Free I Said Yes: My Story of Heartbreak, Redemption, and True Love by Emily Maynard Johnson Page B

their grandchild.
    Being pregnant was a welcome diversion. Most of the time, it helped ease the pain of loss and gave us all something to look forward to. But at times the pressure was overwhelming. I had just lost my baby’s father in a tragic accident. How could I not cry? How could I not grieve? How could I not be depressed? I spent hours each day Googling the potentially harmful effects of grief on a baby in utero. This might sound crazy, but I was petrified that too much crying would hurt the baby. What if the child could feel my sadness? I could never forgive myself if somehow I hurt the little one by being too upset. After all, it was my responsibility to bring a healthy baby into the world. And I was committed to doing that.
    Outside of that fear, the weight of what seemed to be a community baby gave me a sense of crushing pressure. The chaotic influx of these different emotions and thoughts weighed heavily on me. The only thing I knew to do was to withdraw, to stick by myself as much as I could. I couldn’t handle anyone judging me for how I looked or how I was feeling or if I started tearing up out of the clear blue. Being alone so much did one of two things for me: either it relieved me of the pressure to act a certain way around others or it magnified my loneliness.
    I couldn’t not think about Ricky. I was sleeping in the bed we had shared. Watching the TV we had watched. Vacuuming the carpet we had walked on. Sitting at the table where we ate together. Reminders were everywhere. Traces of his life, our life. I’d stand in front of his closet, brushing my fingers past each shirt, closing my eyes as the scent of his cologne still lingered ever so slightly. As if he were there. As if I could take one tiny step forward and touch him, fall into his arms.
    I talked to Ricky all the time. “Come back,” I’d plead. “Come back to me.” During many of my sleepless nights, I’d sit on the floor of my bedroom closet, turn off the light, and beg Ricky to give me a sign he was still with me. “Do something!” I’d yell with such a force my lungs felt on the verge of imploding.
    I’d give Ricky options to manifest, urging him to turn on the light or throw a lamp. I wanted evidence. I wanted proof. I wanted a physical clue that his spirit was still alive, that he could still see me, that though he was gone in body, his heart was still connected to me. Somehow. Some way. I was confident, especially being pregnant, that Ricky would give me some consolation that he hadn’t forgotten about me. That I wasn’t alone. But lights never mysteriously switched on. Lamps were never thrown across a room. And I never saw any visions of my beloved. That was disappointing, and it fed my sense of hopelessness.
    As weeks and months passed, ever so slowly, reminders of Ricky started disappearing from the condo. I came home one night after running an errand and noticed that the plans for the house we were building, his clothes, his journals, and other miscellaneous things were missing. Gone. I imagined his parents had taken them, but I didn’t know for sure. And I didn’t say anything for fear of anyone accusing me of being greedy, possessive, or selfish, wanting Ricky’s stuff. Because that’s all it was anyway. Stuff. None of it was Ricky. None of it could bring him back. I’ll never forget the day his closet was finally bare. I stood staring at the empty hangers, hooks, and shelves, the white walls stark and cold. After a minute or two, I numbly shut the door. I would never open it again.
    Later, as I was rummaging through some drawers in the kitchen, I found a box Ricky had kept that contained a bunch of handwritten notes and cards I had given him, as well as the matches and dinner receipt from our first date at Shula’s. I was grateful for these small tokens, keepsakes that our love was real, that it existed. Around that same time Ricky’s parents opened his safe and found a bunch of gifts he had been waiting to give