. There’s our friends in San Francisco, and a few in the neighborhood like Cecilia and Perry, some guys at work but…I don’t know. How do you feel about a private service. Just you and me.”

  I closed my eyes, rubbed my forehead with my fingertips, tried to wrap my head around the inevitable. I’d pushed this subject to the back of my mind, not wanting to ever deal with it. “I want our baby to have a home where I can visit her. That’s the most important thing. The rest of it”—I waved my hand—“the funeral service with guests, a reception afterward…I couldn’t handle it, Weston.” My chest tightened. It felt as if a bag of stones had been laid on top of my stomach. I couldn’t imagine ever feeling unemotional when it came to talking about the death of my child.

  Weston walked around to my side of the table and put his arms around my shoulders, bringing me in close. I laid my head on his solid chest. “Whatever you want, Brandy. I can’t imagine being social right now either. If people ask, we’ll tell them we decided to keep it just for you and me. They can send a card instead…or make a donation.”

  I nodded, rubbing my face against the soft flannel of his shirt, feeling raw inside. Talking about the burial of my baby was like poking a stiletto into my heart.

  He rubbed my back with his splayed hand, his warmth seeping through me, relaxing the muscles running down the sides of my spine. “I’ll call Mr. Peralta,” he said. “He owns the funeral home over on Everett Street. You know the one I’m talking about.”

  I pulled back and looked up at him. “You’ll take care of it then?”

  “I’ll handle it,” he said then kissed my forehead.

  Three days later we were standing at the edge of a hole in the ground at Holy Sepulcher Cemetery in Hayward, the silence so thick, the insides of my ears buzzed like a distant swarm of angry bees. Mr. Peralta and another gentleman stood off to the side while Weston and I held hands next to a tiny casket.

  Weston had chosen a simple mahogany box with gold handles, a bouquet of white lilies graced the top of the small box. I knelt down and laid a kiss on the smooth wood then wiped off the tears that had fallen on top. Weston joined me, placing a single red rose in the middle of the lilies.

  He helped me up and we stood side-by-side in silence, my guilt over her death like a stone in my empty belly. I missed everything I’d dreamed would be happening right now, yearned for all that could have been.

  Weston nodded at the man standing next to Mr. Peralta and our baby was slowly lowered into the gaping maw. She reached the bottom, and a bird landed on the rich brown dirt piled next to the grave. It pecked around, chirping a little song then flew off—as if saying goodbye. My heart squeezed inside my chest.

  I picked up a small handful of soft dirt. “Goodbye, Christine,” I whispered, throwing it on top of her casket.

  Weston wrapped his arm around my waist and pulled me in close to his side. Why her? Why my baby? Was this supposed to make sense? And, if so, to whom?

  We drove home in silence. No words existed to express my grief.

  Weston had time off under the Family and Medical Leave Act but by Sunday, I could tell he was bored. I opened my MacBook to the novel I was writing, hoping to take my mind off the relentless thoughts of the funeral. I glanced over at Weston but the newspaper hid his face. One foot lay crossed over his knee and it jittered up and down.

  “I think you should call your supervisor, West. Tell him you’ll return to work.”

  He lowered the paper, his eyebrows arched. “The new bridge span will get built whether I’m there or not, Brandy. You shouldn’t worry about it.”

  “I’m not worried about the San Francisco Bay Bridge, West,” I said, shaking my head. “You’ve only had this job since January. That’s six months. I know legally you can take off six weeks but I don’t need you to stay home with me.”

  He folded the newspaper back to its perfectly creased square and laid it on the table. “I talked to Cecilia and Perry. She said to call her if you need anything.”

  I smiled. “She’s right next door and since she works from home, she’s always there. And I’m getting back into the groove of writing. There’s no need for you to sit at home and watch me type, West.”

  He got out of his chair and sat down next to me on the couch. “If you’re absolutely sure,” he said, tilting his head, his deep brown eyes meeting mine. “What about your appointment with Dr. Farney?”

  “I’m perfectly capable of driving myself. Really,” I insisted.

  He crooked one eyebrow upward and I could tell he wasn’t buying it. I smiled to reassure him I wasn’t lying—at least not completely anyway. Physically, I was getting better every day, but I was having a tough time concentrating on writing—a bad sign. Writing had always been my great escape, but now…not so much.

  However, Weston was battling his own depression over our loss, and didn’t need to add me to his plate of sorrow and worry. What he needed was to get back on the job to take
his mind off the death of our baby.

  So, at the end of May, two weeks after we laid Christine to rest, Weston returned to work, and I went back to my novel. I’d just sat down with my MacBook, opened to the same page I’d been looking at since last weekend, when the phone rang.

  “Hi, Brandy.” It was Cecilia. “Can I bring over some hot blueberry muffins? They’re right out of the oven and taste great with coffee. And they go perfectly with a friend who cares about you.”

  I still felt raw from losing the baby, more comfortable cocooning in my own little world inside the house. But Cecilia had offered me her friendship, and I suddenly realized how much I needed that closeness.

  “Sounds great,” I answered. “I’ll make us both a latte.”

  Within minutes, the doorbell chimed. Cecilia stood on the front doorstep, a basket draped with a red-checkered napkin cradled in her arms. “Hey, you.” She smiled. “How’re you doing, hon?”

  I gestured her inside, leading the way into the kitchen where she pulled out a chair at the table and swept back her long black hair as she sat down. Her bright, emerald eyes glanced out the window to the back yard. A wet April had brought a profusion of flowers in May with budding roses, and the lawn was lush and green.

  “You look tired, Brandy,” she said, frowning. “And you’ve lost a lot of weight.”

  Setting our coffees down on the table, I pulled up a chair across from her. “Well, yeah, I’m not pregnant anymore.”

  She reached across the table, taking my hand in hers. “How are you really doing?”

  I stared into my coffee cup. “Truth?”

  “Of course I want the truth, Bran.”

  I glanced up at her through the curtain of my bangs. “I’m a mess. I can’t sleep. I barely eat anything.”

  She squeezed my hand gently. “Don’t expect too much too soon. You’ve just lost your child. Your first baby.”

  “If I tell you something, promise me you’ll—”