Bette tensed, “I went in there,”  Bette started, leaning into Tina’s touch as she put a lock of hair behind her ear, “I wanted too see…”  The tears came hard and fast.  Bette turned and curled herself into Tina, her arms wrapping around Tina, head buried into her chest.

“Baby,”  Tina crooned, holding Bette just as tightly as she was being held and gently rocking her.  Humming softly, she felt tears stinging at her own eyes.  This was to be expected, she thought, ever since that damnable interview with Faye Buckley Bette had been distant and introspective.

It was only a matter of time until she broke.  Even expected, Tina wasn’t really prepared for it.

“Maybe he didn’t want me,”  Bette choked out, “he didn’t want me to be his mother.”

Closing her eyes, Tina’s stomach dropped and chest tightened.  “Bette!”  Every bad dream, every night when she would find Bette on the patio, every cross word and her inability to talk about their son, their lost son, suddenly made sense.  “How did I miss this?”  She reprimanded herself, annoyed and heartbroken, “how?”

Bette continued as if Tina had never spoken.  “I went into his room, I just wanted to be near him.”  Her voice reverent as if she was recalling precious memories, ones that they never really had a chance to make.  “Everything was so…”  She paused for a moment, her hand snaking to find Tina’s.  Holding on she squeezed.  “It was so pale, and then… then it wasn’t.”

The voracity of the memory made her stomach twist.  She tensed, for a second she thought she was going the throw up.

Tina screwed her eyes shut, suddenly fearing what would come next.  “What happened next.”  She prompted when the woman in her arms remained mute.

An impatient hand wiped the tears from Bette’ face.  She was tired of the tears, of the knowing and of the recriminations that were about to follow.  Tired, so very tired.  “Everything went red like blood…”  gasping, she shifted tightening her arms around herself.  “I couldn’t look at it anymore…”  It was there, gloating.  Laughing at them, reminding them of the child that was never to be.  Their boy they had to bury.

“So I made it go.”  The violence she used to get rid of it frightened her.  Bette didn’t know she was so angry, that the rage over the situation was so close to the surface, clawing so hard for an escape.  “There was so much noise.”  She explained, covering her ears as if she could still hear it, “I couldn’t stop.  I’m sorry.  I couldn’t stop.”