Page 171 of First in Line

“They shouldn’t be. It doesn’t feel natural.”

“Losing a child never is, Mr. Reyes.” He seems to hesitate for a moment before carefully offering, “Would you like to hold her?”

I didn’t think of that. Didn’t realize it was an option. But of course, it is. Ophelia’s little body is here, somewhere. Alone in a dark place. Abandoned. Lifeless.

“I’m not sure,” I answer, my throat tight.

“Some parents regret saying no. Some regret saying yes. You still have time to decide, but I need to warn you she’ll be cold to the touch, which can be distressing.”

“I’ll think about it. Was she… was Ophelia as beautiful as I imagined her to be?”

My question bends his lips into a small smile. His first since he arrived. “I think your mother got to take a few pictures of her in your wife’s arms before she was taken to the ventilator. So, you’ll get to see for yourself. But yes, Mr. Reyes. Your little Ophelia was a beautiful baby, with blue eyes and curly dark hair.”

Silent grief wrecks me, but this time, I manage to keep my composure. Slow tears gather and spill over, betraying my reaction to his words.

A couple of nurses arrive, one carrying a briefcase-sized medical machine, the other a clipboard. The former offers me a small smile and a nod before entering, and the latter stops by us.

“Ah, this is an unfortunate thing we wish we didn’t have to do, but Amandine is here to talk to you about the memory box.”

“The memory box?”

“First of all, let me offer you my deepest condolences, Mr. Reyes,” the nurse says. “And a memory box is a service we offer to grieving parents. We can prepare a few items to remember your baby by. Like mementos. If you’re interested, I need to go over the items with you and ensure you’re fine with all of them.”

“I’ll let you two sort it out,” the obstetrician says, bowing his head before leaving us.

The nurse comes in front of me and continues with, “I’m also in charge of discussing your preferences regarding what should be done with your baby’s remains.”

I don’t fucking know… Cremating her doesn’t feel right. But burying her here, in Belgium, when we haven’t truly been happy since we moved, feels even worse. Ophelia doesn’t belong here, in a place we’ll never return to once we leave. She belongs with us, in Italy.

I turn toward the room, wishing I could ask Evie what she thinks we should do. The nurse who entered is with her, and the machine she came in with seems to be a breast pump. With sluggish movements, Evie opens her gown so the nurse can attach the pumps to her breasts.

So, she is conscious. She just doesn’t want to talk to me. Or even acknowledge me.

“Can we mark it down as cremation for now?” I ask the nurse. “But we’ll wait until I have my wife’s opinion on it.”

“Of course.” She shuffles through the papers attached to her clipboard and pulls out a leaflet. “These are our options for cremation. Parents often go for the biodegradable urn, which is designed to dissolve in soil and grow into a tree of your choice.”

I can’t help the cynical grin that stretches a corner of my lips. Given our history with plants, this might not be the right option. We’d manage to kill that tree, somehow.

“I’ll look into it and let you know.”

“Perfect. Are you okay to discuss the memory box options now, or would you rather we do it later?”

I look back at Evie again, unsure. I’ve just arrived, and I want to spend more time with her. But she’s occupied for now, pumping out the milk that was meant for our daughter.

When she meets my eyes, something in the blankness of hers releases an icy shiver that crawls up my spine.

She blames me. No matter what the doctor said, she thinks this is my fault.

And maybe she’s right. All I had to do was skip a few races to help keep her blood pressure down. But I didn’t. I told myself everything would be fine and kept racing. I was wrong. I was so fucking wrong.

“Mr. Reyes?” the nurse softly calls out.

“Let’s do this now. Is there an office or somewhere we can go?”

“Of course. Follow me.”

As I do, I can’t help but feel like a coward. Whether Evie wants me with her or not, she needs me. I should be by her side and handle this later. But as terrible as it might sound, handling my daughter’s death seems easier than talking to my wife.