Resentment Part 2 – After Resentment – By Coley

Chapter 1: Baby
I knew before I ever had to go to the doctor. I knew that the sudden
sickness wasn’t the flu. The weird sensation of being invincible and
connected to all things wasn’t a coincidence.

It’s not surprising that it happened. I’m actually surprised that it
didn’t happen earlier.
We’ve been making love for hours sometimes, for months.

I’m pregnant. I’m old and pregnant; God’s sense of humor astounds me.

It wasn’t my plan. I didn’t even think it was possible anymore, but
with John everything becomes possible. He’s wanted to have another
baby ever since we had Belle. He’s wanted to embed a piece of himself
into me again, the way he had with Belle. She is the connection that
will never be broken between us. Something had been broken, but it was
before Alex ever came into the picture, and then after I asked for a
separation, and then we went through our resentment period. But we’re
back on track. He’s asked me to marry him and he’s moved back home.
We’re back to normal again.

Normal is how we got into trouble—it’s like I’m a high school girl who
got caught being naughty—making love endlessly, endlessly. I’ve never
been so enraptured by him. I never even considered that we could be
making another baby. It’s the first time in my life when I wasn’t
being careful.

It’s Valentine’s Day. He’s flying home today. This is our first
Valentine’s Day in two years, when we’re actually together and I’m
truly giddy. I’ve gone over what I’ll say to him in my head over and
over again.

We’ve planned a summer wedding. We’ve also entered couple’s therapy.
There’s so much happening to us that having baby was the last thing on
my mind. But here we go again. The most amusing part of it all is the
fact that we are grandparents. I have two grandchildren; one in high
school and one in diapers who will be older than her aunt or uncle.
Belle and Claire have moved out of the Penthouse and into an apartment
with Shawn. They’re finally getting their lives back on track,
together as a family. Everything has fallen into place for us, and for
our family.

I just don’t know how this will affect our lives. I don’t even know if
I want to experience this again.

**
John’s homecomings have taken on special meaning. Since we’ve been
back together, Basic Black has become involved in lucrative deals that
have forced him overseas for business. He’s called every night while
he was away, and we burn up the phone lines with phone sex. I miss him
so much, even more than I ever have before. So when he comes back
home, I try to take special care to look beautiful, according to what
his standards for beautiful are. In my case all it takes is my hair
being curly after a shower, the way he loves it; cleavage revealing
lingerie and ample amounts of perfume. He loves it all; it’s a show
that I enjoy putting on for him.

I couldn’t wait to hold him when I heard his key in the lock. I met
him at the door in my just purchased black lingerie, which is his
favorite color. It’s short, lacy and sheer.

I’m so easily distracted by the sensuality enveloping me. He kisses
me; I kiss him back. We’re on the stairs quickly, divesting each other
of clothes. He’s on top of me and all I want to feel is him. And I
when I do, it’s the most natural feeling in the world.

He’s not gentle this time. He’s eager. Lately, John’s homecomings
always have an eagerness attached to them.

Still lying on the stairs, I trace his face after we’ve collapsed in
each other’s arms. Our baby would be such a handsome reminder of his
daddy. He wants a son. I gave him a daughter, but he’s always wanted
to share a son with me.

I can’t believe I’m even thinking this way, but it’s the reality of
the situation. I am pregnant with our baby.

***
I fell asleep on the stairs. He scooped me up and carried me to our
bedroom where he put me on our bed. I want to tell him before we go
for round two.

He’s being so sensitive and careful that I tear up unexpectedly.

“What is it?” We’re lying in the dark, in our bed. All is right in the
world. It’s Valentine’s Day. We’ve come so far, and yet we’ve got so
much further to go. But I’m willing to do that with him. “Doc.”

“I’m so happy that you’re home honey. I missed you.” I feel as if I
could burst from the amount of love I feel for this man. It’s almost
too overwhelming to be so in love with him. I don’t always know where
we begin and end but I know that I don’t care as long as he’s with me.
I want to remember the way he looks when I tell him about the baby. I
want to remember what that feels like again, to have him believe in me
and see me as the woman who has always loved him and helped to change
his life.

Deep down, I am hoping that it’ll erase some of the pain of my being
pregnant with Roman’s baby.

“Something’s going on, isn’t it?”

“Something.” I tell him smiling. “I love you so much.”

“I know that and I love you too. Now tell me,” he says running his
hand down my back.
“Well,” I pause and move closer to his face, “remember when we were
going through that rough time and you said you wished that we were
still making babies?”

“Yes.” He watches me looking clueless.

“Well we are—we did. I’m pregnant.”

Chapter 2

I’m a doctor, a scientist and ye,t I still haven’t comprehended the
miracle of love creating a life, and that life growing within my body.
It’s so overwhelming. The emotions of carrying a piece of John in my
womb somehow transcend all the hurt, all of the awful things we did to
each other. As a doctor I can intellectually grasp pregnancy—the
formation of cells isn’t incomprehensible to me. It’s love that swells
my heart, not the organ, but the piece of my soul that connects me
with John.

He hasn’t responded to my declaration. He’s absolutely shocked. He
squints—the thinking look—furrows his brows, and draws his lips
tightly together. The moonlight is filtering through the room, casting
a blue haze around his face, illuminating the blueness of his eyes.

“Honey, did you hear me?” Putting my hand on his cheek jars him from
the silence.

“I did hear you.” He sits up and leans against the headboard. He draws
his hand above his head and stretches his legs out in front of him.

Perhaps it’s too much. He’s remembering. We won’t soon forget those
memories. I remember us in the same place, at different time, speaking
about another baby who never came to be. One that he thought was his,
and then it was taken away from him. He wore the same look then;
absolute incredulousness that I could betray him so brutally. If he
were any other man, I’m sure physical violence would have been apart
of his reaction. But he’s sweet and sensitive. He’s my John. And he’ll
never hurt me in that way, or any way that he couldn’t help.

“I’m pregnant with our baby John.” I announce again.

It’s a confession that I hope will erase some of the uneasiness in his
face. The hurt of my being pregnant, with his self-perceived rival’s
baby is the worst crime I could have committed against my marriage. It
doesn’t matter that we did the same thing to Roman when we conceived
Belle on my anniversary. John doesn’t care about that. He felt that I
was his then, and he was probably right.
“It’s our baby.” I place his hand on my bare belly beneath the sheet.
He’s still quiet. I hate that I have to assure him. But we’ve been
back together for three months. There hasn’t been a moment when I’ve
doubted his love for me; I hope the same is true of him in regards to
my love for him.

He is still quiet. I have the urge to scream but Dr. Shalit has taught
me to understand that John comprehends things slower than I do. I can
take stock of situations and see the reality very quickly. It is a
component of being a psychiatrist. John doesn’t like to be forced into
believing until he is absolutely sure of it. At times I guess he’s
still unsure of us.

I ramble until he’s able to, “I haven’t been feeling well, especially
the last two weeks.” He hasn’t been here for those two weeks. “And it
was coupled with this sense of feeling spiritual and powerful.” He
doesn’t know what I’m like when I’m pregnant. He’s never taken care of
me when I’ve been pregnant. I pushed him away when I was pregnant with
our daughter. He’s never gone to the store for cravings or cocoa
butter to rub on the bothersome stretch marks that always embellish my
skin during pregnancy. He probably did things like that with Isabella
but all pregnancies are different. “I had a test done today. It’s
positive.” I can see it all over his face. The words are building up
inside him. He lies back down, beside me again, and pulls me into the
warmth of his skin. “John?”

“My baby being in your body is the best gift God could give me.” He
tightens his hold—the force and strength are nearly suffocating—around
my body, sealing my face into the crevice of his shoulder. But it’s
not my body anymore. I’m sharing my body with a piece of John’s
immortality.

“I wanted this.” He admits kissing my forehead repeatedly. “I haven’t
said it, but I guess I’ve been trying to get you pregnant since we’ve
been back together.” The tips of his fingers massage my back slowly as
he talks. I hear the rumble of his voice against my cheek. It all
feels so normal. “I didn’t even think this was possible.”

“What?”

“I didn’t believe that we could be this happy again after all the
craziness of the last couple of years. I thought we were beyond this
part of our lives.” He doesn’t realize that he’s squeezing me tighter
and tighter after every sentence. “I hoped though. I always hoped that
if some part of me could live inside of you again, that our love could
last forever. And now it will.”

I could be lost forever if I stare into John’s eyes long enough. I
could forget that this pregnancy will be very precarious. The
complications and medical issues that could surface are ever-present.
But in my husband’s arms, anything is possible. Loving him makes
everything feel possible. “Honey, there could be a lot of issues.”

“Why? Is it because of the miscarriage?” He lifts his eyes from my
face to the ceiling.

“My age John.” I am being realistic about this. It is a year later. I
am a year older. “I have to schedule an appointment with Dr. Bader.”

“You are happy about this pregnancy Doc.” It’s an open ended question
that I’m not sure how to answer.

“Of course I’m happy. I’m just cautiously happy.”

“Doc lets just enjoy this for the moment. We’ve been blessed with a
miracle. We didn’t even think this was possible and now you’re having
a baby, again.”

“I know.” I want to be happy. It is a miracle. And I want to share
this with John. “I’m happy. Do you know that I only want you to be
happy? I’d do anything to make you happy.”

“Just love me.”

The tears are uncontrollable when John’s being this loving. He’s
holding me and everything that matters is with us. Our love and now
our baby. Our baby. “I guess I’m going to be an emotional mess.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Just you wait. You’ve never been around me during the hormonal
imbalances of pregnancy. I was a basket case with the twins.”

“A beautiful basket case, I’m sure.”

“Roman would disagree.” His hold loosens slightly. “I’m sorry.” Roman
is still the unspeakable name. We’ve agreed to keep distant
relationships with Kate and Roman out of respect for our relationship.
“This will be a new experience for both of us. Being pregnant
together. We’ve never had that.” I kiss him clumsily in the darkness.

“Baby, you don’t know how much I love you. You haven’t got a clue.
There’s a part of me that has always been obsessively in love with
you. It’s not something that I can help. I’ve always wanted you, but
your being pregnant multiplies that feeling.”

“Thank you.”

“No, don’t thank me.”

“You’ve always loved me so much. I appreciate it. I take it for
granted that I have a wonderful husband—” I often forget that we’re
not legally married.

“Husband.” He says kissing me softly. “It has never stopped being true.”

I hear the desperation in his voice. We’ve always been desperately in
love, too. From the moment I looked into his eyes, I knew I would
never be without him. Death and separation are only temporary
stumbling blocks because we always seem to find our way. It’s the path
of life of our lives. We had to go through turmoil to have the
happiness we are relishing now.

It’s so natural to fall asleep interlocked with John’s limbs after making love.

**
He’s staring at me when I awake after a couple of hours. “I did it on
purpose.” He tells me apologetically.

My grogginess makes his confession confusing. “Honey?”

“The baby, I did it to you on purpose.” He says stronger, more
determined. There is a space between us that wasn’t there when I fell
asleep.

“No—“

“Marlena, I don’t mean this baby.”

“What baby?”

“Belle.” He admits in the darkness. I can’t read his face but he
sounds guilty. “And we’ve been paying for it ever since. Haven’t we?”

“John, you couldn’t have known that we were conceiving Belle.”

“I knew. I wanted you. There was no other way to do it. I knew you
couldn’t keep me out of your life with a baby between us.”

I’m trying to listen and comprehend the weight of his confession. But
he couldn’t have known then what we were doing. We were both
inconsolable, grieving for a relationship that was considered
unacceptable. I admit that he made the choice for me. I didn’t protest
much, especially when he pushed me back into the couch and peeled my
clothes from my body. I wasn’t thinking about protection or babies. I
just wanted him. But he couldn’t have known. “John, you didn’t do
anything.”

“I did.”

“No.”

“Marlena listen to me. I knew exactly what I was doing when we made
love both times. I poured myself into you knowing exactly what result
I wanted. I wanted you to have me inside of you. If I had to lose you
then you would always have some part of me. Just like this time.”

I need to move away from him to gather my thoughts. “John.” I can’t
say anymore than that. And then I have to speak again, “I can’t
believe you would do something like that to me.”

Chapter 3

Ever since we started seeing Dr. Shalit, John allows me to walk away
without feeling like I’m denying him in some way. Closing the door to
the bathroom seals me in and the only thing I can hear or feel is the
silence.

Some things are unsayable because there aren’t words that exist for
the situation.

**
Showers have always been my own private sanctuary. I’ve never cried
more in any other place. But there aren’t any tears for this
situation. It’s happened. All is said and done.

We are not gifted with the ability to undo the past. It’s one of the
irredeemable qualities of being human. I can barely catch my breath.
Everything cycles around again; it has always been about John loving
me, and me betraying Roman. I hurt him profoundly when John and I were
lusting after each other enough to apparently, purposely conceive
Isabella.

I can’t believe you would do something like that to me.

How could I do that to myself or to Roman?

Dr. Shalit is of the opinion that I am still waiting for Roman’s
forgiveness; otherwise, I wouldn’t carry the guilt of betraying him so
profoundly. I am guilty.

John impregnated me purposely. It’s difficult to say it, even in my
head. Why does it seem like it changes anything? What does John’s
confession really mean? It doesn’t change much. What else did I think
would happen having unprotected sex with someone who wasn’t my
husband? How else could our story have ended? I became the adulteress
who became pregnant John’s love child and somehow John became the
community hero.

Oh god, am I bitter? I’m so confused.

What changes? Belle is still going to be here. I think she’d be here
regardless of when and how she was conceived. That child was just
meant to be in our lives. I’m simply uncomfortable with the
circumstances that led to her conception and I do feel betrayed.

As time passed and people’s memories became colored positively where
John and I were concerned, I learned to accept what others have said
or thought about us: we were meant to be together. After all these
years those words seem to excuse our affair. We loved each other so
intensely that we couldn’t hold back our feelings. But it wasn’t fair
to Roman. And in all honestly, I’m still deeply ashamed. I’ve always
told John and Belle that I wouldn’t take anything for my journey, and
that I wasn’t as ashamed as I truly was.

“Marlena, can we talk?” I hear him on the other side of the door. I’m
standing in the mirror draped in a towel, looking vulnerable. More
then anything I don’t want to fight with him. I don’t think I could
stand any tension. I didn’t mean to react so self-consciously in front
of him.

“I’m coming in.” He does come dressed in boxers.

I want to make things easier. I move toward him with open arms that I
wrap around his torso. In my head every quote about life being too
short to fight is blaring. It’s not time to fight; this is our renewal
period. Babies signify renewal. I’d almost forgotten that I am
pregnant.

Still holding me, John says, “I’m not going to apologize.” He is still
warm. His hair is tussled from making love. “It’s happened and it’s
done.” He lifts me off the ground a couple of inches. “You would never
admit this—I’m not asking you to.” The confidence in his voice is
jarring. “Marlena, I’m the one you wanted ever since you came back
home.”

He’s speaking about the five years I spent away from him and our
family, when it was still our family. It’s the past that we’ve tried
very hard to kindly forget.

“I didn’t blame you for not choosing me. I won’t ever blame you. You
did what you thought was right. It’s your sense of morals.” He is so
confident in his assessment of my decisions. I’m not that confident,
even now looking back with experience, I don’t know what and if I did
anything right. John doesn’t waver. He feels as if he was right. I
haven’t looked in his face to see the confidence but I feel it in his
words and the way he’s holding onto me. “That night,” we are careful
when we speak of ‘that night’ on the plane. “You came to me.”

“You were going to leave.” I say after listening to him. I was
desperate that night. I absolutely didn’t want John to leave Salem or
to leave me. I drove around Salem talking myself out of going to him,
but I couldn’t stop remembering the times when it was good between us,
and I turned around. I went after him. The rain that night had such a
gloomy affect on me. I felt like my life was over or very close to
being over. When I finally made it to the airstrip and gathered enough
strength to climb the stairs, I was relieved to see him.

“Is that the only reason you came?” He asks still holding me. Why does
he want to rehash this now?

I pull back from him and look firmly at him. “I didn’t plan to
conceive a baby that night John. I only wanted to stop you.” I walk
away from him a second time. A robe on the back of the door replaces
my towel. “I don’t think it’s wise to talk about this without Dr.
Shalit.” Something about that time frightens me. I’ve never felt so
careless or inconsiderate since that time. I didn’t like myself very
much back then.

“What is this about? Why did you react that why? Is this about Roman?”

“A little,” I admit cautiously, “but more than Roman, it’s about our children.”

It’s nearly 5 in the morning. I’m tired and feeling slightly sick to my stomach.

“Talk to me. I want to know.”

“We’re not ready for this John.

Chapter 4

We started seeing Dr. Shalit after our reconciliation; he was
recommended by a colleague. Initially, John had misgivings about
talking to someone else about the problems in our marriage. According
to John, if I’m a doctor—a psychiatrist—then I should be able to cure
what ails us. I explained to him that I’m not able to be objective
when dealing with issues between us. I shouldn’t have to. Sometimes we
all need help with our communication skills. He finally agreed to see
Dr. Shalit with me twice a week; we’ve been in therapy for two months.

We haven’t talked about what John told me the night I revealed my
pregnancy. I told him we weren’t ready that night because I wasn’t
ready. I think it has a lot to do with me not being able to actually
digest John’s version of the truth, because then I have to admit that
I played a part in it, too. And I don’t want to argue with John about
it but saying things that he could take out of context would have led
there; and, so I waited and decided to discuss it with Dr. Shalit.

At first we only talk about light subjects like John’s European trip
or Belle and Shawn, anything except Belle’s conception.

The news of the baby has dissipated, at least for me, after John
admitted that we’d intentionally destroyed my marriage; although, the
baby is making its presence known with the unshakeable nausea building
in my stomach.

Dr. Shalit scrutinizes my movements. I self-consciously pull my hand
away from my stomach and put it back into my lap. We haven’t told Dr.
Shalit the news yet. I decided even before I told John that I wouldn’t
share our news with anyone until I was in my second trimester. John
and Dr. Shalit are discussing his trip to Europe. Dr. Shalit listens
intently. I recognize his tactics; I use them myself. He’s disarming
John by making him feel comfortable, presenting himself as a friendly
ally in the effort to save our marriage. He is a nice man; older with
graying hair; with rimless glasses that he peeks over while speaking;
he wears a full beard that is salt and pepper flecked. John respects
him. It’s apparent by the way he listens to each suggestion or comment
Dr. Shalit offers him.

“Are you okay Marlena?” Dr. Shalit asks when his attention shifts from
John to me. The nausea continues to build. The room is suddenly very
humid and John’s eyes are burning into my flesh. He’s rubbing the
short space from my knee to my thigh.

“Honey, you okay?” I don’t want to alarm him but he’s already on the
floor kneeling in front of me with his nervous fingers crawling up and
down my back.

“I’m fine. I just have to catch my breath.” He lays his hand on my stomach.

“Is it the baby?” He whispers, momentarily forgetting that we are not
the only two people in the room. Dr. Shalit has heard. Closing my eyes
to his intense observation gives me a minute to breath.

“I’m fine.” I remember the peppermint in my purse. I suck frantically
on it to quell my nausea. “Please John get up, I’m okay.”

“I’ll get you some water.” He’s on his feet and out of Dr. Shalit’s
office before I can protest.

“A baby,” Dr. Shalit says calmly. I can’t stifle the smile that
extends across my mouth. He returns a tender smile and it’s the first
time that I actually feel the human side of our therapist. It’s not
often but sometimes, we as doctors are allowed to be human and feel
the emotion of our patient. He actually looks happy for us.
“Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” The peppermint has lessened the nausea. “I didn’t want to
tell anyone about the baby until after my second trimester.” I offer
apologetically, grateful for John’s return to the inner office. He
hands me an open bottle of Evian. “It’s better.” I tell him rubbing my
stomach. “Thank you John.”

“A new baby,” Dr. Shalit says watching John and I quietly interact.
John’s taken my hand and pressed it firmly against his leg with our
fingers interlaced. He still wears his wedding band; I haven’t worn
any ring in more than a year. “That must make you feel wonderful.”
John answers him. He’s so happy. He reminds me of Brady as a little
boy describing Christmas gifts he’d wanted to get from Santa. John’s
excitement is understandable; it is new to us. This kind of normal
couple news is something that’s been denied us throughout our
relationship. We’ve never been able to tell anybody about a baby that
we’ve created. We’ve never told anyone together that we’re actually
having a baby.

I’ll never forget the way John looks at Dr. Shalit, announcing proudly
that this is our baby that we’ve created together. He deserves this
kind of pride.

“How do you feel about your pregnancy Marlena?”

“I’m happy. John and I have waited so long for this to happen that it
feels kind of surreal.” John’s watching me, squeezing the bond between
our hands. “A baby will change a lot of things but I’m happy that John
is ecstatic.” He leans across the arm of my chair to kiss me. When I
look at Dr. Shalit again, I know he’s internally picking apart my
answer.

“You express happiness because you want John to be happy. What about
you? How do you feel about the pregnancy personally?” He asks
expecting me to dig deeper.

“The truth is I haven’t had time to process this. It’s all so sudden.
John and I have just gotten back together. And he was gone for two
weeks and then I found out about the baby. I haven’t really processed
it all.” I say avoiding John’s sudden concentration on my admission.
“Of course I’m happy.” For the first time, I realize how unconvincing
I sound.

“There’s something bothering you Marlena. What is it?”

“Well,” John releases my hand and turns toward me, “when I told John
about the baby, he also shared some news with me.” There’s not an
intellectual way to explain what was done. Dr. Shalit is aware of the
affair that John and I had; and, we’ve skated around those issues but
we haven’t gotten into the entirety of what really happened. He knows
about Roman and the baby that I lost. “Our daughter Belle –“

“The child that you and John share, the result of your affair?”

I don’t like the way he says that: The result of your affair. Belle
isn’t just the result of an affair. She’s our precious baby girl.
“Belle is more than that Dr. Shalit. She’s our pride and joy.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that she wasn’t. I’m just speaking
frankly. This is therapy. We can’t sugarcoat things in this room. You
of all people know that.”

“I do Dr. Shalit.” I let go of all assumptions, they way I direct my
patients and focus on what I want to discuss. “Belle is the baby that
essentially broke up my marriage to Roman. We all thought that she was
his daughter. You can imagine what that was like for him.” Even though
I’m avoiding looking at John, I can feel him staring intently in my
direction, listening to me expose his secret. “John told me that it
wasn’t an accident. Belle’s conception was apparently apart of some
plan that John had.” He sighs heavily into the air. I don’t know what
else to say.

“You said Belle is the baby that broke up your marriage?”

I nod in place of answering because I’ve lost my nerve.

“Isn’t she also the child who brought you and John together? Wouldn’t
it be better to look at her conception from a positive light?”

“Dr. Shalit, I had an affair with John and destroyed my marriage to
Roman. All of these years, I thought we’d created Belle by accident.”

“Well as you know, no life is an accident. You’re daughter’s
conception is a consequence of questionable actions but what does it
really change? Does knowing the true nature of her conception change
how you feel about your daughter or your relationship with John?”

“I don’t know.” I tell him honestly. “I wish it didn’t feel so bad but
it still does. I assume I’ll always feel some guilt about the way John
and I created Belle, especially now.”

John is listening quietly. He’s studying me, scrutinizing me. Dr.
Shalit asks how he feels about what I’m saying. He doesn’t answer
right away. It’s only when I finally look at him that he speaks again.

He speaks to Dr. Shalit while looking at me. “Belle will never be an
accident or a mistake to me. I wanted her to have my baby and I did
what I thought was right in order to make it happen.” He runs his
thumb down his cheek and rests it on his bottom lip. “It’s not easy to
hear my wife say that she wishes that our daughter were her
ex-husband’s child.”

“That’s not what I’ve said at all.” I tell him calmly. I’m not going
to argue or fight with him. It wouldn’t solve anything and any anger I
feel the baby will feel also. I just have to find a way to make him
see what I see. “John, you know what happened when everyone found out
about Belle. I don’t understand how you could be proud of that.”

“What happened?” Dr. Shalit asks while he jots down notes.

“Roman left me. My children began to question everything I’d ever told
them as their mother. People I’ve known nearly all of my life could no
longer look me in the eye.” It was the worst period in my life; and, I
went through it alone. “I lost the respect of many people after that.”

“What did John lose?”

I pause and look away. “He didn’t lose his dignity.”

“Is that what you lost?”

“Yes.” I say lifting my eyes above. “I lost my dignity and then I lost
him.” John’s breaths are shifting from soft to jagged and abrupt. He’s
gripping the arm rest to hold himself back from an outburst.

“When did you ever lose me?” He asks suddenly. “I’ve always been here for you.”

“Honey, you moved on with Kristen before I even gave birth to Belle.”
I remind him but I don’t know why I have to. He’s lived the same
history I have. Nothing I say is really news to him. But he’s acting
as if I’m retelling our story deceptively.

“Kristen? Come on Doc, that’s ancient history. I’ve never loved any
woman as much as I love you. You already know that. Don’t change
things around. If you’re upset, because Belle ended up being my baby
and not Roman’s, then say so.”

“No, that’s not it at all.”

“You’re upset that I made a decision that you couldn’t. I told you
that I’m not sorry for it.”

“I’m not upset John. I’m ashamed.” I finally admit. It’s taken years
but I’ve finally admitted the truth to him. I’m ashamed.

Dr. Shalit imposes on the silence between us. He’s examining our body
language. John’s turned away from me. He’s rubbing his thumb across
his closed palm and biting into his bottom lip. I’m sitting as tight
as I can. My legs are straightforward; my arms are resting over my
stomach. The sound of the clock on Dr. Shalit’s office is louder than
even my breathing. And it all feels as if we’re moving in slow motion.
When Dr. Shalit asks a question, it lingers for a minute. He says
Belle’s conception which is the intelligent way of saying the
illegitimate circumstances of our daughter.

“I’m sorry Dr. Shalit—“

“You look absolutely terrified Marlena. Tell me why you’re afraid.”

“I’m not afraid.” I say timidly.

“Aren’t you? Does your husband make you feel anxious or afraid?” He’s
looking over those rimless glasses. I never noticed how brown his eyes
are, or how intense they are.

“I’ve never been afraid of my husband Dr. Shalit. John is the most
loving man I know.” I answer automatically. I’ve always said that
about him. It’s what I know to be true about him. Dr. Shalit knows
that I’m used to saying that though, he glances at John, and then
slowly returns his attention back to me. “I’m not.”

“Never?” Why is he questioning me about this?

“My husband has never physically assaulted me.” A simple statement; a
truthful one. “I’m not afraid of John.”

Dr. Shalit doesn’t waver in his line of questioning. And it’s not
making John as uncomfortable as it’s making me. He wants to know as
badly as Dr. Shalit does.

“Fear is not always a result of physical violence. I didn’t ask you if
your husband has physically assaulted you. I asked if you were afraid
of him at any given time in your relationship. Think about this. Has
he ever made you afraid of him? While you are intimate? During an
argument?”

John reaches for my hand. He squeezes it encouragingly.

“John has done things in the past that have troubled me but I don’t
think I’ve ever been afraid to be with him. So no, I wasn’t terrified
of him.” In the recesses of my mind, I know that I’m not afraid of my
husband but there is a nagging feeling. It could be the residuals of
my relationship with Alex. He’s the only man I’ve truly been terrified
of, but there have been times with John when the look in his eyes is
more terrifying then loving. I’m not afraid that he’ll hurt me then
but I’m also not sure of what his intentions are.

“There is something.” Dr. Shalit can read me very well. He prods me
with a careful voice. “It’s okay. We have to get this out in the
open.”

“We were talking about Belle—about how she was conceived—that night I
was a little scared of John or maybe the situation. I don’t know how
to rationalize anything about that time. We were out of control.”

“John wasn’t. He was in control that night. He’s told you so.”

“Yes.” I say nodding. “We haven’t talked about this.” John and I lock
eyes then and he mouths it’s okay. “I am frightened of discussing that
time.”

“Why is that?”

“When we were intimate that night, I’m not sure how much I wanted it
or how much I couldn’t stand to lose him. I mean if I think about
this, I guess I wasn’t intending on being intimate with John.” Over
the years, I’ve dwindled it down to simply making love. That we
couldn’t deny our feelings any longer and our act of treason against
Roman was the result of that. Now, with Dr. Shalit’s prodding I’m not
so sure that’s what it was. “I don’t think I had a choice. John was
there and then he was tearing my clothes off—“

“Did you feel like you had the option to say no?”

I shake my head slowly and John drops my hand abruptly.

“Hold on John.” Dr. Shalit says lifting a hand in John’s direction. He
has shifted his body forward. “Let her finish her thought. Marlena,
It’s interesting that you used the word tearing.”

“Well, that’s what it was. Everything seemed to converge into this
desperation that I couldn’t stop. We were talking and then he was on
top of me.” My memory is assaulted with visions of John and me
kissing. Angry kisses. He’s nipping and biting my cheek, dragging his
teeth along my neck. My hands are locked above my head. “I was just so
confused with it all.”

“You couldn’t say no?” John asks with a child-like tone. “Do you know
what you’re saying?”

“I didn’t want to lose you. If I said no, that would have been the end
of us.” I whisper to him.

“Have there been other times when you’ve felt like you couldn’t say no?”

I don’t feel comfortable talking anymore, not about our sex life. It’s
never been something we discussed because it’s always been so
indescribable. But has it also been unhealthy.

“John has a way of making no impossible.” I say trying to sound coy.
It fails and John is looking at me with a look of pure devastation.
“No matter what I say, it’s going to sound like I’m attacking John. I
don’t want to do that.”

“You’re not attacking him. You’re being open. If you’ve felt these
things then you as a doctor understand how unhealthy holding them in
has been. My honest opinion of your relationship, not based on any
sexual indications, and from my observations is that you depend on
your husband for stability. And you are terrified of losing him.”

“I just got him back.”

“Do you surrender yourself sexually to John?”

“I don’t understand the question.”

“Well, in terms of the mechanics, are you the aggressor?”

“Not always. John is a passionate man. We enjoy a healthy intimate connection.”

“You’re contradicting yourself Marlena. You said that you surrender
yourself to John. Is it willingly? Do you have a choice?”

“I always have a choice.”

Do you?” John asks me. I can’t read him. “From what your saying, Doc,
you make it sound like rape.”

“Not rape John, sexual control. That kind of control can lead to where
your wife’s fear is coming from. Do you feel like you’re the dominant
sex partner?”

“No. I feel like we have equal partnership in our sexual partnership.”

“Even when you made the decision to impregnate a married woman with
your child, knowing the consequences—“

“So I basically raped my wife, forcing her to have my child.” He says
angrily getting up from the seat beside me. “Is this what therapy is?
Do you rewrite history to suit your purposes?” He asks me and not Dr.
Shalit.

“John, will you please sit down?”

“I can’t. Dr. Shalit, I’m sorry but I’m going to have to end this
session. I’ve had enough.”

“We were breaking through on some very tough ground. I wish you’d stay
but I can’t force you.”

“Thank you.” John looks at me and I stand up and start to walk away.
“I’ll see you next time.”

“Congratulations again on the new baby.” Dr. Shalit says as we walk
silently through the door.

John lumbers ahead of me. Quickening my pace to match his unsettles my
stomach enough to slow me down.

“What is it?” John asks coming back to my side. He touches my chin to
tilt my head up.

“I’m nauseous again.” Spotting the bathroom a few feet away, I head
there. The vomit is in the base of my throat before I step into the
door. John darts into the bathroom and pulls me with him.

“Here.” He says opening a stall and helping me balance over the
porcelain bowl. The breakfast we ate is scattering around the water
and it makes me gag and lose more. “Are you okay baby?” John questions
squatting behind me while holding my hair away from my face as he
strokes the back of my neck. “I’m here.”

“Thank you for being here.” I tell him leaning back against his chest.

Chapter 5 (NC-17)

I found the poem that John left on my pillow on our honeymoon in Hawaii.

Men marry what they need. I marry you…

It was tucked away in a box filled with letters and poems that John
has given me over the years. There is also a letter he wrote to me
after Belle’s paternity was revealed that talks about how sacred
fatherhood is and how much he believes that God intended us to be good
parents to the angel that he’d sent to us. I don’t remember how I
reacted to the letter then; I was probably consumed with the shame
that was eating away at me. How could I have held those feelings in
for as long as I did? We’re paying dearly now for ignoring the
emotional repercussions of our actions. I’m definitely paying for my
confusion.

John hasn’t touched me in a week, not since we sat in Dr. Shalit’s
office and I revealed my lack of confidence with our past relationship
and marital issues. Oh there are hugs each morning, a friendly kiss is
placed on my temple; and always, he turns and walks out of our
bedroom.

At night, in bed, he’s sleeping closer to the edge than toward the
middle where I am.

Where I am?

Where am I? I’m not lingering between the past and the present
anymore, and if I am, I’m now clear on where I want to be. I want to
be here with John, even if he doesn’t seem to be here anymore. But
I’ve done this to him; I’ve made him so confused that he can’t look at
me anymore without turning away. There is no resistance or angry
response in his face, only a quiet crumbling away.

He cancelled our appointment with Dr. Shalit; he had an overnight trip
to New York.

*
The only thing John talks to me about anymore is the baby, and our
upcoming appointment with Karen. I’m anxious to have something
positive to connect with John over. We are having a baby and the only
thing we can talk about is doctor’s appointments and morning sickness.
I want him to kiss me, the way a husband should kiss his wife, his
pregnant wife. Holding me would even suffice but I’ve been afraid to
ask. How can I ask him to do something that I basically dismissed in
our session with Dr. Shalit? I do want to have sex with him: with
locked arms above my head or at my sides, forcefully or tenderly. In
any way. I miss it. I miss the way John makes me look at him during my
orgasm, holding me until it subsides. Dr. Shalit thinks I have no
control over our sex life; well I’ve got all the control now. I’ve
made John so paranoid that he probably couldn’t sustain an erection
with me. I don’t know why I said what I did or didn’t say about making
love on the plane. I don’t know why Dr. Shalit asked me those kinds of
questions about sexual control. What I do know is I miss it and John
badly. So badly that it’s hard to concentrate on the toasted bread
John made to settle my stomach before my appointment.

“John, will you kiss me?” He looks up from the newspaper. The distance
from his lips to mine is short. We are sitting beside one another on
the couch. He honors my request by kissing my forehead. I don’t have
the right to expect more.

“Honey, are you almost ready?” He asks trying to indiscreetly move
further down, away from me.

“No honey, I mean really kiss me.” By leaning forward, I close the gap
between us, pressing my mouth against his. The connection lasts only
seconds before he grips me my shoulders to push me away. The
desperation coursing through my body adds boldness to my next move.
“Please honey.” I guess I’m begging. He won’t look up. I move to the
floor, kneeling before him.

“Doc, come on and get up.” He tells me more than he asks me to.

“John.”

“Marlena.” I hate when he says my name without the familiarity of our
over twenty years together. “We have to get to that appointment.”

“I miss you.”

“I’m right here.” He says putting his hands on my shoulders to lift me
up. I resist and lean into his lap to kiss him again. He doesn’t push
me away as quickly as before. I hate how uncomfortable I’ve made him
when he touches me. The movements are clumsy from both of us. I lower
my hands to his lap and quickly lift his shirt while unbuttoning his
jeans. “Doc, we can’t.” He moans into my mouth. Ignoring him as I
continue to unbutton, I bite down on his bottom lip. “No.” He says
falling back against the couch pillows angrily. Avoiding the
discouragement in John’s face, I lower my face to his exposed stomach
and kiss him there. “Doc, we can’t do this. I’m not going to—“

“Shh.” I tell him freeing him from the constraints of his jeans and
boxers. I’ve never been particularly fond of placing any man’s
genitalia in my mouth, even John’s. I do it because I love him and he
enjoys it. I sometimes play a mind game with myself by imagining that
it’s something other than what it is. But this time, it’s different. I
know exactly what I’m running my tongue over. Sexual control. This is
as controlling as I can get with him. He’s moaning with his head
thrown back. His hands are guiding my head at an excruciatingly slow
rhythm. Over the years, John has assured me that I’m good at this. I
must be doing something right. His fingers tangle in my hair and grab
a handful for leverage. I feel powerful with him in my mouth, powerful
enough to swallow. I want to literally taste him and feel what it’s
like because I haven’t had any part of him in this way in a long
while. A week without any part of our bodies sexually connecting is
too long, even with all the confusion. “Do it.” I whisper with as much
seduction as I can muster. His grip is tightening; he’s close to
release. “I want you to.” He knows how much I don’t like that part of
this.

“No.” He says suddenly pulling himself from my mouth and standing up.
“You’re confusing the hell out of me. What’s going on with you?”

It’s really very simple. “I want you.”

“You don’t know what you want.” He yells at me buttoning his pants up.
His voice is lowered when he speaks again, “Can we go?” He sounds
parental and disgusted. I don’t know if he means to hurt my feelings
but they are hurt. Without another word, I follow him out the door.

**
I don’t know where the urge came from. I know he’s angry at me even if
he’s trying to be civil. He held my hand on the way to the car; it
could have been out of habit and nothing else. He opened the door for
me. I know he doesn’t want me to touch him sexually but I can’t stop
myself from rubbing his leg while he drives. He’s still tender after
being taken so close to the edge and not releasing. But I want to
finish what I started. I want to make him feel a little less paranoid
about this part of our relationship. I need to feel him inside my
mouth again, before we go anywhere and talk anymore about the baby; I
want to do the things that gave us the baby.

The swiftness of my movement is compounded with the fact that we are
driving on the freeway; John can’t stop me from doing this. As soon as
I touch him, it stiffens against my hand. He never takes his hand from
the steering wheel as I bob and tease him mercilessly with my mouth.

He’s disappointed when he explodes and I swallow all of his seed
eagerly. When I sit back up into my seat, he doesn’t acknowledge what
has happened. He also doesn’t kiss me the way he normally would. Or
pat my knee. Instead, he only fumbles with his zipper and I sit
quietly, satisfied that I’ve finally gotten a piece of him, even as
begrudgingly as it was given.

***
John and I are alone in the examining room. Something is wrong. I saw
it all over Karen’s face when she excused herself with my test
results. John senses it too. My confusing sexual games are long
forgotten when he grabs my hand and sits in the chair beside the
examination table. He’s stroking my hand with his fingers.

“Don’t look so worried.” He says with a hint of humor in his voice.
“This baby is going to be just fine.”

It’s hard not to believe his optimism. I know differently when I see
Karen’s face again. And then hear her speak in the ‘I’m so sorry this
is happening’ voice. She closes the door behind her and leans against
it.

“Marlena and John, I saw some things on the test that I didn’t like. I
want you to see a specialist. I’ve set you up an appointment today.”

John squeezes my hand tighter.

Chapter 6 (NC-17)

Fear is greater than love; and it’s also louder. My fear is louder
than John whispering “it’s going to be alright,” into my hair. Dread
is also more powerful than hope. It’s overwhelming enough to drown any
glimmer of expectation.

And sometimes we pay for mistakes even when we think we’ve gotten away
with them.

This is our punishment for having a relationship that excludes
everyone else. And it’s because he is my best friend that I am so
afraid that I’ll let him down, that I can’t actually tell him what’s
running through my head as we listen to Dr. West. John’s listening
more studiously than me. Dr. West is missing a button on his blazer.
He also looks a little like Eric, and he is probably just as young.
His hands were soft when he examined me. His mouth is heart-shaped and
he speaks very softly. His words are littered with Harvard-like
phrases in a Brahmin accent. He’s asking about bleeding. I haven’t
told John about it. I don’t even know how far along I am and I’ve
always spotted early in all my pregnancies. It wasn’t alarming. When I
explain about my past pregnancies and early spotting, he looks
unconvinced.

“Dr. Evans with all due respect, you’re a doctor, you know how serious
any bleeding is. The fact that you recently had a miscarriage should
have also alarmed you.” Sighing under my breath stops me from speaking
harshly to the young man standing before John and me. He’s no
nonsense. If I weren’t the patient I would respect that about him.

“Dr. West I’m not even sure how far along I am.”

“Your ultrasound revealed that you are nearly nine weeks.”

“Three months.” John’s mentally figuring when the baby could have been
conceived. The reconciliation and not when we were having sex just for
the sake of having sex. “How did you miss that?”

“It’s been a stressful last couple of months, John. I’ve missed
periods before. I really didn’t think that getting pregnant was
possible.”

“Marlena, that’s not like you at all.”

“John.” He’s looking as distrustful as Dr. West. I’m not lying about
not knowing or paying much attention to my body lately. I’ve been so
wrapped up in our reconciliation that it took me longer than usual to
actually listen to my body. I don’t like feeling like he’s against me
with Dr. West on his side.

“Can we discuss the test results?” I ask to sway the conversation away
from me and my mistakes.

“You have placenta previa. Your placenta is covering a portion of your
cervix. We don’t generally catch this until after week twenty but
bleeding is the primary symptom.”

“Does early detection help the situation?”

“No unfortunately it doesn’t because the cause of placenta previa is
unknown, we can simply monitor the situation and make decisions based
on frank discussion between doctor and patient.”

“You make it sound like there are no options.” John says after a long
silence. He’s always hopeful. He doesn’t give up easily. He’ll fight
even if I can’t or won’t anymore.

“You don’t know how but why? Is it my age?” Is my body finally
responding to all the emotional battles we’ve waged over the last
couple of years?

“Placenta previa is more prevalent in pregnancies over 35 years of
age. But other risk factors are having twins or higher multiple
births, and surgery of the uterus.” Dr. West is speaking to John. I’ve
disengaged from the conversation entirely.

“Her miscarriage?” He still winces when he talks about the baby that I
lost. It wasn’t his. It’s not as personal for him as it is for me.
It’s another topic we don’t discuss anymore.

“It could be apart of it, yes.”

“Dr. West, what are our options here?”

“You can wait it out. Sometimes previa placenta can correct itself,
though I’m not confident that it will in your wife’s case.” Apparently
they’ve forgotten that I’m in the room. “Her past pregnancies have
been rather complicated. We can manage this with bed rest and frequent
checkups but vaginal exams are not possible with this disease. It’s
really trial and error. In order to prepare the baby for early
delivery—“

“Early delivery?”

“It’s a strong possibility. We’d administer steroid shots to
strengthen the baby’s lungs. We’d also have to monitor for
hemorrhaging because it is higher in case placenta previa.”

“So you can’t guarantee a healthy pregnancy or delivery.” I ask with
my head in my hand. “It’s not even a guarantee that I’ll have the
baby. I could miscarry.”

“That’s always a possibility.” Dr. West says as a matter-of-factly. “I
just can’t guarantee anything at this point.”

“Nothings guaranteed anyway. This is not as serious as it sounds.”
John is as optimistic as ever. “You said it could clear up.”

“I said that it could possibly clear up but in your wife’s case, I’m
not hopeful that it will.”

I have to ask him. “What is your best medical opinion?” He knows what
I’m really asking even if John hasn’t caught on. John’s hands are so
strong around the small of my back. It’s like he’s steeling me against
the hurt of this news, but I’m not saddened or fearful anymore.
Knowing it in practical terms makes decision easier. I’m not dreading
what Dr. West is going to say. I know what it’ll be.

“Abortion is always an option.”

“Wow, wait a second here… we’re not talking about aborting this baby.
That’s not even an option. We can control this placenta disease. We
can monitor this. It’s not as bad as it sounds. Come on Doc, help me
out here.” I don’t which “Doc” he’s asking for help. His voice careens
from the deepest part of his body and filters into the room around me.
It’s almost like I can only hear his voice and not feel his body next
to me. Dr. West is speechless; he doesn’t want to be caught between
our opposing Views.

Wait. Have I decided that abortion is better than the risk of losing
our baby anyway?

“It is a precarious situation Mr. Black, I know that. It’s really your
decision. I have to lay out all options.”

“An abortion Doc?”

“We can schedule another appointment to discuss what you want to do in week.”

“Wait, are we talking about making an appointment for an abortion?”

“You and your wife can discuss this further. You can always call me,”
He hands John his card, “or get a second opinion. I welcome that,” he
says before he leaves the room.

The sound of silence takes over. We’re quiet in our opposition; in the
uncertainty of what’s next; I’m positive that I can’t lose another
baby. John watches me dress. How many times can I disappointment him
in a day? He’s not going to fight with me. And I don’t want to. I just
want to go home and lie in my bed and shut the world out. With or
without John beside me, I just want it to be over. I’m so tired of
fighting losing battles.

John kisses me, finally, on my mouth. It’s funny; I don’t want him
anywhere near me now. I hate that he’s rubbing my back and focusing
too much on what I’m thinking. I’m not in control anymore.

“I just want to go home.” I just want it to be over.

**
He wants to have sex. Everything in his body movements says so. In the
car, he’s touching my leg. Every touch doesn’t always mean sex but
with John a touch is never as insignificant as it would be with
others.

Dr. Shalit doesn’t have to tell me that John’s softened attitude
toward me is about control. If we have sex, he wins. He can hold me
and stroke me until I’m pliant to whatever he wants from me. I’m
worried. Not because John wants me, I wanted him to want me, but
because I don’t want him. I don’t want it. I want darkness.

Why can’t I control my emotions from moment to moment? I am now doing
and thinking things that I look for in unstable patients: purposely
closing myself off from John, making impractical decisions, and
searching for darkness, actually seeking it out. It’s like I’ve never
felt anything or that I don’t know how to feel anything right now. I
don’t feel connected to anything happening around me. Not John, not
the baby.

***
“I need to lie down.” Maybe I can avoid this. “Please don’t turn the
lights on. I think I have a headache.” It’s the oldest trick known to
marriages. “I think I’ll feel better after a nap.” Or I’ll feel less
anxious with John not hovering around me being careful and
compassionate.

“Come here baby.”

I do feel safe in his arms, but I can’t bring myself to hug him back.
This is always how it starts. The tenderness. Soft words. Darkness.

“Can I lie down now?” Why did I feel compelled to ask? The balance is
precarious between John and me. He’s the parent; I’m the woman-child
with child. He lets me go dejectedly and I climb up the center of our
bed. I could care less about removing clothing. Sinking into the soft
padding beneath the blanket is appealing.

I know this will end badly—I feel it so strongly. Our baby is not
going to be healthy. He’s going to blame me. I’m going to feel even
guiltier than I did when I lost Roman’s baby. John wants this baby; he
planned for it secretly; he forced fate to create this soul. Unlike
with Roman, when we were just using each other for comfort. I wish we
had gone to our session with Dr. Shalit. I can’t focus. I can’t
reorganize my thoughts into a coherent pattern.

I don’t think I can go through with this, not even for John’s sake.

“Baby.” He climbs into the bed, behind me, and reaches under my shirt
to press his hands into my stomach. I’m happy there is no bulge there.
“You don’t want to abort my baby do you?” God please don’t let him do
this to me. “We made this baby together. It’s going to be fine baby, I
promise you. Please don’t do this to the last baby we’ll ever make
together.” What can I say? “I know you, I know that look baby… you’ve
been wearing it ever since we left Dr. West’s office.” He has no clue
what I’m really thinking, and I’m terrified to voice it outside my
head. “Baby.”

“John, please.” He’s slipped his hand into my waistband. He thinks my
please was a plea; he thinks I want it. I wanted it when I knew I
couldn’t have it, now I don’t. It’s too much. I want to remain
detached. Hands guide my pants slowly down my hips and off my legs.
Wordlessly, I allow him to remove my panties. I allow him to grind
against me, even when I feel him poking against me; I don’t or can’t
stop him. I don’t want to stop him or go through with it.

He doesn’t deserve this kind of confusion.

It’s impossible not to feel aroused. When he slides easily into me
from behind, I brace myself for the long haul. At this angle, we can
make love for hours, and we have. Maybe God will be kind and let this
be the cause of an early delivery so that a decision will be
unnecessary. I wonder what he would do if he knew that I’m hoping his
penis can be the answer we need. He’s too busy concentrating on long
and even strokes. And it feels good. Incredible. He’s a gifted lover;
I won’t dispute that.

With each stroke comes passionate sucking on my neck and then he moves
across my cheek to suck my lips and tongue mercilessly. He’s
prolonging the peak of his pleasure by pulling out of me and allowing
me seconds to catch my breath. When he’s back inside me, he pushes
deeper, not trying to reach the spot he’s knows well, but exploring
the caverns of my body. He’s thinking that with this unstable
pregnancy sex will be impracticable. Leaning his head into my shoulder
blades gives him leverage to slightly increase his rhythm. He pulls
out again and climbs over me, pushing me onto my back. He wants me to
come but I’m holding back. He’ll win if I let him make me come. On my
back I draw my knees together. Shaking his head, he pulls my knees
apart and pushes gently back into my wetness. Balancing himself on his
elbows allows him to frame my face between his hands while he pushes
into me.

“We have to keep this baby.” He grunts withdrawing again. He can’t
keep this up much longer. “Don’t kill my baby. I won’t let you.” He
says edgier. Kill. He hasn’t said kill to describe what I want to do
to it. He plunges back into me roughly, quickening the stroking. He
pumps until his body betrays him as his seed shoots unceremoniously
into me. He wants to stay inside me but I break our connection by
pushing him off of me.

He’s never left me unsatisfied; I didn’t know it was possible for John
not to be able to bring me to an orgasm, even with me fighting it.
That’s why he’s looking so perplexed when I turn on my side and cover
myself back up. John pulls the blanket back and looks me over
possessively. His lowers himself to my center, where I’m still wet,
and covers me with his mouth after draping a leg over each oh of his
shoulders. Why can’t he just let this be? His tongue is like a piston
inside of me. I grind involuntarily against his mouth, holding his
head firmly between my legs until just before my orgasm, when he
crawls back up my body and takes my face between his hands again,
grinding me into an orgasm that sends tremors throughout every nerve
in my body, all the while we are staring into each others eyes.

“I love you.” A deep kiss. “I love you.”

“I know,” is my weak reply after regaining some control of myself. My
wincing draws John’s attention. He’s just too close, still lying on
top of me, touching me.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.” I do, it’s not that I don’t. That’s the one truth
in this confusing ugly situation.

“Is it the baby? Are you in pain?” He says probably recalling the
words that Dr. West used “no vaginal examination” which probably means
no intercourse. I’m not in pain, not yet, but maybe after this I’ll
wake up in a pool of blood. Of course I can’t tell him that.

“Sweetheart?”

“It’s fine. I mean, I’m sure it’s fine. Can you please,” I attempt to
turn over again, “move over, this uncomfortable.”

He’ll never understand this feeling. I don’t like it. How can I? It
won’t live beyond my womb. I should have had him have a vasectomy
after Belle, but he always wanted another chance.

“What’s wrong?”

“I need time.”

“Time for what honey? I don’t want you to do it.”

“Do what?” Say it. He’s afraid to actually say it again. “You said it
once already.”

“Don’t do it. I won’t forgive you if you even consider doing it.”

Chapter 7

I’m supposed to be happy. I’m supposed to cherish this time but that
happiness hasn’t come yet. I’m so ungrateful. And I’m guilty for being
so unthankful for another chance. I don’t deserve it. John deserves
this kind of happiness. I don’t even know where John is. I haven’t
cared enough to ask him where he goes when he leaves. I assume he’s
working. I’m not. He cancelled my appointments indefinitely because
apparently we’re going through with this pregnancy.

He doesn’t think I can make decisions in the state that I’m in. I
don’t know what state he means. He hasn’t allowed me to make any
decisions. I could have sworn that I was the doctor but he’s been
talking to Dr. Shalit when he assumes I’m sleeping because I haven’t
had enough energy to actually get out of bed. We have an appointment
with Dr. Shalit; he also scheduled an appointment with Dr. West. And I
have no control. That’s what John said to me, “You’re out of control.
You’re emotions are all over the place.”

“I’m sorry John but if you want a new baby then you’re going to have
to find a new wife.” I don’t know what he said in response. I walked
away. We’re not married anyway. I don’t belong to him. My body doesn’t
belong to this baby. I guess I should talk to Dr. Shalit about that.
About how much I don’t want this baby to live inside of me, so much so
that I think of ways to hurt myself and it without alarming John. I
know that’s not normal. I know that. I know what’s normal and real but
I can’t differentiate when it comes to this pregnancy. I am equally
angry and sad about it. I imagine I must have been happy when I
initially thought about the baby. While John was away in Europe and I
was the only one who knew about it, I guess I felt happy then. And
telling John made me happy but more for him than for myself.

I haven’t said anymore about not having the baby. I’m too old to have
another baby. I’m Claire’s grandmother. I shouldn’t be having another
baby that will be younger than my grandchild.

Apparently we’re having it.

*
Dr. Shalit looks somber today. I don’t like him in gray; it doesn’t
suit him well. I can do this though; I can talk to him and not reveal
everything I’ve been going through. I’m a doctor. I can deal with
this. What’s more, it angers me that John has called the man who he
ran from only a week ago.

“How have you been? Tell me what’s going on.” Why is he pretending
that he and John haven’t been having conversations that I’m supposedly
unaware of?

“Dr. Shalit my husband is concerned about me.” I’ll play their game.
John sitting beside me acting nonchalant aggravates me. I didn’t want
to drive with him but he won’t let me drive alone, he won’t let me do
anything alone except sleep. He showed up an hour before our
appointment and turned into my father. Choosing clothes and handing me
breakfast even though it’s past lunch. He makes Belle call me. He
won’t give me a moment of peace unless I pretend to be asleep.

“Should he be?”

“No.” I’ve had the same training he has. In fact I’m far more
extensively trained in this game. I know what I have to say to make it
seem okay. “We’re having a baby. There will be complications and I
guess I took it a little harshly.”

“How are you feeling about the baby?” Nothing. I wonder if he can see that.

“I’m happy.” My smile mirrors his. It’s a courteous gesture that he
can appreciate. John is watching our exchange fiddling with his
fingers in his lap. He won’t let me lie to Dr. Shalit for long. “I’m
pregnant. I am feeling so many different emotions. It’s natural.”

“Yes feeling an array of emotions is apart of pregnancy, however, I do
believe that the diagnosis you received has maybe caused you to be
more negative than you should be.” Checkmate. He’s slipped and hasn’t
realized that I’ve got him.

“What diagnosis?”

“You said complications.” He says quickly.

“Complications, not diagnosis.” John fidgets. He wants to save Dr.
Shalit from the battle between our professional tactics.

“Honey, Dr. Shalit isn’t prying. Didn’t you want someone to help us
work out some of our issues? Talk to him.” The way I don’t talk to
you. John avoids looking into my face.

“Dr. Shalit, let’s not play word games.”

“Touché. And let’s not play mind games. I respect your profession,
shouldn’t I receive the same respect.” He pulls his glasses from his
face and settles them on top of his hair. “You are obviously aware
that I’ve spoken with John. He has been concerned about you.”

“The last time we were here, John was concerned that you were turning
me against you.”

“I never said that.” He says leaning forward. “And this isn’t about
that. You have me worried when you talk about aborting our baby.”

“I never said anything about an abortion.” I haven’t, not to him. “And
therapy isn’t about the baby. We’re here to talk about why you feel
the need to be in control of my every move.”

“Marlena.” Dr. Shalit says my name like a school teacher. I hate to be
condescended to. “I want to shift the direction of this conversation.
Why does John you want to abort the baby?”

“I have no idea. It was an option given by our doctor, not one that I
came up with.”

“Are you depressed?” He asks without hesitation.

I don’t even have to think about it. “No. I’m tired. I can’t work
because my schedule has been indefinitely cancelled.”

“You’ve been irritable.” John added turning to look at me. “And you
are tired, sleeping too much.”

“I’m pregnant.”

“It’s not that, something is off here Marlena.” I’m pregnant and I
don’t want to be. But I’m not depressed. “You haven’t been acting—“

“Normal?” I’m snide without trying to be. And I have to remember to
compartmentalize my anger. “I haven’t been interested in sex lately,
that’s what he means.”

“You barely eat.” John says ignoring my last comment.

“Everything I that I put into my mouth ends up in the toilet anyway.”

“Marlena, don’t sit here and act like you’re in control.”

“I’m not,” I tell John harshly, “you are my master, right. I have to
do what you say when you say it. I can’t go to work. You won’t allow
me to drive. If this is what this pregnancy is going to be like then I
don’t want to go through with it.” I’ve never been able to hold back
anything from John. Dr. Shalit knows that. He’s been studying our
relationship. He used John as a pawn to crack me and I broke open.
John and Dr. Shalit share a wary look. I need to shift this away from
me. “He doesn’t understand that I don’t need him with me every moment
of the day. I don’t always want to have sex. I don’t always want to be
touched. This is about controlling me but I never knew it until you
pointed it out, Dr. Shalit.” If I can make him revisit that issue,
maybe they will forget that I’ve admitted I don’t want to have it.

“So your husband does control you?”

“He has some control issues yes.” He controls everything. “I had no
control over becoming pregnant.”

“With this baby or with Belle?”

“Both.” I’ve stopped looking at John. Focusing on Dr. Shalit is easier
than seeing how pained John is by every word that comes out of my
mouth.

“Does it make you angry?” I don’t have an answer for that question. He
asks another. “Are you angry with John enough to hurt yourself or the
baby?”

“No.” I answered too quickly. Dr. Shalit writes a note and then looks
up to ask another question. He tries a different approach. And I’m not
worried about hurting John’s feelings anymore.

“You have an appointment with your doctor today.”

“Yes. And I want to make this clear. I’m not depressed. I haven’t even
had the baby yet, so it’s not postpartum. I had a couple of bad days
over the possibility of delivering an unhealthy baby. But I’m not
going to abort our baby.” I don’t know what I’m going to do but I’m
not going to do that. John won’t let me, even if I really wanted to,
he would never allow it. “I’m a doctor. Please know that if I think I
needed help, I wouldn’t hesitate to ask.”

“Marlena, there are cases where pregnant women suffer from depression
before they give birth. Perinatal depression which is often a
precursor to postpartum. I think you’re exhibiting some of the sure
signs.”

“What according to John?”

“I can see it all in your body language. You’re not doing yourself any
good by pretending that you’ve got this under control.”

“I do. I’m not here to talk about my baby. In fact, I’m not going to
talk about that anymore. If you want to talk about John and me, then
I’ll agree to that but not this anymore. It’s overwhelming.”

“Another sign of this type of depression is feeling overwhelmed with
your pregnancy. The mind tells you that this pregnancy is unnecessary
and that can’t control anything in your life. You’ve talked
consistently about control and your loss of it.”

“Dr. Shalit, I just want to be left alone to deal with this. Quiet as
it’s been kept, I did have a miscarriage. I lost a baby that I wanted
dearly. It gets a little overwhelming to deal with that alone.”

“You’re not alone.”

John is so quiet I almost forget he’s sitting next to me.

“With this, I’m alone. John doesn’t want to talk about Roman and all
that. I don’t want to talk about it with him.”

“Well you can’t do this alone. For the sake of your baby, I hope that
you talk to your husband or schedule a session alone with me. I’m very
concerned. This is not like you, what I’m seeing isn’t the woman I’ve
come to know in our time together. You’re a very sad woman. But you
don’t have to be. Depression is something that can be controlled but
you have to do something before it takes over. You are depressed.” He
wants me to break down and cry. I’m not giving in. I’m not depressed.

“I respect your opinion.”

“Thank you. Good luck with your appointment.”

He doesn’t realize that I’m as hopeless as I was when I came into his
office. John is stunned or angry, I don’t know which. When it’s all
said and done, I hope he can forgive me.

Chapter 8

Why did Sam die and I was allowed to live? What gave me the right to a
life that Sam never saw? I’m no better than she was. I’m not good. I’m
not Mama and Daddy’s good little girl anymore. They always called me
that when I was a child. They’ve always seen me that way—everyone has.
I don’t deserve for people to see me as good. I’m a horrible person.
My children know it. Roman and John know it. This baby knows it. It
knows how I feel about it or it knows that I don’t feel anything
reasonably maternal toward it.

John and Dr. West spoke as if I weren’t in the room with my stomach
layered with gel. They pointed and awed at the screen. I smiled and
looked away. John’s so caught in impending fatherhood that my
reactions are less and less important to him. He told Dr. West that we
were going through with the pregnancy. I’m incapable of voicing an
opinion at this point. Silence works in my favor. I like being alone
with my own thoughts. I learned that with my silence judgment is also
silenced. I can’t help how I feel. The pain is greater than any pain
I’ve ever known. I’ve never missed my mother so much in my life. She
always knew how to chase away the bad when I needed it. But I’m beyond
childhood, beyond the age of asking mommy for help. Maybe if I can
hold on until tomorrow it will be better.

Belle always believed me when I told her that it’ll always be better
in the end, and if it’s not better then it’s not the end. I want to
believe that my own maxim is true. I really want to believe that I’m
okay, but I don’t know anymore. I don’t trust myself to know what okay
is.

“I don’t want to know its sex.” It won’t matter in the end. He gives
me that questioning look that doesn’t require words and I can only
shrug and shyly smile. “I want it to be a surprise.” Soul mates should
always be connected. He doesn’t really know me at all. I’ll never be
the same. We’ll never be the same. John will never love me after it’s
all done.

*
We meet Belle and Claire for lunch at Salem Place after the
appointment with Dr. West. Claire is hanging onto John’s every word.
Whenever she is in his presence, she becomes mesmerized by his voice.
If she’s crying, hearing her grandpa stops her tears. “She really is
perfect, isn’t she?” I ask Belle, watching as John and Claire play
with the toy phone he bought her. Belle is at that stage of motherhood
when everything a child does is amazing. She’s absolutely captivated
by Claire.

“Mom, I never knew I could be so in love with someone. You never told
me being a mom was like this.” She doesn’t know that I’ve forgotten
even as I look into her face; the feeling is lost to me and I don’t
know when I lost it.

She is my baby and I love her as much as I love my other children. I
always thought I loved her in a different way because she was John’s
daughter. My love for Belle is at times stronger than any other love
I’ve ever felt, including for her daddy. I want to tell her so badly
because at times she’s been closer than a best friend but she’s only
my child and I can’t burden her with this. Maybe she knows what I feel
like. She had a hard time after Claire was born. Maybe she won’t
understand. I don’t even understand. I just want to stop feeling so
bad.

“Are you okay, Mom?” She’s so perceptive. She loves me; I know that. I
know she loves us as her mama and daddy. She would probably love the
baby too.

The words, “I’m pregnant,” slip so easily from my mouth that John
doesn’t realize I’ve said them until Belle repeats them. He scratches
his head and puts his hand on Belle’s shoulder. Claire is blowing
raspberries on his cheek, trying to amuse him. She won’t come to me
anymore.

“Yea Izzy B, Mom’s pregnant.” He looks at me as he says, “And we
couldn’t be happier.” He still presumes that he should speak for me.

What does he know about happiness? “Belle, honey I’m sorry.” Looking
into her eyes, seeing her immediate acceptance fills me with emotions
that cause tears to well in my eyes. I lower my head to avoid the
“Black” eye gaze that they mutually do. He’s looking worried,
intensely worried; she’s looking conflicted. Belle is so much apart of
our connection that she can tell when we’re not connecting well. If
she’d ask me about the baby, I’d tell her. I’d explain how confused I
am from day to day. I’d tell her that I’m afraid to admit that I can’t
do this. I just can’t do it again. I’d tell her that I wouldn’t leave
her again if I could help it.

“Mom why are you apologizing? It’s okay.” I owe her something for the
turmoil I’ve put her through. All the turmoil that has ever been
inflicted on her life has always been my fault. She doesn’t deserve me
for a mother.

“I know you were disappointed with me the last time. I’m sorry about
that.” I’ll never forget the look on Belle’s face when she learned
about the baby being Roman’s. I stained myself with sexual iniquity
again, and this time, Belle had a front row seat to my demise.

“Mommy.” She’s going to cry. She always calls me mommy when she feels
emotional and needs to connect with me. “It’s happened and it’s over.
You and Daddy are back together and now look: you’re going to have a
new baby.” My baby girl slips her hands around me effortlessly. She
smells like baby talc. “And I was never disappointed in you, only for
you. Besides who am I to judge?”

“It’s not time to dwell on the past,” John tells us both. Belle’s
shoulder becomes easy comfort for me where as I used to find it in
John’s eyes, or closely huddled against John. “We don’t have to talk
about this.”

“He never wants to talk about this,” I whisper to Belle
conspiratorially. “He doesn’t love me as much as he used to.” He
whispers about me with doctors. He doesn’t trust me to do things by
myself. “He doesn’t respect me anymore.” Belle is speechless; I’ve
gone too far. I forgot to remain silent. I forgot my own rule. She
pulls back and looks me in the face sadly.

“Daddy loves you very much Mommy. You know that, don’t you?” I don’t
know that. I know that her daddy loves this baby more than he loves
me. But I know that he loved me once, a long time before I ruined his
life. “Are you okay?” Why does everyone keep asking me that question?
“I don’t want to be disrespectful but I think you might need to talk
to someone about how your feeling.”

“You think I’m depressed too?” Pulling away from Belle is hard. I push
myself and my chair away from her and the table. John’s gotten to her
too. He’s turned my baby against me.

“Mom, no listen to me please.” She’s afraid. She reaches out to hug me
again but this time I don’t fall easily into her arms. We touch but
it’s unemotional. I don’t know if I can trust her either. “You have to
be happy. You and daddy have always wanted a new baby. This is your
second chance.” Claire’s reaching for Belle, clamoring for her
attention. John passes her to Belle and stands to come and sit in the
chair beside me. She doesn’t see it either.

“I’m too old for second chances. Do you realize how old I’ll be when
this baby is in high school? Or how very difficult this pregnancy is?
It’s not a second chance, it’s a prison sentence.” Stop talking. Don’t
reveal. Conceal it all. You’re tougher than this tactic that John’s
using to keep you as his pawn.

“Mom?”

“Belle, no. I have to go.”

“Go where sweetheart.”

“To get some air.” And to get away from this silent judgment. They’re
documenting every word I say, probably to use against me with Dr.
Shalit. I try very hard to make a departure that isn’t dramatic enough
to worry Belle. But surprisingly, very surprisingly Claire reaches up
for me and says Mama.

“I’m grandma.” She of course doesn’t understand this. She only smiles
and continues to plea with open arms to be taken. Belle looks unsure.
Maybe I was too harsh in reprimanding Claire but I would never hurt my
granddaughter. I don’t want to hurt anybody. “Claire I have to go baby
girl. Grandma has to go.” If I don’t soon there will be tears. John,
the resident observer of all my actions, shoots Belle a worried look.
They’re afraid of what I’ll do. When did I get so erratic that my
husband and daughter are so distrustful of me?

“Mommy why don’t you just stay here and talk to me?”

“Belle, I would never hurt her.”

“Mom, I know that.” She’s surprised that I could say that to her. I’m
more surprised that she would think it.

“I just want to get some fresh air.” I’m more determined this time. I
stand and grab my purse but Claire is persistent. She’s crying out for
me. I can’t stand to hear it. I don’t want her to feel abandoned.
Belle allows me to lift her from her grasp. Watching Belle, I quietly
inquire if it’s okay. She nods. “We’ll be back. I promise.”

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“No John, I’m just fine. I can walk three or four yards away from you
without stumbling.” We walk away; my granddaughter is tucked safely in
my arms. She’s perfectly peaceful there. I’ve been neglectful of
Claire ever since John and I reconciled. I used to see her daily when
Belle and she were living at the Penthouse with me. I wasn’t there for
Sami and Will when he was born; she was then fighting me at every
turn. I wanted it to be different with Claire. I want her to know how
much I’ll always love her. I used to look in her face and see the hope
but now all I see is hopelessness. She has two parents who love her.
Bo and Hope are fast becoming a vital part of her life. And John will
always love her very deeply. I hope she’ll forgive me.

“Doc.” Only one person says my name with as much familiarity as he
does. I haven’t seen him in months. Roman hugs me immediately. He
misses me. We were always great friends. Sex made things murky. But
it’s not his fault that I’m unable to control myself. “How have you
been?” He asks with me pressed into his chest. Claire is squirming to
back away from the hug. She’s loyal to her grandpa, even if she
doesn’t realize it. The sudden sadness keeps me from answering him;
instead, I stay planted against his chest. “Doc?”

“I’m so sorry Roman. I really screwed things up, haven’t I?” It’s not
a confession; it’s just me illuminating our past. “It really was all
my fault.” I owe him an explanation. I owe him apologies for our past.
I owe him my life. “You were always so good to me.”

“Doc, settle down for a minute. Why are you talking like this?”
Roman’s clutch is strong, not as strong as John’s. I don’t feel
imprisoned when he holds my arm to stop me from pulling away. He leads
me to a table and takes Claire. She doesn’t like him. He is her uncle.
“What’s going on with you honey?”

“Roman, all those years ago, when John and I had an affair—“How do I
tell him this without breaking his heart all over again? He deserves
to know it. After it’s over, he’ll never know if I don’t tell him.

“Doc, come one we don’t have to go there.”

“Roman he did it.”

“Who? John?”

I can only nod. Claire seems to understand the severity of the
conversation better than Roman. She reaches across Roman’s lap and
leaps into my arms. When her arms go around my neck, when I hear her
say mama in her tiny voice, when I feel her lips wet my hair, I loose
it. I love her so much more than the baby invading my body.

“You have to calm down.” He rubs my shoulders. “You’re starting to tremble.”

“John wanted to get me pregnant during our affair.” The words stumble
out rapidly. “He did it on purpose. We destroyed our family. It wasn’t
just sex.”

Roman takes the news well. He covers my knee with a hand. “You have to
forget about all of that. Doc, you and John have a family now. I was
hurt when you and I split up, damn hurt but honey, it’s all over. I
don’t blame you or him anymore. I can’t live with that kind of anger
anymore.” How could I have just lost Roman’s baby and be pregnant with
John’s? “I’ve forgiven you.”

“I can’t forgive myself.” I admit freely, holding onto Claire. She
could be the baby we lost. She could have been the payback for all the
pain John and I caused John. It’s all I can do not to completely loose
my composure. I fall into Roman’s waiting arms. He’s taken Claire
again and is holding both of us so close. This could be us. It could
be what God intended.

John calling my name, hovering over me and Roman, makes me dizzy and
nauseous. Roman doesn’t let me go. I am trembling. Claire is still
holding onto me and Roman. I can’t do it. I don’t want to see John’s
face. I bury my face into Roman’s chest so much that John’s voice is
muffled when he speaks again, calling my name.

“She’s okay.” Roman assures him. He rubs my back and forces me from
his chest. “John’s here.”

“I can’t do this.” I whisper pressing my forehead against his chin. I
know it’s killing John. I feel the daggers in my back. “Please don’t
make me do this.”

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.” Roman assures me.

John surrounds us. He takes Belle from between Roman and me. She
squeals happily, lessening the tension minutely. “Belle’s looking for
you and Claire honey.” He and his baby are making me feel violently
ill. I have to purse my lips together tightly to keep from vomiting on
Roman.

“Doc, you’re alright.”

“Yes, she is,” John says lowering himself to me. “She’s emotional.” He
can’t tell him. Not like this, but I know he will before he does.
“She’s pregnant.” I hear the victorious cheer in John’s voice. I don’t
need to see his face to know that he’s gloating.

“Yes, I’m emotional…that’s the diagnosis, according to John.” I find
some strength to gather myself emotionally. John’s face is the first
one I see when I look up from Roman’s chest. Pull yourself together;
it’ll all be over soon. “Roman, I’m sorry I’ll never do this to you
again. You don’t deserve this, no one deserves this.” John grabs me
suddenly and helps me to my feet. I was too close to Roman. I was
being held by the man he fears he’ll lose me to. But it’s not Roman,
it’s me. I’m the one who wants to leave here, taking my problems with
me. John isn’t happy with me anymore. I hate him. I hate what he’s
done to me. And I hate his baby. I hate what it means. I hate life.

Chapter 9

Bed rest is how John controls me now.

And so I’m here in the darkness, digging through my unspoken pain,
saturating the dismal reality surrounding me. In a couple of days
he’ll be gone. He’s flying to New York. It’s only a couple of hours by
plane but it’s enough for me. I’ll swallow my pain whole, I’ve already
gathered all the tools I’ll need. Anne Sexton calls them tools.

I’ve been reading Anne Sexton. I avoided her poetry in college. In New
Orleans she seems to have magically appeared again, when I needed her.
She was a woman in pain; we’re similar. I didn’t know it until now,
but she wasn’t crazy. She was simply in pain. But pain is rarely
simple. John would like it to be; they all would. Dr. Shalit
definitely wants me to say, I can take this, and I do, but I don’t say
so because I believe this. I don’t. I don’t believe this will be any
better than it is.

I didn’t know I had such good acting skills, or are the people
surrounding me so blind to who I truly am. I’ve lied consistently to
John for the past 6 weeks about his baby, about the way I feel about
his baby. The bleeding is getting worse, but I haven’t told him that.
If Dr. West is worried, he doesn’t say anything to John. I made a deal
with John that I would only go to Dr. West’s weekly if Belle took me.
I can fool Belle better than John. He thinks I’m ecstatic about the
baby now. He believes in me because he wants to believe in me. I know
this’ll be hard for him. He’ll be very upset about this. He won’t be
able to touch the growing swell in my belly. He does it everyday.

*
I haven’t been fair to my patients who have been in this particular
state of being. Living half lives. Listening to the urge to end the
pain and suffering associated with living in this world. It was never
my right to judge or mistrust that they were doing what they believed
was right. And that’s all we have sometimes, our ability to make the
choice to be miserable or better. Everything else is just unwritten.
And unspoken. And maybe unlived. I can’t help but wonder if Sam felt
this way before it was all over. I mean in that moment between death
and dying, the subtle shift from Earth to the bonds of eternity, what
was she feeling? What will I feel? Will the baby feel it also? I don’t
dwell on it. It’s not about why. It’s just that you must. Sexton
understood that. She makes this time a little less lonely. Her book is
on my nightstand. I often read it until I fall asleep, before John
slips into bed and imprisons me in his arms, with or without my
permission.

This will only be easier if I stop thinking of John and what he’ll do.
We’ve done this before. We’re good at loss. He merely moves on. I’d
expect him to.

**
Her voice is clear and very powerful, very moving. I hear it when I’m
alone, especially after reading the poems that are sustaining me until
it’s time. John hasn’t left yet, he will today and I’ll decide when
after he’s gone. He picked up the book from my nightstand this
morning; it’s called Live or Die. If he had opened it up he would have
seen that I highlighted one of my favorite passages:
But suicides have a special language.
Like carpenters they want to know which tools.
They never ask why build.

She speaks quietly about the special language that I have come to
understand it. So I have my tools and I ignore the questions. I have
her voice. Not saying to do it, not egging me on but guiding me. She
knows that the baby will be in the place she always lusted after, and
it will never know what hurt truly is. Death is not as scary as it
used to be. I’ve faced it enough to know that the only thing scarier
is not being prepared.
Belle will stay with me while John is away. It’s been decided. He
kisses me goodbye. This is the last time I’ll ever kiss him. He loved
me in the most overwhelming, passionate, and obsessive way I’ve ever
been loved, but I needed that from him. Kisses are more intimate than
sex; they always have been for me. Kissing him is as close to anymore
pleasure that I’ll feel in this life. I don’t pull back when he closes
my face between his hands and devours my mouth. I feel an obligation
to making him know that the last time he kissed me, I wasn’t pulling
away from him. And then he lets me go, he lets my face go and moves to
my stomach, kneeling so that he’s eye level with the bump in my belly.

“You take care of your mama baby.” He knows what it is. I know he
asked Dr. West when I left the room. He’s already so connected to the
baby. He’s already bought so many clothes and toys that I never see.
He’s put them into the nursery. I haven’t been there either, although
I tell him I have. “Your daddy will be back as soon as I can.” He
lifts my shirt and kisses my stretched skin. I wish he knew that he
wouldn’t be back soon enough. I can hug him now and not feel
overwhelmed because I’m taking the control back. I’m finally going to
do something for myself.

“I’m sorry John.” I’ve tried to avoid speaking too much. I’m sorry for
so much more than I can say. He hugs me. I fall into his body. I know
the place I should rest my head and where my hands go. He looks at me
suspiciously. We haven’t hugged. We haven’t been intimate. We haven’t
kissed. “I’m going to miss you very much.” More than he’ll ever know,
I’ll miss him.

“I don’t have to go.” He’s already chosen to go. If he had said that
before, I might have been happy to tell him to stay. But we’ve both
made choices. “I can send someone else.”

“Belle will take care of me. You go on.” I can’t tell him I’ll be
fine. “Remember how much I love you.”

The way he hears me and the way I mean it are very different. I’m
speaking of a past love, in a distant voice. He’s hearing that my
personality transplant hasn’t erased anything I’ve felt for him over
the years. He wants to hear that our love is stable, and that it’s
here to stay. Nothing lasts forever, even if they tell us so in fairy
tales. “I love you Doc.” I still love to be called Doc. I can kiss him
again because he needs me to. And when we’re standing quietly looking
each other over, I reach up and stroke his cheek.

***
Belle is still the only one of my children who knows about the baby.
She is also still the only one who allows me complete access to her
life. But she is her father’s daughter. She does have her secrets. I
keep myself at a distance. John will be home tomorrow. I’m going to do
it then. When Belle and Claire go back to their apartment, the one
below us that John gave to her and Shawn, after he moved back into our
home.

****
Calling Eric and Sami is out of the question. I hope they know how
much I’ve loved them, even if I’ve never been the kind of mother they
deserve and even if I’ve nearly destroyed their lives. I am incapable
of telling my children goodbye. I’m not going to leave them sad notes
that they’ll keep too long after it’s over. I’m not going to make them
partners in my choices. I’m hoping that time will heal their sorrows
and I’ll be remembered as more than the person who carried them in my
womb. I’ll always be their Mama. I can’t tell Belle goodbye either.
Doing so would tempt me to be cowardly and confess. Anne wasn’t
afraid. She’d been trying for years to do what I’ve finally told and
heard myself say I need to do. Her voice is whispering kind words,
about the tools. I have them. They are surrounding the rim of the tub.
Gassing might have been easier, but this way, it’s only falling
asleep.

Does it feel the sudden effect of the tools coursing through my veins?
Has it finally realized that we can’t exist as one?

It wasn’t meant for birth anyway.

It doesn’t want to die, not this way, but it was never going to live anyway.

It’s his baby. He’ll miss his baby. But he has Belle and Claire. We
had a thousand great days.

Mama is going to be angry. Sam will be happy. Daddy will be so disappointed.
I’ll never ask why God. I’ll never wonder why.

We deserve it in this quiet form. So if we have to leave, if it has to
go, then we’ll go together. And when we’re there, with Sam and D.J.
I’ll name it and love it better than I could here.

Forgive me father, for I know not what I do. I didn’t know it would be so easy.

To slip away.

John is going to hate me. He’s going to….

Chapter 10

I’m breaking into pieces.

John. He wants to know what Nembutal is and why I’m so cold. And Doc.
Doc. Doc. He hates me.

The devil is riding my back. I can’t open my eyes. I can feel the
coldness; I also feel the warmness of lights. Of lights.

This isn’t forever. It couldn’t be with John here. How did John get here?

I’m still breaking into pieces.

He must have found me.

He saved me.

*
I have a feeling that time is passing and it’s not coming back. I
don’t know how long I’ve been here. I believe I’m in the hospital, in
a room with John whispering unintelligible things to me.

Dr. West’s voice comes sometimes. He is apologizing to John for not
knowing better. Dr. Shalit comes too. He’s not apologetic;
Psychiatrists rarely are. He uses a thin remorseful tone when talking
about my mental state with John. I recognize his touch now. His
fingers are larger than John’s and Dr. West’s. His skin is clammy and
he touches me too long. I don’t hear John protesting.

The baby is still here, making its presence known with motion only I
can feel. We are still here together. It’s a fighter, like John. Dr.
West has told John on several occasions that the baby wasn’t harmed. I
can hear John’s anger and confusion; he will never forgive me.

I’m a coward. Is that what he’s whispering to me? That I’m a coward
for taking the easy way out. I didn’t know. I thought it would be
over. Aren’t I brave because I thought it might be over and I still
did that?

It’s a boy. He doesn’t think I can hear him. He keeps whispering,
questioning why I didn’t tell him what I was going to do. He says our
baby deserves parents who love and want him; I still don’t want our
little boy.

**
I can recognize day and night now by the tone of John’s voice when he comes.
Belle came last night and cried for hours at my bedside. I must look
horrible in this sleep induced state that I’m in. The wires and
beeping noises must be disturbing to her. My lips are so dry. My hair
feels matted. When will I wake up enough to speak?

Belle leaves kissing my dry lips.

Mama? I’d know her touch anywhere. It never changes. The lightest
press of her lips on face reminds me of childhood.

I shall die, but that is all that I shall do for Death.

Mama whispers that into my ear. She must be sitting now. Her breath
isn’t on my skin anymore. I hear her careful breathing. Where’s
daddy—so disappointed he couldn’t come to see me like this. He’s never
been the same since Sam died. Death will always be too scary for Daddy
to deal with.

John must have given Mama my book.

This is just like Mama: replace the bad with good and happy. Could she
have seen the tub and the pills? She’s probably cleaned it up all and
made it as if it wasn’t the place I tried to finish my life. It’s in
her nature to make that darkness transform to sunshine. That’s why
she’s reading Millay in her make-happy voice. Millay is not Sexton.
Mama can understand Millay; she’s terrified of Sexton.

Childhood is not from birth to a certain age and at a certain age
The child is grown, and puts away childish things.
Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies.

Nobody that matters, that is.

I wish I could return her touch. She cries and asks what they all ask: why?

Mama everybody dies, even parents and children, especially children and parents.

I’m sorry. Not because I did it but because I didn’t do it successfully.

She’s crying because of the baby. She’s like John—the way she covers
my stomach and talks to him. She knows it’s a boy. John must have told
her, warned her about it but I haven’t even told her I’m pregnant. She
would never know had I gotten this right.

She leaves and it’s quiet again.

***
“Do you remember what happened?” Dr. Shalit is asking. He is standing
at my bedside, peering over the rimless glasses. John is at his side,
like a sidekick. This is the dynamic duo that is going to save me from
myself.

I have no choice but to be subdued. I don’t know what they’re giving
me through the IVs.
“Marlena?”

“I took Nembutal.” He still hasn’t comprehended that I’m a doctor,
too. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

John has no right to look so disappointed in me. Or is it sad
resignation? It’s some unclassified thing that we’ve never been in. He
is angry with me. I’m disappointed in me and him.

“Ask me.” I’d rather he did instead of watching me critically. Not
addressing him directly confuses Dr. Shalit and he speaks instead.

“I have asked you and you’ve answered. Do you want to know about the baby?”

I shake my head defiantly. Haven’t they learned that I’m not who they
thought I was? But it’s John who is wordless, not Dr. Shalit. Good Dr.
Shalit is confident that he can cure me. He is dedicated to doing so.
He’s so much as said it to John while I was supposed to be sleeping.

“If I wanted to know anything, I could read my chart. He’s here.” No
thanks to me. I don’t know what’s next. I don’t know what to say next.
I don’t want to talk to John. I don’t want to be scrutinized by Dr.
Shalit. And I don’t want to think about the repercussions of what I’ve
done.

“Marlena, you’re a very lucky woman. Your husband saved your life—and
the baby’s life. Five minutes later would have been too late.”

“He is wonderful isn’t he?” I think I mean it more than I’m trying to be
sarcastic. John doesn’t miss the double meaning. He lowers his head
and covers his agitated face. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be callous.
I do realize what’s gone on here. I just want to…”

“Was it really that hard for you?” John asks. “I should have known better.”

“John don’t do this to me. This has nothing to do with you.”

“I’m sorry Dr. Shalit, will you excuse me for a minute.” He leaves me
with Dr. Shalit.

I know he hates me. He didn’t touch me at all. But it’s okay because I
hate myself enough for all of them.

“Nembutal. That is classic. You read Sexton. You highlighted the poem.
And you took Nembutal, following in her footsteps.” He’s talking in a
tone he’s never used before. “You fooled me Marlena. I have to commend
you on that. You fooled your husband, which amazes me considering the
connection between you two. I knew you were depressed. I should have
gone with my instincts.” How unprofessional to admit mistakes in front
of a patient? I’ve jarred even my Psychiatrist. “You exhibited all the
signs. I just thought you were too smart to do it. Aren’t you smarter
than Sexton or Plath were? You do know that you can’t come back from
death. You’re an intelligent woman.” So were they. They were smart,
sad, suicidal woman and a man will never understand that. “You are a
rarity in my line of work.”

“Dr. Shalit is there a point to this rambling. I’m very tired and I
think my body would benefit from resting.”

“You wanted to be saved.” He says as if it’s the first time he’s
thought of it. “You wanted John to come and be the hero that he’s
always been to you. Didn’t you?”

“Either one day I’ll get over this or I’ll simply be better at doing
it. Either way, you can’t save someone who doesn’t need saving.”

“Don’t you?”

“I’m a psychiatrist. If I wanted to save myself—“

“If?”

“This is my life.”

“No Marlena, it’s not only your life. You are carrying another life
inside you. A baby. Your little boy. John’s always wanted a son,
apparently.” He speaks so familiarly of John. I imagine that they’ve
had long conversations since I’ve been here. “You don’t even see it do
you? You’re severely depressed to the point of psychotic tendencies.
You haven’t once said anything to convince me that you won’t do this
again.”

“I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”

“Marlena, I’m going to recommend to John that you be put under
observation.” Checkmate. He’s finally got me pinned. Suicide attempts
don’t require consent. “Until you’re no longer a threat to yourself or
your baby. You need more help than I can give without seeing you
everyday. You’re spiraling and you don’t realize it. That saddens me.”

“Would you tell any other patient that?”

“No, I respect you as a doctor. When you’re better you will thank me.”

“So you’re going to save me?”

“I’m going to try damn hard to. This isn’t what you want. You want to
love that baby and your husband. You want the all American family.
People can read you like a book. You have to remember that.”

I used to know that. I did. I loved being apart of my family with
John. I loved being Mama for my children. I did love it. I did love
life. I loved that. I’ve lost so many things that I’ve lost.

Chapter 11 (NC-17)

Mental facilities have come a long way. Dr. Shalit is careful to call
it a retreat. It fits, this is the place where people retreat into the
reserve of their minds. Isn’t that what mental illness is? I used to
know things like that. All I know now is how badly things have gone.
My failure has turned into something else; it’s classified me with a
patient file designated by large red letters that signify suicide
attempt. I’ve made those same marks as a doctor.

Dr. Shalit hasn’t allowed John to come and visit. We need time to
refocus my energies. We need to establish a better, more confident
patient-doctor relationship. He likes to control me more than John
ever has. They moved me under the fog of anti-depressants. Dr. Shalit
was the first person I saw when I awoke in the strange place.

*
“The Interior of our Exterior Lives” is the title of Dr. Shalit’s
book. It’s on the table in my room. It’s more than a room; it’s a
suite of beautiful furniture and paintings. John must have packed my
clothes because they’re hanging in the tall chest. Pictures of our
children are also placed strategically around the suite.

We meet in my room which is unorthodox.

“Do you like it here?” He asks, crossing his leg over the other. He is
still so mysterious. He’s middle-aged with no children, no wife. He is
handsome but in the understated way that people control other people’s
lives are. And he watches me so intently that I have to look away from
the sheer force of his eyes. They penetrate. They assign judgment.
“Marlena?”

“It’s a nice facility.” Even if there are security guards at the front
entrance and the grounds are fenced in. “I would like to return to my
family very soon.”

“You tried to leave your family.” He says tapping his ink pen along
his legal pad. “You attempted to take your life and the life of your
child.” He has to remind me of my actions because I’m supposed to feel
accountable for them. I already do. The reminders are unnecessary.
“Your husband is concerned with your recovery. We all are. We want to
help you.”

“Why do you say that—your husband—when he’s not my husband. He’s the
father of my children. We’re not married.” It’s nitpicky but he’s
trying to get under my skin. Make them feel the pain and not hide it.
But it won’t work. I don’t feel any pain; I’m numb to everything
around me. This baby and John’s pain are inconsequential. Somewhere
inside myself, I recognize the severity of my actions but I don’t have
the energy to care about them.

“Did that agitate you?”

“No.” Answering too quickly always means a lie. “Do you think this is
only about depression? It’s not Dr. Shalit. You don’t know me at all;
none of them really know me. Not Mama or daddy.”

“Does John know you?”

“I thought he did.” But he could only know what I tell him. We didn’t
function that way in the past. I, at one time, could search those blue
eyes and know what he was afraid of and how much he loved me. My god
what did happen to us? “It’s not John’s fault.”

“So then it’s your fault. You wanted to die because you couldn’t cope.
What’s so hard about your life? You’re married to a millionaire
businessman, even if you think you’re not—he is committed to you and
your relationship. You apparently have a strong support system. Your
children adore you. The community respects you. Tell me why you think
that’s not worth living for.”

“You’re attempting to cut me open. Dissect decisions and offer new
options or ways to visualize things positively.” Shrink tactics 101.
“I’m not the usual patient.”

“Okay, let’s dispense with the bullshit then. You’re too damn precious
to people to do things as stupid as attempting suicide. You’re
precious to me. You’ve gotten under my skin.” His admission makes me
very uncomfortable.

“It’s not something I thought about,” I admit casually, “I simply did it.”

“Don’t lie to me Marlena.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Well then don’t lie to yourself.” He shakes his head in
disappointment. “Please be real with at least yourself. You know what
I want from you. We all want the same thing here, don’t we?”

“I’m still alive.”

“You are still alive and we are going to keep it so. I wish that we
could trust you. You deserve the freedom that the retreat offers.
There are wonderful amenities here.”

“Dr. Shalit, don’t insult my intelligence and pretend that I have any
control in this situation. Or that this place is not a mental
facility. I’m not crazy.”

“Aren’t you?” He asks raising an eyebrow and the pen in his hand. He
writes something very quickly.

“Isn’t that what my husband is paying you to find out?” Dr. Shalit has
a way of looking at me that makes me shiver. He knows what I’m
thinking before I say it. He knows that my anger is only a front.
“Crazy people don’t usually harm themselves; they harm others.”

“We both know that is not true.”

The subject is tiresome. We will never agree on what happened. I’m not
positive what really did happen. But changing the subject is easier
than thinking about it. “Is John coming soon?”

“Do you want to see him?”

“I don’t know.” I’ve lost my ability to think long term. “He is
probably pretty terrified about all of this. I don’t know how to
reassure him.”

“Because you can’t reassure yourself.” He loves to finish thoughts
that I never really think. “You’re not responsible for John. You can
only be responsible for the child you carry and yourself because you
are one.” He lowers his eyes to the bump beneath my shirt. I’ve lost
the number of weeks that I’ve carried the baby but the swell in my
belly is evident that it’s growing healthily. “Why have you detached
yourself so much from this child? You refer to the baby as ‘it’. You
haven’t grasped the brutality of your decision to end its life in
conjunction with yours. Those actions don’t fit your personality.”

“Dr. Shalit I know what I did. I know what the consequences of my
actions could have been.” I know that my life will never be the same.
This baby will never be what it could have been. It’ll die whether I
want it to live or not, and it’s not my choice. God has already
chosen. We’re being punished for the sin. The sins of a father are
always revisited on the child. Belle has already suffered. Now it’s
this baby’s turn. “I’m not sorry about it and I’m sorry if that makes
me seem like a monster or inhumane.”

“Why?” Small word that carries a lot of weight. Why didn’t it work?
Why did I get pregnant again? Why are some children born to die? Why
did my husband sleep with my best friend? Why didn’t I die? Why do I
want to die?

“Dr. Shalit, I just need to stop feeling so bad. Can you understand
that? I walk around daily feeling so dug out. Emotionless or maybe
emptied out. I can’t feel something that isn’t there. I don’t know
what’s wrong with me. I really don’t know if I care enough to find
out. I just know that I’m in an incredible amount of pain and nobody
seems to understand that. Marlena is not allowed to feel sad. Marlena
is not allowed to be terrible or mean. That’s not who I am.”

He allows my tirade to pass. When I’m emptied out and emotionally
drained, he finally asks, “Who are you?”

“I’ve stopped asking myself.” I don’t care anymore. I’m not who I thought I was.

**
I never know how much I miss John, not until I see him again. Dr.
Shalit sent me a note after lunch: expect a surprise. I should have
known it would be John. He walked into the room with his manly
swagger, not a smile or flash of happiness to see me; instead, relief
filtered out of his stony eyes. He is relieved that I’m still alive
which means the baby is too. He hasn’t been resting enough. The dark
circles beneath his eyes are telling and saddening. And he’s not
happy. He’s not happy to see me.

Are we supposed to hug? We don’t.

Either John or Dr. Shalit decided that John’s showing up at my door
would be a good thing. I don’t know. Seeing him there, looking into
his face reminded me of why I had the urge to die and why It’s there.
All the love and understanding I thought would be there have
disappeared. He doesn’t understand imperfect Marlena. He only
understands the wife who is willing and able to be at his beckoning
call. I’m a foreigner invading his otherwise perfect life. The
insularity of husbands who have wives that caters to them has firmly
entangled us.

Thank goodness I’ve stopped taking those pills that Dr. Shalit says
will help with my mood.
Those bottles lining the cabinet in the bathroom are emptying slowly
and it’s not because I’ve taken them as prescribed. I’ve thrown my
daily dose down the toilet after breakfast, lunch and dinner. It’s
almost too easy to fool John and Dr. Shalit.

He thinks the pills are helping because Dr. Shalit tells him so. He
wants to be upset and angry at me and he’s doing a fine job. He can
only shut me out when he’s angry. And that requires no touching or
kind words. He hasn’t done any of that. He barely looks at me when we
take seats beside each other in the living room portion of my suite.
He visually searches for familiar items that make him believe we are
only in a hotel room and not a mental facility. A picture of our
daughter and granddaughter are on the coffee table in front of us. I
often stare at it and wonder how they’re doing without me. Maybe
they’re sustaining him now.

It almost kills him to ask but he has to. “How are you?” I’ve always
loved his voice. Even now, I could smile and lay against his shoulder
just to hear it. But I can’t smile now. I can’t give him anything. I’m
empty.

“Alive.” There is no sense in pretending. He doesn’t like snide
Marlena. He hates her. He only grabs his chin, rubbing the tip with
his fingers, when he’s annoyed. “It’s okay.” I don’t want him to be
angry; I want to posses him again. I had that power once. A tiny curve
of my lips around the word baby, a sensual sway in my hips; or me
tossing my hair over my shoulder; tilting my head so that my neck is
exposed. Everything turns him on. But he’s buying those things and I’m
not selling them very well anyway. I don’t know what I want from him.
I don’t know why I’m so upset with him.

“The children send their love.” They still love imperfect mommy. I
still love them all. I haven’t loved them well in a long time. “Your
mother wants to visit; she’s staying at the Penthouse with me.”

“Daddy?”

“He calls every night.” He’s thinking the same thing I am: how can we
sit here and talk about things like we’re still normal. “Belle wants
to bring Claire to see you.”

“No, I don’t want any of them to see me here. Not any of them.” I miss
them but I can’t see them, not yet. “I need some time to myself.” He
looks resentful when I say so. “Dr. Shalit believes I spend too much
time feeling responsible for too many people.”

“Is that why you took a bottle of Nembutal and laid in our bathtub to
die?” He should sound angry when he speaks but he doesn’t. He sounds
concerned and so utterly heartbroken. He can’t even look at me. “You
nearly died … with our baby.” It’s always about his baby. “Is this
some kind of breakdown? I didn’t even see this coming. I thought you
were okay. Baby, what’s wrong? Is our life so terrible that you don’t
want to be involved in it? If it’s that, if it’s me, then I’ll go … if
it makes you happy. I’ll be the one to leave, but don’t do this
again.” His hand is so warm against my cheek that it almost comforts
me. “Look at me.” He’s holding my face too tight. I can’t turn away.
“I don’t want to lose you. You have to remember the kids and this
baby. You have to snap out of this. Snap out of it, right now.”
They’ve moved down to my shoulders, shaking them roughly. “God, honey
what did Alex do to you? What is it? I can’t take this.” I wish he’d
just hit me. Just get it over with so that we can both finally find
some remorse. But this is John, he loves me. He hates me. “Why did you
do it? Talk to me.”

I have to avoid those eyes. “How am I supposed to sit here and talk
about killing myself? What am I supposed to say to you? I don’t know
what happened.”

“But we’re together baby, and we’re happy … you made me believe you were happy.”

“I was.”

“Happy to be with me again?”

“Yes. You know how I feel about you, don’t you?” He couldn’t have
forgotten that. “That hasn’t changed. I just–“

“I haven’t changed either.”

God he is holding me so tight. Why does he have to be such a
compassionate, overwhelmingly loving man? He just can’t do it—touching
me is so natural to him. But it makes me dizzy. I haven’t wanted to be
touched by him in so long. I’ve forgotten what that feels like. “Stop
it.” I whisper looking into my lap. His hold makes it impossible to
escape.

“Baby I can’t stop. I can’t—damnit I’m so in love with you. And you
don’t deserve it. You don’t deserve the love and devotion that we all
give you, not if you can be selfish enough to say goodbye without even
saying goodbye.”

“You’re upset with me because I didn’t leave you a suicide note?” I
say laughing. He looks at me as if my laugh is sadistic, and then it
feels that way. I couldn’t stop myself from finding humor in his
sadness. “God you’re pathetic.” My neck snaps back from the force of
his rough yanking toward him. I don’t know why I want to hurt him. I
don’t know when I got so good at hurting him. “You don’t give a damn
about me John. You care about this baby. I know you would rather I did
die and then you could have your perfect family. And maybe Kate could
help you raise your baby. You could go back to fucking Katherine in my
house, in my bed. And then I could go away.” It’s almost like I’m not
saying these things to John, and I’ve stepped outside my body and am
watching this person use my voice speaking these things to him. “John,
let go.” His grip tightened after I said Kate’s name.

“Kate?”

“My best friend that you fucked when I was being help captive.” I
don’t know where that came from. I haven’t felt anger about Kate ever
since I talked with her.

“Don’t talk like that Marlena. It’s not you.” He lets one shoulder go
to trace my lips. “Please don’t—“

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” He cringes after each one.

“Honey, I’m not going to raise any baby with anyone except you. You’re
going to have the baby and we’re going to be a family again.”

In his weak moment, I am able escape his clutch. The room is so thick
and humid when I stand up. He contemplates not moving, I see the
confusion and anxiety clouding his eyes. But being John, he chases me
across the suite, and I begin running and I have no idea why. I end up
pinned by John against the wall of the bedroom. Flailing my arms
knocks over the perfume bottles on the dresser next to us.

“I’m not having your baby. I’ll never have any more of your babies.”

“Marlena, you’re starting to sound the way you did when Alex was
hypnotizing and drugging you.” He hated me then. Alex told me that
over and over again. And he still hates me. That’s why I want hurt
him, isn’t it?

“Take your goddamn hands off me.” We’re still not shouting. It’s this
crazy, quiet voice that we speak in. He’s too upset to yell or
frightened. But he won’t let me go.

“Don’t talk to me like that.”

“How would you rather I talked to you? Get the fuck off me asshole.”
I’ve never cursed at anyone so many times. And I don’t understand why
I am. The words slip rather easily from my mouth without much
provocation. And I know that John hates for me to curse. He doesn’t
even curse in front of me unless he can’t control himself. There is
only one time that we use curse words to express ourselves. When he’s
ramming himself into me and I’m begging him in a breathless whisper
‘fuck me.’ Otherwise, these words go unspoken. But I know that and
it’s why saying them feels so liberating. They’re powerful enough to
make me feel high. “I know you want to hurt me, don’t you? You want to
fuck me against this wall, don’t you?” My voice has taken on a power
all its own. I don’t recognize it. “You’re turned on by this and that
makes us both sick. You want to fuck me.”

He presses himself to me, touching his forehead to mine. Our lips are
so close to touching and kissing but he’s not going to touch them. He
just wants to control me and my words. I’m feeling so intoxicated by
the situation, but not sexually. I don’t want to have sex with him.
But I like the power of making him want me sexually when I don’t him
that way. He drops down to his knees and lifts my shirt just above the
roundness of my belly. His kisses are tender across my skin, from one
side to the other as he whispers “I love you” to his baby.

“No don’t.” I’ve lost some of my bravado in this exchange. He’s
changed from my husband to the father of this baby again. I can hate
the father of this baby.

“Baby I don’t know what’s going on but we are going to get through
this.” His hands roam across my belly. He’s adoring the baby,
caressing it the way he would me. “Your Mama loves you very much.”

“Stop it.” I hate when he calls me its Mama. I’m not. I won’t ever be
its Mama. “John, let me by.”

He’s looking at me like he wants to devour me. He wants it so badly.
He hasn’t had me in god knows how long. The last time we’d been
together, I was holding back so much that he was more confused then he
was satisfied. But he knows that we can’t. He knows that sex is a
danger in my kind of pregnancy. He can kiss me; and he kisses me. He
sucks my lips until they’re sore. Losing control is dangerous for him.
“Doc, please come back to me.”

If I close my eyes hard enough, I can do this. If I don’t look into
his eyes, I can go through with this. I can make him fuck me until
he’s done damage. And that makes it easier to pull him closer to me
and pretend that I want him. Pretend that because he’s so close, I
can’t function–the way we used to be. “Come on, force yourself.” He’s
holding back. It’s because of the baby. The constant reminder is
between us, the protruding of my belly poking into his body. He
doesn’t want to lose control.

“Honey we can’t do this.” He pulls back, not completely away, but
enough to break our connection. “The baby–it’s not good for the baby.
Look at me baby.” He’s begging. His breath is hot against my face.
Without opening my eyes, I turn around. He doesn’t give me room to
break away. I didn’t want to, I wanted him to move closer to me—to
press his body into me and pin me against the wall. My belly isn’t in
his way with him grinding me from behind. His hands are covering mine
against the wall. When I sway he sways along with me. I’m glad he
can’t see the smile on my face. He’s aroused. I drop my head forward
onto the wall so that he’ll have to follow with his. And his mouth
follows, finding my neck by my manipulation. “Honey, we can’t do this
… as bad as I want you right now. I can’t.”

“You can’t?” I whisper tilting my head so he can continue sucking on
my neck. “Please. I want you to fuck me.” He sighs when I say it and
then pulls away. “John please put it in me. I need it.” I can’t tell
if he’s losing the battle. I’m trying to manipulate him with my own
brand of persuasion. I pull my hands away from the wall and reach
behind me. His erection is hard and pressing into my behind. “I want
it.” I reach into his pants after loosening the button. He’s rigid
when I encircle him. I hear the change in his breathing. I’ve nearly
got him. “I need you to do this for me.” He can’t talk because I’m
stroking his manhood slowly. “You don’t want me?” I never knew what or
who had sexual control until Dr. Shalit. He hasn’t been right about
anything except sexual control. We have been controlling each other
this way for years. He’s never been able resist me touching him so
sensually.

“No baby don’t do this.” He says but he doesn’t make me stop touching him.

“Fuck me.”

He kisses my neck. “Baby, stop … baby.” He can talk and talk but he
doesn’t stop me from touching him.

“You can do this. We’ve done this before.”

“No baby.” Calling me Baby means so many things: he’s losing control,
he wants to be tender, and he wants me to let him seduce me. “Come
on.” His breath quickens on the back of my neck and he’s struggling
for air. When he reaches around me and trails a line from my breast
bone to my stomach I push him back until we are on the bed. Making him
forget the bump is my hands and my stroking. He’ll crumble.

“You haven’t forgotten what this is like, have you?” If I’m too
seductive he’ll know. I can’t do anything to change our roles in this.
I want him to be the one who can’t stand it. “Baby, don’t I make you
happy? Aren’t you happy with me?”

“Doc, I don’t know what to do or say to you. You’re out of your mind,
aren’t you?” He asks me sincerely, without any harshness. He doesn’t
trust me and yet he can’t stop himself from pushing me down on the
bed. The kisses aren’t chaste or soft but I want him to be rough. “The
baby.” Dr. West warned us that we shouldn’t do this, that’s the
resistance in his voice but not in his body. “Stop this.”

“Is there somebody else?”

He pauses and grabs my face roughly. “I have never wanted anybody else.”

“You wanted Kate.” I remind him. I know he will respond angrily. “You
wanted her just as much as—“ His mouth covers mine, shutting the words
that will be his destruction. He’s hungry for access to my tongue but
I hold my lips so tightly together that they burn. He won’t allow me
to speak. Every time I try to, he bites at my lips.

“Doc shut up.” He’s finally reacting the way I want him to. His hands
are pinning my arms above my head. If I’m crazy then he must be too.
He tries to kiss me more passionately. I deny him again. “Doc, open
your mouth.”

“Like I wanted Chris … he wouldn’t deny me—he didn’t.” I say bravely.
I brace myself for the worst, but I’ve never thought of the worst of
John or the worst of anyone. I expect any man that hears that his wife
was possibly unfaithful would be worse for wear. John’s not any man.
Maybe he knows I’m lying. He’ll never be able to be gentle if the
thought enters his mind. “He was amazing.” Keeping a straight face is
hard when he’s looking pained. He covers my mouth with his hand. “We
did it in my office and in Louisiana.” He’s not convinced but that
doesn’t matter. Just the very idea is enough. It’s all it takes. Get
him aroused, make him jealous, and prepare for the rough entry. “He
didn’t care that I said fuck me in his ear while he came inside me. He
just wanted me … like you wanted Kate.” It’s the final straw. He looks
me over intensely enough to send chills down my spine. I’ve finally
done it.

“You’re absolutely out of your mind.” He doesn’t care; he kisses me,
pulling my pants down. He is so predictable. “You’ll never have sex
with another man. I know your lying.”

“You’re not the only man—” He covers my mouth again. You’re pathetic
John. This is so pathetic. Get off of me.” I am not really resisting
at all. He’s moved to my center very quickly. His pants are partially
pulled down his legs. This will be a quick round. It’s sad that this
is all it takes for John to put his baby’s life in danger. “I don’t
love you anymore.”

“You love me.” He says reassuring both of us. I can feel him stroking
himself between my legs so that he can push himself into my body. “I
don’t know why you’re doing this. I love you and I’ll always want you.
I don’t care what you say; I know you didn’t have sex with him.” He
says he doesn’t believe it but he’s not sure anymore. I know the look
on his face is one of absolute uncertainty. “You’re not even wet.”
He’s so surprised that I’m not aroused by the cavemen routine. It’s
upsetting that I ever was.

“You don’t turn me on.”

“He did,” he asks rubbing himself against my bare lips.

“Kate didn’t turn you on … was she always wet when you did this.” I
ask lifting my head up from the bed to kiss him. He doesn’t want to
kiss me anymore. He pushes me back to the bed and tightens his grip on
my hips between his thighs.

“Don’t talk.” He admonishes me.

I don’t know why I have to talk and egg him on. He’s doing what I
want. No matter how painful it will be, I want him to be the one
responsible. I draw my hands from his grip and find him, guiding him
into me. The first connection is incredibly painful. It singes my skin
and my insides as he pushes deeper. I feel like I’m being ripped
apart. He doesn’t notice how much pain I’m in. His eyes are closed and
he’s concentrating on making me shut up and replace the image of Chris
and me.

“Deeper.” I tell him pulling him by the back of his thighs into my
body. It’s killing me. It’s killing it. Something ruptures and I know
that it’s blood. I’m getting no pleasure from him ramming
irresponsibly into my body. “Fuck me baby … fuck me harder.” He stops
and looks me in my eyes. Does he know what I’m doing? I think he’s
close to orgasm and I want him to have that before the terror sets in.
He thinks I’m wet and not bleeding. I know it’s blood. I don’t have to
look between us to see the blood being passed between us. “Thank you.”
He misses the smile. The water gushes so unexpectedly that he’s unsure
of what’s happened. It’s broken. And it’s his fault. I don’t feel
responsible anymore.
Chapter 12

I feel empty. I try to reach down and touch my stomach. The wrist
straps dig into my skin, doing their job of keeping my hands at my
sides.
“Are you pleased with yourself?” Dr. Shalit asks coming heavy-footed
into the room. He looks displeased. Or is it disappointed? “Your
husband is devastated.”

I don’t have anything to say.

“Do you love your husband? Your child?” Dr Shalit sits very closely at
my side. I feel sorry for him. He doesn’t know what to do.
“It’s a psychotic break Marlena.” His heavy hands are caressing my
hair. “You’re such a beautiful woman.”

I don’t feel beautiful. My lips are dry and cracked. I don’t know
what’s going on or where I am. The days I’ve been sleep are a mystery
to me. And the baby.

“I’m going to help you come back from this. From what I hear, you’re
an amazing woman.”

What happened to the baby? Did I go into labor? Where is John?

“You’re at University hospital. You’ve been here since the episode in
your room. We had to protect you and the baby so we’ve had you under
heavy sedation until it was possible to deliver the child.” He stops
and takes his hand from my hair. “You delivered a little boy two
nights ago by cesarean.”

“I had the baby?” I don’t remember. I reach to touch my stomach and am
blocked again.

“Yes. He’s a little fighter. Tiny but beautiful like his mother. Your
husband is with him now.

I had a baby.

“How do you feel?”

“Lost.”

“You’re not lost Marlena. You only have to try … with me. I’m going to
help you fight this. I’m going to keep telling you this until you
believe it: you are an amazing woman. You are worth fighting for.”

“Am I?” I used to know that, I guess. John used to believe that about
me. They all did. And now I’m a woman who’s cracked.

“Yes. The first time you came into my office I knew it. You know what
psychosis is and you also know how bad it’ll become if you don’t get
help. You’ve already done so much to give up. Suicide and now this
thing with the baby. Well look, you’re here and so is the baby. But
you have to want this more than you want anything else.”

“I don’t know if I do.” I say honestly. “I don’t know if I can get back to me.”

“You have to.”

“Why do I have to?”

“I won’t accept anything less.”

“Maybe it’s not up to you.”

“It’s not really up to you either. You’re sick Marlena. That’s what
you have to realize. You can’t help what you’re going through right
now because you are sick. Your mind doesn’t belong to you. Remember
your sister Sam – she was sick too. You would never have given up on
her, would you?”
“Don’t you say her name again. You don’t know anything about Sam. No
one, not Mama or Daddy. She wasn’t sick.”

“She had a long history of mental illness.”

“Stop it.”

“It’ll still be true.”

“Leave me alone.”

“I’m not willing to lose you Marlena. I’m here to help you.”

“I don’t want your help.”

“No, you may not but you’ve got it. I’m not going to allow you be
overtaken by something that we can help. You’ve had a tough couple of
years. You took all that pain inside and swallowed it until it came
bursting out. Marlena, it’s not your fault that you need help. It’s
okay.”

“No.”

“Yes. I know you don’t think you care but the little boy who is
fighting for his life in NICU needs you. And Belle and Sami. Your
children love you very much. There are so many people who love you.
You deserve that love.”

“No I don’t.” My tears surprise me. I haven’t felt real emotion in
such a long time that it startles me. “I don’t deserve anything.”

“You deserve love. You’re sick.”

“No.”

“You’re sick.” He repeats methodically. He’s holding my hand. “Say it.”

“Dr. Shalit. Give up. I don’t want to get better. I deserve everything
I’ve gotten.”
“If I believed that I wouldn’t be here. Tell yourself it’s okay to be sick.”
I don’t want to be sick. “How did I get this way?”

“By not taking care of yourself. By thinking that you could handle all
the bad things that have happened to you without dealing with them.
You can’t compartmentalize all pain. You have to feel it. It is okay
to feel bad sometimes Marlena. You don’t have to be perfect all the
time. You are allowed to be imperfect.”

“Imperfect?”

“Yes. You are human Dr. Evans. You’re not a robot. You haven’t grieved
for the baby you lost with Roman. Isn’t that why you haven’t felt any
love for this baby? You feel like you don’t deserve it. And that makes
you want to hurt. You want everyone to hate you because you hate
yourself. Isn’t that what it is? You want everyone to feel as badly
about you as you do yourself.”

“I don’t know why anyone shouldn’t.”

“I don’t.”

“You should.”

“Marlena, feel badly. It’s human but you can’t stay in that place
forever. I’m going to be here for the duration.”

He lets my hand drop to the bed. I hate losing the contact. “Is John
upset with me?”
“I can’t speak for him.”

Dr. Shalit leaves me. I think I fall asleep easily. There are no dreams.

*

John’s face is the first thing I see when I open my eyes. Time slips
so effortlessly that I never know how much has passed. John doesn’t
look happy but he looks relieved. He looks sleepy.

“John.”

“Hi Marlena.”

He avoids me — touching me or talking directly to me. He looks above
me and it feels as if he’s speaking through me. But I’m allowed to
feel bad. That’s what Dr. Shalit said. So I will. I will cry and let
him see it.

“I named our son Nicholas.” He says very proudly. I see the rise of
his chest when he speaks the name he chose without me. The medical
identification tag is peeking from his sleeve. It’s blue with the name
Black in bold print. “He fought to get home to us.” His tears are
immediate. “Belle and the rest of the family are watching over him.
He’s such a little Black already. I just wish you could…”

“Be happy?” I say quickly.

“I don’t want to talk about what happened before. That’s in the past now.”

“Is it? I don’t know what’s happening to me?” I know I tried to make
him hurt the baby because I wanted to and I was too much of a coward
to do it. “I think…” I’m sick. I know it looking into John’s eyes. I
never saw how worried he was for me. If I could reach and touch any
part of him I would if only just to feel the same familiar feeling
that touching him has always had on me.

“What?” He asks frightening me.

“I’m sick.”

“Sick?”

“John, I tried to harm the baby.” And myself. I tried to leave him and
this world behind.

“I feel like I’m slowly losing myself but now, looking at you I feel
like I’d never go too far away.”

“You almost did.” He says. He won’t get near me. He’s afraid of being
too close, because then he’d see me and think I was okay. But I’m not.
“I’ll never forgive you for that Doc.” He whispers and covers his
face. “But this isn’t about us. The baby needs you.”

“What about you?” I ask the man who has always needed me.

“It’s not about this, my being here. I’m here for Nicholas. He’s
looking around in that little incubator. He loves you and he doesn’t
even know why he should but something inside of him makes him look for
you. Even though you don’t – didn’t want him. He still wants you.”

Nicholas.

“He needs you to hold him.”

“John. I’m sick.”

“Marlena you’re his mother. And you’re the only mother he has.”

“Please listen to me. I don’t know if I can be his mother anymore than
I can be your wife. I’m not myself.”

The disbelief in his face makes me close my eyes.

“For once Marlena this is not about you. I have to think of the
children now. They have been forgotten in this whole terrible mess.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” I tell him with my eyes still closed. I know
he’s trying to keep himself from crying. I haven’t allowed myself to
feel anything for John or his feelings lately. I almost don’t remember
what it’s even like. There is some part of me, the sick part that
doesn’t want to feel sorry for him or the baby. But somewhere, a tiny
part of me wants to follow him to the baby and hold both of them until
they’re all better – or until I’m better.

These moments of clarity are precious.

Opening my eyes, I notice the picture in John’s hand.

“Nicholas Ethan Black,” he says turning the small picture toward me.
He is small, enough so that I have to squint to really see him. He’s a
ball, lying on his stomach with his legs and arms tucked underneath
his body. The incubator is a clear rectangular box and he is situated
in the middle. The picture that we used to announce our wedding is
taped to the box. I’m draped around John in a white dress. He is
looking handsome in a black tux with his hair tapered. I love when his
hair is like that. We look happy. It’s my favorite picture of us. That
seems like a lifetime ago.

“Nicholas Ethan.” I say slowly.

“It sounds like a strong name to me. I wanted to name him something
that felt strong.”
I know what he means: I tried to destroy him.

“Marlena, it’s important to me that you’re upfront with me. Are you
willing to get help?” He pulls the picture back towards his chest. “If
you’re not willing to try and help yourself, then I don’t think you
should be in his life. I never want him to know about the
circumstances that brought him here.” He wears guilt so heavily. “I
want you to be there Doc. I really need you to be with us all. We all
miss you.” John’s finally broken down. “You said we were going to be
here for Claire and now there’s the baby. We have to do this for them.
I know you want to get better. I’ll help you. I’ll do whatever it
takes, okay. But you have to be with me.”

“John I didn’t know how bad it was.” I tell him quietly.

“Now you do. The question is what are you going to do about it?”
What am I going to do about it?

Chapter 13

The business of living is a hard road, especially after the tough path
I’ve been following. I don’t know when it became so hard to live my
life. I don’t know when I lost control of wanting to live my life.

Dr. Shalit is here. He’s always here, pushing me to do things I don’t
think I have strength enough to do.

“Are you ready to do this?” He asks me standing behind me in the mirror.
I’ve cried all night, into my pillow, without restraints on my arms.
Dr. Shalit says he trusts me. I’m relying on that.

We’re going to see Nicholas.

“Are you sure that this is a good idea?” I question because of my own
uncertainty. He may have all the confidence in the world in me, but I
don’t. I haven’t been able to see Nicholas. I don’t know if I chose
not to or they – John – chose for me. The nurses who give me pills
everyday tell me that he’s gaining weight. That’s a good sign, they
assure me. I’m curious. I have dreams about him. I’m with him in those
dreams being the kind of mother I’ve always been to the children. One
who is there for them; I know that

John is there with him everyday.

“Is this really necessary?”

“Yes, especially if you want to get back to your life. This is an
important step.” He says fatherly patting my shoulder.

This is the first day that I’m actually dressed in my own clothes. I
almost feel like myself, at least I look like myself. Belle probably
packed the bag of velour suits and comfortable cotton pants sets that
I found in the closet when I was allowed to actually walk around the
room. Getting dressed was like climbing into my own skin. I pulled my
hair into a ponytail and stared at myself in the mirror with Dr.
Shalit. He tells me I’m beautiful all the time. I still don’t believe
it. The outside tells the secrets of what I’ve been putting myself
through. My skin is pallid and dark circles have been seemingly
tattooed underneath my eyes. I don’t know if I even remember how to
put makeup on. I feel like a stroke victim trying to regain the
ability to do the simplest things.
“I’m going to be here for each step of your recovery. You never have
to worry about being alone.” I believe him when he says that. He
hasn’t let me down yet.
“I know you won’t. I couldn’t do this without you.”

*

I didn’t realize the baby was right down the hall from me. We’ve been
only few feet away without me ever once going to see him. I never knew
I could feel so guilty.

The walk is short and Dr. Shalit is holding my hand as we walk.

The anticipation is almost too much.

I’ve pictured him in my head because I had no real visual image of
him. I couldn’t recall anything about the picture that John showed me
except that he looked so weak and so sickly balled up. I don’t
remember what color his hair was or if he’ll have strong arms and legs
like John, or have Belle’s dimples or Mama’s pale Irish skin. When I
dreamed of him, he was a little boy running through our home, the way
Belle and Brady did. I’m glad to think in that way instead of the ways
that I thought of him when he was still inside me.

“Don’t be scared of the wires,” Dr. Shalit says opening the door to
the brightly-lit room, “Look at me telling you this, a doctor.”

I know he respects me. I like having his respect. He’s also very comforting.

“That’s your son right over there.” He tells me pointing toward the
place I’m already focused on.

I feel jumpy, fidgeting unnecessarily with the zipper on my jacket. My
breathing changes; my mouth is dry. John has obviously gotten total
privacy for the baby, sectioning off his own small suite in the NICU.
He has always done anything for our family, cost is never important.

They are in the corner of the large room.

John is facing the incubator. It’s so tiny that John’s body shields
the entire length of the baby. I can see all the pictures that he has
taped up. There are pictures of us, happier times before he was born.
And then there’s Belle, Claire, Brady and even Sami and Eric covering
one side of the tiny box that is the baby’s home.
Dr. Shalit nudges me forward when I hesitate.

The moment between John and the baby seems so private that I don’t
want to intrude. He’s whispering his name, telling him how much he
loves him. He promises that he’ll be home soon enough. My heart pounds
when I see the baby’s reaction to John’s voice. He knows it. He cranes
his tiny neck towards his father’s voice. His skin is red and scaly.

I stand behind John, looking over his shoulder. Tiny, bunched arms
respond after every two words that John speaks.

I guess I’m crying because I know that I should be here sitting with
John speaking to our son. My voice should have been the one comforting
him for his first 6 weeks of life. But I’m a stranger. John said he’s
been looking for me. I’m not sure that’s true. He’s completely
satisfied with his father’s presence.

Dr. Shalit clears his, causing John to turn around. I’m so afraid. I
close my eyes and lean into Dr. Shalit. His arm covers my shoulders
without a moment’s hesitation. John doesn’t stand up and come to me
the way I remember him doing so many times; instead, I hear him swivel
back around toward the baby.

“You can do this.”

“I don’t think that I can,” I say, crying into Dr. Shalit’s shoulder.
“Look at what I’ve done to him.”

“Marlena, you have no right to feel guilty about this. I’ve told you
that in order to get better, you need to deal with everything
including Nicholas.”

John hasn’t turned back to acknowledge the turmoil that I’m going
through. His attention is on the baby. I try very hard not to resent
that. But god help me, do.
Dr. Shalit squeezes my shoulders.

“I can do this.” I mumble to myself. Opening my eyes, I see John
again. This time he looks from me to the baby. I assume that he wants
me to step forward – I do.

It’s amazing how every pregnancy I’ve ever had suddenly fills my
memory. DJ. The twins and the amount of time I spent alone, waiting
for Roman to come back. I think I was happy then. Even with all the
uncertainty, I knew Roman would love our babies. I knew it without a
doubt. That pregnancy was my happiest, even more than when I was
pregnant with DJ. I almost don’t remember living through DJ’s birth
and death.
And then there was my pregnancy with Belle. I was miserable enough to
consider aborting her. That will always haunt me. That’s how my last
three pregnancies have been: filled with terror and fear. I was afraid
of the repercussions of my pregnancy when I was married to Roman and
pregnant with Belle, and then when I was pregnant by Roman but married
to John.

But what does this matter anymore. Belle, Sami, and Eric are safe. The
babies who have come – DJ – and gone are where they are meant to be.
I’m meant to be here with Nicholas. He was blessed enough to survive.
I have to learn to let the memories that mean me no good to pass away
into time.

**
Nicholas is so tiny. Smaller than any baby that has ever come from my
body. John makes room for me to actually stand beside him. I reach for
a hand that never grasps mine. Dr. Shalit backs away.

“He’s so little.” I whisper. Watching him respond to my voice is
heartbreaking. How can babies know? He just does. He’s knows I didn’t
choose his name. He hasn’t been searching for me, not the way John
told me.

“He’s okay. This is going to be one strong boy. I’ve seen the fighter
in him from the beginning.”

“You mean because he’s survived me.” John doesn’t answer. I really
don’t expect him to. “I wouldn’t choose me for a mother either.” I say
to Nicholas more than to John.

“But I’m all he has.”

“He’s got me.” John reminds me territorially covering the incubator
with his hand.

“Nicky. I’ve been telling you about her. It’s your Mommy.” He leans
close to the plastic.

“She’s the most beautiful woman you’ll ever see.”

“No, she’s not.” I say smiling for the first time in what seems like forever.

“Yes you are. Even now,” John says staring at our son. “Nicholas this is Mommy.”

We have always been bonded by our love for children. In this instance,
sitting beside John I feel as if I’ve actually had a normal pregnancy.
And then I see Nicholas. He’s perfect enough to be ours. His hair is
dark and fuzzy. John’s hand is the entire length of his body. He is
perfect. He is my son. I didn’t want him but he’s here and now I have
to love him. I’m going to teach myself to love him.

“Nicky, I’m here and I’m going to try very hard to stay here for you.”
I promise him.

Chapter 14

“I have to stop blaming him for surviving?” I repeat incredulously at
Dr. Shalit’s insistence that I blame Nicholas for coming into the
world when Roman’s baby didn’t.

“I don’t feel that way about my son.”

“You don’t say that often enough. My son,” he says making quote
brackets in the air.

“You tried very hard to disengage from the child.”

He says ‘very’ too much. He also makes a funny snort sound when he
laughs. We’ve been doing that a lot in our new sessions without John.
Dr. Shalit says John is uncomfortable talking about what happened,
which is the only excuse given for my solo appointments.

“So how do you like your new freedom?”

“Freedom. Being chauffeured around by a personal driver is not
freedom. He takes me to and from the hospital, then back to the
facility.”

I see Nicky everyday now. I’m allowed to come and go as I please from
the facility. Dr. Shalit believes I’m stable enough to go home with
medication. I don’t think I’m ready for that. I don’t think John can
stand to have me there, not if our son isn’t there.

“But you see Nicholas everyday.”

“I do. I look forward to seeing him. That’s why I don’t understand why
you think I’m blaming him for surviving.”

“On a conscious level you’re doing better than I ever could have hoped
for. I’m proud
of the work we’re doing. But we have yet to dig into what caused you
to get this way — you know the core of all your issues.”

“My son isn’t an issue. You said it yourself, I was sick. I couldn’t help it.”

“No but you functioned very successfully for a number of years and
then you almost very suddenly you had a psychotic break.”

“That was precipitated by a great amount of stress.” I remind him.

“What do you feel for Nicholas? Right now, in this very moment.”

“He’s wonderful.” I tell him truthfully.

He shakes his head from side to side and tells me, “Dig deeper.”

“He’s my child, of course I love him.”

“Do you?”

Do I? I think in my heart of course I do, or maybe of course I should
but what’s true about Nicholas is that I’m not really sure. “I want to
love him.”
Dr. Shalit doesn’t look convinced. “How does it feel to have your
husband’s devotion be completely about your son? John has put his
entire life on hold to care for Nicholas.”

Not hesitating for a moment I feel the need to remind him of the kind
of father that John is. What John stands for. His family. It’s always
been about his family. “He’s his father. He’s supposed to be there for
him.”

“In ways that you can’t be?”

I hate the way he turns everything back to me. “John would lay down
his life for any one of his family members without a second thought. I
don’t know anywhere else that he would be Dr. Shalit.”

“What about here with you?”

The silence is heavy after he asks that.

“If John were here,” he asks trying a different approach, “what would
you say to him?”

“He’s not here.”

“If he were? Tell me what you’d say to John if he were here.”

“You’re not John.” I tell him smiling half-heartedly. “Lucky you.”

“Come on Dr. Evans and tell John what you’re feeling. I’ll be John.”

“I can’t.” I say fidgeting with my jacket.

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t hate you,” I say without hesitation.

“Finally, the doctor gets real.” He says sliding his hands together.

**
John is there faithfully at Nicholas’ bedside when I arrive after my
session with Dr. Shalit. We don’t speak much, not directly anyway.
He’s mastered the art of avoidance. The way he did when I broke his
heart and asked him for a separation.

I know why he has to do that. I hate that he does, but I understand.

“They’re going to let us hold him,” John says as I’m taking a seat in
front of Nicholas’ incubator. “The doctor feels he is strong enough.”

“Really, that’s wonderful. I think that means he’ll be home soon.”

“It’s not soon enough for me.”

I’ve broken the one pure thing I’ve ever had in my life which is this
man’s love for me. It’s so fractured now. He’s so broken. How could he
ever see me as anything besides a suicidal woman who tried to kill his
son?

He can’t.

I guess I can’t blame him for that. But I do hate him for not seeing
that I needed help. I deserved more than to be tossed aside while he
attended to business. And now because we both remained silent and
allowed sickness to prevail in order to preserve the semblance of a
normal family Nicholas has suffered. Our relationship has also
suffered. Before Nicholas, he asked me to marry him. He hasn’t
mentioned it again. I haven’t either.

“I think I’ll call him Nicky too.” I was struck when I heard John call
him that. It endeared Nicholas to me a little more. He became more
real than I’d ever allowed him to be.

“Nicholas is too much name for a little boy, don’t you think?”

My suggestion seems to irritate him.

“You chose a beautiful name for him. I really love it.” I can’t do
anything right for John.

Nothing will ever erase what I did to Nicholas. I’m well aware of
that. “He’s lucky to
have you for a daddy.”

“You know we only have one chance to get this right.”

Now when I hear John speak, it’s as if he’s not really speaking to me
or of me. I can hear the references to the future but I don’t know if
I belong in that picture with him or not. I don’t know if I’m even
welcome. He says ‘we’ but I really hear ‘I’ and that frightens me. My
security has always been John.

“Are you ready to hold Nicholas?” The nurse who’s been watching over
Nicholas asks.
She’s a pretty girl with dark hair. Her name is Pia. She’s apparently
been Nicholas’ nurse since his birth and has grown attached. I can
tell that John appreciates her. I’m jealous of her attachment to my
child and husband but again, what right do I have to say anything?

Handling Nicholas seems easy for her. She’s more confident than me.
She’s used to being around a sick baby.

“I don’t know how you do it,” I hear myself saying as I watch her in
awe, “taking care of sick babies. How can you do that without it
breaking your heart?”

“I try to remember that even if they are sick that they still need
someone to love and hold them. And care about them.” Her voice is
pleasant but I wonder what she thinks of me or if John has told her
what happened. How could anyone not know what happened?

John turns and looks in disbelief at me. “Why would you say something
like that?” He asks in a whisper that is heard between the two of us.

“I’m sorry.”

Don’t speak. That’s the rule he should implement. Act as if I’m not
here, the way he does. Be seen and really unheard. “Can I hold him?”

John looks disgusted by my appeal. He’s perched to take Nicholas from her arms.

“Please.” It’s hard not to let the tears to fall. He doesn’t get that
I’m trying very hard to be here and in the moment with Nicholas.

Pia looks to John and hands Nicholas to me only after he nods his consent.

“He’s tiny but you won’t break him.” She assures me.

He is tiny. And warm. I have to bring him as close to my heart as
possible, without separating him from the wires and tubes flooding his
little arms and legs. He’s grown. And his skin looks healthier. I
cradle him close to my chest and kiss softly across his forehead. He
wrinkles his forehead at my touch, which makes me smile. I can see
things that were impossible to see when he was in the plastic house,
like his fuzzy face, there are little hairs that are nearly invisible
all over his cherub face. And a birth mark on his neck that resembles
a crescent moon. I count each of his fingers, kissing each one. And
move on to his toes. Nicholas is calm. He doesn’t fidget or move when
I touch him anywhere. And I do touch him all over. I’m fascinated by
his will to survive everything I’ve done to the both of us. And John
was right, he is strong. His hand grips my finger and doesn’t let go.

“You sweet boy,” I whisper for only us to hear. John is watching us
with a careful eye. Pia has moved away to the background. “I’m so
sorry about all of this. I know you don’t know what it all means, but
I need you to forgive me. Nicky, forgive mommy.”
He opens his eyes and I see myself staring back. He has my eyes except
on him they are the more vibrant and endearing. I have to remind
myself to breathe because I’m astounded by him more than I ever have
been.
And all it took was for him to open his eyes.

I’ve never seen his eyes. I’ve never given birth to any child that has
shared my eye color. But with Nicky it’s more than that. It’s the
shape and the golden rings surrounding the brown. He’s more of me than
I realized. The only real trace of John is the slight dark hair
sprouting from his baldness. But he’s all me. He has my brown
freckles, covering his shoulders. And when he has a small gas bubble,
his slight smile mirrors mine. What poetic justice is it that I could
nearly destroy something that is so clearly mine, and so much apart of
me? And yet he survives. He is too beautiful to be destroyed.

“I didn’t know he had my eyes,” I tell John wiping tears when our eyes
meet. I feel the need to explain why I’m reacting so strongly to
Nicky.

“He’s definitely your son.”

“Yes he is.” I kiss him again. “He’s our son. Thank you for making
sure he was okay when I couldn’t.”

He doesn’t accept my gratitude but I’m so overwhelmed with my feelings
for Nicky that it doesn’t matter.

“Can I?” He asks holding out his hands to take him.

I don’t want to let him go yet. I haven’t had time to let him feel me
and feel how I really feel about him – feelings that I didn’t know. I
wish he knew that if I could’ve helped my sickness that it would never
have been so bad. That he wouldn’t have to be in the hospital so long
but he doesn’t. He is just a tiny baby who needs me to be his mother
and not be the sick patient. When John told me it wasn’t about me, it
hurt. But holding Nicky makes me realize how much it isn’t about me at
all. I need to get better, of course for myself and even my other
children, but because he’s the youngest, I need to focus on Nicky.

“Marlena?” John asks again as he takes him from me.

His loss from my arms is frightening. I don’t want to be more than a
couple of inches away from him. It’s so powerful, the way I feel about
Nicky. It’s just all the sudden and I don’t remember ever feeling that
for any of my children. I’ve felt motherly towards them and wanted to
be there with them and for them, but Nicky is different. I think it’s
because I tried to destroy this perfect little boy.

“My big boy,” I hear John say to him. They’re already so bonded that I
can’t help but feel jealous. “We’re going home soon. The docs swear
your going be home next week kiddo. And then I’m going to show you
this room that has all kinds of things little boys like. Like
baseballs and basketballs, in fact those things are hanging on your
little mobile. Everything is there. It’s waiting for you, so get
better. Your daddy and sister want you to get so much better.”

I can’t help but cry. John’s the most loving father I’ve ever known.
He has such a tender way of holding the children and making them know
that they are his, that they belong to him. But hearing him speak so
tenderly to Nicky only makes me wish that I could have been doing the
same thing all of this time. I do love the father in John. It’s one of
the things that I’ve always admired in him. But there are other things
that bother me. He doesn’t mention me. How could he not mention me?
I’m his mother; broken but still his mother. I haven’t the nerve to
tell John that Dr. Shalit released me. He said
I could leave the facility as early as today.

“They take good care of you here. Pia is excellent,” John continues
after winking at Pia, “Your grandma is there. She’s promised to take
care of you.”

Unlike me? That’s what I want to ask him except I know it’s not the
time or place for it.

“My mother?” I know Caroline is an honorary grandmother of sorts to
our children, but she’s wouldn’t be there, not always. His ‘your
grandma is there’ has a ring of finality to it. “She’s still here. Why
didn’t I know that?”

“You’re not home. She’s been here since you got sick.” He tries so
hard not to say tried to kill myself. “She wanted to stay and I like
having someone in the house.”
I feel betrayed. And it’s not because I hate my mother or feel any
resentment toward her. I love her and adore her. But as a woman who
hasn’t been mothered in over thirty years, as a woman who has been in
control of her life and children when it was possible to be, as a
woman who has lost so much and am trying hard to rebuild, I don’t want
her to be there. I hate that she has to see me stumbling. I hate that
I actually have to say I need her. It’s hard for me to say that I need
that from anybody, especially from Mama because she raised me in a
fashion that should have prevented my sickness.

I know what Mama’s being there means. She’s my guard, keeping me in
the prison where John is warden. I’m the prisoner or the patient. And
it really angers me.
Anger is dangerous. Dr. Shalit wrote that in his book, but to me
sadness is more dangerous than anger could ever be. I can handle my
anger better than the sadness. I’d rather be angry about losing
control rather than sad because sadness is deadly. I want to be angry,
bottled up but at least here and present.

“We don’t need Mama to stay with Nicholas.”

“It’s better than having a stranger with him night and day. Once he’s
home he needs normalcy. I want him to be raised by people who love
him.” He is bad at hiding his anger. He’s tried over the years to
never be fully angry at me, but I’ve seen him peak over the years, in
anger at others. And this anger is much different because it’s quiet
and unsafe. “Marlena, you’re not home – and you haven’t been well
enough to make these kinds of decisions.”

“John.” Does he mean to be so dismissive?

“He shouldn’t have to suffer because—”

“I’m crazy,” I finish for him. He drops his head. “Isn’t that what you
want to say?”

John calls Pia back toward us. She’s standing in the background
looking embarrassed. “Will you?” He asks handing Nicky to her before
grabbing my arm and pulling me from the room as he says, “I need to
talk to you.”

More than anything else about John, I hate his ‘I’m the man’ routine,
caveman or an overabundance of testosterone; I hate it all. Being
snatched away from my son and dragged out of the room with him on my
heels is me being the naughty child again.
“I don’t like when you do that,” I tell him when we’re alone in the
long hallway, emptied of people and beeping machines. It’s long enough
for our voices to echo around each other.

“I’m sorry,” He says quickly. “Damn it. I’m trying to do the best I
can to just go on. Our son is coming home. I want to be normal again.
For Nicky.”

“I want that too but what’s normal anymore? John everything’s changed.
We’ve changed.”

He doesn’t look up when he says, “You’ve changed. I’m no different
than I’ve ever been.”

“That isn’t fair John.” I can’t keep resorting to tears whenever he
hurts my feelings.

“What is? Nicky suffering because of your illness? Is that fair to
him? I’m not going to let that be his life. Do you realize that not
one of our children has ever had a normal life? From Carrie on down to
Belle. We owed them better than what we’ve given them. So now again,
here we’ve been given a second chance with a beautiful boy and we’re
screwing it up. You live in a mental hospital while our son is growing
up in an incubator and I’m barely holding on.”

If John had said any of that with any anger I’d be more upset than I
am. But he’s truly conflicted.

“I don’t know what you want from me.”

“I don’t either. I keep trying to look at you and find the woman I
fell in love with.” His hand just naturally lifts to touch my face. I
move back, switching our positions, as I lean my head against the wall
behind me. He moves to stand in front of me. “I would’ve given any and
everything to keep you safe.”

“I know.”

“You used to know.” John says, “I don’t know who I’m talking to from
moment to moment. I hear your words but I don’t hear you, you’re not
my Doc. You were never this distant. You used to love life and our
babies, you would never hurt them.”

“John, we shouldn’t do this here.”

“When then? I’m not allowed to see you any other time. I’m not allowed
to come to your therapy sessions anymore.”

“You won’t come.” I whisper as if my quietness will make his refusal
less hurtful.

“Shalit told me you needed time alone.”

“I don’t believe you. It’s always been your choice.”

John’s face tightens when he asks, “Marlena what’s happened to you?”

“I tried to kill myself and my son. That’s what happened to me. If
that’s hard for you to hear how do you think I feel. You can’t hate me
anymore than I hate myself.”

“I don’t hate you.” He says raising his voice.

What I need to do is breathe and take it one thought at a time. John
is not my concern right now. I don’t know when he will be again.

“Nicky is the only thing that makes sense to me right now. I’m trying
very hard to be the kind of mother he deserves.”

“Even if your not home with him.”

Now I remember why we’re standing in the hallway arguing. He wants to
be in control and control me.

“Dr. Shalit released me. I can come home at any time.” I say standing
tall. I don’t want to look weak right now. “So when I’m there, Mama
doesn’t have to be.”

“Do you think your coming home is a good idea?”

“Are you afraid of what I’ll do?”

“I’m afraid that you’re not ready.”

Bastard. “I’m afraid it’s not your choice. If you want to keep me from
your life, I guess I can’t fight that. We’re not married and you are
not obligated to me, but that’s my son and it’s a different matter all
together.”

“Why are you so defensive? I’m not keeping you from our lives.”

“I said your life.” Am I really arguing with John about this? I’ve
been afraid to say anything because I didn’t feel like I deserved to.
But when I held Nicky, when he looked at me and showed me only love, I
knew that all the other things that happened mattered only to John and
me. “Nicky isn’t only your concern. I’ve messed up. I’m not disputing
that fact at all but he’s still my child.”

Marlena,” he says looking very angry, “you’re only maternal when it
suits you. You don’t know what it’s been like over these last months
praying for him and then watching you nearly destroy him. You haven’t
been here.”

“I’m not going to argue with you.”

“What kind of mother doesn’t want her child?” He asks turning away from me.

I’ve never needed to hurt him more than I do. For all the things that
he’s said recently that have hurt me. Even more for the way I feel
when I looks at me; because of the way he watched me when I held our
son; and for the way he talks through me instead of to me. “I hate
you.”

“Obviously but this isn’t about me, it’s about Nicholas. I refuse to
stand by while you emotionally abandon him and play with his life,”
John says harshly, adding, “the way you’ve done with mine.”

“You’re being vindictive.”

“I’m protecting him. Don’t make me choose between you and Nicholas.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“No I’m asking you where we stand. If you’re coming home, where do we
stand? What can I expect from you?”

“You can expect Nicky’s mother.” I say walking away.

Chapter 15

Nicholas is coming home today. He’s almost two months old. Mama called
me last night to ask me if I knew about his homecoming. I didn’t. John
hasn’t mentioned his homecoming or perhaps I wasn’t paying attention.
We still go to the hospital and sit together with Nicky. His
homecoming is something that I’ve been both anxious and happy about.
It’s a milestone that we, as parents, should have celebrated together.
But John invited Mama and she, being Mama, wanted my opinion on what
Nicky should wear home from the hospital. She still wishes for things
to be okay. She calls and we talk as if everything is normal. Nothing
is normal. Why doesn’t she see that?

John went to get our son; I went to my appointment with Dr. Shalit.

“He exasperates me,” I say to Dr. Shalit after he’s prodded me about
John’s true intentions in being the only parent to take Nicky home.
“He’s domineering and
controlling. I never saw that before but he is. John is a control freak.”

“Maybe a little,” Dr. Shalit allows, tapping his fingers at his
temple, “but apparently it hasn’t bothered you. You’ve been together
for a significant amount of time.”

“What is it that they say about familiarity?”

“Well that’s not true about you.” He says smiling.

Dr. Shalit may be smiling but I feel in complete disarray. “Dr.
Shalit, how am I going to ever feel comfortable enough to go home? I
don’t feel like I belong there.”

“Where do you belong?”

“I think I’m doing well at the facility.” I like it there now. It’s
comfortable and I have all my own space. No John. “What if I become
sad again? What’ll happen to Nicky? I’m afraid for him. I don’t want
to hurt him. I still don’t trust myself with him.”

“So you’re going to hide in the hospital until when? Maybe when Nicky
is old enough to take care of himself,” he says laughing.

“Don’t make fun,” I say laughing myself. I appreciate him for giving
me the space to actually feel safe enough to laugh and be vulnerable.
“I’m afraid.”

“Sometimes fear can be good for us. It forces us to confront things
about ourselves. How do you know that you’re not the best thing for
this child? Use that fear to prove yourself wrong.”

“And if I fail?”

“How do you measure failure?”

I’ve always been afraid of failure but I don’t know where that fear
stems from. I’ve never really failed at anything that I really wanted
to succeed at. “I don’t know.”

“As a child, was the letter grade C a good thing in your house?”

“No. C meant average and I wanted to be excellent.”

“So you got A’s?”

“All A’s.”

“Why?”

“It made me feel good to see Mama’s face and to know she was proud of me.”

“But what about you? What did receiving those marks do for you? How
did you feel?
How would you feel if your Mama wasn’t proud?”

“Disappointed.”

“Why?”

“Good girls make their parents proud,” I tell him, remembering my
father’s voice when he said that to me, “and I was their good girl.”

“Who made you a good girl?”

“Made me? No one had to make me; it was my role in our family. Sam was
supposedly the bad twin and I had to be good for Mama and Daddy.”

“Marlena, there is no such thing as good or bad twins or even
personalities. We all have the same ability to make choices. Maybe
your sister’s inability to make better decisions was a result of your
parent’s parenting skills.”

“Mama and Daddy were excellent parents.”

“There you go with that excellent word. Nobody’s excellent at anything.”

“My parents were.”

“Do you believe that you can parent all of your children in the same way?”

“I don’t really know.”

“You can’t. Children are their own person from the day they are in the
womb. You have to stop with this routine,” he says leaning forward
across the desk, “because you are not perfect.”

Dr. Shalit’s hands are soft. He strikes me as a man who should have
clammy hands but he doesn’t. He could almost resemble my father, but
I’ve never noticed before, not until he reaches and pulls my shivering
hands into his. His presence is so calming that I don’t feel myself
getting anxious over Nicky’s coming home.

“It really is okay to be imperfect.”

He doesn’t even notice it. He continues to hold my hand across his
desk and look into my eyes. I know he wants to help me. He keeps
telling me that; and I believe him. He’s the only person I believe
right now.

“Is it okay to be a horrible mother to Nicky? Because that’s how I feel.”

“Honey, you’re not a horrible mother,” he says without hesitation.
Maybe we’re at the point where he’s comfortable enough to call me
honey. It is a tactic that I would never use, but Dr. Shalit uses it
casually, very similar to the way John does. “Believe me there are
worse mothers than you.”

He’s never actually expressed a thought that hasn’t sounded textbook
until recently.
Now I feel as if he’s being real. I like genuine Dr. Shalit more than
stuffy Dr. Shalit.

“Do you love your son?”

“Of course.”
“Well there is no way to go wrong when it has to do with love. He
needs you now more than you actually need him. If you keep pushing him
away, then John will have reason to treat you the way that he does.
You have a second chance with him.”

“I want to be there.”

“Well go…and if you need me, don’t hesitate to call me anytime during
the day or night. I’ll schedule emergency sessions as needed.” Dr.
Shalit presses firmly against my hand and guides me from my seat. “The
most important thing you have to do is be a mother for Nicholas, not a
wife to John.” That comment strikes me oddly but he smiles again and I
offer him a weak smile before leaving the office.

*
It’s impossible that everything went on without me. The seasons have
changed without me noticing. So much of my life has passed without me
acknowledging it. I’ve missed my children’s birthdays, and even my
parents’ birthdays. Everything that my life used to entail ceased when
I became ill. I haven’t driven my car. I haven’t gone shopping. I
haven’t kissed my grandchildren. I’ve missed all of that. I only
realize how much when I step into the penthouse (RIP) for the first
time.

The driver Ron, with whom I’ve struck an odd friendship, is more
comfortable in my house than I am. He walks ahead of me with the bags
that I’ve collected at the facility. 10 bags in all. 4 months of
clothes that I barely wore.

“Do you want them here?” Ron asks heading for the bottom of the stairwell.

“Uh yes Ron, that’s fine. Thank you.”

He has been very kind to me. I think he knows how awkward all of this
must be for me, so he tries to allow me as much dignity as possible.
He acknowledged me as Mrs. Black until I corrected him. Now he calls
me Dr. Evans. It’s probably our final goodbye. I’m well enough to
drive my own car again.

“This is the end of the road for us,” I say looking around the room.
Nothing is out of place. “I want to thank you for being my driver.”
Ron watches me scanning the room.

“It’s nice, your place here. I think you have excellent taste. Very classy.”
Excellent.

“Thank you.”

“I’m all squared away with Mr. Black.” Ron tells me as he heads for
the door. “I wish you all the luck in the world.”

“Thank you.”

It’s finally over. I’ve finally began my road to recovery, the real
road that entails me living at home with my family, and doing so
without feeling overwhelmed.

**
Mama never changes. She never grows old. She never looks tired. I
think she’s the one who taught me about perfection. I’ve always
thought of her as perfect. She’s been a mother her entire life. As a
little girl, her mother died and left her to care for her sister and
brother. And then she met daddy and had us.

“Baby, do you realize how empty your house is without you?” She asks
me when she finds me standing alone in the living room. I haven’t
decided what to do first. I want to see Nicky and be with him but
something keeps me held back.

“Is it?” I say allowing her to wrap her arms around me. When I was a
little girl, she was always so much taller than me, and then I grew
taller.

“Yes. The baby’s in his room. It’s beautiful. You’re going to love it.”

“Did you help John decorate it?” I ask trying to seem interested.

“No, it was all his doing. You know John, so take charge.”

“Yes I do. Where is John?” He hasn’t made his presence known yet. I
know he’s here. I’ve seen the keys on sofa table near the door.

“Upstairs with the baby. Are you all settled? How was your session?”

“I don’t really want to talk about that. I think I’ll go up and see Nicky.”

“That’s a good idea. I’ll get your bags and take them to your room.”

“No Mama, I’ll do it.”

“Let me. It’s what I’m here for.”

She realizes how it sounds when my only response is to stare at her.
“I’ll get them. Nicholas will want to see his mommy.”

Mama stops me, grabbing my arm and holding me steady.

“Honey, you can do this.”

“Thank you.” We hug.

It’s the longest walk of my life. From the stairs to the baby’s room
is no more than 100 steps but it’s drawn out and dramatic. I can hear
John cooing to Nicky as I walk down the hallway. The memories of John
and I having sex against the wall are pungent. I still remember the
way I felt when we were finished. I’m embarrassed to be remembering
the two of us being so reckless.

“Hi John.” I say simply. He turns toward my voice with Nicky cradled
in his arms. He’s happy. He looks as if he’s in his element. He’s
always been a great daddy. The room is beautiful. The walls have been
completely redone with muted blue tones. New furniture has replaced
the older stuff.

“Hi Mommy,” John says waving Nicky’s hand at me, “we’re just getting
ready for our feeding.”

“Are we?” I ask coming into the room. Nicky is peeking over his
daddy’s arm. Those brown, brilliant eyes follow me as I head toward
him. John doesn’t hesitate when I reach for Nicky. “Hi precious boy.
Your silly Mama wasn’t here to bring you home but I’m so glad that
you’re finally here.”

“We all are.”

Having Nicky in my arms is the best, most calming feeling I’ve had all
day. He’s so peaceful and it astounds me because of all the upheaval
he’s faced in his short time in our family. “Are you happy to have me
home John? I was hesitant to come back here,” I confess.

“Nicky needs us. We’re happy that your home, aren’t we kiddo?” he says
kissing Nicky’s forehead. “Do you want to feed him?”

“Are you happy?”

“Marlena, I want everything to be normal again. That means you living
here with us.”

‘With us’ separates me from the equation but it’s an argument I don’t
want to have.

“I’ll feed Nicky.” I say sitting down in my rocking chair. He kept it.
I’ve had it since Belle was a baby. Roman bought it for me.

“Okay. He naps after that bottle.”

“Thank you.”

He’s trying to be helpful and it’s annoying me. He stands back and
watches me feed Nicky his bottle. After some point his shadow
disappears from over my shoulder. I pull Nicky to my shoulder. He fits
into the crook. It’s amazing how babies know which parts of their
mother’s body to find comfort in. I almost can’t believe that Nicky is
two months. What’s more, I can’t believe that I delivered him without
being conscious. Everything was over quickly Dr. Shalit told me. He’s
been revealing details about the time that I spent in the deep sleep
after Nicky’s birth. He’s told me that John was distraught when I went
to surgery after forcing him to have sex with me, causing Nicholas’s
premature birth. John apparently hated himself and me for what we’d
done to Nicky, or what he’d allowed me to do to him. I’m not in touch
with those feelings. I’ve pushed those down. If I allow them to
surface, I don’t know how I’ll survive it.
Nicky doesn’t allow me to dwell long, not on our murky past. He’s so
full of life that I’m struck by his audacious nature. I can feel how
strong he will be, and it’s more than muscular strength, it’s a
determination that I haven’t seen in any of the other children.

“You’re really mine. I can’t believe that sometimes Nicky. Your mama
was in a dark place when I found out about you, and I don’t know how I
got there. That’ll never happen again. I don’t make promises that I
don’t intend to keep, but this one is very special to me. I owe you
me.”

He looks at me as if he understands the deep, emotional tie between
us. I’m his mother and that’s all he needs to know. It’s all I hope he
ever knows about me. I don’t want to be sick in his eyes. I want to be
known as well.

“Your daddy and I love you very much sweetheart.”

***

I think we’ve been avoiding the obvious question. By bedtime, it’s
impossible to ignore anymore. Mama put my bags our bedroom. It’s more
his room now. The nightstands are covered with baby books and
portfolios with the Basic Black label.

“I think your mother unpacked your things,” John says watching me look
around like a deer caught in headlights. I don’t know what to do
first. He’s undressing as if no time has passed. Taking his boots off
and leaving them on the side of the bed; pulling his t-shirt over his
head. And nothings changed on his body. I haven’t paid attention to my
figure, not since I’ve been sick. I think having so much stress caused
me to lose the baby weight sooner. John’s always been very careful
about his physique. And it still has the power to affect me. All it
takes is to see him with his shirt off.

“Are you okay?”

I’ve been staring and standing too long. I try to rummage through the
bureau with my night gowns without seeming nervous. Why the hell am I
so nervous?

“I’m fine. I’m going to take a shower and then go sleep in the guest
room.” I say quickly so that he doesn’t have time to respond.

He’s in bed when I finish and emerge dressed for bed.

“You don’t have to sleep in the guest room.”

“I want to,” I say without looking, “it’s right down from the baby. I
want to hear him when he gets up.”

“Marlena, this is your bedroom, too. We can sleep here together.”

I almost laugh at his suggestion. “Are you serious John?”

“Of course.”

“John, are you sure you’re not just…”

“Marlena.” How is it that men can need you sexually, even if they have
some sort of resentment toward you? I don’t think he’s thinking about
it. I just know that if I crawl into our bed, that if he touches me
anywhere, I’m subject to succumb. I don’t want to.

“I’m sorry if I sound presumptuous. I just don’t want to confuse you.”

“There is no confusion,” he tells me confidently, “this is your bed.”

“John?”

“Can I be honest?”

Even though John is sometimes too honest, I say, “Yes.”

“I’ve had this dream of us sleeping here, with Nicky between us. On
his first night?”
I really want to tell him how unfair it is that he expects me to fall
back into those patterns so easily. But I don’t, and it’s clear to me
why. I’m still trying to be perfect. In order to make him happy, we
head to the baby’s room together and get Nicky. We lay him between us.
And we complete John’s dream.
Chapter 16

I now count the days until my therapy sessions, not because I don’t
want to be with Nicky but because I need someone to talk to about
Nicky. I need to voice opinions that are contrary to the way John
would like me to feel.

*

We slept together in our bed with Nicky on that first night. I don’t
remember ever doing that with John and Belle and that’s probably
because of all of the pain I associate with Belle’s first few months
of life. John wasn’t her daddy then, when Belle was a newborn baby,
not in those first important weeks when bonding between a parent and
child really begins. Roman was and of course I feel guilty. There
isn’t much that doesn’t guilt me these days. We’ve been doing this for
an entire week – parenting Nicky, and I still feel like a stranger in
my house. And I feel guilty because of that, too.

**

“How is it?” Dr Shalit prods kindly. His glasses are in his hair,
making his eyes seem more brilliant than usual. I think he’s gotten a
trim since the last time I saw him.

If that answer were easy, I’d say so without hesitating the way I do.
But it’s not easy and I’m also learning again to listen and examine
myself before I answer any question.

“Cautious.”

“Cautious? Are you referring to motherhood or your marriage?” Dr.
Shalit’s impervious voice is reassuring. I can’t question someone who
seems so sure of themselves, which I think has a lot to do with his
choice of profession. “John is very concerned with your progress.”

“I was referring to it all,” I answer purposely neglecting to respond
to his comment about John. Just the notion of John’s inquiring about
my sessions makes me uncomfortable. “Nicky is wonderful though. I love
spending time with him. I say cautious because that’s the way they
treat me.” He and Mama have struck an odd allegiance to making sure
that Nicky and I spend no time alone.

“Talk about that.”

“They are afraid to leave us alone. It’s not just John, it’s Mama too.
And it’s overwhelming to be in this bubble of protection.”

“Bubble of protection?”

“The penthouse. I don’t see anyone except for Mama and John. I really
don’t expect to go back to work anytime soon. Who would want a
psychiatrist who cracked up? I wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t you?” Dr. Shalit says looking particularly interested in my
assessment. He leans forward which means that he’s very serious about
his next words. “Would you judge someone who has had a breakdown or
cracked up, as you put it?”

“Didn’t F. Scott Fitzgerald call it that?”

“He did,” Shalit says nodding, “and he also saw it as a major flaw in
character. His wife suffered a major nervous breakdown, as you know,
and he never recovered from her illness. He had a very prejudiced view
of mental illness.”

“He and John could have a wonderful conversation on that particular subject.”

Dr. Shalit’s laughter is unexpected. “I’m glad to see that you still
have a sense of humor. Hold on to that.”

“I’m trying.”

“Breakdowns are a very touch subject, especially in our field. It’s
frowned upon but I think of it this way: who better to help one deal
with a breakdown than someone who has had one.”

“I don’t know.”

“Would you judge me harshly if I told you that I suffered a breakdown?”

“I wouldn’t.” I answer truthfully.

“I did have a breakdown.”

If his confession is supposed to alarm me, it doesn’t. I only feel
more compassion for him. More than I feel for myself. “What happened?”

“The official diagnosis was chronic anxiety but I simply had an old
fashioned nervous breakdown. I was 15 years old when my mother
committed suicide and I apparently had a couple of bad days over it.”

“I’m sorry.” I realize that I don’t know or remember his first name.
His nameplate says Dr. Shalit. Oddly. What strikes me now is what a
mother who commits suicide would name her son. I didn’t name my son.

“It’s not your fault. My mother was an undiagnosed bipolar
personality. She didn’t have a lot of hope back then with the mental
health field being as it was. They simply put you away in a facility
and shocked your brain until you couldn’t function without some sort
of aid daily.”

His voice is sad and now I understand why he seems to be so caring
about my suicide attempt. It’s awakened some sort of protectiveness
that he couldn’t have over his mother. My gosh, I’m starting to sound
like a psychiatrist again. He makes me feel as if I could go back to
being Marlena, Dr. Marlena Evans.

“What was that like for you?”

“Being in a sanitarium … scary but they have come a long way. It was a
cake walk compared to living with my mother though. I have mixed
emotions.”

“She loved you,” I tell him as if I’d known her myself, “and if she
could help herself, she wouldn’t have gone anywhere.”

“My mother was a wonderful person when her illness wasn’t in charge.”

Somehow we’ve reversed roles. “I’m sure she was,” I say in my doctor
voice. The in charge persona that I used to wear so well sounds better
in that voice. “I’ll never judge you.”

“Thank you.”

“You are very welcome. I want to know something,” I say cautiously,
“but I don’t want to overstep any boundaries.”

“I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

“Two things. Your mother, what was her name?”

He answers quickly, “Elizabeth.”

“Beautiful name…and what did Elizabeth name you?”

“Stephen.”

We’re not the same people that we were when I first began therapy with
John. I’ll never look at him in the same way, and I don’t mean that as
a bad thing. He’s as human as it gets and it’s because, he’s been in
the same place I’ve been.

“That’s a beautiful name,” I say feeling my mouth widen into a smile.
I can’t help feeling happy with him.

“Thank you.” He’s blushing. “Now back to you, and your family. I told
you that John is very concerned with the progress you’re making.”

“Or not making.”

“Do you think he expects you to get better?”

“He’s worried.”

“Yes, he is.”

“He should be.”
“Should he?”

Dr. Shalit is the only person who doesn’t look shocked when I’m frank,
“John should be absolutely frightened right now. And he appears to be.
He still watches me like I’ll break or like I might still hurt Nicky.”

“When you are alone with Nicky, what’s going through your head?”

“How much I owe him. I’ve often felt that my life didn’t serve a
purpose until I gave birth to my children and that feeling is stronger
now with Nicholas. I don’t know what I did before he came into my
life. It’s as if I have more purpose and nothing is more important
than that, right now. I used to think that the most important thing
was my marriage to John.”

“And now?”

“John’s not my husband.”

“No, not legally, but your considered by many of your peers to be.”

“I’m devoted to my children. We both are.”

“And that’s enough,” he asks raising an eyebrow.

“For me, it is. I don’t know where my feelings for John stand right
now. We are so disconnected that I don’t ever see that being
resolved.”

“He hopes that it will be. John wants you back.”

“I know.”

“How do you know? Has he said or done something to make you believe that?”

“On Nicky’s first night,” I say, recalling the awkward way we lay in
our bed, with Nicky between us, “he asked if we could all sleep in the
bed together. He said it was his dream.”

“Did anything intimate happen?”

“Nothing. I barely felt him across from me. All I felt was that we
were Nicky’s parents, and maybe that’s all we can be for each other.”

“Do you feel nothing for John at all?”

“Sexually?”

“At all?”

I shake my head. My ring finger is bare. The engagement ring that John
gave me is still sitting in a jewelry box. “Dr. Shalit I don’t feel
particularly desirable at this point. I’m afraid to believe that maybe
John and I had a relationship based on physical more than our
emotions. I’d always assumed that making love was a spiritual thing
between us until recently. John can have sex with me, rather I’m
involved or not, whether I want him to or not…but I want it to be
meaningful and because we don’t mean a hell of a lot to each other, I
can’t feel those things.”

“And you think that John does?”

“I know that he does. John is a sexual person; he’s very physical.
Whenever we weren’t together, he always found a way to have sex, with
other women.”

“Are you saying that sex is cavalier to John?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe? That is a child’s answer Marlena.”

“You would do better to ask John. I don’t presume to speak for him anymore.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I don’t know him, not the way I thought I did.”

***

“I think Nicky wants you, baby,” John says peeking into the bathroom
with Nicky. He’s crying so hard his skin is red. It’s almost an
afterthought to cover myself. John’s eyes follow as I step from the
bathtub.
“Is he okay?” He was sleeping after his last bottle before bed. Mama
was keeping an eye on him while I took a much needed bath.

“I can’t settle him down.” John puts Nicky in my arms. He’s not
feverish. “He’s just fussy. Aren’t you Nicky?”

“I think he wanted his mommy. You faked daddy out kid.” John coos to
Nicky after he settles down.

“No, he’s just being a natural born Black.”

“Which is to be in the arms of a beautiful woman?” He says flirtatiously.

“No, getting whatever he wants.” John’s wandering eyes remind me that
I’m standing naked, holding our son. “I’ve got him now,” I assure
John, “we’re going to take a bath and then mommy’s going to put you to
bed.”

John has been getting better at giving us time alone, but he isn’t
moving. He stands in the spot he stood when he handed me Nicky.
Looking puzzled.

“I can handle this from here.”

“Let me help you,” he says hurrying to my side to help me climb back
into the bathtub safely with Nicky.

“Thank you.”

He sits on the rim of the tub and puts his hand into the water.

“I haven’t said how proud I am of you, of the way you are with Nicholas. I am.”

“You don’t have to give me credit for something I should be doing
anyway. I want to be here for Nicky.”

“He’s a beautiful kid, baby.” It’s the second time he’s called me
baby. I think to call me baby is misleading.

“John, I don’t want you to call me that anymore. Not while things are
the way they are between us.”

He makes circles with his pointer finger in the water very close to my
knee. “And how are things between us? Would you like to discuss that
now?”

“John.”

“I’m not trying to seduce you. I know that things are up in the air
for us but you don’t seem to care that I still love you.”

He loves me. I haven’t heard him say so in a long time. “I don’t want
to do this now. I just want to relax with Nicky.”

His hand slips in the water, touching my leg lightly. Nicky’s cry
pulls him back and his daddy stoops low to kiss his cheek and then
moves quickly to my mouth.

“I can’t have sex with you,” I say against his mouth, “please don’t
make me turn you down.”

He leans back to look at me fully. I’ve struck a nerve. But he doesn’t
say anything. He quietly retreats from the bathroom, a little sadder
and probably a little more confused. I never promised him a quick
solution. I only said I would be a mother to our son. He doesn’t look
at me after Nicky and I leave the bathroom.

I’ve already decided to sleep in the guest room again. I’ve been doing
that every night or falling asleep in Nicky’s room.

When Nicky awakes for his after-midnight feeding, John and I bump into
each in the hallway heading to Nicky. Without words, he takes my wrist
into his hand and pushes me against the wall. It’s not frightening. He
kisses me hard and covers my mouth so it’s hard to catch my breath.

“I still love you.” He tells me as he lets me loose and heads into Nicky’s room.

Chapter 17

The tears started last night; and they haven’t stopped yet. I tried to
get through breakfast without Mama noticing. I tried to keep Nicky
from feeling my sadness. I’ve tried and tried to overcome the sadness,
but today, and I hope only today, it’s more powerful than even Nicky’s
smile. On the hard days, all it takes is my son’s smile; or his
special way of taking my pinky into the palm of his hand; and even
changing him makes me feel like I’m doing something worthwhile. But
not today. Today, not even Nicky is enough.

It started after Belle and Claire’s visit yesterday. They came because
I called. I miss my children and that has a lot to do with Nicky. With
him I don’t want to miss anything, and when I’m so focused on him,
I’ll suddenly remember Belle or Sami.
We were sitting in the living room, and John wasn’t there. Three
generations of Evans women. Mama was holding Claire while Belle held
Nicky. Claire has grown beyond the baby stage. She’s speaking in
broken sentences and referring to me as Mama still. Belle still
corrects her, lovingly. It is amazing that my granddaughter could
remember that she called me Mama when she was living with us, but she
does. I couldn’t get over the fact that Belle has grown into a mother.
It has taken some time for me to grasp the reality of my baby being a
mother, but she has become one of the best parents I know. She loves
Claire without being unrealistic. She doesn’t expect the things that I
did from her and Sami as girls. She uses her instinct to mother and
Claire has benefited. Claire is self-sufficient and assured at two
years old. And that is when it struck me silent – I had never been
that great of a mother to Belle. I’ve done everything I could to make
her doubt herself, and tainted her idea of love; and sadly, I’ve held
myself back from her because I’ve always been too connected to her
daddy to really see her. I did the typical mother things and of course
I know I loved her, but I was never truly there for her. The truth is
that I didn’t really raise Belle or the twins. She had a nanny who
looked after her every need and the twins had John and Caroline, and
Mama.

“Isabella, you are a wonderful mother.”

Belle has always been my most gracious child. She thanks me and says,
“I learned it from you.”

“No you couldn’t have learned anything from me.” I don’t mean to
demean myself as her mother because I think I did the best I could do
under any circumstances.

“Why do you say that,” Mama asks me with a look of concern. She thinks
I’m perfect, but I suppose mothers should think that way about their
daughters.

“Mama, do you really believe that? I mean, in light of everything
that’s happened.”

She sighs. Whenever Mama does anything, sighs, laughs, or speaks my
name, it reminds me of being a little girl, when Sam and I were still
too tender to be broken by anything in the world. My mother is from
the school of the perfect 50s woman and I find fault in her definition
of perfection and motherhood. By no means should we have to think of
ourselves as perfect, and because I have been trained to see
perfection as the ultimate achievement, I feel like a failure because
I’m not perfect.

“You’re doing well now, and isn’t that all that counts.” She says
without realizing how dismissive it sounds. I don’t blame her for not
understanding. I have to remind myself constantly that she lost her
mother as a child and that her mothering skills are a direct result of
being motherless. “Your husband loves you,” has become Mama’s stock
phrase, “and you two need to work things out.”
“Mama, it’s not as simple as that,” I remind her while Belle listens
to our exchange. For Belle’s sake, I choose careful words. It is my
belief that my child shouldn’t have to listen to me projecting any
anger towards her father in her presence. Mama never did and it is one
of the lessons that I treasure. I think I’m also trying very hard to
make up for the things I said when I was ill. “John and I are more
focused on Nicholas. We are not going anywhere.” In other words there
is time for us to decide what we are or are not to each other. They
will never know, Mama or Belle, and not even Nicky how mixed up John
and I really are. Mama can sense things. She knows and asks why I’m
not in my own bedroom. For Mama, marriage and children are synonymous
with purpose, but they are not separate of each other; for me they
have become separate, I can love and adore my children and not feel
the same for John. Mama doesn’t know that John has tried to seduce me
or stolen kisses when I’ve wanted nothing from him but space. I’m not
sure if Mama can handle my sexuality. I’m not sure if any mother wants
to actually know what they are thinking about their daughter’s
sexuality. I am certain that it’s too destructive for her to
understand. I lock my bedroom door at night. I don’t know what else to
do to protect us from each other.

“Mama, let me handle John.”

“I will honey,” she says and I know she doesn’t really mean it. She
can’t help herself. “Daddy wants to come for a visit.”

“He does?” It’s unusual. I haven’t spoken with my father in months. I
know Mama gives him updates but I don’t know how much he really knows.
She has mastered the art of delivering what she thinks you need to
know. “When?”

She hesitates as she reveals, “Soon.”

That word ‘soon’ stayed in my mind for the remainder of Belle’s visit
and more so after; and soon after that the tears started. And I
haven’t been able to stop them. I know Mama didn’t mean to upset me.
Maybe it wasn’t Mama, maybe it’s me and my inability to deal with
their version of me. I’m still having trouble reconciling who I want
to be with who they need me to be. They, being the people who surround
me and swear they love me. It is their love that is suffocating me.

*
In the shower, I’ve cried for an entire hour, nonstop. Nicky is with
Mama; John is elsewhere. He has business meetings more and more since
I told him that I couldn’t have sex with him. Everything is so
overwhelming again, and I hate to use that word because I lost my
connection to myself when I became overwhelmed. I don’t think I’ve had
a really good cry since or before I got sick. I just want to empty
myself of all the clutter: of my parent’s perfection, or of John’s
sense of need for me.

The crying is as emotional as I’ve been in a long while. That’s why I
don’t think I can stop them because I need them to fall, and be rid of
some sadness. I don’t want to fail anyone anymore. Daddy will want to
see his Marlena, smiling and upbeat – perfect.

I hear John asking me, “Are you crying?” Through the glass he is a
shadow dressed in all black. I can’t lie. I know he’ll stay whether I
answer him or not. I press my body against the shower wall, away from
the glass because it seems too close to John. He is standing still
though, he hasn’t moved but I know he wants to come to me.

“Yes.”

“Are you okay?”

I’ve never denied John’s ability to help me, not until recently. He
loves to take care of me, even when it has been to my detriment. He’s
done it so well over the years that I don’t remember what it’s like to
worry and not have him fix whatever it is. I watched my daddy fix
everything for Mama whenever it was needed, and John and I fall into
those patterns very easily. I know that he hates to see me in pain,
especially emotional pain. And leaning against the wall, I know that I
will let him help me.

“I hate doing this,” I say whispering, hoping that I’m confessing to
myself and not really to John. “I’m just feeling a little down.”

“Did something happen with Nicky?”

Nicky is always our first thought. “No he’s perfect…no he’s not
perfect.” The tears run harder, “none of us are perfect, are we?”

“You were Doc.”

Were sounds like an indictment against me but I’m so sad that it
doesn’t matter. Of course he comes to me, like all the other times
before, and I reach for him when his arms lengthen toward me. He
whispers baby into my hair and holds me very closely. Water is still
dripping down my body and my wet hair is splayed across my neck and
shoulders. He has the most powerful hands but I’m trying not to see
him in a sexual context. I simply want him to be helping me and not
expecting me to give anything away in exchange. He is strong. He’s
able to pull and towel while balancing me, and then wrapping me with
it. The exchange is almost fatherly. I lay my head on his shoulder and
slip my arms around his neck.

“You’re so cold.” He walks quickly to the bedroom and places me on the
bed where he starts drying me frantically. “You have to take care of
yourself.”

“I am,” I remind him. The house is so quiet. I don’t know why it is
that I ended up in our bathroom crying. I could have cried in any
bathroom in the house. I think I knew he’d come for me.

“Do you need me to do anything,” he asks as he continues drying me off.

Sometimes he’s not all bad or overwhelming.

“Belle came by today, with Claire.” I assume that will be enough for
him, but he only looks confused by that. “It came blaring at me,” I
tell him trying to help him understand this sudden crying spell, “that
I haven’t been there enough for them. Any one of them. And I don’t
want any sympathy for that. I just want to be a better mother.”

His hands slow down and he looks at me, “You are a better mother.
You’re getting better everyday. I can see that.”

“Am I really?”

“I wouldn’t lie to you.”

Why does he have to be so nice? “No I don’t think you would.”

I remember Mama and Daddy fighting once. It stands out because it
didn’t happen often. They didn’t talk to each for an entire day. For a
child like me, it seemed like an eternity. But what I really remember,
sitting with John on our bed is listening to them make up. Sam and I
crept to their door and actually heard them asking for forgiveness,
Daddy really. Mama was quiet and forgiving, but it was my daddy who
took the initiative. We heard them making love, the first and only
time, and stayed there, at their door, until we felt everything was
okay again. I think it’s like my relationship with John. I allow him
to take the initiative. He would give anything for me to allow him to
make love to me. I guess my vulnerability is sexy. And try as I may, I
can’t force myself to be the way I remember my parents makeup being.

“John I still can’t make love to you. I’m not ready.”

He doesn’t believe me. His hands have stopped drying and started
touching, beneath my towel. I can’t fault him for thinking that it
would be so easy to seduce me. I’ve been that way for years, but I’m
trying to change our usual patterns. They were destructive. Dr. Shalit
would want me to express my uncomfortableness with our situation. I
knew that it wouldn’t be only a comforting shoulder; John is too
sexual not to think I’d crumble when he touches me.

“Baby, I don’t know how much more I can stand.” The first kiss is
always so intense. Too intense.

“I just wanted you to hold me.” It’s probably too much to ask. “John,
if we did this, it wouldn’t mean anything.”

He shushes me with another kiss.

I could allow myself to swallow my anxiety about making love to John
and just give in but I’m more than anxious. I feel disconnected from
John in so many emotional ways. That doesn’t explain why I allow him
to push me back against the bed and climb on top of me. John’s hands
feel foreign.

“John, wait.” I say without really pushing him away. I’m confused. I
know what I want but I’m worried about John and what he wants. What he
wants is me. The last time we were in physical contact is too painful
to even remember. But the miracle of that encounter is that Nicky was
born.

Nicky saves me from hurting his daddy. I hear him cry out.

“John, it’s Nicky.” It takes him a minute for John to register what
I’m saying to him. Now it’s not me hurting his ego, it’s the call of
motherhood that’s more important. He climbs off of the bed. He hands
me a robe.

“Thank you for letting me hold you,” John says brushing my forehead with a kiss.

Chapter 18

“You have to understand something,” I say to Dr. Shalit, “I don’t
equate love with sex. I never mistook that they are two separate
things. When John found me crying in the shower, I knew he would want
to rescue me.”

It’s Tuesday – my second appointment with Dr. Shalit this week. I made
an emergency call on Monday, my first, because I couldn’t stand to
look John in his face anymore; I don’t know how to say no, and
actually have him hear me. Dr. Shalit was unbelievably understanding
about my relapse. I call my near sexual encounter with John a relapse
because I promised myself that I wouldn’t have sex with him until I
could handle it. I’m not able to handle it just yet. Once I opened the
door of opportunity, in John’s mind, it stays open until we do
something about it. I don’t feel the same.

“You seem so ashamed Marlena. You have a way of taking three steps
forward only to take ten steps back.”

He’s right and I don’t need to tell him that. He pinpoints things that
I’m ashamed to openly voice. Casual sex is something I’ve never fully
been able to grasp.

“I am deeply ashamed at my behavior,” I find myself admitting, “I
think I give off this perception of being wanted … always wanting to
be possessed sexually; and I don’t feel that way. I look at John and I
see it, it’s the way he looks at me. His chest will rise and he’ll
find any little reason at all to touch me. I was giving Nicky a bath
last night and he came into the room, I think just to watch us because
he doesn’t want to miss anything, but also because the connection that
we have, being the parents of such a little baby makes him feel very
sexual. It’s like he finds motherhood sexy.”

“Some men are very aroused by the idea of their wives becoming
mothers. It’s a natural reaction.”

“I’m aware of that but isn’t our situation different. We don’t have
the same relationship that we had. I’m not there yet.”

“There?”

“I’m not attracted to John right now.” I say looking away. Those eyes
have a way of penetrating some of the most awful truths out of me. I
feel myself slouching and turning back into an awkward teenager who is
discussing sex for the first time. “I haven’t been truly attracted to
John since – I don’t even remember when.”

“Try to remember,” Dr. Shalit suggests leaning back into his chair.

We aren’t in the office anymore. The desk and chair exchanges have
exhausted themselves; we are in the therapy room with me on a brown
leather chaise and Dr. Shalit a couple of inches away from me.

“Have we talked about the time before Nicky, just a little before he
was conceived?” I wonder aloud because time has moved so quickly that
I misplace memories.

“We’ve dabbled at that time, but you haven’t opened up about it
completely. Would you like to now?”

Exhaling always feels like it’s giving me a new source of energy. I
feel the breath leave my body and I wait until my body inhales the air
that keeps me moving.

“When I asked John for a separation, it was after I’d come home from
New York. I’d spent time by myself there, doing everything on my own.
I liked not depending on John. I enjoyed taking walks alone and having
meals without having to engage myself in conversation. People don’t
believe that psychiatrist enjoy not thinking sometimes. I learned to
enjoy my solitude. I just wanted to feel that when I came back home to
Salem. I’ve had my life handled by men my entire life and that’s not
to say I haven’t freely given them control, it’s just after awhile you
don’t even realize your giving it away anymore.”

“So you felt free after that time alone?”

“Yes, essentially that’s exactly what I felt. And then I came home and
looked into his face, and I realized that this man who had saved me
countless times was no longer my husband. That was hard for me. It’s
still hard for me to say that, even to myself.” I haven’t given myself
enough time, I decide but it’s too late. I have to get this out. “I
told John about my decision to separate and his answer was to have
sex.”

“How did it make you feel?”

“I don’t know.”

“Marlena, how did it make you feel?”

“Empty. I usually feel fulfilled when we make love.” Maybe that’s it.
It wasn’t making love.

“Why did you go through with it?”

“Because I love him and then that was all I could see, was how much he
mattered to me. I don’t like disappointing…” I pause. Dr. Shalit has
asked me to eliminate the word disappointment from my everyday
conversation.

“Good girl,” He says recognizing my effort. “You unselfishly gave your
husband something to hold on to. There’s nothing wrong with that, is
there?”

“Are you being serious?” I ask, confused by his casualness and smiling face.

“Very serious Marlena. You do love John, and you loved him then.”

“Loving John is not my problem.”

“You have problems?” He asks sarcastically and I know he’s joking again.

“Oh my do I.” I say smiling back at my good doctor.

“What changed for you,” Dr. Shalit asks bringing our conversation back
to John, “you did separate, didn’t you?”

“We separated and I fell apart.” I acknowledge brazenly. “I became
very confused about my own intentions because I looked at everything
through John’s eyes. I didn’t want him to stop fighting for me. I
wanted him to want me even if I wasn’t able to give myself to him. And
he, in my eyes, felt as if he’d given up.”

“So it’s John’s fault?”

“No. It’s my fault. We would have encounters, sexual encounters
whenever the mood hit us. We weren’t living together and I was doing
everything to maintain my sense of freedom but John … everything in my
life has always come back to John. He saw me with Roman, he found me
with another colleague and things would go from friendly to combative
to sexual.”

Dr. Shalit interrupts me, “What are you trying not to say?”

“I told him that he could come to me with no strings attached,” I say
quickly, “because I was afraid that I was going to lose him.”

“So you perpetuated the idea of casual sex with John.”

“I did. And it was out of hand. It became destructive.” The memories
are vivid. The wall in the hallway. The bathroom of Bella’s. When he
was afraid that I had tried to end my life in New Orleans with
sleeping pills. Every time I casually gave myself to John I lost some
piece of my dignity. “I wanted him to love me.”

“He does.”

“Did he then?”

“From what I know of John, he always has. The only thing that has
changed is you. You’re not the same women who married John all those
years ago.”

“Tell me about it,” I say laughing at myself.

“So… what do we do about this? How can you tell John that you are not
comfortable with any type of sexual contact with him and have him hear
you?”

Is that something I want to tell him? I don’t think it crossed my mind
that I would have to voice that to him. I’ve said it but I obviously
haven’t meant it. “I don’t know. I know I want to have this be as
painless as it can be. We should focus on Nicky now. He’s the most
important thing to both of us now.”

“Marlena, you have a man who wishes to sleep with you nearly every
time he looks at you. John is very attracted to you, even when your at
your worst, you have that uncanny ability to bring him to his knees.
Now I say that to say this, it’s not your problem. It’s his problem.
He has to learn to deal with you on a level that is separate from your
sexuality. You’re the mother of an infant son. That’s what is most
important, you said and you know it.”

“How do I tell John that?”

“Well, let me ask you this: what do you have to lose in telling him?
You’re not married now. You don’t have any sexual needs that he can
fulfill now?”

“No. We’re not.”

“Then all you have to do is say it.”

“Really?”

“You have to learn to speak up and never swallow your silence again.
Your silence becomes deadly. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Tell me about Nicholas. How is he?”

“He’s beautiful. I can’t get enough of him, of his smell or the way he
smiles when he hears my voice. I can’t believe that that baby could
love me so much.”

“Believe it, you’re anything but unlovable.”

“Thank you. I’m enjoying motherhood. I really am.”

“How are things with your other children?”

“Sami and Eric have always, ever since I came back to them all those
years ago, held themselves at a distance. I don’t blame them. I
understand it’s their way of protecting themselves from any more of my
absences. I do miss them and love them both terribly. Sami is finally
happy with her family. My grandson Will – he’s grown so much in the
last couple of years. I’m a lucky girl when it comes to them. And then
Belle and Claire are my little angels. Although, I have to stop
thinking of Belle in that way, because she’s such a mom… a real
grownup now.”

“Belle is your shining star, isn’t she?”

“She’s the first baby I ever felt very close to. We went through so
much when she was born, that I felt like it was she and I against the
world.”

“It’s good to have that.”

“Yes it is.”

“I want to challenge you to reach out to your children more. If you
can focus on something else, something besides John, then you’ll find
a solution to the other problems. Bring yourself happiness by focusing
on what really makes you happy.”

“That’s not a problem. I love my babies.”

“Good. Continue to do that. And also think about your profession, your
autonomy. It’s also important to remember that you were an amazing
psychiatrist and you can be that again. I’m not saying that you need
to get back to work now, but soon.”

“I haven’t even thought about it, I’m so wrapped up in Nicky.”

“We’ll talk about it next time.” He assures me looking at his wrist,
“Your time is up my dear. Enjoy the rest of your week.”

“Thank you Dr. Shalit.” When we’re near the door, I remember something
that John said, something that I haven’t asked Dr. Shalit. “Did you
tell John he couldn’t come to therapy with me anymore?”

“I suggested that you needed time alone. Yes, I did.”

“Okay,” I say leaving. I don’t know why but I didn’t believe John when
he said it. And I’m not angry when Dr. Shalit admits that he did stop
John from being in our sessions.

*******

“It’s Daddy,” my father says holding his arms out for me to fall into.
I’ve been standing in the doorway of my house for an unaccounted for
amount of time, in shock at my daddy being in my living room. “Come
here little girl. Come and kiss your daddy.”

My father’s voice is booming as it’s always been but even as booming
as it is, I’ve never been afraid of him. The first man I ever fell in
love with was my daddy, my gentle, smart, and handsome daddy. His hair
has grayed and his eyes seem a little dimmer but they’re the same eyes
that I loved to see everyday when I didn’t think another world existed
outside of our house. Whenever I see daddy, I’m a little girl again.
I’m Sam’s twin, the good girl with her mama’s good manners and her
father’s charming personality.

“Daddy, why didn’t you tell me you were coming,” is the only thing I
can ask when I’m wrapped safely in his arms. He doesn’t see me enough.
I don’t try hard enough to see him either. Everything that I’ve felt
about John or Mama and their secretiveness is released with a single
tear. I know Daddy would never treat me that way, and I’m grateful,
though I didn’t think I would be, to have him holding me.

“I wanted to surprise you baby girl.” He’s getting fleshier. There was
a time when my daddy was as lean and fit as John. He took pride in
himself. He admired beauty. Although fleshier and grayer, he’s still
my daddy. “Baby, how are you? How are you really doing?”

The words are just too much for me to speak. We’re trapped in this
labyrinth of my sickness and his overprotectiveness. That’s why he
hasn’t called me or tried to contact me, he dispatched Mama instead
but holding me now, he’s holding me, squeezing me as if I’m
disappearing and he’s trying to stop it.

“Did you hear me honey?”

I find that spot in my daddy’s chest that used to guard me against
heartbreaks. He used to say that his heartbeat against my cheek meant
that my heart couldn’t be broken because our hearts were in sync. I
thought he was corny but I believed him.

“Daddy I’m fine. I’m so much better than I was.” I whisper, not in an
effort to keep John and Mama out of our conversation, but because I
want him to hear me and to believe me. “I’m just overwhelmed by you
being here.”

“I should have come sooner. I was stubborn,” Daddy says rubbing my
hair, “and you know all about stubbornness. But you do know that your
daddy loves you, don’t you?”

“I do know that.”

Daddy loosens his hold and I finally look him in the face. I guess
expected him to be upset with me, but it’s not the look I see. He’s
just happy to have me back. And I’m happy to be back for him. And for
Nicky, who is in his father’s arms crying out for me in the ‘mommy’
cry.

“Nicky.” I take Daddy’s hand and walk over to John to take Nicky. “I
missed you today.”

“He’s a handsome guy,” Daddy comments looking us over. “And this one
is more Evans than any of the others.”

“I know,” I say turning Nicky around in my arms to see his
grandfather. “Have you held him?”

“No.”

“You have to hold him. He’s my little miracle.”

“Well I would love to hold a miracle,” Daddy says taking Nicky from
me. It doesn’t seem as if anyone else exists right then. It’s only me
and daddy, and Nicky. Nicky gives his grandfather a taste of his
developing charm. He smiles more often now. He stares with more
intent, something I know Nicky gets from John.

“What do you think?”

“I think Nicholas is a great addition to our family, honey. He is
definitely an Evans.” Daddy sits down and I follow suit. “You used to
do that when you were a baby.” Daddy tells me with a wide smile.
“Remember Martha, when she was this small and she’d smile and smile
until you smiled back. Samantha was the frowner but you taught her to
smile in that gargled baby talk that you two did all the time.”

“I did?” I ask curiously. I’ve never heard them talk about this. He
never talks about Sam with me.

“Yes,” Mama tells me, sitting down on the other side of me. “You and
your sister developed a very strange language before you ever learned
how to talk. And Daddy and I would be at a loss but you two so seemed
to understand.”

“How old were we?”

“No more than a year or younger,” Daddy shares with me, rubbing
Nicky’s dark hair with his large hands, “and it went on until you were
at least two. We were afraid that you would never learn to speak.”

“Do you remember what it was like when they did?” Mama asks Daddy.

“Nonstop is the word that comes to mind.”

“That sounds beautiful to me,” I tell my parents, noticing John for
the first time since I came into the room. He is watching, as usual,
listening to memories of my childhood. I think it makes him feel
closer to me. I think I want my daddy to be with always. I think I
feel safer just having him here.

Chapter 19 (NC-17)

I was never a very self-conscious person, not until recently, not
until I became absolutely conscious to my life – to my inner life and
what that all really means. I’ve been reading Dr. Shalit’s book about
the interior life that we live while we are pretending with our
exterior appearance, pretending in my case to be the model of
perfection. That’s been my story for as long as I’ve been in Salem.
It’s a terrible thing to reach the age that I’ve reached and realize
how much I truly dislike myself and some of the choices I’ve made.

*
Daddy has been with us for two weeks; I haven’t seen Dr. Shalit since
his arrival.

**
I believe it was Daddy who suggested dinner at Maggie’s restaurant. He
pat my head and called me a good girl when I agreed to go. Daddy’s
good middle-aged girl.

“You want to call him,” John asked me before we left for Maggie’s
place. That is his way of starting a conversation. Misguided as his
attempt is, he hasn’t been able to say anything else to me besides the
baby is wet or hungry. John’s uncharacteristic behavior makes me very
uncomfortable. John, who has always been sure of not only our
relationship but also of himself, has finally shown me how human he
truly is. It’s refreshing to see him realize that he doesn’t have all
the answers. “Dr. Shalit…you need to talk to him, don’t you?”

“I need to talk to someone,” I answer him. Nicky has been fussy all
morning, and juggling him in my arms with John lurking behind us is
more than I want to handle.
“He asked how you were.”

“You’ve been the one canceling my appointments?” I shouldn’t be
shocked. Someone had to do it because I haven’t. I don’t think I could
stand to hear his disappointment. We still have a lot of work to do
but I can only please one man at a time, and right now my daddy is
that man. “Did you tell him about Daddy being here?”
“I told him.” John says abruptly. I want to ask him more about Dr.
Shalit. I’m curious as to what my doctor would say to John. They have
no connection to each other now, other than me. I want to ask, but I
don’t because Nicky steals John’s and my attention. In the spirit of
his father, Nicky enjoys being undressed more than clothed. The weight
of any fabric against his skin sends him into hysterics. And all it
takes is for Nicky to start crying; the world stops and John and I are
paralyzed until he is settled again. He waits now for me to look
helpless before trying to intervene. He’s never done that before; it
used to be that he wanted to save me whenever trouble arose.

“Do you want me to take him so that you can finish this?”

“If you don’t mind it?” I tell John politely.

Having moved back into our bedroom so that daddy can have the
guestroom, I’ve been subjecting myself and John to very awkward
moments like having to dress again in his presence. I know that in the
past he enjoyed the show or the presentation as he called it then, of
me flaunting myself around our bedroom as I dressed. We were playful
then; now, we’re just awkward. Sitting in a half-opened robe isn’t the
same as it was three years ago. I’m now conscious of how John
perceives any one of my actions. In the past, it only took a slight
slip of some material, or a tilt of my neck to bring him to his knees.
Now he sits awkwardly on a bed that we don’t share with our son,
trying to con him into an appropriate outfit for dinner.

“Do you think it’s a good idea for Nicky to go with us? We haven’t
taken him out of the house much. He’s finally on a schedule,” I say
watching their reflection in my vanity mirror. Nicky’s arms flailing
about while John tries to calmly pull a shirt over his head is amusing
and cute. We don’t have many cute moments.

“The boy will be just fine.” He knows ‘the boy’ well. John and Nicky
have a camaraderie that is unrivaled by any other relationship in
Nicky’s life. I appreciate that John is an overwhelming father. I
believe that children, especially babies need to be overwhelmed by
their parents. I know that I can never be replaced but I also know
that John could raise our son to be the kind of person I would want
him to be. “We’ll grab dinner and be home before ten. He’ll be asleep
at the table.”

“Well I’ll take my car, just in case we need to leave early.” I
suggest without making eye contact. He’ll feel slighted even if it’s
not my intention. The truth is that riding in a car with John feels so
false to me. We are not married; we used to do that when we were. I
feel his eyes on me when I stand and walk to the closet where my dress
is hanging. It’s black. Black just feels more comfortable these days.
It’s one of my older dresses. I think one that John might have bought.
Above the knee with spaghetti straps and it fits well which indicates
that I’ve finally lost all of my baby weight.

“We can all go together. Don’t you think your parents’ will like that better?”

“It doesn’t matter to me,” is my response before thinking, “what anyone thinks.”

“Marlena, you can talk to me,” he says without warrant. He leaves
Nicky in the center of the bed and comes to me. I cringe when his hand
glides down my back and catches the zipper of my dress. “You’re still
my best friend. I still know you a lot better than he does.” His lips
touch that spot on my neck that he’s fallen asleep kissing a long time
ago.

“Don’t.”

***
Daddy asks questions that feel like statements. John listens politely
as Mama marvels over the red wine and Nicky.

“Doesn’t she look beautiful?” Daddy adds turning their attention to me.

My father has asked this question over every meal that we’ve ever had
together. When Sam and I were little, we learned that dressing up for
dinner pleased Daddy, so we never came to the table without looking
our best. He has always been inordinately proud of me, but tonight
he’s even more so. When he looks around the restaurant, I know that
he’s looking for the people we know. He wants to say without really
saying: Look at my daughter, isn’t she better? Hasn’t she come a long
way?

Walking into Maggie’s was surreal enough without Daddy’s added
pressure. The old feelings sprung up, the old familiarity of being in
the presence of good friends made it less intimidating. She held me,
pulling me close as if no time had actually passed. She is still a
good friend, time hasn’t diminished that. Maggie, knowing me better
than most, thankfully gave us a table in the back, away from the
crowds.
“She always looks beautiful.” Mama chimes in on cue. They work in
pairs; they always have complemented each other. Mama is the less
forceful, reassuring parent while Daddy is far more intimidating and
demanding. It never mattered much until now.
“Thank you.” Polite, good daughters have to graciously accept
accolades even when they are undeserved.

“I think your Dr. Shalit has done wonders,” my father allows. It makes
me cower when he says ‘your doctor Shalit’. They all speak of him as
if he’s some untouchable deity who brought me back from the brink.
There is some truth in that but for me he’s just a man. He is my good
doctor but I don’t want to share that with my family. I want something
to be all my own.

“You’re changing,” Daddy deduces drawing my hand into his across the
table. His hands are still so strong. “I haven’t been around to see it
much but Marlena you are definitely becoming the person I always knew
you’d be. A wonderful mother, like your own mama. You’ve gotten it all
back.” He doesn’t want to really talk about this because he doesn’t
wait for me to respond. He looks to John who is giving him some kind
of male reassurance; and Mama who is nodding her head dutifully.
“You’ve always been my perfect little girl. Haven’t you?”

“I’ve tried.” I fall back so easily into these traps.

“And you’re perfect.”

“Daddy, I still have a lot of work to do. I want to be even better
than I am now.” I silently pray for a distraction but Nicky has fallen
asleep in John’s arms. Perfection is unattainable. If I repeat it to
myself enough, maybe they will hear it too. “I don’t want to be
perfect.”

“But you are perfect, you always have been. Samantha failed us,” Daddy
says sadly, “and you brought it all back together by being you. You
gave your mama and daddy something to believe in again.”

“Daddy I didn’t do anything other than be who you raised me to be,” I
remind him.

“So when are we going to get you back fully? When are you and John
going to remarry and start living as man and wife with your son?”

“Dr. Shalit and I are working on that. I don’t think I’m ready to—”

“Honey, I’ve been here for two weeks and as far as I can tell you are
doing fine without seeing Dr. Shalit.” I know he means well. I remind
myself daily that my parents are not from the age of self-hope the way
my generation is.

“Daddy, I don’t think it’s appropriate to talk about this.”

“If you don’t want to discuss it—”
I’ve hurt him. “It’s not that Daddy. I don’t know that it’ll help
matters to discuss things like this. So casually.”

“This hasn’t been easy for any of us,” Daddy reminds me, “and I think
it would help if you let us know what was really going on.”

“With my therapy sessions? Daddy it’s not important.”

“Baby girl, I nearly lost you. It scared me to death; it broke your
mama’s heart too. Don’t we deserve some reassurance? Your husband
deserves to know where he stands.”

“Frank, I’m fine.” John says breaking the uneasiness of our conversation.

“So is she, everything is back to normal…everything except your marriage.”

“I want to check Nicky. He’s probably wet,” I say to escape. John
looks sympathetic when he hands him to me. “Excuse me.”

My legs don’t carry me fast enough. My breaths are too short when
Nicky and I burst into the bathroom door. I hold onto Nicky in order
that I might suppress the urge to scream. Nicky’s wondering hands are
my reality check. He claws my neck with his tiny hands and I remember
what innocence means. It’s because of Nicky that I am still here, and
still willing to try.

“I love you so much honey.” He’s still at the age where kisses are
welcomed. I love that most about my little boy, that he can accept
everything I have to give and still love me back. And because I love
myself more now, I know that I have to call Dr. Shalit.
And I will.

Nicky is unremarkably calm when I undress him to change his diaper and
then redress him quickly. He might be the only men in my life who
understands what true pressure is. Whatever it is, he doesn’t give me
the trouble he normally does during diaper changes.

“If it isn’t the world’s most beautiful mother?” Roman says meeting me
in the hallway leading back to the main dining room. Hearing his voice
is unnerving. I haven’t talked to him in more than six months. I
haven’t looked into his familiar eyes or been able to apologize for my
breakdown in front of him. There is something quite natural about the
way he places his hand on my shoulder and squeezes. He doesn’t want
anything from me anymore.

“I’m sorry,” I say forcing myself to stop studying him and engage in a
conversation. Nicky has all of his attention. “How have you been?”

“I’m wonderful. I’m happy to see you Doc. You look beautiful. Can I …
hug you,” he asks reaching out.

Roman wraps his arms around me. We stay that way for a long time. At
one time, I loved this man with all of my heart. And he gave me babies
that have given me something more than happiness.

“This feels good Doc. I’ve really missed you,” he says finally pulling
away. “How are you? Are you really okay?”

“I really am.” I need Roman to know that. I feel like I owe him that
reassurance and I don’t know why. “I’m enjoying my life. I’m enjoying
motherhood again.” I tell Roman as I’m kissing the top of Nicky’s
head.

“He’s beautiful like you doc. Sami showed me pictures but they don’t
tell the story, do they? He has your eyes.”

“So they tell me.”

“Can I?”

I hand Nicky to Roman and watch how enthralled he is with my son. And
suddenly a flash of our former life strikes me. He was a good daddy
when he could be. He loved and cherished our babies before he was
taken away from us. He wanted more when he came back and he thought we
had another chance but I took that away from him. He lost Belle and
the chance that we could ever create another baby again, until the
castle. But we don’t talk about that baby. It hurts too many people to
even bring it up.
“I can’t believe you’re a mother again.”

I don’t know if he means because of my age or if he means after the
miscarriage; whichever meaning, I only politely nod at him and smile.
Nicky isn’t quite sure of Roman. He doesn’t look at him when he speaks
the way he does when his own daddy is talking to him.

“This is mommy’s good friend Nicky.” I whisper smoothing his hair
down. It’s taken to springing forth. “Roman, meet Nicholas.”

“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.” Roman shakes Nicky’s finger,
causing Nicky to fuss a little.

“He’s a forceful little boy and he so knows what he wants already. I
think he’s grown an inch everyday since he’s been home,” I ramble
proudly. My smile is impossible to compress. “I don’t know who he’s
more like. He loves attention. And he loves to be undressed.”

Roman listens with a wide grin while trying to settle Nicky, who is
still fussing.
“And he loves it when his mommy rambles on and on about him,” I say
leaning forward to kiss Nicky’s cheek. To any observer, it might look
as if the kiss was meant for Roman, and of course the observer is
John. His shadow towers in the doorway leading to the hallway. His
eyes move and settle on the scene before him.
“Hi pal, I was just admiring your baby boy. He’s beautiful.” Roman
tells John innocently. John responds in kind, smiling politely at us
both.

I expect him to react possessively. It only takes me a second to
remember the conversation we had about saying away from our former
spouses and lovers before I got sick. And surprisingly enough, John
doesn’t react in that way. He’s watching our son in Roman’s arms,
that’s clearly a thorn in his side, but he doesn’t reach for him. He
waits. But what is he waiting for? What is he not saying? Only staring
and waiting, which is torture for me.

“I think his grandparents are wondering where he is,” John tells Roman
matching eyes with me.

“I didn’t know your parents were both in town. Sami told me about
Martha. Maybe I’ll come by and say hello,” Roman suggests.

“It’s up to you. Can I have my son?” John asks, taking him without
Roman’s response. “Thank you. It was good seeing you again.”

“You too.”

It’s impossible that I was married to both of these men; that I’ve
hurt both of them by choosing one over the other only to go back on
those choices. I’m only reminded when we’re all with each other and I
have to look into each of their eyes, so different but the same pain
exists behind them. How could I have been so careless and gotten us
into so much trouble? I went from Roman’s bed to John’s and back to
Roman’s again. I did that.

Roman is kind enough not to bring those days up. We hide behind the
good memories. He’ll talk about Sami or Eric and what they were like
when he got to know them again. Or the small time we spent as a family
before admitted that I loved John. But I did this to them. I allowed
myself to become entangled in an unholy mess. I lied to myself and
Roman. He wasn’t the kind of husband that makes you turn away from
him. I turned away and John was there. And now he has to watch me and
John, being parents to our newest child, and see John sometimes
replace him as father to our twins and be a grandfather to Will. But
we can’t undo the past. I don’t know if I would change anything about
our past. I just know that being around them, now, being so aware of
who I was and am makes me think a little harder about our past.

“Honey, are you okay?” My daddy asks barreling into the hallway. The
awkward circle of my men narrows around me. Daddy links his arm into
mine and pulls me to his side. Sometimes he gets it.

“Thank you daddy,” I quietly tell him as he escorts me back to the
table. Sometimes I feel as if I could drown but always, always there
is a lifejacket thrown at me. This time it’s my daddy.

“Hey little girl, dance with me.” Daddy tells me when he hears “My
eyes adored you” playing. He twirls me around as he sings to me. Only
someone that I love so dearly could nearly destroy me with careless
words and then come back to rescue and love me.

“Daddy—”

“It’s okay. I don’t understand it. All the talky stuff, I’ll never
understand that baby girl but if it helps you, then it helps. I’ve
been trying to figure you out your entire life.”

“Have you?” I ask lying against his chest.

“No but I will. Don’t ever try to leave me again little girl. Promise me.”

Biting into my lip I swear that I won’t. I won’t ever disappoint him again.

****

“I think I owe you an apology,” I say to John when he closes the door
to our bedroom behind us. Nicky is sleeping in his bedroom. John is
quiet and has been ever since the encounter with Roman at Maggie’s
place. He doesn’t acknowledge what I’ve said to him. “John?”

“You don’t owe me anything.” He says coolly without turning around. He
undresses near the closet, dropping his clothes in a pile at his feet.
Why is it that we have to stay in the same room when there is a couch
downstairs? We’re just continually punishing each other; and knowingly
doing it.

“Well I think I do. I’m sorry about Roman and Nicky. I know your still
dealing with that whole thing.”

“What whole thing?” He says opening the balcony doors to let some air
in and to also continue avoiding me.

“What happened between Roman and me.”

“You can talk to whomever you want to talk to,” He tells me with his
back to me, “because we’re not married.”

I have a flash of anger, the first real pang that I’ve felt toward him
in a long time.

“My father is not the only one who has issues with that,” I say as a
question, “Please don’t use it against me John. There hasn’t been time
to think about that, really.”
“You only have time for you right. I understand that.”

“Do you?” I ask trying to balance the anger over his earlier comment
and some sort of understanding for his confusion. “I don’t think you
understand how hard this all is. I’m trying to be there for Nicky. You
have to understand that.”

“I understand that Nicholas needs you in top condition. I get that,
god do I understand that. But it’s becoming your favorite excuse.”

“It’s not an excuse. I’ve said from the very beginning that I’m here
because of Nicholas. This isn’t about you and me.”

He walks out onto the balcony and grips the rail, still not turning
around to face me. “This is about us, more than anything else. Nicky
wouldn’t be here if there hadn’t been an us. You keep forgetting
that.”

“John what is this really about?”

His body swivels around quickly and he starts toward me, stopping in
the balcony door. “What is this about?” he asks incredulously. “You
came home apologizing to me. You tell me what it’s about. You barely
let me look at you, let alone of touch you.” John says sadly.

“This isn’t about sex is it?”

“Marlena, you tell me no whenever I’m near you, but I see you kissing Roman.”
“I wasn’t,” I correct him, “I was kissing Nicky. Why are you so jealous of him?”
We’re still speaking in our normal voices. I’ve gotten past yelling at
John. It hasn’t helped me. It only alerts everyone else around us to
our problems.

“You made a baby with him while you were still my wife, and you have
to ask me that.”
“I made a baby with you when I was still his wife. It’s all relative
John…and I swore to myself that I wouldn’t do this with you anymore.”
I admit covering my face with my open palm.

“What, communicate with me?”

“No, argue about things that we can’t change. You can’t undo things
that have happened. We have to learn to move on.”

“You are moving on,” He tells me walking into the room with his hands
on his hips, “without me. You’re laughing in a hallway with your
ex-husband who is holding my son, after you told me you wouldn’t talk
to him anymore. I want to know why you’re so comfortable with everyone
except for me.”

“Because Roman doesn’t want or need anything from me John. He only
wants to be my friend. You see us and all you can see is our past
relationship, but when I see Roman, I see my friend. I needed to talk
to someone. I need someone to hear me.”
“I’m listening.” He says gritting his teeth.

“Your hearing only the things that you want to hear. Dr. Shalit told
me that you would do this. You have no right to turn this around and
make it about you or even us.”
“Am I supposed to linger until you make up your mind?”

I don’t know if he’s asking me if he can move on without me. It sounds
like he wants me to give him permission to do it. He hasn’t needed my
permission before. Not with Kristen or Kate. He did it, and then I
lived with his decisions.

“It’s up to you. I’ve told you how I feel.”

“So marry me again,” he says. It feels too impulsive. “I gave you a
ring again because I want you to be my wife. That’s what I want.”

“You don’t want that. I think you want me…physically and I can’t give
into that. John if I have to relearn things, and dig into myself, then
I want you to do that too. Think about this, you’re unhappy when
you’re not involved in a physical relationship. I’ve seen it over and
over again. First with Rebecca, and then Kristen.” I don’t dare say
Kate. I still get a churning in my stomach just thinking about their
relationship. “I don’t need that kind of relationship John.”

“You don’t seem to need anything from me anymore.” He says clearly
hurt by my dissertation on his past relationships. “You don’t need me
to hold you anymore. Or talk to you. I can’t make love to you.”

Everything is colored by sex. “John, I can’t make love to you. Don’t
you remember the last time that happened? I nearly killed Nicky. I
know it wasn’t me entirely. I was sick but I still think about that. I
just can’t stand the thought of you touching me right now.”
“Hasn’t your good doctor cured that yet?” He asks sarcastically. “You
obviously talk about my past relationships in therapy. Maybe you
should focus on that issue and then maybe you can decide what you need
from me again.”

Pointing angrily in his direction I control my voice and tell him, “I
don’t need you to talk to my father about me. I don’t need that kind
of pressure from you or him. I don’t need you turning him against me.
And I don’t need you to talk to Dr. Shalit.”

“Marlena, calm down.”

“I don’t need you to look at me like I’m committing adultery when I’m
having a conversation with my ex-husband or take my child away like
I’ve been a naughty mom. And please don’t patronize me. I’m not going
to argue with you.”

“I’m not arguing.”

“No your being an incorrigible. I need some space.” I say turning
away. I think my instincts knew that John would reach out and touch me
in some capacity because that’s what we do. He holds my arm and I feel
it, the lost of control. I’m afraid to turn around.

“It wasn’t always like that last time,” he whispers into my ear,
pressing his body into mine. I close my eyes. In my mind, I know it’s
been wonderful at times. The last beautiful time, before Nicky was
born, was right here in this bedroom. It started as a conversation. If
I remember it correctly, he came home feeling very amorous.
“What’s gotten into you?” I asked letting him take me by the hand from
the living room to our bedroom.

“You.” He told me closing our bedroom door and locking it. Belle and
Claire were still living with us. “I want to ask you something,” he
said sitting me down on the chaise in the corner our bedroom. He
kneeled in front of me and pulled my bare foot to his rest on his
thigh. “What do I do for you?”

I laughed until I realized he didn’t mean sexually. His eyes didn’t
falter from my face as he waited for me to answer. “What do you mean
what do you do for me?” I asked playfully rubbing my feet up and down
his thigh.

“I mean, I was listening to some radio station in the car. And they
were doing dedications.” He started rubbing my foot slowly, finding
his way leisurely upward. “A woman called in and said ‘I want to
dedicate a song to my husband because you know what you do for me.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t to me?” I questioned as I watched him bury his
hand beneath the material of my skirt where his fingers spidered
against my inner thigh. He was attentively watching me as he softly
massaged the sensitive skin there.

“I’m sure,” he said pushing the hem of my skirt to my upper thigh.
“And I thought about you. I wondered what you would say if I asked you
that.”

Leaning forward, I kissed him slowly in a line from his forehead to
his mouth. His lips were moist and pulled sensually on mine.

“Doc.” He said pulling back and pushing me gently against the chaise. “Tell me.”

“Well,” I started, watching him carefully as I spoke. He was listening
as he slid his fingers into my panties. “John, I’m not going to be
able to—”

“Try.” He commanded pulling the soft material from beneath me and back
down my legs.

“You are the most passionate man I’ve ever known.” I said trying to
breathe through his ministrations. His fingers crawled all over my
body. “I don’t mean sexually, I mean the world is so much more than I
ever knew before I had you in my life. You make me want to be better
at living.” He pulled my legs further apart and lowered his head to my
lap. He dragged his tongue to my center and kissed me there. I started
to writhe uncontrollably which forced him to hold my hips in place
while he continued to run his tongue against my sensitive skin. “Oh
John,” I moaned, as I bit into my bottom lip.

“Tell me,” He said as he breathed heavily against my skin.

“You make me want everyone to know what it’s like to be loved in the
way that you love me. You also made me believe in love at first
sight.” I managed to say as I writhed against his mouth. “And the most
beautiful thing about you is that your outside matches your inside.”
He didn’t stop as he pulled me to the floor. He lifted my legs to his
shoulders. He sucked softly at first and then hungrily until I reached
down and grasped his hair between my fingers.

“I’ve never loved like this,” I said slowly, relishing the affect of
John pleasing of me. “You gave me something more than love. You gave
me you. You gave me Belle.” Feeling completely out of control, I tried
to pull him from between my legs. I had to have his mouth on mine. He
crawled on his hands and knees up my body.
“I love you so much.” He told me reaching between us to undo my
jacket. I felt his hardness pressing into my thigh. As he fumbled with
my jacket, I undid his jeans and reached down to caress him. He
shuddered when I dragged my fingernails up and down his rigidness. I
sat up and helped him to peel my jacket off. When he reached to undo
my bra I pushed him backwards, onto the carpet and started to pull his
jeans down his legs. He pulled his t-shirt over his head and threw it
behind me. There were no words exchanged when he lifted me onto his
lap. I wrapped my legs around his back and held onto his shoulders
when we became one. Before he moved one inch, he gripped my hair from
the back and pulled my head back. He covered my mouth with his and
kissed me until I lifted myself up and then gently back down on him.
He wrapped his arms around my back to still me.

“This is what I want to do to you,” He whispered bringing his hips
against mine as we rocked together. He didn’t rush it at all. I was
already on the edge. He pushed into me once or twice before I started
whimpering. “Baby, Belle and Claire. You have to be quiet,” He
reminded me. I held on and let him lift me onto our bed. He pulled
himself out and turned me over in the bed. Everything inside me
converged when he climbed behind me and entered me again. His slow
pacing and tantalizing circles helped me to a quick climax. He held me
as he continued to pump furiously into my tenderness, making my body
shudder multiple times until he was rewarded with his own body
shattering climax causing us to collapse together.

After a short nap, I woke up to kisses across my stomach. I groggily
climbed into my favorite position, onto his lap; it was almost too
much to feel him inside as he touched and stroked my body. His
attentive fingers played in my hair, massaged my back, and rubbed my
thighs as he let me have control. I tried to slow down time with very
sensual rocking motions. I touched his face with curious fingers, like
I’ve never made love to him before. He whispered my name softly; but
it wasn’t Doc that he called me; he called me Marlena, over and over
in a low chant. When I felt my body gathering itself again to lose
control, I unlock my legs from around his hips and place my feet flat
on the bed. His hands meet at the small of my back where he pulled me
further into him, filling me completely. I finally broke the
soundlessness of our last few strokes when I moaned into his shoulder
and whimpered as he filled me again with his seed, as we came together
calling each other’s names.

That was the last time that it was beautiful.

John’s breath is on my neck when I try again to put space between us.
“You remember.” He reminds me as if he can see the memory that I just
had.

“I told you not to do that to me,” I tell him angrily pulling away.
I’ll sleep with Nicky tonight and see Dr. Shalit tomorrow.

Chapter 20

“Motherhood is a humbling experience. It’s pretty rewarding too,” I
share with Dr. Shalit. He has been unusually quiet ever since the
beginning of our session; unusually inattentive to details; and
unusually unresponsive to my self-rationalizing as a stale silence
rises between us. I speak after counting for two and a half minutes
inside my head, “Have I done something?”

“No,” he tells me, his voice non-committal. “What would you like to talk about?”

“We were talking about my children,” I remind him softly. He turns his
face away from me. His profile is strong and shadowed by a mask of
sadness, but his jaw is set in anger. “You’re still upset with me?”

“I’m not upset,” he chides me sternly, still facing away, “I’m simply
disappointed in you – I know how you dislike people feeling that way
about you.” His voice is suddenly apologetic. “You allowed them to
overshadow what we have been doing here.”

“Them?”

“Your family, more specifically your husband.”

“It wasn’t John. My life is complicated. I’m still trying to sort it
out,” I remind the man who has been my sanity for the last few months
of my life.

“That’s what I’m here for. That is what our work has been about.”

“I understand why you feel this way,” I tell him contrite with my
avoidance of him. “I’ve had the same reaction to patients. You take
them home with you everyday. It is highly impossible to stay
completely disengaged from every person we see. I still need you.
You’re my good doctor,” I say smiling at my father and John’s
description of him.

“You’re good doctor.” He repeats, smiling.

“Yes, and you are good and still so needed. It’s hard to explain
things to my father about my life. I know you think he puts too much
pressure on me.”

“You put too much pressure on yourself,” he says finally looking me
firmly in the face. “It’s a symptom of your childhood.”

“Maybe it is,” I allow, “but that is my life and I don’t think you or
anyone has any right to judge that.”

“I’m not judging you at all. I was worried about you.”

“I didn’t know how to come back,” I say without looking into those
intense brown eyes of his. The distant between us is small, only a
footstep separates us with me on the couch and Dr. Shalit in his
chair, leaning comfortably toward me. The anger has disappeared.

“You can always come back to me,” he says reaching to put his hand on
my knee. “I’ll always be right here.” Dr. Shalit affirms, squeezing my
knee.

“I know that and I appreciate it. I’ve really needed to talk to you
lately. It’s been kind of trying at home lately.”

“Talk to me about it,” he encourages.

“I’ve been terrible to John and I don’t think that I can help myself.
I have all this anger towards him. It’s a built up frustration that
has no specific rhyme or reason.”

“Don’t you feel he deserves that anger?”

“Sometimes yes, but he’s really doing the best that he can under our
strained circumstances. This hasn’t been easy for him.”

“It hasn’t been easy on you either.”

“We’ve all suffered. I’m surprised our family has managed to survive this.”

“Has it?” Dr. Shalit wonders curiously, scratching his temple.

“We’re still connected even with all the pain. I don’t think I could
stand to not have some sort of connection to John.”

“Well why do you push him away?”

“You tell me.”

“No, it’s you who has to decide why you can’t connect with John on an
emotional level beyond being parents to your children.”

Shrugging, I lean back against the cushioned couch.

“Do you trust John?”

Biting into my lip and lowering my eyes to Dr. Shalit’s shoe, “I don’t
trust him not to hurt me. He’s done that a lot in the past.”

“But we’re talking about the present. You were going to talk about
something that happened. I can read it in your face. What happened?”

The reason behind my curious expression has plagued me ever since the
argument John and I had in our bedroom. It’s also the reason I avoid
him.

“I don’t trust myself with him,” I admit shyly. “We argued. The reason
isn’t as important as my reaction to it.”

“What was the reason,” Dr. Shalit asks.

“Roman. Or maybe it was my mothering skills. Perhaps I’m not doing
things to his approval. It doesn’t take much to set us off.”

“Your ex-husband still causes John a great deal of stress.”

Nodding silently, I look toward Dr. Shalit. He states the facts about
my life as a matter of factly.

“It’s never-ending. We argued because he feels I allow people close to
me with the exception of him.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“Well I was surprised, I had this vivid recollection of the last time
that John and I were intimate,” I close my eyes as I whisper, “before
the act that caused Nicky’s premature birth.”

Dr. Shalit clears his throat, “what made you recall it?”
“John.”

“And how did you react?”

“I pushed him away.”

“Why?”

“I can’t allow myself to feel those emotions with John.” I reason,
knowing Dr. Shalit wants me to reveal more than that vague statement.
“But they are there. I remember telling you that I felt nothing for
John.”

“That’s changed?”

“It’s hard not to be affected by him. He wears his heart on his
sleeve. John is and has always been an all or nothing kind of person.
I know it upsets him to see me with Roman. He feels threatened – and I
told him so.”

“What was his reaction?”

“Sex or lack thereof,” I say clearly embarrassed, “There have been
some close calls.”

“You’re being inconsistent.” Dr. Shalit tells me taking his glasses
from his face.

“No, I’m being truthful.”

“You told me that you haven’t felt those feelings for John.”

“I hadn’t when we talked about it but I’m not clear on this, I’m
allowed to feel these things for my husband,” I say leaning forward,
closer to his face. “I haven’t succumbed to them but they are
definitely here.”

“So all it takes is for him to whisper into your ear?” His voice
matches the judgment in his face.

“Why are you so upset?” I ask, confused by his obvious disgust.

“I don’t want you to fall back so easily into those patterns. These
are the same patterns that brought you here.”

“No, what brought me here was my attempt to take my own life and the
life of my child. John and I have our issues but he’s not the only
reason that I became sick.”

“Why are you being so defensive? I’ve said things about John before,
the same kind of things in fact, and you’ve never reacted so
strongly.”

Standing to put space between us, “You’re attacking me.”

Dr. Shalit rises, “this isn’t like you. You know I’m here to help.”

“I appreciate that, but you’re judging me.” I say feeling vulnerable
in our close proximity. Dr. Shalit touches my shoulder and pulls me
toward him.

“You only think that you feel as if I’m judging you in some way. I’ve
never been anything except truthful with you. I’m not going to start
sugarcoating anything for your sake. You need someone to be truthful
in your life.” He says leading me back to the couch.

I pull away from his grasp, “No, I want this session to end.”

“Don’t give up when we’re finally getting to root of your problems.”

“John?”

“I didn’t say that.”

I turn and walk away. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” My
hand covers the doorknob. Turning it to leave would be my easy
solution, but something will not allow me to walk away that easily.
Almost as if he expected me to still be standing there, Dr. Shalit is
waiting with his arms folded impatiently over his chest when I release
the door and turn back to face him.

“It’s not that easy,” he says reading my mind.

“I’m sorry.” I tell him walking toward him. “I’m so confused.”
His lips press lightly against mine when we’re face to face. He kisses
me until I back away. Compelled to silence, we wait until the
confusion has passed. He touches his lips as I lick my lips and then
wipe them with the back of my hand.

“I’m so sorry.” He says moving to the safety of his chair, leaving me
standing in the place where he kissed me.

“I don’t know….”

He puts his hand up, “It was a momentary lapse in judgment. You were
looking so vulnerable and in your confusion I was drawn to you. I’m
sorry. Believe me, this will never happen again. Please forgive me.”

I touch my lips, “Dr. Shalit, I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you forgive me,” he says looking up apologetically. “This
shouldn’t impede our progress.”

“It shouldn’t,” I reason. “I think we are both just exhausted from all
of this. Can we call it a day? I need to get home to my son. I’ll
call.”

He stands and follows me to the door. “Please do.”

“I will,” I say biting back the tears lodged in my throat. Waving
goodbye, I rush from his office. My tears are immediate and
continuous. It’s not until I am in the parking garage of the penthouse
that I finally pull myself together enough to enter my house without
anyone suspecting that I’ve cried the entire way home.
*
“We need to discuss Nicky,” John tells me after walking into our front
door. He smiles at me when he notices Nicky on is back lying in front
of me.

“Can you believe it?” I ask lifting Nicky from the blanket on the
floor where we’ve been having our special time for the greater part of
the morning. “He’s developed so much in a short time.”

John kneels beside me, “He is six months. I remember Brady growing
like a sprout for the first six months.”

“I don’t remember Belle being so—” I hesitate only when I see his
face. The guilt is palpable. “It flies by so quickly.”

“It does.” He retorts focusing on Nicky. “Where are your parents?”
John asks, taking Nicky and holding him close to his chest.

“Mama dragged Daddy to some cultural event at the civic center
downtown. She says they never get out enough when they’re at home.”
Nicky turns his head toward the sound of my voice. “So we’ve been
spending quality time together.”

“Don’t you have an appointment with Dr. Shalit?”

I look away from John. “No.”

“So how was your day?”

“Well, your son had a bit of a moment this morning. He was frantic
when I put him down in his crib. He was decidedly annoyed with me when
I left the room.” The minutia of our lives is important to John. He’s
been vigilant about Nicky’s development. “I wasn’t gone for an entire
second. As soon as he saw my face, he stopped crying. I believe it is
a little like separation anxiety.”

“Is that why he’s been sleeping with you?”

I nod, smiling at Nicky’s attempt to put his father’s fingers against
his swollen gums. “He won’t sleep otherwise.” We’ve been testing each
other’s wills. Nicky is as stubborn as both of his parents. Teething
hasn’t helped his sleeping patterns much either. “He won’t take his
bottle if he’s not in my arms,” I inform John who has been trying to
keep himself away from me at night. He usually says goodnight to the
baby while I’m preparing for bed in the guestroom that has become my
bedroom. “I’ll wean him from that slowly.”

“I hope so, what are you going to do when you have to get back to
work? You’re going to need your rest.” He says while rubbing Nicky’s
upper gums with his thumb.

“I haven’t even thought that far ahead. I’ll manage.”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” He says putting Nicky
back on the blanket. “He’s wet.”

I begin diapering Nicky. He enjoys pulling his foot to his mouth
whenever he’s placed on his back.

“Eventually, you’re going to want to get back to work,” John says
leaning down to kiss Nicky’s cheek. “Nicky will need someone to watch
over him.”

“Watch over him?”

“Like we had for Belle and Brady,” John says matching my eyes, “a nanny.”

“I thought we didn’t want to do that,” I say recalling the time he
accused me of not fully being a parent to our children.

“Well I’ve thought about it. I’m working full-time or I will be here
in the next few months and your practice can’t survive without you for
much longer.”

“I recall a couple of times when you told me I didn’t have to work,” I
say playfully, “you promised to take care of me.”

John appreciates my attempt at humor. “Marlena, I know that your job
is very important to you. I’m just trying to help the situation and
alleviate any undue stress.”

“I appreciate you for trying, but I’m not ready to discuss this. I
think my practice is doing just fine for now.” Nicky volleys between
both of our voices, shaking his legs in the air.

“I’m glad we can discuss this civilly.” He says playing with the
baby’s foot. “He’s starting to look like a Black,” he decides, proudly
tracing Nicky’s face with a finger.

“He is an Evans too, you know.” Nicky laughs unexpectedly. John turns
and looks at me with a broad grin.

“He’s definitely your son with his wicked sense of humor.”

“I don’t have a wicked sense of humor,” I shyly deny watching Nicky
pull John’s finger into his mouth and sucks heavily on it. “His little
gums are so swollen.”

“I don’t mind,” John says rubbing Nicky’s tummy with his free hand. We
touch momentarily with our fingers colliding on Nicky’s chin. “He’s
going to be napping soon.”

“As long as we stay here, he’ll nap.” I remind him. Nicky looks his
father eye to eye before closing his mouth on his finger. John quickly
withdraws his finger from the baby’s mouth. “Daddy needs to get you
something for your mouth.” I suggest turning to look at John,
realizing we’re physically closer than we’ve been in weeks. “John.” I
say because I don’t know what else to say or do. When he leans closer,
and turns his body toward me, without thinking I mirror his body
movement.

“This feels normal.” He reaches up and covers my neck and chin with
his hand, pulling my face to meet his mouth.

“John.”

He continues deepening the connection between our mouths, pulling
softly on my bottom lip. The first thing that comes to mind is that
John is tenderer than Dr. Shalit. He is also surer of how I’ll
respond. His fingers leave warm imprints on my inflamed skin. With
John’s urging, I tilt my neck back. He tightens his mouth and
continues to urgently kiss me while holding my face. I wrap my arms
around his waist, allowing his free hand to trail down my back.

Nicholas interrupts our kiss, “Dah-Dah-Dah,”

John’s response is to hold me tighter, opening his eyes as he leans
against my forehead. “The boy certainly has timing.”

I attempt to control my accelerated breathing. “John.” I unwrap my
arms from his waist. We’re both overwhelmed. Nicky has never said any
thing that mirrors daddy; and I allowed Nicky’s daddy to kiss me
without pulling away.

“Thank you for this little boy,” he says releasing my face from his grasp.

“You had something to do with this little boy.” I follow his eyes that
are looking down at Nicky.

He looks up at me with more hope than I’ve seen in a long time. “Will
you do something for me?”

“I can’t,” I say closing my eyes. His hand is still resting on the
small of my back. “I’m sorry I can’t do that.”

He smiles as he traces his lips with the tips of his fingers, “Have
dinner with our family tonight.”

“Dinner?” I’m surprised at his suggestion.

“Yes, we’ll call the kids up and have an old-fashioned family dinner
here at the penthouse. We haven’t done that in a while.”

It would be incredibly easy to look into his face and forget, just for
one second that we’re not married; that we never hurt each other; and
that all we’ve ever felt for one another was love. But I’ve never been
a believer in the ‘easy’ and John has never been shallow in his effort
to mend fences where we are concerned.

“Do you think that’s wise?” I wonder aloud, drawing my legs to my chest.

“I think it’s needed. We can call Dr. Shalit,” he suggests seriously,
“because I don’t want to overwhelm you. The kids are strong Marlena.
We raised a very strong bunch but they are still unsure of what’s
going on here.”

“I’m still unsure too,” I admit pulling Nicholas from the floor to
stand in front of me. His legs are getting stronger. He grabs at
things, especially my legs or hair in order to balance himself. “But I
understand.” It’s impossible not to understand with our little boy
staring at me with my eyes and John’s dark hair. “Did you say daddy’s
name Nicky?”

“It’s common knowledge that boys say daddy first.” John rubs Nicholas’
back. “Isn’t that right my boy?”

“Eric didn’t.”

“Eric didn’t have a daddy when he was that age,” John reminds me. I
tend to forget about what it was like without John because when he
finally came into our lives, it felt as if he had always been there.
“But he did love his Mama.”

“Yes. I wish he were here.” Eric’s picture stares at me from the piano
where all the other children’s photos are. I haven’t seen my son in
over a year. “I miss the children when they were this age. I really
miss Eric. I think having Nicky makes me remember how much.”

**

“Dad,” Belle looks from me to John, “have you noticed that you don’t
call Mom by her nickname anymore.”

Both of my girls’ eyes veer in my direction, Sami is unrelenting.
Something about Lucas and their marriage has calmed her demeanor but
she still exudes an intenseness that she learned as John’s daughter.
Belle and Sami are such contrasts. Where Belle is quiet and
self-confident, Sami has struggled with having a valid voice and
loving herself enough not to be destructive. My daughters are both
beautiful and full of life. And before Belle’s comment, I was enjoying
sitting back and simply listening to them talk about their lives. They
each have men who love them, and children who they adore; and I wish
that I could be in their shoes. I wish I were starting over again.

John tries to recover from our daughter’s question by turning the
corners of his mouth upward into a sly grin. “You mean doc?”

“She’s right John, you haven’t called Mom that once since I’ve been
here.” Sami adds looking at John warmly. “We miss hearing that. Eric
and I used to have contests to see how many times you would say it
when Mom first came back home.”

“You were so little, how can you remember any of that,” I ask willing
myself to relive only the good memories of her childhood.

“I remember everything,” Sami says quietly. “I still remember the day
you left us. I know the day you came home. When you hugged me and said
I was a good hugger and kissed my hair.”

Her small arms had wrapped so tightly around my neck. I can still
smell the strawberry scent of her hair. She was barely old enough to
sit on the couch with her feet touching the ground. By that time, she
had already been through enough to scar any child emotionally. “Baby
girl, I guess it’s true what they say.”

“What Mom?” Sami asks.

“That childhood is a treasure house of memories.”

All of the children that I’ve raised from Carrie to Belle have been
touched by a sense of uncertainty and they carry it still. Carrie
found us after she’d already lived an uncertain life with her own
mother. She was an easy child who allowed me to mother her. Sami’s
quite unlike Carrie. She is spirited in the way that Samantha was.
Defiant. Her teenage years were hell, my affair didn’t help. The
contemptuousness that became a part of Sami’s personality was her way
of daring us not to love her. Sitting across from me as a married
woman with a son that she’s raised practically alone, I know that
she’s grown from her experiences.

“Why are you looking at me like that Mom?”

“I’m proud of you.”

She smiles, “you haven’t always been but I guess I didn’t really
deserve it then.”

Pausing only briefly, I remember that she hasn’t always been proud of
me either. “I haven’t always been the best being me either but I’m
happy you’ve found your way.”

Sami can do things like flip her hair or purse her lips a certain way
and I’ll be reminded of her being a little girl.

“Lucas and Will have that effect on me.” She is inordinately proud of
her son and husband. “I miss them so much. Lucas wanted Will to see
his grandfather before he grows another foot taller than us. It’s a
father son bonding thing Will told me.”

“I bet you didn’t ever think he would grow up to be a teenager, did you?”

“No, for some reason I thought he’d be a baby his entire life.”

John returns to the table, “Last minute business.”

I look behind him for our daughter. “Where is Belle?” They slipped out
quietly during my conversation with Sami.

“She’s coming.” He motions to the doorway of our often unused dining
room. John has a gift for ordering in which is from my lack of
culinary skills.

“Is Nicky awake?”

“He’s fine. I just checked on him. Frank and Martha will be here in a
moment, too.”

“I was beginning to worry,” I say looking at my watch. They have been
gone all day, since before Nicky and I had breakfast.

“Mom, someone wants to see her grandmother,” Belle says walking into
the dining room with Claire. “Shawn just dropped her off.”

I never thought I would enjoy the idea of being a grandmother. When
Sami gave birth to Will, she was so young that I couldn’t reconcile
the fact that she had made me a grandmother. I was still in the
process of trying to parent her. I’ve tried to embrace the role now.
And Claire’s so much like Belle that holding her fills me with
unexplainable happiness.

“Well isn’t this the face that I’ve been missing. Look how much you’ve
grown.” Claire is all legs and arms. She giggles showing her perfectly
even teeth. “Can I have a kiss?”

“Mama.”

Claire touches my face and leans forward to blow against my lips.

“I’m sorry about that. Shawn does that when he’s kisses her,” Belle
says apologetically. “Honey don’t do that to Grandma.”

“She’s fine Belle.” I assure her. Claire looks me over studiously. At
two she’s a very observant child. She traces my face with her finger,
looking for pieces of herself. She reminds me of Hope and Shawn with
small ounces of Belle mixed in. Claire is the remnant of another Brady
Evans union. I wonder if that ever bothers John. If he realizes that
we’re always going to be connected to the Brady family because of our
children.

“Pop Pop.”

Claire cries out when she realizes her grandfather is sitting a few
feet away from her. “Mama… Pop-Pop.” She looks at me, pointing to John
from my lap. “I want Pop Pop.” Claire’s command of language is
astounding. “Mama.”

“Claire wants her Pop-Pop.” I set her on her feet and watch her scurry
towards her grandfather’s open arms.

“She’s getting so big,” Sami observes waving to Claire.

“Shawn can’t believe how much she grows month by month.” She seems sad
when she says so. “He watches everything so closely.”

“Because he missed so much?” I ask, knowing the situation well.
“There’s no time like now.”

“Was it hard for you?” Belle asks sitting down.

“What?”

“Was it hard knowing that dad missed out on so much of my life?”

“At first it did bother me.” It had been my insistence that John
couldn’t possibly be her father. “I’m grateful for your father being
the kind of man that he is.”

Belle looks at her father. She won’t ever know what it was like when I
was pregnant with her. “He made up for it,” she assures me. “You both
did.”

“Good.”

John exchanges a warm look with Belle.

“Mom, I think there’s someone else who wants to see you,” Sami says suddenly.

“Sami wha—” Turning to see what John, Belle, and Sami are looking, in
the doorway behind me, “Eric?”

“Hi Mom,” he says stepping closer to me.

“Eric?”

I wrap my arms around his waist. He’s as tall and slender as the last
time we held each other. Mama and Daddy step into the room, smiling at
John.

“What are you doing here?” I ask wiping away my tears.

“Someone told me that you missed me.” He says looking at John. “He
sent his plane for me. How are you Mom?” Eric asks searching my face.
The most beautiful thing about my son besides his spirit is his eyes.
“Are you really okay?” He whispers tightening our embrace.

“I’m fine. I’m especially fine now that you’re here.”

“I’m sorry that it took so long,” he says still speaking quietly. “You
look well. I was afraid that you wouldn’t look the same.”

“I’m all right honey.” I squeeze him a final time before letting him
go. He walks to his sisters to greet them.

“Did you know about this?” I ask Daddy when he pulls me into his arms.

“Isn’t it wonderful,” Mama says touching my shoulder.

“It is.” I tell her looking at John who is quietly observing us with
Claire still playing on his lap. I mouth thank you. He nods and I let
go of daddy.

“Baby, it’s been so long since I’ve seen your face. I can’t believe
that you’re here. How long will you be here?”

“Just enjoy him,” Mama advises sitting down at the table. “I’m going
to enjoy this little one here. Hi Claire.”

Claire waves to Mama and then is promptly handed to her. Sami and
Belle kiss Daddy and offer him a seat at the table. John stands and
welcomes everyone graciously.

“I’m glad we’re all here. We’re missing a few of us but they are with
us. I just wanted to celebrate a few milestones,” he points to me,
“I’m happy to have my wife safely back with us and our children. I’m
just grateful and I wanted to share that with our family.”

“Thank you Daddy,” Belle says smiling.

Our children are visibly appreciative of the faces sitting around our
table. Eric moves to embrace John and then sits at his side.

“Can I see Nicholas?” Eric asks.

I’d forgotten about the baby with the influx of our family. “He was
napping when John last checked. We can go and check on him. Start
dinner without us,” I suggest reaching for Eric’s hand. “We’ll be
back.”

“Is he as cute as the pictures that you’ve sent me?”

“Even better,” I assure him climbing the steps with him behind me.
“Your brother is so yummy. He’s like you were, just utterly adorable.”

“I bet he is.”

Nicky is standing, holding onto the rungs of his crib. He brightens
when he realizes it’s me walking into his room.

“What are you doing up? He’s doing new things everyday.” He has been
trying to stand on the railing, practicing by scooting close enough to
grasp and rung and lift himself up to stand. “I’ve got to tell daddy
that we have to watch you more closely.”

“He is a good looking kid,” Eric says moving to stand in front of
Nicholas. “I’m your brother. I can’t believe there’s another little
kid running around here.”

“You can’t believe it,” I ask chuckling. “How do you think I feel? But
he’s my little blessing.”

Eric lifts the baby from the crib. “He’s the reason you’re so much
better, isn’t he? You were always good at being a mom.”

“Was I?”

“Sure, you don’t know that?” Eric asks looking shocked that I don’t know that.

“Yes, through everything you’ve always been a good mom.”

“Thank you honey,” I accept tearing up.

“So are you really better?”

“Yes,” I tell him confidently. “I’m really better. Everyday isn’t easy
but I don’t ever want to be in that place that I was in. I take
medicine and have therapy weekly.”

“John told me about that. I’ve been talking to him a lot lately.”

The neurotic part of me makes me wonder what he’s been telling my son.
But I allow the urge to pass as I watch the interaction between my
sons. Nicky is putting his fingers in Eric’s mouth the way he does
with everyone else. He opens his eyes wide and leans forward to
implant his wet lips on Eric’s chin.

“Mom, I’m sorry that I stayed away.”

Eric learned to cope by removing himself from situations. He’s been
doing that nearly all of his life. I started it by allowing him to go
to Colorado to live. He learned to pretend that everything is okay
when he’s there.

“It’s okay honey.”

“No, I was really worried about you when I heard. I was so scared to
come home and see you sick. We’ve lost you so many times already, I
just didn’t know if I could handle that again.”

“Baby, it’s really okay. We’re going to just have to do better.” Nicky
outstretches his arms for me to take him from Eric. “I need to get my
sweater from my room,” I tell Eric as we walk from the nursery.

He follows me into the guest room, “This is your room now?”

“Yes,” I answer plainly without looking at him.

“Why?”

“It’s easier this way… I think.”

“For who?” He asks walking out of the room with me.

I don’t have an answer for that question. “Trust me.”

Nicky starts talking when he sees John. He continues his series of
da-da to John’s amusement. I sit at the head of the table across from
John and watch as he revels in our children. During dinner we exchange
polite glances that Eric and Belle pay close attention to. It’s not
until we’re all sitting around the living room talking after dinner
that I realize how much they’ve been taking in.

“Mom, would it be strange if we came to one of your sessions?” Belle
inquires looking to Eric for support.

“That’s not unusual,” Eric tells her, “it’s called family counseling.
Right Mom?”

“Honey, family counseling is kind of a special circumstance. Things
such as a divorce and grief. My therapy isn’t that kind of therapy.” I
explain watching both of their reactions.

Sami joins the contingent, “We are sort of going through all of those things.”

“No honey, it’s not as complicated as all of that.”

“Mom, your not married to John. It’s a separation or divorce.” Sami
reminds me brazenly. “I think it would help us all to talk. We were
all scared when you got sick and we still don’t know what’s going on.”

“I’m getting better,” I tell them defensively.

“Well can we talk about the old times then? We never had therapy for
that.” Sami suggests looking to her twin for his support now.

“She’s right Mom.”

Belle chimes in, “it couldn’t hurt Mom. We want to know what’s going
on. You’re our mother. I think you owe it to us to do this for us.”

“Will you come John?” Eric asks.

“I’ll do whatever it takes,” John says watching Nicky and Claire
playing in his play pen. “As long as your mother is comfortable with
it.”

“Please Mom, for us,” Eric pleads with me.

I’ve never been able to turn him down.

“Whatever you want,” I tell them biting into my lip. “I’ll call Dr. Shalit.”

***

Nicky has fallen asleep cradled in my arms. He’s exhausted from being
Claire’s playmate for the last hour. She’s gone home with her mother.
Sami invited Eric to stay with her while he’s in town. And now after
all the noise, it’s very quiet. Nicky’s breathing holds my attention.
His chest moves up and down. He’s healthy. I remember thinking how
badly I assumed he was going to be damaged even before I tried to
damage him. He’ll have thick hair like John, it’s growing inches
daily.

“Is he asleep,” John asks standing in the doorway. “I didn’t get a
chance to tell him goodnight.”

“He is for now.”

John enters the room timidly, and kneels beside the bed where I’m
sitting up with Nicky. He touches Nicky’s back to rub it. “He’s
exhausted.”

“Your granddaughter is very exciting for him. He’s so used to us that
someone with her kind of energy excites him.”

“It was good to see them together.”

“It was wasn’t it?”

“All of them. Did you have a good time?”

“Yes, very much so.” I say feeling his breath on my arm. “I’ll try to
set him down on the bed.” Putting Nicky on his stomach makes him
unsettle and start to fuss. John moves to him quickly.

“Nicholas. It’s daddy. Shh,” He says hovering over him on the other
side of the bed. Nicky lifts his head to find his voice and turns and
sees me instead. He reaches for me again. “No Doc, let me.” John asks
covering Nicky’s back with his hand. He pats him softly while talking
to him. “You’re going to have to let Mommy get some rest here. You
can’t monopolize all of her time. You have her day and night; you’ve
got to learn to share.” He says smiling at me. Nicky has stopped
reaching for me and laid his head back on the bed. He’s looking in
John’s direction. “Daddy loves you so much, do you know that?”

“I think he does know that,” I tell John warmly. “Thank you for
everything you did tonight. I really appreciate what you did with
Eric.”

“Don’t thank me.”

“Well I want to.”

“He’s asleep,” John says standing up. He looks as exhausted as Nicky
was. “I’m glad you enjoyed the children Marlena.”
I find myself looking at his mouth, feeling the weight of them on my
lips from earlier. He turns to leave. “John.” I meet him by the door.
“Thank you.” I squeeze his hand.

“Are you sure you want to do the session with the kids? It can get
pretty detailed in there.”

I’m not sure but it’s already something that I promised. I look down
when I feel the weight of tears behind my ears.

He tilts my head back up, “Are you okay?”

“I really loved tonight.”

“I know you did.”

“Do you?” I ask stepping closer to him. My mouth is drawn to him. I
try not to think about anything except touching his lips. I initiate a
kiss. It’s small. A tiny tremble between our lips ripple and I draw
him closer into my mouth. His hand is in my hair pulling me toward
him. He pecks at my mouth as I try to find the depths of his. He grabs
my face on both sides and pulls me closer as I kiss him more
intensely. He pulls back to stop me when I reach around his neck. He
smiles and kisses me quickly.

“Goodnight,” He says leaving me speechless.

“Goodnight.”

Chapter 21

Being premature hasn’t impaired Nicky’s development in any noticeable
way. I expected him to slowly grasp what children who were born on
schedule have but Nicky has far surpassed those expectations. He is
always well aware of everything going on around him.

Nicky points in my direction. He watches me with inquisitive hazel
eyes. He has watched me every morning, swallowing the anti-depressant
pills that have kept me well. He is unaware that I am swallowing to
maintain my sanity. For Nicky. I’m doing well because he deserves a
mother who is well.

“These help me stay strong for you.” I tell him quietly. I want him to
remember everything about his childhood, even the quiet times like
now. I crave the normality of breakfast in our own home, in my own
kitchen. I like knowing that his father is upstairs showering. And
that together we’re going to take our son for his six month checkup.
“Your entirely too young to think that Mama can’t cook too.” The
unappetizing mix of milk and baby cereal doesn’t appeal to Nicky. He
closes his mouth, drawing a fierce line with his lips and leans away
from me and the offending spoon. The more he turns to avoid the spoon,
the more he reminds me of John. “We’re going to have to learn to love
this eventually honey. Try it for Mama.”

Nicky answers with an impatient thumping of his hand against the tray
of his high chair. Shaking his head fiercely, he tosses his bottle
over the edge, and then looks at me to see my reaction. He gauges that
I’m not upset enough not to appreciate his quick smile.

“You know just what to do don’t you?” It’s impossible that at six
months old, he is aware that it only takes his smile to make me happy.

His father startles me walking into the kitchen. “Good morning.” He
bends to retrieve Nicky’s bottle, cocking an eyebrow at our son. “Is
someone throwing a tantrum?”

Little droplets of water drip from John’s slick hair. I fight not to
reach and wipe them water sliding down his neck. “No just his bottle.”
It feels like we should discuss the fact that I kissed him, or maybe
even kiss each other again. He’s crouching down beside Nicholas’ high
chair, prompting an incompliant Nicky to say da-da. “Do you want some
tea?”

“How about something stronger,” he suggests, looking up to see me
standing at a comfortable distance away; still holding Nicky’s cereal
bowl and spoon, still unsure about mentioning our kiss.

“Coffee?”

“I’ll get it. Don’t we have to get going in a minute?” He looks at his
watch. Nicky’s appointment is in an hour. I guess we’re not going to
discuss it.

“We’ll be ready just as soon as I can get him to eat just a spoonful of cereal.”

John shrugs and walks to the coffee maker.

“You can’t only drink milk honey,” I say trying to coerce Nicky into
taking a spoonful of the thick cereal into his mouth. He clamps his
mouth closed again.

John walks behind me, “The boy knows what he wants.” I pay careful
attention to how close he is. Close enough to smell the clean scent
coating his skin.

“Perhaps he does. He must get that stubbornness from you.” His breath
warms the part of my neck that my ponytail exposes when he laughs.
Without touching me, he’s watching Nicky over my shoulder. The feeling
from the kiss in my bedroom rises again. I count his breaths. Each one
collides with the sensitive part of my neck. I don’t want to confuse
us anymore. “We should go.”
*

I appreciate that John has modified his life for our son. This
includes driving a practical Navigator instead of convertible sports
cars. He drums his fingers along the steering wheel to the rhythm of
‘Faithfully’; I can remember the exact position of his hands when we
did. Though the front compartment of the SUV is vast, it’s still small
enough for me to silently watch John. The close proximity, at one
time, was too much to handle but today, I just want to feel closer to
him. It could be my anxiety over our appointment with Dr. Shalit and
the children. It could be the fact that he’s been very sweet to me.

The thought of talking frankly with my children about things that I am
not so proud of occupies my mind while Nicky’s pediatrician examines
him. John is standing at Nicky’s side, holding his attention while Dr.
Anderson checks his ears.

“He’s developing well,” Dr. Anderson says pressing a stethoscope to
Nicky’s bare chest. “Heart is strong. Legs and arms seem strong. Is he
standing on his own? Sitting without assistance?”

I nod absentmindedly throughout his series of questions.

Dr. Anderson looks at me compassionately. “Good. Now those dreaded
shots,” he says rubbing Nicky’s foot. “It’s worse for the parents. The
child recovers I promise you.”

John realizes that he’ll have to see Nicky in pain and be unable to do
anything about it. He covers Nicky’s head with a comforting hand. I’ve
never watched Nicholas go through these painful shots. He received the
required amount while he was in the hospital and I was still under
sedation. “Which brave parent wants to hold him?” Dr Anderson asks
knowing that John will be the braver of us.

“I can’t do it.” I don’t want to see him being hurt, not even if it’s
required of me. John nods and lifts Nicky to pull him into his lap.

“There will be multiple shots,” Dr. Anderson explains to John as I
rise to leave. He looks sympathetic. Closing the door behind me, I
walk only a few steps away. I wait for Nicky to realize I’m no longer
there. He does; his cry begins low. The volume rises through the door;
I hear John trying to settle him. I cover my ears and walk further
down when Nicky’s screams pierce the hallway. A nurse walks by me and
asks if I’m all right.

“Marlena.” John’s voice is frantic. I force myself to walk back into
that room where my son’s eyes find me as soon as I open the door. He
reaches over his father’s shoulder.

“Oh baby.” I’m supposed to be able to handle this part of motherhood.
I don’t know how I did so with Belle or any of the other children. I
couldn’t have managed it alone. Nicky’s crying not subsiding makes me
visibly tremble. How can I soothe his emotions when I’m overwrought
myself? Nothing calms him; not my hand on his back or my lips on his
forehead. “Baby please don’t cry. Mama’s here.” Nicky seeks the space
between my neck and shoulder and cranes his head there. “I’m sorry I
left you honey. Mama couldn’t take seeing you go through that. But
your daddy was brave, wasn’t he? I’m so sorry baby.”

“It’s okay,” John whispers circling his arms around me with Nicky
between us. Nicholas seems content to be in my arms. John holds us
tighter, rubbing my back as he kisses Nicky. “Are you okay?” He asks
both of us. Nicky lifts his head and searches for John.

“You should be careful with this area,” Dr. Anderson instructs us
pointing to Nicky’s thigh. “The location of his shots will be tender.”

“Don’t cry Marlena,” John pleads with me, loosening his hold on us. He
uses his thumb to wipe my tears away.

“I’m sorry. This is tough.” I admit sadly.

“I know. I don’t like it anymore than you,” John assures me. He leads
me by the waist to the chair I occupied before. “He’s going to be
fine.”

Dr. Anderson stands across from us. “He will, I assure you.”

Nicky’s crying abates when he’s able to rest against my chest again.

“He may be a little irritable today.”
“Isn’t there a possibility of a fever?” I ask soothing Nicky’s back.
“Mama’s not going to let anyone else do anything to you.” I whisper.

“There is a small chance of that but just keep an eye out for it.”

He pulls out a script pad. “I’ll prescribe some Ibuprofen just in case.”

Nicky’s whimpering is distracting. “You would think I haven’t gone
through this before,” I say apologetically. “It doesn’t get any easier
with experience.”

“It’s okay. You handled that better than most mothers. Are there any other
concerns that you want to discuss with me?”

John glances at the way Nicky is clinging to me. “Marlena thinks that
Nicholas is suffering from separation anxiety.”

“He’s demonstrated some those symptoms,” Dr. Anderson says turning his
gaze to me, “you must be his primary caregiver?”

“We both are,” John interjects.

“Is it perhaps your wife spends the majority of the time with him Mr.
Black. It’s apparent that he is severely attached to her.” John tenses
at his assessment. “This anxiety is an absolutely normal stage of
Nicholas’ development. Nicholas doesn’t realize that he and his mother
are two separate people.” The doctor is directing his consideration of
the situation to John. “It’ll dissipate over time. He’ll grow more
confident and discover his own personhood. Is it an issue at night?”

“He sleeps with me.” I say shifting Nicky who has fallen asleep on my
shoulder. His fingers are circled around my thumb. “I know it’s just a
matter of time before he finds him independence.” I feel guilty that
John seems to feel left out of our bond.

“Does he have stranger anxiety?”

“No, he’s quite friendly with people. He doesn’t mind being with
others as long as I’m in the same room with him. My parents have been
staying with us and he has gotten used to having my mother with him
while I’m away for short periods of time.”

“Well, he’ll get over this stage. It’ll be tough for you,” he tells me
without deliberately intending to shun John. “It’s up to you on the
way to handle this.”

John is thoughtful about Dr. Anderson assessment. “Is his sleeping
with his mother a good idea?”

“If that’s what it takes to get a good night’s sleep.”

“So everything is okay? He’s fine otherwise?” John asks, helping me up.

“Everything is perfect,” Dr. Anderson tells us as he’s leaving, “just
keep an eye on him tonight.”

“Thank you.”
“I know your feeling anxious about leaving him,” John tells me after
Dr. Anderson is gone. He maneuvers Nicky’s stiff arm into the sleeve
of his jacket. “But he’s going to be fine with your parents.”

“I know the kids would understand if we have to reschedule.” I suggest.
“Eric didn’t say how long he’d be in town. I don’t think we should
postpone this.”
**
Dr. Shalit is clean-shaven when we all enter the room where our
session will be. He doesn’t seem like the man I first met. Perhaps
we’ve gone too far in our relationship. Perhaps it’s awkward because
we’ve kissed. He looks very different without the black and gray beard
that once covered his face. If it’s possible, his eyes are more
intense without it. He’s dressed in tan slacks and a neutral buttoned
down shirt.

The children are weary of any kind of doctor having a place in my
life, after what happened with Alex. Especially Belle. She looks
timidly in his direction, staying close to her father. They each scour
his face, looking for some sign of Alex North.

Eric is the first to shake his hand and introduce himself; Sami stands
protectively at his side. John remains silent.

“What do we do?” Sami asks. She looks around the room. “Mom?” Her eyes
nervously volley between Dr. Shalit and me. I’ve never had a session
in this room. It’s less defined without the art or knick knack pieces
that populate Dr. Shalit’s office. The white walls and ceiling make
the room seem boundless.

“You have a seat,” Dr. Shalit offers, “and we make introductions. You
must be Sami.” He stands near the edge of the couch where Sami and
Belle and have taken seats beside each other.

“I’m Belle Kiriakis.” Belle extends her arm toward Dr. Shalit. He
looks her over closely; he is searching for traces of me. Belle’s
conception and birth have been the subject of many of our sessions.

“You are the baby of the family?” Dr. Shalit says avoiding eye contact with me.
She shakes her head, “not anymore.”

“Oh yes, little Nicholas has taken that distinction.” Dr. Shalit
motions for Eric, John and me to take a seat, too. “We can get
started. I’m Dr. Shalit, your mother’s therapist. I’m sure that you
know that we’ve been working together for quite a bit. She has
informed me that you all would like to join in her recovery.” Without
looking at John, Dr. Shalit sits in the seat across from us. “I
welcome that.”

“We’re grateful for how far she’s come,” Belle says politely.

“It’s all thanks to your mother,” he tells her smiling. “She’s faced
some tough things over the past year but she’s doing well. I think
it’s critical to explore past behavior in order to diagnose things.
I’ve heard a lot about your family but I want to know what it was like
from each of your standpoints.”

“Our standpoints?” Eric says glancing at John and me. He’s never
talked about what our affair did to him with all of us in the same
room.

“It’s your family too, right? You have opinions about the past.
Everything in your past predicts your future.”

“I’m well aware of that, I just didn’t think we’d be talking about
things that happened so long ago.” Eric says looking uncomfortable.
“I’m not sure how that matters.”

“Everything matters.” Dr. Shalit informs him. “Now Eric, you’ve lived
in Colorado since you were a child?”

“No, I moved there when I was a teenager.” Eric corrects him. He and
Sami, who are sitting beside each other naturally grasp for each
other’s hands.

“With your grandparents?” Eric nods. “Now that was before John turned
out not to be your father?” Eric squeezes Sami’s hand as he nods
again. “How did you mother’s affair with John affect you?”

“It didn’t affect me at all.” My son mutters. I can tell from the look
on his face that he didn’t think it would be so open. He turns so that
we are not looking at one another when he answers. “John was the only
father I ever knew.”

“But that doesn’t answer how you were affected,” Dr. Shalit challenges
him. “Your life was basically turned upside down when your mother and
father divorced.”

“I was never really apart of that family.” He edits himself, “I never
really felt like I was in that family.”

“What family?”

“From the time I was a little boy, I clearly remember my father being
John and my mother, even in memory as Mom. I don’t remember any family
besides that up until the time I left.”

Sami interrupts the one on one between Dr. Shalit and Eric. “My
brother doesn’t have the same experience with mom’s affair as we do.
He wasn’t here.” I see her tuck her fingers beneath her leg, the way
she used to as a child. She’s nervous.

“Would you say that you’re the one who was most affected by the affair?”
She looks up to see me looking at her. I don’t want to discourage her
from saying what she needs to say—what she’s needed to say in this
kind of environment since her discovery of our affair. But Belle—she
doesn’t have the same sense of the affair that Sami does. Sami is
mindful of her little sister. No matter what happened, she’s always
loved her, even if she has also been jealous.

“Go on Sami,” I encourage her. Even if she doesn’t know it, I know
that she needs to get it out.

“I guess I was.” She shrugs as if she doesn’t really know. “I lived in
the house with Mom when my father found out about the affair.” John is
aware of how uncomfortable Belle is with the subject of her
conception. He reaches behind me to console Belle with a back rub. “It
was tough.”

“Your mother’s betrayal was tough?”

“She didn’t betray me,” Sami replies in quiet anger. “It had nothing
to do with me.”

“It’s surprising that you and your brother have similar feelings about
not being apart of what happened to your family.”

“It didn’t happen to our family. It happened to Mom and John.” Sami
clarifies abruptly.

“No Sami, it happened to your entire family.” A hush overtakes the
room. Dr. Shalit looks at each of my children closely. He is observing
their body language. How Eric and Sami have gotten closer while Belle
presses against me. “Are you ready to get real?” Dr. Shalit asks after
allowing them to settle. “How did it make you feel Sami?”

“Upset.” She says without hesitation. “Who wouldn’t be upset? I saw my
mother making love.” Sami details without flinching. “I didn’t know
what to do or say to her after that, not for a long time. Every time I
saw her, I wanted to hurt her.”

“The way she’d hurt you?”

Dr. Shalit has given her a new way to think about it. “I thought it
had a lot to do with my dad maybe it wasn’t him at all I was trying to
lash out for.” Sami’s body tenses. “That’s not how I feel anymore. I
want my mom to be happy and I know that she’s happier when she’s with
John.”

He ignores her revelation. “Sami I’m going to be frank with you. I’ve
heard all about your past. You’ve done a lot of hurtful things to
people.”
“I was very immature.” Sami admits freely.

“You were only coping with the tools that you were given as a child.
Children whose parents are experiencing marital conflict feel many
emotions — guilt, confusion, loneliness, sadness, fear, worry,
abandonment, and many other excruciating feelings. When a child is
losing the security base of a strong marriage they are bombarded with
pain. You’ve never dealt with the pain. You only learned to justify
and deny that it existed. You acted out.”

“I was a teenager,” Sami tells him dismissively. “And I don’t think my
parents’ marriage was ever that strong.”

“You didn’t know that then. As a teenager you learned to lie, the way
you saw your mother doing over and over again.”

John taps his feet impatiently. “It’s okay,” I whisper, touching his
knee. “He’s trying to help her.”

“Lying is allowed if it spares another from pain or spares you from
punishment. You kept your mother’s secret. You didn’t tell your
daddy.”

Sami’s face is pained when she has to agree. “I didn’t want to.”

“It wasn’t until you were an adult that you finally exhibited some of
the things you saw in your childhood. I’ve heard about the
circumstances surrounding your son and his father. You learned how to
be thoughtless — doing what you please regardless of how it affects
other people.”

“Don’t you think your being a little tough,” Eric questions watching
his sister take it all in. “She was a child. She’s not responsible for
any of this.”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling her.”

“You’re excusing her behavior,” John asks. “We teach our children to
take responsibility for their actions. Sami’s come a long way from
that girl.”

“Marital discord is hard enough on children. It undermines the basic
security needed for them to learn and grow. But to add infidelity to a
troubled marriage turns a problem into a disaster. Parents who have an
affair are teaching their children very important rules that are
likely to be followed for the rest of their lives. It ultimately not
only undermines their marital relationships but it also seriously
hurts their own chances for success in most other areas of life.”

We are on display, attacked and being chided for giving into our
desires. It’s painful but my baby is finding some kind of repentance
in his words. They are painful but very truthful. “He’s right John.
Sami’s problems are a direct result of our affair.”

“Mom, I’m the result of that affair.” Belle says suddenly. “How do you
think I feel being the cause of all of this?”

“Honey, you weren’t the cause of anything.” John tells Belle. “I loved
your mother. There was nothing wrong with how you came to us. Do you
understand me?”

“Daddy.” Belle doesn’t know how to answer her father. “Sami and Eric
lost their family because of me.”

“No we didn’t Sis,” Eric dissuades her. “There wasn’t much of a family anyway.”

Dr. Shalit imposes on Belle, “How do you feel about all of this Belle?”

She drops her chin to her chest. “Responsible.”

“Well your not,” I say cupping her chin. “None of you are responsible
for what happened. The blame is mine. I take it fully.”

“Mom, you did a bad thing,” Eric says turning to me, “but it was our
choice to move on and learn from those mistakes.”

“Do you think I was a mistake?” Belle asks her brother. She’s on the
verge of tears and I feel her father’s body tensing beside me.

“I don’t think you could have ever been a mistake.” Eric tells her
kindly. “This isn’t what we’re here for. We don’t need to rehash
this.”

Dr. Shalit sits back and places his hands in his lap. “This is
precisely what you’re here for. Do you realize that your mother’s
breakdown was the result of all of this inner turmoil?” He motions
upward. “She’s been holding this all in. You’ve all been through hell,
but especially her. She feels responsible for every bad thing that has
ever happened in your life. Don’t you?”

I can only shake my head.

“But it’s not your fault, not all of it.” Sami says looking from me to John.

John takes her cue. “No Sami, you’re right. I take part of the blame
for what happened. But Belle,” John takes her hand from me. “You were
very much wanted.” I look at him to stop him for revealing what he did
to me. She doesn’t have to know that part of it. “I don’t regret for
one second that I fell in love with your mother.”

“But Daddy…”

“Izzy, it couldn’t be helped. I loved her. I wanted her very much and
when I found out about you, I was ecstatic. When your mom put you in
my arms for the first time, after we knew, I knew I would never love
another little girl as much as I loved you.” He doesn’t see that
Sami’s face has fallen. He felt the same way about Sami when he’d
first held her all those years ago. “You brought me and your mom
together.”

Dr. Shalit has been watching the children take what John has to say to
Belle in. He’s more concerned with Eric’s twin than anyone else.
“Sami?” When John hears her name, he finally looks up to see the hurt
in her face. “How does that make you feel?”

“He loves her. He’s always loved Belle.” She doesn’t sound bitter,
only sad. “I remember when he felt that way about me and Eric.”

“Sami…”

“Let her finish John,” Dr. Shalit interrupts. “She has to get this out.”

“When did this all become about me? I’m fine. We’re here to talk about Mom.”

“I’m here to help you all. Do you believe John loves you?”

Sami shrugs.

“Of course I love you,” John tells her. I stop him from continuing by
pressing my hand to his chin.

“Do you?”

“I know that he used to love me in that way and I’ve done a lot of
really crazy things to stop him from loving me.”

“You were sort of daring him to love you. You don’t think you deserve
it as much as Belle.”

“Not always.”

“Always.” John assures her. It’s been tough for them to find a mutual
space to share in my life but I’ve never questioned his love for any
of the children. “Don’t you remember that I was your daddy first? You
made it easier to love Belle because I’d already known that kind of
love with you and Eric.”

“It’s hard to admit that you love John, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know why,” Sami confesses. “He’s been really good to me. And
Belle, it’s not because I’m jealous of you. It’s just that he was my
daddy first and then you came.”

“I’m sorry,” Belle tells her sister pitifully.

“You have nothing to be sorry for. None of you,” I say finally
speaking up. “Sami, I love you and you know that I always will. No
matter how much you fight it or how much you exasperate me, I’m going
to love you. I’m sorry that you had to deal with such grown up things
as a little girl. Truly sorry. You didn’t deserve what happened to
your family anymore than Belle deserves to feel guilty for being
born.”

“Are you guilty?” Dr. Shalit asks me.

“Of course I am but I can’t change any of it. I love my children. All
of them and it doesn’t matter to me how they came to be in my life.”

“You didn’t feel that way before,” he counters. I feel the attention
fall to me. “You were very concerned about some aspects of your
children’s conception.”

“Well I feel differently about it now.” I know what he’s referring
to—the same truth that I couldn’t bear to let John reveal to Belle.

“Have you forgiven yourself for allowing John to dictate your life?”

I haven’t forgiven myself for many things. More importantly, the way
that Sami and Eric look at me with wounded eyes. “Children if I could
have done things differently but ended up with the same result I would
have.”

“You would still love John?” Sami asks.

“I would still…make love to John, yes. I’m sorry if that’s tough to
hear but it’s true. He didn’t dictate anything other than making me
take responsibility for my feelings.” I don’t have the nerve to look
at John. The steely gazes of my children are enough. Sami and Eric
absorb what it means maturely. “I know that it’s wrong to be
unfaithful. I’m sorry that I betrayed Roman. He’s a good man. He was a
good husband. It’s just that heart wants what it wants,” I say trying
to simplify the mess of our lives. “I guess not dealing with this when
it happened was an unhealthy choice. I made myself sick with it. I
know now that I haven’t forgiven myself for what happened. And that’s
what this really is about. I know I’m well and I plan to remain that
way.”

“Mom,” Eric’s eyes settle compassionately on me. “You have to forgive yourself.”

“I’m trying.”

“Eric’s right Mom, you have to forgive yourself for being human.” Sami
says. Her maturity is heartwarming. “I’ve forgiven you for that a long
time ago. I just haven’t been able to admit it to you.”

“I don’t blame you for anything that I haven’t done myself,” Eric
assures me. “None of us have the right to blame you or John for
anything. So please let this go. We’re alright.”

“Sami?”
“Mom, believe me. I want you to be happy.” Dr. Shalit’s words are
irrelevant when I feel my children’s arms around me. John and Belle
allow the twins to sit on either side of me. It’s much harder to
forgive yourself than it is to forgive others.

Chapter 22

I often wonder what our lives would have been like had we been gifted
with the normality of everyone else’s life. If John had been my high
school sweetheart, and if we’d married like normal couples did—what
could that life have been like? Because John doesn’t remember what his
life was like before me, it is my duty to carry the memories of what a
normal childhood is. I brood over the possibility of normal because I
know what it is. I remember my parents and my childhood. How normal
that was. I have good and wonderful memories; they are lasting pieces
of my past that reside with not only me but also with my parents. I
can look into my father’s face and still see myself. When I look at
John, I can see myself, too. I can also see Nicky, Belle, and Brady in
John’s eyes. These little pieces of John’s humanity, intricately
balanced in three distinctive persons. Our children are the greatest
achievements we’ve ever had together and apart.

Where does the bond between child and parent separate? When did our
children grow into the wonderful people that looked into my eyes with
such profound forgiveness? I didn’t know that I had yearned so deeply
for their forgiveness. I’ve always felt as if I haven’t given them
enough of me, that my absences from their lives had adversely affected
each of them. The scars have diminished and through some inner
strength they have triumphed.

“They have matured so much over these past couple of years,” John says
proudly of the twins as if he were reading my mind. Even in the
dimness of the car his upbeat spirit is apparent. Dusk has settled
around Salem as he drives us back home. By the gleam of his eye, it’s
apparent that the memory of them being our babies is never far. “It
was good to hear them say the things they said to you.”
I agree, nodding on cue.

Forgiveness is a gift we have to learn to give to ourselves. I can
forgive people because they are human. That’s one part of the human
condition that we can’t escape. We all make mistakes. We will
inevitably hurt those who we claim to love the most. “It’s true what I
said in there John. I was truly sick over what happened between the
three of us.” I don’t need to mention Roman again; he lives in the
shadows of our memories. “When I swallowed those pills,” my voice
trembles uncontrollably, “I was so sick and tired of being sick and
tired. I didn’t have the strength to hurt one more person. I
especially didn’t have the strength to feel any more pain.”
Suicide is such a severe form of rejection. I don’t think anyone who
hasn’t gone into that abyss can truly grasp the extent of it. “I was
rejecting my life.” I explain, looking out of the window. We’ve driven
home this way countless times. Down these streets that are named for
U.S. presidents. Across the long bridge that takes us toward the
penthouse. In the same way that driving through the city in the same
way makes sense, suicide just made sense then. “I was rejecting the
idea of so much but more than anything else, it was the idea of you
not loving me.”

“Honey, I’ve always loved you.” His sincerity sends butterflies
circling my stomach.

“Oh John I know that, but it’s as if my mind didn’t want to believe in
your love. I gave in. I had one devastating moment of weakness that
resulted in me trying to take my life.”

He lowers the volume of the melancholy song playing on the radio.
Fields of Gold. We’ve made love to it once or twice. “You don’t ever
have to feel that lonely.” His hand stops short of touching my leg. He
drops it on the console between us.

“Can I tell you something?”

“You can tell me anything.” John tells me kindly. “You know that Marlena.”

“The pedestal is a lonely place,” I say facing him.

“Is it?” He asks furrowing his brow. “Did I put you there?”

“You have.” I tell him pulling my hair behind my ear. I’ve noticed
that I do so when I’m nervous. “My parents have. Don. Roman.” Every
person I have loved has placed me on that unbearably lonely throne.
Teachers. Grandparents. Friends. My children. “Do you understand?”

“That you’re imperfect,” he says without the intention of hurting my
feelings. “I don’t know about anyone else or how they have felt about
you. I just know that you were my life and I worshipped you.”

“I know.” This was all before I decided not to have a past. Before the
amnesia. “I’ve never really been brave enough to ask this.”

“What?” He asks drumming nervous fingers against the steering wheel.

“Suppose I was never able to get better.” During the darkness, I
wondered how I could have survived without him. It’s never been
something I thought I could do. “Just suppose that you had to raise
Nicholas alone. How would you do so? Could you move on?”

“Let me ask you something,” John says covering my wrist with his hand.
“If we didn’t have Nicky, would we be apart now?” There is a sadness
punctuating his question.

I recollect the conversations we had after I came home from the
hospital. We said that were going to be parents to our son. Nothing
more or less. That was what we told each other. I said so thinking
that it could be true somewhere in my mind; It was never true.
“Nicholas has brought us significantly closer over these past few
months. It’s the blessing in the storm but if there was no Nicholas, I
would hope that there could still be an us. John, I don’t want to be
Nicholas’ mommy without you. I want a mommy, a daddy, and baby.”

“Daddy is right here.” John rubs the pad of his thumb across my skin.
“As for us, I know that it’s been difficult. You and I have been
through hell.”

“Literally.”

“Yes,” he adds laughing, “literally. I haven’t known what to do or say
to you. The situation changes minute by minute. In one breath, I want
to be very far away from you,” the timbre of his voice strengthens,
“but I know as well as you do, even when I’m not with you…you’re
still so much apart of me. I’m sort of confused by some of the things
that have been happening between us lately.”

I know his confusion is because I have kissed him twice without
explanations. “So am I. I didn’t mean to confuse you. I just miss…I
miss it.” Thank God for the shadow that hides the embarrassment
warming my cheeks. “I just feel released and unburdened now and I
wanted to share some of that with you. There are days still, when I
look at you and I’m certain that it’s all I’ll ever want–you and our
family. And like you, there are days when I feel like I’ll suffocate
from it.” Today is not one of those days, being with my children and
John as a family was anything but overwhelming. “I want to share my
life with you. Every part.”

“Honey, if the timing were right I wouldn’t mind sharing,” he raises
his eyebrow suggestively, “my love with you. But when that happens, I
want it to be perfect. I want the timing to be right. And I want you
to be sure.”

“Sure?” I struggle to say.

“Yes honey, sure. I want to be absolutely sure that you’re ready to
become mine again. Fully.” He groans at his lack of tact. “I know how
much you hate that chauvinistic possessive thing but you know me. You
know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“I do,” I say leaning heavily against the cushioned seat. “I’ve just
been so distant. It’s lonely. I’ve never felt lonelier in my life. And
I realized today, after I saw you taking such good care of our little
boy how very much I need you. I really need you.”

“And how much do you really need me?” He asks me seriously. “Enough to
marry me again?”

I’d marry him forever, over and over until we got it right. I realize
that I haven’t really tried very hard to appeal to him. In fact I’ve
done the opposite. I shut down that part of myself. I didn’t want him
to want to love me in that way. “You still want to marry me?” My eyes
ease from his face. The cast of the disappearing Sun seems a softer
place to focus my attention.

“I always marry you.” He chuckled and held my left hand up to inspect
it. “You drive me crazy honey, but I’ll always want to be with you.
I’ve heard you over these last couple of months.”
My purse vibrates near my foot but I choose to spend this moment with
John as he kisses my bare ring finger. “When you had Nicky I couldn’t
see what kind of madness you were living in. I was very angry with
you. The lady that I know couldn’t be as cold as you were to me. You
said some very hurtful things to me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be sorry. It’s opened up my eyes. I really hurt you over
the years, haven’t I? More than I ever knew. I mean with Kristen and
Hope. Kate. I really broke your heart.” He has a way of sounding
vulnerable and strong.

“Well, I allowed my heart to be broken,” I say recognizing the
pre-school Belle attended. It’s still there. She has made me a
grandmother and yet the place where she spent afternoons waiting for
me to pick her up remains. It is also the dance studio that she begged
me to join when she was six years old and obsessed with Belle from
Beauty and the Beast.

“Honey?”

His voice pulls me toward him again. “I was thinking of when Belle was
in school there. That was one of the normal things about her
childhood.”

“You don’t want to talk about…”

Who would? “It’s not that, it’s just a very painful part of us.”

“I didn’t bring it up to hurt you. I only wanted to tell you that when
you said that I seek sexual relationships out, I heard you.”

“I didn’t mean for it to sound like that.” Not that he was prowling
around for unsuspecting women. “As a woman, it’s hard for me to deal
with you being…” I search for a better description that doesn’t hinder
on crassness. “I don’t like the idea of you being inside them. There
were times when the thought of that overtook any rational thought I
possessed. They experienced the most intimate part of you—I hated you
for that. I looked at those relationships as if I had done something
wrong.”

“You were always wonderful. I love making love to you.”

“It’s not about that; it’s that you actually merged with them. I
always wanted to believe that I was enough for you never to want to
make love to anyone else.”

“I haven’t, not in any meaningful way.” He tries explaining while
still holding my hand. “It’s not the same as when you were Roman. You
loved him. You shared a piece of yourself that I thought belonged to
only me.”

“Well think about that. How does it make you feel to know that he was
there, in a place that you know intimately?” I can only imagine how
painful hearing me say that is. I imagine it because I can’t turn to
him. “I haven’t made love to anyone in the past 20 years besides you,”
I remind him, “and Roman.”

“I want to kill him every time I see him.” John admits glowering
involuntarily as I examine him out of the corner of my eye. “Most men
sit around and talk about how much they dislike their lives. They
prowl and screw around with these younger versions of their wives.
That was never my story. I adored you. I love making love to you. I
need you in ways that belie logic at times. And somehow that was taken
from me without my permission. I lost you and then I lost you again;
and then finally I lost you to Roman. You’re not the only one who sees
those images. It sickens me to think that he’s had half of me
underneath him.”

“Well don’t think of it. I’ve learned that your relationships have
nothing to do with me.” It’s time to tell him. “I think you should
know that Dr. Shalit kissed me John.”

He reacts by swiftly letting my hand fall to the console again. “What?”

“But listen, I handled it. I’m only telling because I realized that
his kiss has nothing to do with me at all. Do you understand what I
mean?”

“Marlena, your therapist kissed you?”

He hasn’t heard one thing that I’ve said since I utter that phrase. “Yes.”

“When?”

“Last week.”

“You’re not going back there.” He decides. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“John, you can’t dictate this. I have to deal with this in the best
way I see fit.” I explain without sounding condescending. “I just
wanted you to know that I’m learning to look at things differently. I
don’t like that you were intimate with other women, but I don’t blame
myself anymore.” The only way he’ll hear me is if I touch him in some
way. His shoulder warm. He puts his free hand over mine. “John you
were going to say something before I told you that.”

This is the test of our new level of maturity. He wants to demand many
things of me right now. I hear it in his breathing. Heavy. Succinct.
“I don’t know…”

“I know,” I tell him. “Trust me.”

“I do.”

“Good. Now tell me.”

“I only wanted to say that I want you so badly that I can’t think of
anything else. And that would be so easy to do. It’s what we do,
right? Or what I do. I’m lonely. That bedroom seems bigger than any
other room I’ve ever been in at night.”

“John, I know.”

“But we can’t—I’m not going to make love to you again, not until
you’re my wife. I want to be the kind of man who Nicky looks up to. I
respect you. I respect your body and your place in my life. And as
much as I want to be with you, we’re going to wait until its right.”

He can be the tenderest man when he wants to be.

“So I guess the only thing you have left to do is marry me. I don’t
want to share this life with anyone else. And I’m going to try very
hard to allow you the space to work out things in your life.”

He is worried about Dr. Shalit. “John, it’s nothing to worry about.”

“I’m not worried about him. I trust you implicitly.”

“Good because I’ll never hurt you in that way again. I promise.”

“Don’t promise, just live your life with me. Be my partner in all
things. I’m asking you to marry me.” He is barely able to say.

“You’re not going to touch me until I do?” I ask jokingly.

“No,” he says shaking his head earnestly. “I want all or nothing honey.”

“Well I want you,” I say hovering at a whisper. We can’t kiss each
other but I wish we could. I wish he could forget his personal vow and
lean across the console and kiss me. The fact that he has refused to
touch me has only made me crave him touching me all the more.

He smiles and turns into the parking garage of our penthouse. “Duty
calls,” he says pulling his vibrating phone from his jacket. “It’s
home.”

Duty has called and our time is over.

Chapter 23 (NC-17) part-1

My emotions can still sting; they pierce until they’re able to seep
out of me. With their release comes the unspoken portion of my
conscious. It was only a dream—my dream; quite possibly both of our
dreams, but a dream, unrealized. Those are the words I wish we could
say but, in my heart I feel as though it isn’t enough just to say
them. We’ve said profoundly relevant words before that ended up being
party to our eventual demise.
I dreamt about finding a resolution with John, with his reassurance to
me that his heart still belonged to me. I know that dreams are the
interiors of things we are possibly protecting ourselves from. Am I
protecting myself from him—still?

“Are you okay?” John asks as we ride the elevator to our apartment.
His face carries such weariness that his handsomeness gets lost in it.
He seemed happy in Dr. Shalit’s office—happier than I’ve seen in a
long while. I hate that I can’t make him happy without other people’s
intervention–the only joy we allow ourselves to jointly share is
being parents. We could reconcile and give Nicky a kind and able
family. His daddy would be so pleased. I’m also certain that our
reconciliation would erase some of the confusion in John’s eyes,
relieve the tension in his face and his uncertainty.

The elevator chimes interrupt my thoughtfulness and looking up to
John’s face causes careful consideration on my part. Revealing my
dream before he steps through the elevator door becomes feasible. If
not only for me to find out what he thinks the dream meant. John stops
abruptly when my hand slips into his. Without knowing what I should
say, I mumble, “Thank you for being there.”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“I know but I am grateful—”

“You don’t have to be. I’ll always be here for you Marlena. I hope you
know that by now.”

I know. I always knew but hearing him say so makes it somehow truer.
And yet for every step forward, we tend to glide three steps back.
John takes a rather awkward hold of my hand and guides me toward the
penthouse door.

Beyond the door is what actually seals our bond to one another. It’s
the narrative of our life, without the words. It’s my child crying in
Mama’s arms. It’s me squeezing John unconsciously, only to realize
that my body is naturally accustomed to holding him when I’m anxious.

Nicky stops crying long enough to look up and see that we haven’t
abandoned him; to see that it’s us rescuing him from imagined
abandonment.

All of these elements mean that John can’t leave me for the same
reasons that I haven’t really left him.

I voice matches my shaky movements, “What’s wrong sweetheart?” The
buttons of my coat aren’t loosening fast enough for either of us. His
head falls heavily to my shoulder after he nearly leaps from Mama’s
arms into mine. “Oh honey, what is it?”

“This one has been a little fussy ever since we got home,” my mother
says patting her grandson gently on his back.

Nicky’s crying bares an identical weariness, quite like the look in
his father’s face. The idea that he’s obviously been crying for an
inordinate amount of time concerns me. “Why didn’t you call me? I
would have come home sooner.” I shout at my mother, only realizing how
inappropriate my reaction is when John squeezes my forearm.

Mama isn’t entirely comfortable with my heightened voice, “I’ve done
this before honey. He’s just fine. I handled it.”

“Thank you,” John says to Mama, planting a kiss on her forehead. “We
appreciate everything that you do.”

He looks at me for agreement.

“Mama, I’m sorry. I am grateful for you. Thank you for taking care of
Nicky.” I never look up to see her response to my half-hearted
apology. Nicky’s already stolen my attention. We have a frightening
connection that leaves others fending for just a bit of our
consideration. I’ve never known, until Nicky, how aware a baby can be
of their need for you. Nicky has tremendous need of me; I can feel it
when he cries. I hear the lonely timbre of those wails, especially at
night. And if I can reassure him of his presence and mine, then I must
and my body does so involuntarily. His crying draws me near, and
doesn’t allow for release. I’m as strong as I’ll ever be when his arms
wrap around me and in good faith realizes that I’m forever his–his
mother– and more than not, his everything.

I don’t give into the looks of concern that John and Mama quietly send
my way. Perhaps I’m babying him, but he is my baby. He’s my little
piece of sadness and unspeakable joy. It’s funny how he can be all of
those things. Nicky is a wonderland for attention starved mothers or
wives. I’ve never been as attentive to any child as I am with Nicky.
As much as I loved the others, I didn’t do it as well as I could or
even should have.

“He’s settling down. Do you want to have a minute to yourself? I’ll
take him.” John offers. He stretches his arms forth prematurely.
“Honey, I’ll get him.”

“I was going to take him upstairs and spend some time with him. I
think he feels a little warm. I want to check his temperature.”

Nicky recoils from John’s grasp when he covers his forehead. “He
doesn’t feel feverish.”

“Well he’s agitated. I want to calm him down.”

Mama intervenes, “Honey, you should get some supper first.”

“I’ll get something later,” I assure her as I walk Nicky toward the
stairwell. I don’t have to see John’s face to know that he feels left
out. I know it and I can’t do anything about it. That feeling is
something that is his. I don’t own any part in his insecurity. I don’t
understand it, not as a mother. If I examined the situation
clinically, then John’s insecurity would be warranted; however, I’m
not looking psychologically.

“Nicky probably wants daddy to come too, don’t you baby.” I offer over
my shoulder.

Holding my child, in my house, in the security of a world that boasts
of sunshine and very few clouds, I wonder how I ever had an urge to
leave him. I see so much hope in Nicky’s face; his John-like face, and
his protective John-like hands. Nicky upset this great sense of order
I assumed I had. It’s the most awful, loving chaos I’ve ever known. He
has an intuitive sense that makes him relax against my chest; He
covers it with his tiny ear and stays there. He listens for my heart
beat. Is it because he recognizes that its mine? I used to hold Belle
in the same place. She would cradle her bottle and cover my heart with
her ear.

“How’s my boy,” John whispers from the doorway of our bedroom. He
doesn’t look at all surprised to find me here. “Is he still feverish?”

“I gave him something just in case. He’s just now falling asleep.”

John smiles and the lines of his face become visible. I’ve aged him
considerably.

“Can I ask you something?”

I know it’s not a superficial inquiry by the seriousness of his tone.

“He reminds me so much of you.” I mumble patting our son’s back. “I’m
not avoiding your question, it’s just seeing you and he together is
surreal sometimes.”

“It was that way for me too, when I used to look at Belle. She reminds
me of you. She still does,” John says lingering by the doorway. “She
looks so much like you. That little girl never reminded me so much of
you as when I pulled her from your body. She just had this innate
sense of goodness all over her.”

“I prefer the description to be that you helped guide her into the
world. It sounds less brutal.” I tell him with a small smile. “You
helped our little girl come peacefully into the world.”

“Well seeing Izzy sent this current through me, it was so powerful.
I’d never seen anything as beautiful as you crying and holding her.
You loved her as much as you could love anything.”

“I still do.”

“So it has nothing to do with her being mine?”

There’s something to him seeing her as a larger part of me.

“It just seems that you love Belle and Nicky deeply. That your
connection to them is—”

“Stronger?”

“I know how much you love Sami and Eric; I know what you feel for them.”

“I feel love for all of them.”

“But our children, there’s something special about the way you look at
them; of how you are with them. Does that have something to do with
me?”

I know what I want to say but as it is with us anymore, I’m frightened
by revealing too much. How could I openly admit that I have a deeper
connection to any of my children at the disadvantage of the others?
What would any of them think of me?

“Does it?” He inquires again.

“John what are you asking me?”

“I don’t know Doc. It’s something I’ve been thinking about lately. I
remember when the twins were little. You were never as protective of
them. You let them be kids. They fell and played.”

“You were there to protect them. I didn’t have to.”

He looks disbelievingly at me.

John still doesn’t quite get it. “I owe Nicky just as much as I owed Belle.”

“No, it’s more than just guilt. You were like that with Belle. When
Brady was being an ass to you, he had a point. You loved him and you
could be the mother he’d lost but you treated Belle differently.”

“I love that child,” I defend quietly. “A mother’s love for her child
is unexplainable John. She just represents so much. I mean, she’s us
John. She is you and me and no one has ever been able to take that
from me. I love Brady just as much as I love anyone of the children I
gave birth too. But he’s not mine, not all together. He’s a part of
you, and I loved him even more because of that. But John, Belle is our
angel.” How else can I explain what I’ve felt for Belle? “That first
day that we knew, when we finally had the plain truth, and I put her
in your arms—I knew that she would always be safe and loved. You don’t
know what that meant to me then. I’d damaged everything. I lost so
much and you never made me feel guilty for denying you her. You simply
took her and loved her.”

“But you know why, don’t you?”

“Because she’s the part of us that didn’t hurt. Belle made us
legitimate and she made me finally stop running from you.”

“That’s all true Marlena but I love her—strongly–because you’re her mother.”

That sentence, simple as it were, frightens me. Inexplicably frightens
me enough to stand with our son and brush past his father.

“John, I’m going to put Nicky to sleep.” I say, walking abruptly from
the room. Every emotion that I’ve ever felt about our affair surfaces
with every footstep toward the baby’s room. I know I should avoid
feelings of remorse and guilt. It’s the past. I’ve overcome the person
I was then. I was deceitful and lustful–everything I’m not anymore.

“Will you ever know that side of me Nicky?” I ask the sleeping child
who I’ve put in his crib. His little hand curls into a fist at his
chest just the way that John’s does when he’s sleeping. His legs have
grown immensely and his arms are longer. His hair is fuller All of
these are thoughts to waylay the can of emotions that John and my
conversation opened. I know exactly what John means by deeper. I love
our little boy far beyond my ability to explain it. I feel such
devastation when he’s not happy or when he seems afraid. Sometimes I
can still see him in the incubator where he spent the beginning part
of his life. So helpless, alone and then I picture Belle going through
so many days without me. Somehow it’s alright with me that Sami and
Eric didn’t have me as much. And it’s all because John was there. He
gave them as much of me as I could have given them.

“I do love them deeper–stronger than I love the others,” I whisper
when John’s breaths tell me that he’s in the room with us. “I would
never tell them that but it’s true. Belle and Nicky are just…”

“I know.”

“John,” my voice barely makes a sound, “what do you think of me?”

He called me a phony once and it tore my heart out to hear it. I don’t
think of John as someone who can see any bad in me. And maybe that’s
to my detriment, or credit. But it makes me wonder what he thinks
about a woman who could be as conflicted as I have been, or seemingly
always been about and around him. I chose Roman and then I made John
doubt how much I loved him when Roman came back. I’ve ripped his soul
apart more times than any human should have done to them.

“I think you’re an extraordinary woman.”

“Be honest when I ask you this. What did you think of me during our affair?”

“Why do you want to discuss this?”

“It’s important that I know.”

“What did I think of you,” he repeats with a heavy sigh following his words.

I focus on Nicky; on stroking his stomach and tousling his
hair–anything not to see John’s face, not to see all of the emotions
that he’s never revealed.

“I felt incredibly lucky to be in love with you then.”

I interrupt, “don’t you mean lust?”

“No, I mean love. I was in love with you. I’ve always been in love
with you—even when you didn’t know it.” His voice rises, “and then you
just changed. You gave me your heart and then you took it back, or you
thought you could take it back. And after that, I felt like a man
awaiting death. I had nothing to lose then. That’s why I did what I
did. I didn’t think I’d survive it but then you made love to me.” He
takes a deep breath. “And it wasn’t just sex baby,” he reminds me, “We
made love like we’ve never done before. Don’t you remember that?”

I shiver remembering it.

“My skin was so hot I needed ice to cool off when after you’d left. I
didn’t care about anything besides you. Just you showing up to stop me
meant the world to me. You can’t know how much it renewed my faith in
you. Don’t you realize that you and I had this perfect thing?”

“There is no such thing as perfect.”

“We were. God, I never felt like I did when I was with you.”

“I don’t think there has ever been a connection like ours John.”

The intensity of the emotional bond we share is overwhelming. It is
also deceitful. It’s blinding and impactful. I know the feeling of
feeling so hot that I need an ice bath just to sooth me because he’s
ignited an unquenchable passion that I’m never satiated in.

“We’ve always felt that way—from the beginning. Once I had a taste of
you, I just couldn’t get enough.” John says as he walks nearer to me.
He stands within an inch of me and puts his hands into the baby’s
crib. “It was more than sex though. I can’t explain how you made
everything make sense to me. Remember when you asked me who I was all
those years ago, and I just looked at you.”

“You didn’t know,” I remind him as we both stroke Nicky’s back.

“I didn’t. And you know what’s even stranger Doc, I didn’t know I was
lost until I saw you.”

I gulp for air, hoping that he doesn’t notice the change in my
breathing. I know for sure that he can’t see the hairs rising on my
neck. “You know what, I didn’t really know either. I was just fumbling
through life, still trying to put one foot in front of the other. And
then you were there.”

“We give Stefano so much credit for ruining our lives, we really
should thank him. If he hadn’t pushed me into your life, I wouldn’t be
here. There would be no Belle,” John whispers, “or this boy here.”

I turn, just slightly to look into his face. “I don’t think that’s
true. You would have found me no matter what,” I tell him with
absolute certainty.

“So what happened, Doc? How did everything that was so good get so
bad?” He asks linking our fingers together over Nicky’s back.

“I think life happened and we stopped living in a fantasy.”

“Was our life a fantasy?”

“It absolutely was a fantasy. One of the greatest fantasies I’ve ever
had the pleasure of living.”

It took me years to get over him holding me when we weren’t together
anymore. After those nights of making love, with the lights on or off,
with the twins in the bed or not, or wherever, we’d always find our
way back to our bedroom and fall into our respective positions. It was
almost too much for my body to stand. To have a man who is always
willing to please and surrender himself to you can be extremely
gratifying and also exhausting. In the first couple of months, I held
onto John for dear life. I breathed him as I slept underneath him or
in front of him as he spooned me. I thought many times that all of our
lovemaking was creating babies. I wish that Nicky could have been born
then, when his Daddy and I were enthralled with one another.

“I was obsessed with you. I couldn’t go to work without wanting to
come right back home to be with you. I wanted to sit around our house
and just be with our kids and just be your wife. All of those things
were great pictures in my head but the reality was that you weren’t my
husband. And I didn’t have the right to need you so much after my
husband came back.”

“Our affair,” he says tightening our hands, “made me feel exactly the
same about you.”

“We never should have had the affair John. That was a part of our fantasy.”

“I used to see you,” John tells me quietly, “and feel it immediately.
There were days that I couldn’t stand to see you on Roman’s arm. I
fantasized about you knocking on my door at night so that you could
tell me that you’d left him. I wanted that so badly Doc. I wanted you
to choose me for once. But you never really did choose me,” he reminds
himself, “You let me take your body while you gave Roman your heart.
How did you live like that?”

“Well I think I told myself that I didn’t love you, that I just needed
to make love to you to get you out of my system.”

“Out of your system?”

“John, it’s unnatural for a wife to feel the way I felt about a man
who was not my husband,” I admit self-consciously. “I couldn’t make
love to Roman. I fantasized about you all the time. Do you know how
much I agonized over having fantasies about you while I was lying in
bed with him? It hurt me deeply. I just couldn’t turn my feelings off,
or so I thought. So I compartmentalized it all. I told myself that you
were sad and lonely because of Isabella. And I so wanted to help you
find your way back to life. I really thought that you were never going
to be the same.”

“So you made love to me to save me.”

“I made love to you…” I pause unnaturally and he pulls our hands from Nicky.

“Why?”

“To save myself,” I rattle uneasily, “I was trying to save myself, you
and my marriage.”

“But that doesn’t make any sense.”

“It all made perfect sense then. I thought I could stay married to
Roman and still save you. I rationalized it so much so that I believed
it. But you and I both know what happened.”

“We both lost.”

“Yes, we both lost a part of our lives and some of the innocence too.
And then Belle came; and I believed that our baby would bring us back
together again. I hoped for it once I found out that Belle was your
baby; once I stopped mourning the life I’d lost with Roman and our
children. I begged and pleaded to remain the woman I had been before I
made love to you and ruined my marriage. I went through all the
motions. I thought I wanted Roman back—I put my dignity on the line. I
thought I could go back and make him love me when all I really needed
was for you to come home with me.”

“I didn’t trust you.” He says earnestly. “You showed me how much I
couldn’t trust you.”

“I maybe didn’t trust myself either. It was for the best I think.”

“Was it?”

“I tell myself that it was. I don’t know John. It’s never been easy to
be with you. We’ve always had to struggle to get to a comfortable
place.”

“Is it still a struggle?”

“Every day.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

The kiss is simple: a tiny meeting between our lips. And then it
progresses, our bodies beg to be closer. He holds my face and pulls me
to him. His eyes are steely, as they lock into on my face. The way he
prods my mouth is eager. But all of this, the kisses and the hands
against my cheek don’t compare to the eye gaze—the love-starved
adoration of a needy husband. We press our foreheads together, making
my mouth more accessible to his. And without thinking, my neck falls
back and John’s tongue is making urgent thrusts against mine.

“John, John wait,” is the pleading that breaks our kiss. He lets his
hands drop to his side before looking up to see why I’ve stopped him.
“Honey, I just…”

“It’s too much? I’m sorry,” he says turning away from me; he is a man
who is familiar with this type of rejection.

“No, John—honey it’s…” I pause only to observe his face but the baby
stirs and we both look to the crib. “He’s just fine,” I assure John as
I reach over the railing to replace the blankets that Nicky has kicked
off. John stands behind me and wraps his arms around my waist.

“I want you to hold me—tighter,” I ask, pressing my weight into him
and letting my head fall against him.

The kissing starts again.

He starts to unbutton my shirt as he walks us from the crib toward the
wall nearest the door. “John,” I moan involuntarily into his mouth
when he turns me around to face him. He has a mission that I see
stamped in his eyes. Perhaps he hears me and chooses to ignore me;
whatever the case, he’s very quiet. The only thing that is audible is
the suction between my lips and his mouth. He sucks so hungrily that I
feel them swelling. “It’s been so long,” I reveal half-amused, “I
don’t know if I remember how to do this.”

He utters a quiet answer, “I need you.”

I answer that need with one kiss.

I love his passionate, tongue thumping, lip sucking kisses. But I also
like to feel just the slightest touch against my mouth as he touches
me on my back. The urgency will come eventually but for now, I just
want this simple little kiss to last.

It’s sexier.

He knots his fingers through my hair and deepens his control over my
mouth, all the while staring into my eyes. I can’t make love to him in
Nicky’s room so I initiate us moving toward the hallway. My shirt is
nearly off of my shoulders and completely unbuttoned. John tears it
away pushing us into the wall. In the eager exchange my head collides
roughly against the wall.

“Are you okay?”

John’s lips never leave mine, even when I mumble that I’m fine. His
fingertips are like fire against my skin as he pulls anxiously at the
camisole between my skin and his. I can barely undo the buttons of his
shirt; my fingers are slow and shaking along the cotton. And in the
awkward process of kissing and peeling clothes off, we continue to
stumble over each other down the hallway. He stops at the bedroom that
I’ve turned into my own.

I turn our bodies away from that darkened bedroom by my parents and
Nicky’s room. I know that we won’t be quiet enough to make love the
way we need to in that room. John actually muffles my mouth when his
fingers slip beyond my waistband and cause my eyes to roll towards the
back of my head.

“Not here,” I say between pants.

He tries to take another piece of clothing off of me, even with the
sheer chance of either of my parents stumbling into the hallway to see
what the ruckus of heads bumping into walls is.

Our bedroom is only a few footsteps away; those steps seem too many,
now. We stop in the middle of the hallway to cover each other with
arms and kisses. My shirt is still in John’s hand; his shirt is only
half unbuttoned. He lifts me up and wraps my legs behind his back.
Visions of making love against the wall come blatantly back.

“John I don’t want to make love here,” I whisper into his hair when he
buries his face into my chest; He moves at my insistence. I work at
undoing his pants and pulling them over his thighs with my feet.

“Baby, are you—”

I cover his lips with my trembling hand and answer his worry with
another warm kiss. He turns and lays me against the closed door. He
fumbles with the doorknob, as he continues kissing me along my chest
and neck. When opening the door proves hard, I unwrap my legs to stand
while John toes out of his pants. His legs are powerful, very
muscular. I kneel to admire them with chaste kisses along his inner
thigh. He takes a handful of my hair to steady me.

“John can I taste you,” I ask seductively wetting my lips as I look up
from his thighs. His manhood is erect and inches away from my face.
He’ll be in pain from the pressure if I don’t let him make love to me
the way I know he wants to. John will deal with the pressure
internally, all the while he’s pleasuring me with kisses. “Can I do
that for you?” I question squeezing his thighs. I walk backwards into
the room, still kneeling.

There is a certain aura in our bedroom. Sensuality—his want or need is
always very sensual. In the darkness covering the room, after all the
touching and kissing, I resolve that I’m going to make love to him all
night. I want to wake up in pain because of his love and not simply
sadness.

His very masculine smell has entrenched the room. It speaks of my
absence; he sleeps alone in our bed pressed into the pillow with my
scent.

“I’m going to close the door,” he says letting my hair go and walking away.

I continue kneeling, imagining how I’m going to surpass his denial to
please me first. When he walks back over to me, he tries to kneel in
front of me; I guide him to the bed instead. He sits down and leans
over to kiss me.

“Honey,” I say pushing him gently away, “I want to taste you.” I kneel
in front of him and cover his thighs again with my hands. Scraping his
skin with my nails causes him to shiver. He’s wearing a pair of boxers
that come easily from his body. I don’t touch him at first; but, I
look up and see the love he has for me. We don’t take our eyes off of
each other. His hands move first—to help lift the camisole from my
body. He cups my breasts tenderly. I stop his ministrations and place
his hands at his side. My instincts force me to stroke his lengthy
manhood, taking careful consideration of the loose skin underneath. He
quakes under my examination. “You taste so good,” I say remembering
that he likes for me to talk to him. It’s less awkward that way. I
cover him with my mouth slowly, licking very teasingly along the
length. He lets me handle it my way; he sits back and wrenches the bed
sheets to stop from crying out. After minutes of me sucking his tip, I
go deeper until I feel him in the back of my throat. It takes
everything in me not to gag and ruin the moment. I pull back and start
kissing until the gagging reflex disappears. He threads my hair
anxiously; the overwhelming urge to have me sucking him has taken him
completely over. His eyes are heavy when he looks up.

“How does that feel?” I ask taking him into my mouth again. He guides
me along gently. His pressure in my hair increases when I suck harder,
taking pieces of skin between my teeth when I release my jaws. “Can
you feel it coming?”

His answer is to hold my head into position. I feel the wetness
springing from my own body with every sweep up and down his shaft.

“I want you,” I tell him after sucking long and hard on his tip again.
“I missed you so much daddy,” slips from my mouth. I haven’t called
him daddy in a long while. I have never enjoyed baby talk in bed, but
he’s always loved it—and tonight all bets are off.

John moans my name loudly when I increase the speed of my mouth.
“You’re killing me baby.” He says releasing my hair. “I don’t want to
lose it in your mouth. You’ve got to stop.”

I don’t.

“Baby stop…stop.” John springs forward and forces me backwards onto
the carpet. “I’m going to make you scream before I make you cum.” He
says seriously. He means to say that he will lick my body until I
can’t do anything except scream. John helps me up, catching his breath
in the process. He puts me on the bed, laying me back on pillows that
he’s propped up. The heavy breathing between us is erotic and it turns
my mound into a volcano of juices.

“Are you going to taste me,” I question slyly with my finger in my
mouth, a sexy pout on my lips

“Every drop,” he informs me, clenching my underwear with his teeth. He
pauses at my thigh and sucks it until it’s tender to his touch. “Can I
taste you?”

“Please.” I say falling back at the instantaneous feel of his tongue
swirling in my juices. Sitting propped on my back allows John dive
into my throbbing center. He forcefully takes my thighs between his
hands and sweeps his tongue into the folds of my sensitivity. He uses
his tongue to enter me and then quickly retreat. “Oh god John,” I
mutter, unable to contain myself.

“Shh.”

My body betrays me again when he sucks eagerly on the nerve bundle
that will eventually be my demise when he’s ready for me to go there.
I try to hold my body still. He stops and gets on his hands and knees,
crawling back up the length of my body.

Chapter 23 (NC-17) part 2

“I love when your juices are all over me,” he tells me kissing me. “I
know you hate when I say this—but want to…have you so badly.” He says
stumbling over his own words.

I take the initiative. “You mean you want to fuck me,” I say for him.

He’s taken aback, “Yes I want to fuck you.”

“I’ll tell you what,” I say lifting up from the pillows. “What if you
let me make love to you first—and then I’ll let you fuck me,” I offer
raising my eyebrow seductively. “Can you handle that?”

He laughs and pulls me close. “I miss you.”

“Come here; let me relieve some of that.” I use the pillows as
leverage when I switch positions. “Sit like this,” I instruct him,
maneuvering his legs into an Indian style position. When I climb on
top of his legs, he steals kisses along my neck. He enters me and my
body feels as if it’ll explode. He hasn’t been inside of me in more
than six months; my body’s reaction to him is apparent. He pulls out
when the pain shows on my face.

“Baby, slowly,” he urges pushing slowly into me again. With every inch
he places a kiss somewhere on my body. “Is that better?” he asks.

“Mmm-hmm.” I moan dropping my head onto his shoulder. When he’s
completely there, I allow my weight be taken on by him. I’m in control
of our speed. I don’t want to go fast at all. I need to savor the
feeling of John’s being with me so intimately. I thrust gently into
his body, pulling back just as gently to stave off a quick orgasm. To
leverage myself, I put my feet down against the bed. I thrust firm
strokes against him, gasping when he fills me completely. “Oh right
there,” I say when John strikes a pleasure zone within me. “Right
there,” I say kissing him hard. John cups me from behind and pulls me
further into his body, sealing the already intimate connection of our
bodies. He holds me so that I can’t move. “John.”

“Don’t move.” He commands.

“Baby, I have to,” I say moaning from the building pleasure of our
bond. “I need to…” I warn him when my body involuntarily starts
thrusting again. “Oh…honey. John. John. John.”

“Don’t do it baby,” he begs in a low growl. “Not yet.”

“I don’t think I can—oh.”

He leans back, extending his legs beneath him.

“Slow baby,” John pleads, positioning my legs over his strong thighs.

The powerful essence of making love to John overtakes my body before
we’re able to follow the slow rhythm of our thrusting bodies. He
watches me rock urgently against his slick skin. Those bold, seductive
oceans of emotion make their own brand of love. His hands are warm
when they encase my hips to aid my rhythm.

“You’re killing me Doc.”

John cringes as his body reacts involuntarily to my writhing hips.

“I want to make you feel good,” I say.

“I believe you.” He laughs, putting his arms around my waist. “I love
you so much.”

He always says he loves me when he’s thrusting into me. He always
clenches his jaw when the power of our sex hits him.

“Honey,” I whisper leaning forward to kiss his tightly lined mouth.

The feel of his mouth lasts even after our mouths break apart; long
after he lifts me from his lap, removing himself. We’re both draped in
sex-induced perspiration when he pushes me onto my back. John uses his
tongue to trace a slow line down the center of my body. He works
slowly because he knows that we’ve teased each other enough to produce
nerve shattering orgasms—but he won’t give it to me until he thinks
I’m ready.

“You want me to beg for it?”

He shakes his head as he comes back up my body, stopping to take my
nipple into his mouth. He works expertly; kneading with one hand while
sucking gently with his wet mouth. The weight of his body, the scent
of his sex and heavy cologne are intoxicating. I find myself reaching
between us to stroke him. I don’t know what it is about him kissing
and sucking my breast that makes me feel like we’re floating. While he
attends to his favorite part of me, I spread my legs to force our
tools of pleasure closer.

He pulls back.

I pout and take a firmer hold of his manhood.

“I love you.” He says for the second time without me responding.

“John.”

“I love you.”

He snatches my hand away, pulling my arms above my head.

“I know how you feel.” I assure him with tender kisses.

“Doc, I need to hear how you feel.”

He guides my hand between us where we cover his erection together. He
strokes himself with my hand beneath his as we eye each other. He’s
preparing himself to please us both.

I draw circles around his nipple with my tongue when he drops his head.

“Baby,” he moans in angst.

I loosen our hands from his manhood and bring them to my own wetness.

Out of the madness and sensuality of the moment, I lower my voice and
lean into his ear, whispering, “Fuck me.”

He chuckles before he sucks my bottom lip.

“Say it again,” he says teasing me with the tip of his throbbing manhood.

“I want you to fuck me,” I pant forcing more of him into me.

“Again.”

“Fuck me,” I comply, scraping my nails against his skin.

He circles with hard grunts that elicit loud responses from me.

“Baby, you’re going to wake them up,” he says driving himself into my
body. “You have to be quieter.” He braces himself above me.

The thrusting between our hips becomes magnetic. He pumps
rhythmically; I match each with my own rhythm. Somehow he has resolve
enough to thunder into my body and lift my face to his. He presses
them together, compressing the heat from our skin between our
foreheads. Without being told to I open my eyes to see and not only
feel him. And it’s there—the reason that I can give myself to him
unselfishly. It’s in the way he loves me: his overwhelming, intensely
radical way of showing his love. It is the possessiveness sketched
permanently in his gaze. If I would allow so, he would whisper that he
owns every piece of me—if I would allow that. He would demand that
come home—emotionally and fully. He would exert every avenue to make
the moment when his body causes me to cry out ceremonially last
forever. But we’re both only human and his body’s movements slow down
and then jerk rapidly against me. And after what seems like hours of
grinding and receiving him fully into the folds of my inner walls, he
removes himself to readjust his body. He slips from me to prop up on
his knees. The loss is momentary. He pulls me by my hips, opening my
legs and casually throwing them over each of his thighs. This is the
kind of sex we have when we haven’t made love. It’s make-up sex; or
angry sex—possibly even forgive me sex. If it weren’t any of those
then he would ask me if I was ready to receive him again into my
body—he doesn’t ask me anything. He simply guides himself back into me
and starts thrusting. Digging. Trying hard to exhaust himself, or to
make me come harder than the last time I did. He grinds, pulls out and
slams back in an excruciatingly pleasurable manner. It’s all I can do
not to come again. I reach around him and grip his rock hard bottom,
pulling him harder and harder into me.

I find myself moaning, asking him to go harder.

The pressure in my body, my stomach, all over builds thrust by thrust.
He pounds the tension from my muscles. He falls forward, unable to
keep up the animalistic force of our sex. He continues to thrust. And
thrust until I wrap my arms around his back, making no space between
us. He manages to throw my legs from his thighs without breaking his
rhythm, without taking anything from me. The burning, unquenchable
feeling that his manhood inflames within me takes over. Barely opening
my eyes, I see he’s there too. He pounds fiercely, his mouth open as
the sound of my name crawls secretly from his mouth. When it becomes
too much to control myself; when the strength of our lovemaking flows
toward the peak of all of our hard work; when I try hard to not scream
his name in gratitude for every ripple of gratification coursing
through my blood and body; when I feel him and his seed filling me up
as we shiver, gripping anything that can steady the hurricane; he
collapses on top of me, still a part of each other, moaning my name
continuously.

In all of this, in the sex and unspoken, unresolved matters of our
lives he kisses me. He puts his wonderful lips on my agape mouth and
breathes air that I’ve lost to the force of an extremely powerful
orgasm back into me.

“Why are you crying?”

The affirmation builds itself without my permission. There are many
answers to his question. Thankfully he doesn’t need an answer—he holds
me, and my arms wrapping around him is enough. And I say in response
to his question, “I love you so much honey.”

His face softens; the worry is eased. He breaks apart from me and
shifts so that he’s spooning into me. Even after he’s given me one of
the most powerful orgasms ever in the long history of our lovemaking
he manages to still make love to my body. He doesn’t have to enter any
part of my body to do that. Every part of John is equipped to love. He
runs his fingers through my hair, dragging gently across my scalp with
his fingertips. He kisses my neck in a linear pattern of affection. He
arm covers me, pulling me into him as much as it’s possible. His legs
entangle mine. Every part of me feels his love—that overwhelming love.

“I missed you so much baby,” he says when our bodies are settled again.

His breathing is like a lullaby for me. My eyes are heavy, almost as
heavy as my heart. I kind of look around without being obvious to see
if this feels familiar: my clothes in the floor beside his; his watch
and wallet on the nightstand; and our family picture. It’s always been
strange to find myself being stared at by our children from the
nightstand in the throes of passion.

“It has been a long time.”

“Too long,” he says stretching against me. “You feel exactly the same.”

“Yeah I guess I do,” I laugh softly, securing his arms around me.

“Believe me. Everything is in perfect working order.” He kisses the
nape of my neck and inhales. “And you still smell the way you did the
first time you allowed me to make love to you.”

Another laugh escapes. “Oh, do you need my permission?”

“Not really, but it helps. I’m just happy to be here with you.”

“I know how you feel; I feel that way too.”

“Baby, what got into you tonight?” He asks when snuggles against my
shoulder. “I’m not complaining, it’s just—you’ve never been very….”

“Vocal? Crude?”

“No no lady, I loved it. I love you telling me what you want.”

“Do you?” I ask with my hand strumming along his thigh.

“You can’t tell?” He said pushing against me with his growing
erection. “You know.”

“It wasn’t me,” I say rather shyly. “I just wanted to make you feel good.”

“You did.” He says finding my mouth at the awkward angle of our bodies.

We kiss so softly that I barely feel the weight of his lips. I do
however feel his wondering hands cupping the fullness of my breast. I
don’t know if my body can take it, if our bodies can handle any more
pleasure—and yet it doesn’t matter to John. After kissing softly, it
ultimately grows in urgency. He becomes hungry for more contact. He
swiftly pulls me over and on top of him.

Looking into his eyes is never the same as it was before. There is
always a new dimension that reveals itself. We are cloaked in shadows
but those blue eyes are visible, full of life. I touch his cheek, kiss
it and then move onto his other. He drops his hands to the side,
allowing me to explore. I sit back on my legs and he follows. I kiss
his throat immediately. His breathing hums through the skin there. I
touch his bare chest, kissing the place that protects his heart. I
move to the skin below his earlobe, pressing my rewet lips into his
erogenous zone. He trembles beneath me, moving his hands from the bed
to my hips. He starts motioning and grinding into me. I let him guide
my hips while I kiss his chin, forehead, and eyelids. Our mouths find
each other unexpectedly. I pull his lip into my mouth and drag my
tongue across it—he can’t stand it. He opens his mouth and sucks the
air from my mouth. We take turns kissing and sucking lips, all the
while as I trace his face and grind my hips.

He moans baby loudly; I cover his mouth with mine and find his
erection with fidgeting hands. He helps guide himself back into the
sensitive part of my body. He leans back on his elbows and grips my
hips.

I move slowly back and forth, and then rotate. Any other time I would
close my eyes to ride his erection, but this time, I don’t. I steady
my eyes on him, knowing that he won’t last any longer than I let him.
I tighten my muscles along his manhood, causing him to mold his
fingers into my skin.

“Fuck me,” he growls.

I oblige by riding him with no regard to the headboard tapping against the wall.

“Like this baby,” I ask, knowing it’ll be swift if I talk in the low,
sexy voice he loves.

He slaps the roundness of my bottom surprisingly. It urges me on,
grinding and riding him until he comes again. Until his body cringes,
which it does after a series of vaginal clenches and rough riding. He
releases my hips to grab the crumpled sheets. Before I can move
another inch, he stops abruptly.

“No no no no no.” He pleads trying to hold on. “Baby, not yet. I want
you to come.”

“Shh,” I say pushing him onto his back and putting my hands against
his chest for leverage. My body takes on the role of seductress
automatically; riding him harder and harder, faster than either of us
can keep up with. And then instantaneously he cries out—my name yet
again. His body tightens suddenly, and he moves upward to leave
everything that pours from him into me. I try to kiss his mouth, but
me moving makes him shiver. He forcefully grabs my neck to pull me
forward.

“How did I live without you?” he asks sincerely, plundering my mouth
with his tongue. He tries to catch his breath while roughly kissing
me. “You’re good.”

I can’t help laughing as I snuggle against his chest. He doesn’t move
from me and I don’t want him to. “Can we sleep now?”

He rubs my back. “Are you tired? You should be—you worked very hard.”
He dips and kisses my shoulder. “I appreciate how hard you worked,” he
says sighing contentedly. “I know you’re tired baby.” He continues to
rub my back, and then moves along to my legs. He kneads his fingers
into the muscles that will start to ache.

“That feels good. Thank you.”

“ No, thank you,” he replies lifting my head from his chest to kiss me
again. “Are you comfortable?”

I nod and close my eyes.

“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

“Honey, let’s sleep.”

He moves us. He breaks us apart and pulls me to his side, where he
covers us both with a thin sheet. The closeness instigates him
trailing fingers up and down my skin. I can feel the touching in my
loose sleep. His cardinal rule of lovemaking is once is never enough,
twice is just the beginning.

“John, I’m exhausted.” I mutter unintelligibly.

“Sleep,” he says, still massaging and touching me.

I feel his body move down, lowering his face to my stomach. He kisses
my stomach as if he is feasting on my skin. My body naturally responds
to his tongue’s trail downward.

“John.” I protest mildly, and yet I open my legs at his direction.

“Sleep baby.” He says lifting my legs to drape over his shoulders.

“John, no…I—” his probing tongue ceases whatever relevant thought I
processed. He drags it across my tingling sex slowly, flicking and
sucking. “John.”

He uses his fingers to spread me up further. I can only lock my
fingers loosely in his wet hair and bite into my bottom lip. The way
he uses his tongue to sweep up and down, and across my wetness is
maddening. I find it hard to catch my breath or speak, or even moan
because it feels as good as it should. The roaring within my body
travels from my toes up the nerve paths to my ears. He’s going to make
me come again.

“Come for me baby,” he says blowing on my overworked nerve bundle.

It’s not like I have a choice—my body falls to his will. It reacts to
the hungry lapping of his tongue by convulsing and coming against his
mouth just the way he asked.

“Baby.”

I shake my head back and forth, closing my eyes and legs as he moves
back up my body.

“You’re out of your mind,” I whisper, snuggling against his chest again.

“For you yes. I’ll readily admit that I’m insatiable when it comes to you.”

“It’s been a while, I’ll excuse you,” I say kissing him quickly. “Now,
honey…can we now sleep?”

Exhausted and satisfied, he intertwines our fingers and pulls me
closer to him. His heartbeat is constant, I feel myself slipping into
my exhaustion. Sleep after sex with John is about the best rest I ever
receive. After possibly sleeping for two or three minutes, John shakes
me awake.

“No baby, not now.” I say with my eyes closed. “Give me two minutes.”

“Honey.”

“John please,” I whine opening my eyes. “I just want to sleep.” I say
turning over. And then I understand that I’m not being awakened to
make love yet again. It’s our son crying that has John’s attention.
“Oh Nicky.” I drag myself up and throw one leg over the bed.

“I’ll get him,” John offers pulling me back to the bed. “You just stay
put and get some sleep.” He tells me before slipping into his robe.

Sleep is fleeting. I hear John depart from the room only because he
closes the door behind him. My body is exhausted, completely spent
from releasing all of our pent up frustration. In my semi-aware state,
I remember that it was only today that John and I were still unsure
about everything. And what does our sex have to do with what we
haven’t dealt with; it means that we still love each other—that’s
obvious; but it also means that I can make love to him and still be at
war with myself. It doesn’t mean that I don’t like being in our bed,
half-waiting for him to come back to hold me. I don’t know what we’ll
do in the morning; I’ll worry then. For now, I have his scent all over
me and his seed spilling from me, but it’s such a familiar scene that
I don’t dare disturb it. I simply sleep because my body can’t do any
thing else.

Nicky’s clammy hands loose me from a peaceful dream.

“He’s being stubborn about sleeping,” John says after placing Nicky on
the bed beside me. “He wants you. He won’t fall asleep or take a
bottle. I didn’t want to wake up your parents, I brought him back
here.”

“Stubborn little boys,” I say still half asleep, “must spring from
your dna.” Nicky looks from his daddy to me; he looks as if he’s
confused by our arrangements. “Hi baby.” I force myself up from the
pillow and pull our wide-eyed son into my arms. “John he’s a little
warm,” I say measuring his body temperature against my own. He doesn’t
look agitated, just ready for play and not sleep.

“Tylenol,” John asks touching Nicky’s forehead.

“Its downstairs,” I remember holding Nicky closer to me. The only
thing separating us is the sheet that covers my nakedness. When John
goes to retrieve the medicine I find a nightgown that is still hanging
in the closet; it matches the status quo of my nightwear—short, silky,
and nearly see-thru.

“Look what your daddy has for you,” John informs an alert Nicky when
he comes back to the bedroom. He looks over the nightgown and nods his
approval, “That’s always been one of my favorites. I think Nicky even
likes it.”

Nicky seemingly agrees with his daddy, touching the silky material
with his investigative fingers. Our bed is disheveled from lovemaking;
the pillows and sheets strewn about. Nicky loosens his hold on me and
crawls from my lap into the center of the mess and manages to sit on
his backside. And what strikes me most, with the mess and Nicky, and
John coming to sit beside me is that Nicky has never had this kind of
moment with us. He’s never been in our bed with the both of us under
quite theses circumstances. The twins have, as well as Belle and even
Brady. There are moments when John and I were in the middle of dual
orgasms when one or more of the children burst into our bedroom and
demand that we be parents who are not sexually addicted to each other.
Gauging the scene from Nicky’s wondering eyes, I know that he’s
unfamiliar with Daddy and Mommy, and lovemaking but I also believe
that he knows—somehow children just know what making love is before
the world intrudes on the definition.

“We haven’t had a night like this since before Nicholas was born,”
John says with his hand draped along my exposed thigh. Through his
loosely tied robe, I can see his slackened manhood and I chide myself
for looking there.

“That probably explains tonight,” I offer studying Nicky’s observation
of us. “What do you think he’s thinking? Look at him; he’s watching
you like a hawk.”

“He’s protective of his mommy, even from his father,” John says
continuing to stroke my leg. “He’s had you all to himself for six
months—I understand his jealousy.”

“Oh he’s not jealous,” I laugh looking from John to our son, “he’s
just not used to us being in the same place like this.”

“Is it a good thing?”

“It’s not a bad one.” I answer him and lean to kiss him. It’s intended
to be a small gift but I linger and John’s mouth widens.

Our son manages to steal our attention with a loud bundle of
unintelligible words. He crawls slowly to us and reaches for me; he
rambles another reverie of gibberish to John’s amusement.

“He wants you all to himself,” John says kissing me again before I
pick our son up. “You’ve ruined him for other women; he’ll never be
satisfied out of your arms.” He says with a smile, but I sense the
seriousness of his implications, however his wondering hands concern
me more. The tie holding his robe has completely loosened; his body is
ready for round three or four.

Nicky takes the medicine without much fussing. He finds his spot along
my chest and lies against me when we lay down in the bed. He isn’t
content to lie silently until the medicine affects him; instead he
proceeds to reach for my breasts that his father has made sensitive to
touch. He’s completely a breast man—just like his father.

“Sometimes I can’t believe that he’s ours,” John says after turning
off the lamp and climbing into bed with me and Nicky. “It’s surreal
that I’m daddy to these amazing children that you gave me.”

I only nod because I don’t want to disturb Nicky. He’s slowly losing
his alertness. His hands are slackening, one resting underneath my
chin and the other balled near his cheek. His little breaths are
quicker; he breathes very heavy in his sleep.

“I would have given you twenty children if you’d have let me,” John
whispers into my ear. He has positioned himself behind me; his hands
are still wondering about my leg; I’m still very aware of his erection
pressing into my back. “You would have never left the house. I’d have
kept you hostage in our bedroom making all those children.” He says
amusing himself.

“I don’t think so,” I say quietly, still patting Nicky’s back. John’s
hands sneak across my inner thigh to the growing throbbing at my
center. “Honey, the baby…” is a quiet protest.

“Is he asleep?” John asks lowering his lips to my very sensitive neck.

“Yes,” I murmur, trying to force my body to react quietly to his slow
touches and kisses. “John?”

He continues kissing my neck.

“I don’t know if I can take this,” I say as my body trembles under his touch.

“You don’t have to move.” He says breathing heavily into my ear. “Is
Nicky alright?”

“Mmhmm.”

I bite my lip when his hand drags up my thigh and flattens against my
stomach. He pulls me closer to his side of the bed.

“Lay Nicky down,” is his first command that I adhere to.

I settle our little boy into a spot right beside me while allowing his
father to pull my nightgown past my stomach.

“Is he alright?” He inquires again before making another move.

“Yes,” I say breathily, suppressing the moan building in my throat. “Baby..”

“Don’t talk; just listen,” he demands cupping my breasts from behind.
His kneading and teasing causes me to move slightly. “No, don’t turn
around.”

My eyes slam shut voluntarily when John traces a line from my breast
to my stomach, and then even further into the throbbing mound at my
center. He draws lazy fingers along the folds.

“Wet, just the way I like it,” he says rubbing me with gentle
fingering motions. “You have to be very quiet for me,” he says
expecting a response from me. “Okay?”

“Your son’s going to need therapy,” I say pulling my arm over his head
to bend it around his neck.

“Doesn’t my son’s mother want to come just one more time?” He asks
with confidence.

“John,” I chide him as I feel my body responding to his slow circling
around my sex. “I can’t talk dirty when my baby is two breathes away
from us.”

“But you can come, can’t you?”

He doesn’t wait for a response this time; he inserts two crooked
fingers into my wetness. He doesn’t push them very far, only a couple
of millimeters pass my opening.
“I know how much you like that,” he tells me thrusting in and out of
my body, “don’t you?”

I nod my affirmation, pulling him as close as possible. The words
coupled with all the mechanics extremely arouse me. I feel myself
leaking all kinds of juices; those that come from my body naturally,
and those that he’s poured into me. His fingers work around all of
them, or with them to build the fire inflaming my stomach.

“Shh.” He commands when I moan too loudly. “Can you feel it? Come for
me baby.” He challenges me in a low voice.

I shake my head.

“No,” he asks in slight confusion.

“Come with me,” I beg moving my hand to my center to pull his fingers from me.

“Oh you want me inside?” He asks seductively against my neck, taking a
moment to pull the skin there into his mouth. He sucks hungrily at the
spot, undoubtedly marking me.

“John,” I reach and grab his hard shaft, positioning my body so that
he can enter me from behind at a comfortable angle. “I love when you
come inside me, please?” I beg helping him find my entrance. He
tangles our legs together, giving him a downward advantage that makes
it easier for him to thrust up into me.

“Let me do all the work.”

“Baby…”

“Shh, just think about me inside you,” he says thrusting softly into
me. “Don’t move. Don’t talk. Just let me love you.”

I don’t know how it’s possible that I can be so maternal and aroused
in the same moment. I worry that Nicky can feel his father’s careful
thrusting in his sleep. I also worry that John is not going to come
again.

“You’re so good,” I tell John trying to stimulate him further and not
make him actually do all the work. “You know exactly…oh baby right
there. Right there,” I cry unexpectedly when he finds a perfect point
of stimulation. “Baby harder.”

He grabs my hips the best that he can at our angle and obeys my pleading.

“Make us come baby,” I murmur feeling my own pleasure surmounting,
hoping that his isn’t far behind me. I don’t have to say another word.
He starts pumping at a frantic pace, signaling that he’s on the verge
of an explosion. It comes so unexpectedly that my body betrays
everything that I tell it to do. We go rigid together, our bodies
intangible for a couple of seconds; our hearts accelerated. His body
tells of his orgasm, I don’t have to ask.

We fall asleep still entangled; my hand is on Nicky’s back; John’s
arms are encasing me.

Chapter 24 (NC-17) Part 1

I wear him; his essence is in my skin, my hair; there is some parts of
my body that still feels as if he’s holding me. Always after we make
love, I carry him spiritually within me for weeks. There’s something
to be said for deep emotional bonds.

Instead of devoting my thoughts completely to Nicky, who has been
clamoring for me and clinging to me since we left his Daddy sleeping,
I’ve instead been trying to slow the vivid images of John and me.

In the shower, after I’d literally crawled from John’s body at Nicky’s
behest, I fell against the wall in exhaustion. My legs were shaky, my
pelvis joints cramped but my heart was full. And I was satisfied—in
every way; and all I can do is remember it, and savor it. And worry
about it.

My son doesn’t care about last night. He’s only concerned with his the
narrow scope of his world: mommy and him. He only allows me two
seconds of not being in my arms before he gets fussy. He is like his
father when it comes to reading my moods. I think he knows that his
daddy is consuming me; overriding my concentration with the memory of
last night. And I’m anticipating him walking down those stairs, after
having searched for Nicky and I. I can feel my heart through my chest;
I don’t know why I’m so nervous.

Nicholas slams his hand so fitfully that I nearly drop the oatmeal
that I’ve warmed. He won’t eat more than three spoonfuls but the
mother in me believes that I can change that. Of course, he’s proving
me wrong.

“Not even one,” I ask him slowly, making sure that he sees the
movement of my mouth. He’s at the point of learning to repeat and
retain things. “Eat for Mama.”

He releases his grip on the full bottle of milk to watch it crash to
the floor. It amuses him yet when I scoop the bottle up and place it
on the table beside him his face draws into a frown.

“You can have it when you have a bite,” I say piling some oatmeal on
his sterling silver Tiffany baby spoon—one of Belle’s gift. “Just
one.”

Nicholas throws his head back, turning his face away from the spoon.
He reaches for his bottle. The distance is too wide for his short arm
span. He understands and looks squarely at me, and points to the
bottle.

“You’re such a smart boy.”

He squirms and extends his other arm toward the bottle.

“Nicky, once for Mama,” I ask lifting the spoon to his mouth again.

One quick nibble follows him spitting oatmeal out of his mouth. And
then the tears that break my heart start, slowly at first. His mouth
forms a wet heart and he drops his head to the tray.

“Nicholas.” I can’t bear it. I lift him and bring him to my chest.
“Baby, you have to start liking this sooner or later,” I explain
rocking him soothingly, “and you can’t always win with me, no matter
how adorable you are.”

My fatigue compels me to give in to him otherwise I’d try to make him
take more of the food. He takes his bottle from me and sucks hungrily
on it. In six months, he’ll probably be speaking in sentences that
make me laugh or cry, depending on my mood. And I expect that he’ll
walk early, the way that Belle did. There are so many things that
Nicky does that reminds me of Belle, but mostly of the things that I
missed with her.

“Good morning.” Mama greets us when she opens the kitchen door. “I
didn’t realize anyone was up.”

“It’s a wonder with your grandson’s fussiness.”

My mother rubs Nicky’s back and kisses his temple. He pulls his bottle
from his mouth and looks to Mama with protruded lips. When she leans
forth, he kisses her lips. She then kisses my cheek and rubs my arm,
“Honey, you look tired. How’d you sleep?”

Her smile is immediate. When I answer my eyes are watching Nicholas,
and not her. “Just fine,” I say quickly. “I am a little tired.”

“Nicky?” She asks walking to the counter behind me.

“Nicky?” I repeat confused.

“Did he keep you up?”

Her voice is curiously upbeat. Putting Nicky back into his high chair,
I take the seat in front of him again, and try one more time with the
oatmeal. He takes a spoonful and again spits it down his chin.

“Honey?”

“Oh, no. He was only up twice.”

My mother taps my shoulder, “Let me.” She takes the seat that I vacate
and coos to Nicholas softly. She does have a knack for getting Nicky
to oblige her. After a slight battle with the spoon Mama has Nicky
taking small swipes of oatmeal that don’t end back up on the tray or
his bib.

“Thank you,” I say yawning. Its only nine o’clock and I feel like
falling back into bed for another long nap. Sleep, as good as it was
after making such excruciatingly satisfying love to John, seemed very
short. Before I knew it I was waking up still entangled with John. And
the reality was Nicky restlessly moving about the bed. His daddy
didn’t feel us move from the spot that we’d fallen into.

“Marlena?”

I’ve forgotten that she was there, “Yes Mama?”

“Is everything alright?”

I must appear as curious as I sound, “Yes, everything is just fine.”

“No, I meant between you and John? Is everything back to normal for
you and your husband?”

She says husband with such entitlement. I feel like she can smell him
on me; that she can see what I felt; know the way my skin burned when
I lost all control of myself to John. Maybe she heard how I cried his
name or moaned how much I wanted him. Oh god and Nicky—maybe she knows
that he was there when his daddy and I made love. Mama knows all of
this. Knowing my Mama, I know: she knows. She looks proudly at me and
nods her head slowly.

“Mama, I’m not sure what you mean.” I try to avoid the inquiry if I
can, but she’s not the kind of mother that will let me get away with
playing dumb. My illness also requires that she not let it go.

“You know,” She winks as her mouth broadens into a toothy smile, “ I
asked if everything was alright because it sounded like it last
night.”

I start fumbling for words but she rests her hand on me. Her touch
eases my building anxiety.

“I don’t know what to say,” I tell her with a weak smile.

“There is nothing to be embarrassed about honey. It’s okay; your mama
understands the mechanics of a healthy marriage.”

She might but she shouldn’t know the extent to which John and my mechanics work.

“So is everything alright?” Mama asks again when the answer to her
initial question is dimming in my memory.

I pause—only to examine her face; to see if she’s really ready for
this caliber of conversation. I’ve never looked at my mother as a
sexual creature; neither she nor daddy have ever crossed my mind in
that way. Oh I’ve heard them making love as a child but hearing and
envisioning them are distinctly different. I don’t imagine that they
devoured each other obsessively. I can’t picture my daddy being as
ravenous as John seems to be when he and I are together. I don’t want
to imagine that side of my parents. But she’s my mother and her
hearing me making desperate love to my lover unnerves me a little.

“Mama, did sex make everything alright between you and daddy—all the time?”

She lowers Nicky’s spoon and looks over her shoulder towards me, “Do
you really want to have this conversation with me? I’m willing, if
you’re really ready for this.”

“I am. I want to know Mama. As a psychiatrist,” I say leaning against
the counter, “I understand the emotional explanation of it all. I
really get why John reacts to me the way that he does.”

“But?”

“But I don’t understand our bond…it’s never been something nameable.
I’m drawn to him,” I say communicating the tie with my hands, “and
I’ve been fighting that since last year.”

“And now? What’s different?” Mama asks, reminding me of myself and of
the fact that I received a lot of my personality from her gene pool.

“I didn’t think about the consequences. I only thought about John.” I
reveal boldly. “I didn’t see anything except him and his need for
me—our mutual need.”

Mama surprisingly doesn’t blush or turn away. She continues feeding
Nicky in one movement and then turns back toward me and I notice that
Nicky is fidgeting but eating none the less.

“Baby, was this the first time…”

I nod before she can finish the question, “Since Nicky was born, yes.”

“Well honey, that’s ok isn’t it? You’re allowed to feel…to make love
to your husband.” She says politely.

“He’s not my husband,” I remind her, “he was never my husband.”

“That my dear is a minor technicality.”

“I know. It’s just all so confusing Mama with John and me here, and even Nicky…”

“You love him?”

“Mama, it’s not about my love for John.”

“Answer Mama’s question”

“He’s the father of my children.”

“Honey?”

“I love him,” I reply hastily. “I’m in love with him; I think—no I
know I’ll always feel that way about John.”

“Then Marlena, why do you seem so conflicted?”

It’s a valid question. Guilt or conviction. “It was too soon. I should
have thought about it more. I shouldn’t have been so careless.”

“Baby listen to Mama,” her eyes steady, “everything is going to be alright.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely and do you know what else?”

“What?”

“It’s time for Daddy and I to go on home. As much as I’m going to miss
you and the family,” she caresses Nicky’s cheek, “I want you to get
back to your own life. You can do this,” She says confidently.

It’s hard not to believe Mama. My mother wants me to do this because
in her eyes, I’ve never failed at anything in my life.

When she stands up, I have a sense of relief. I’ll miss them; I’m even
apprehensive about being alone with John. My parents were like buffers
for the rough times that John and I had when Nicky came home. But
Mama’s right—I have to do things on my own again. I appreciated their
presence but just as I have a life to get back to, they also have a
place and life to return to.

I am pressed against Mama when John barrels through the kitchen door.
Mama tightens her arms around me and then lets go. She kisses my neck
and turns around to John. The conversation that mama and I have been
having, and John’s intent staring make for an awkward moment between
the three of us.

“I’m going to get dressed,” Mama announces greeting John with a kiss
on his cheek. “I can take Nicholas and freshen him up.” She offers
looking from John to me.

“No you go on.” I tell her, finally matching eyes with John.

“Daddy and I have tickets for a musical but he wants to take me to
breakfast. Isn’t he sweet?”

“That he is,” I say heading to Nicky. “Have fun Mama.”

“You too,” she says leaving us alone.

“They’re going back home.” I tell John, standing between him and
Nicholas. “They heard us last night.”

John snickers at the news. He smiles and winks at me. “I’m sorry. I’m
sure you don’t want your parents to hear how much you love to call my
name.”

“That’s not funny.” I say stifling my own amusement at his statement.
“It could traumatize my poor daddy.”

“He’ll be just fine.” John says pulling me into his arms. The signs of
our lovemaking flash on him like caution lights. He looks like he just
climbed out of bed; his hair is muffled and still dry; his clothes are
a pair of loose sweatpants and an A-frame t-shirt. “How do you feel?”

“I’m fine.” Pecking his lips quickly I pull away and remove Nicky’s
soiled bib and clear his tray. John steps back tossing his hands up in
surrender. “I didn’t think you’d want to clean this mess up.”

“I’m all for cleaning up but I think I’m still tired, aren’t you still
tired?” He asks in his sexually charged lowered voice. He locks his
arms around my waist from behind as I put Nicky’s dishes into the
dishwasher.

John’s stamina has always astounded me. He has made love to me
practically all night and yet only a couple of hours later he still
wants to be so next to me. He plants a kiss at the nape of my neck,
moving quickly to the back of my ear. I bend forward giving him
further initiative to grind furtively against my behind.

“Baby, you were incredible last night.” He whispers prowling beneath
my robe with his fingertips.

“John don’t say things like that; you make me sound like a call girl.”
I am only half-joking; but it does make me feel as if he’s serviced me
and that I owe him another portion of my body. “And behave yourself
please, I have to get Nicholas cleaned up.”

“The boy is fine,” he reports without looking behind him to see.

I half turn my body to see Nicky. He’s studying his father’s large
frame. He has to look further to see me; he doesn’t like looking for
me—he wants to see me always there.

“He’s not.” I say squirming out of the embrace. Nicky lifts his arms
and fidgets until I lift him from his high chair. “Did you tell Daddy
good morning?” He blows raspberries on the tip of my chin and brings
his hands to either side of my face. It’s a game he plays with Belle
and his grandfather.

“I’m glad one of us Black males can do that to you,” John tells me as
he reaches and takes Nicky. “Hi son. I see you’re wearing more food
than you ate. How are you buddy?”

“He’s full. Mama got him to eat some oatmeal, thank heavens.”

“Your grandmother is pretty convincing kid, isn’t she? So is your
Mommy.” John raspberries Nicky’s cheek to his delight. “And kid when I
tell you that she’s amazing, you’ll never know how amazing.”

“John stop telling him things like that, you’re going to warp his little brain.”

“If lying in a bed while we…”

I interrupt, “You’re incorrigible.”

“And you’ve never been sexier,” he states with a quick kiss that Nicky
frowns at. He’s still not comfortable with anyone touching me except
for him. Six-month old babies shouldn’t be so emotionally attached or
aware but in my mind it’s that he’s my son which makes him seem a
little more intelligent either way, he doesn’t like his Daddy touching
me. “Isn’t that right Nicholas? You have the sexiest mom on the
playground.

“You sure are presumptuous. He’s never even been to a playground,” I
say swatting his butt.

Men equate everything with sex—that’s what I’m thinking as I’m
watching John engage our son. He thinks in terms of how satisfied I
was last night; I think in terms of how emotionally distraught I still
have the tendency to be. But because I let him make love to me and I
actively made love to him, he can see the wedding and future unfolding
before us; whereas I see that we need more help. But I can also see
that I want to be back to normal with him. I really loved making love
to him last night.

“Why didn’t you wake me? I would have gotten up with you when Nicholas did.”

“You were sleeping so peacefully; I had it covered.”

“Peacefully? I was in a whole other realm thanks to you. I haven’t
slept that good in ages. What time did he get up? I didn’t even feel
you move from the bed this morning?”
“It wasn’t this morning,” I inform him, taking Nicky from him. “We
slept in my bedroom…I left after Nicky woke up at three or four.”

( )

“Can I ask you something,” John inquires after I’ve put Nicky down for
his afternoon nap in the playpen that we keep in the den. Turning on
the baby monitor, I look up and catch the agitated look on John’s
face.

He didn’t like me leaving him; that’s why he seems so troubled. He’s
so transparent. His body language is defensive: he’s been straining
his fingers through his hair all morning; and taking business calls on
his ever-ringing cell phone in a highly uncharacteristic voice.

“Of course…but I know what it is,” I tell him as I gather Nicholas’
toys from the living room floor. There seems to be a rule for
Nicholas’ toys: the more noise that they make and lights that blink,
the more John buys them.

While his father stewed, Nicky occupied himself with his musical foot
gymboree as I looked on. He’s been attempting to crawl more,
especially if me or John are across from him. We were sitting in the
middle of the living room floor, which has officially been designated
as Nicholas’s playground, when Nicky’s morning excitement forced him
into a sleepy stupor, leaving me to clean up his trail.

“It’s not something I thought about,” I assure him tossing some toys
into a bin that I keep nearby. “Nicky woke up and I just took him into
the room. I wasn’t trying to run from what we did.”

“Ok, so if you know what I’m thinking…” he says clearing a path on the
loveseat beside him. All of the paperwork that he has been reading
through flies to the carpet, grasping my attention with it. “Leave
it,” he admonishes when I bend on one knee to retrieve them into a
neat pile. “I’ll get them later.”

He pulls me back up to the loveseat by my wrist rather clumsily.

“You are making too much of this.” I tell him rubbing the ache that
his grip leaves on my skin after he’s stopped holding my wrist.

“Maybe you’re thinking too little of it.” He thumps his hand on
heavily across his thigh.

“Do you want me to argue with you, because I’m not going to do that.”
I tell him plainly. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings John.”

He accepts that. He lays his hand on my thigh, “Honey, what did last
night mean to you?”

“Everything,” I say closing my eyes to shield the tears that fill there.

He takes those tears as a sign to console me with heavy kisses. He
takes control of my mouth by plunging his tongue deeper. He laces his
fingers through my hair to draw me into his body.

“John…I can’t,” I cry when the connection becomes too much, too soon.
Before severing our mouths, I lean forward and press my mouth against
his bottom lip, “Don’t take this personally.”

“How could I not?” He asks splaying his hand across my thigh. “I don’t
understand this.”

“Neither do I but I have to respect myself and my feelings.”

“All morning you’ve been avoiding me. This seems almost surreal that
you and I could be at this awkward place after last night.”

“Well get us out of this “place” John. Don’t ask more of me than I can give.”

“I didn’t think I was,” He says sadly. “If you think this is about sex
for me, then you don’t remember the man that you’ve made me. If this
was just about sex then I could have had it months ago. But this is
something else…something deeper than satisfying me physically. I need
to connect with you.”

The only part of his plea that alarms me in anyway is the part that
obviously isn’t about me. We’ve never just had sex in a cavalier
sense; he hates casualness when it comes to our sexual relationship.
No matter how dysfunctional we have been, that is one thing that has
always been clear. It’s about our need to connect or reconnect at an
intimate level that no one else understands.

“What do you mean by that?” There’s something more to those words that
I heard. “You could have had sex…with someone else?”

I know he couldn’t be talking about me. I was not in any state to even
consider going there with a couple of months ago. And then suddenly an
image of me denying him since Nicky’s been home plays in my mind’s
eye.

He stays quiet for too long.

“John?”

He drags out his next statement carefully. “There was a possibility
when things weren’t good between you and me Doc.”

I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to that; I consider what he’s
saying. I don’t say a thing. I believe my face tells the story well
enough.

“It’s not what you’re thinking.”

“You have no idea what I’m thinking.” I tell him covering his hand on my thigh.

“It was a long time ago…nothing major.”

“Now that sentence you just said to me is appropriate: maybe that’s
only your measure of it.”

“No, it’s not the same thing. I was speaking of the now; this was months ago.”

Why is it that my species always has to know? “With who?”

“Huh?”

“Excuse me, with whom?” Her name springs to mind. “Kate?”

“No, not Kate.” He retorts as if there is not a remote possibility of
that happening.

“Who then?”

“It was during Nicky’s illness. I was very alone. You weren’t there.”

“I didn’t ask when John; I said with who?” I continue steadily
chipping away at his story.

“Pia,” He answers suddenly. “Nicky’s nurse—Pia.”

John’s clarification is unnecessary. I don’t recall what she looked
like, or what color hair she has but I do remember what role she
served in my child’s life. Having not told John, he’s never understood
how hurtful it was to see her with Nicky on my first visit with him.
That’s why her name falling from his lips troubles me so.

He ignores another incoming phone call. “I don’t know why we’re having
this conversation. It was all very innocent.”

“You dating Nicholas’ nurse is innocent?” I lift his hand from my leg
and return it to his lap. I’ve had my feel of him touching me to
settle me—condescendingly so. “Really?”

“I had dinner with Pia once or twice,” He reveals.

“Dinner?”

Why do I repeat him? And how did our wonderful night turn into this?

I’m jealous; I can admit that.

“Are you telling me that out of all the women in Salem—and there are
plenty who would love to take my place—you chose my son’s nurse?
Doesn’t that strike you as reckless.”

John frowns, “No but this conversation strikes me as reckless. I And
don’t talk to me about all the women in Salem. I only care about you.
I’ve told you that it was an innocent dinner or two.”

“No you didn’t John. You told me that you could have had casual sex
with anyone, and quite possibly that person was Pia.”

“I never said that.”

Standing up, I drop my hands to my hips defiantly.

“Hey, settle down and talk to me.” He pleads standing to his full
height in front of me. He puts his arms around my shoulders and looks
assertively into my eyes.

“This is not okay, John,” I whisper turning away.

I understand that he was lonely; I’ve felt that way many times when
I’ve lost him. I can even empathize that our separation was far
deeper, and cut him wider than anything that we’ve been through as a
couple. During my sickness, I did tell him over and over again that I
wasn’t the person he loved even without directly saying so—actions
speak louder than words.

I feel as if I’m a caged bird when his eyes continue to pierce into
me. There is a great compassion that I owe him; it only exists in his
eyes, making me the only one fully available to feel resentment and
pain for the things that have happened to us.

“How is it that we made love, beautiful love Doc,” he asks as he draws
me closer to him, “and now we’re standing here talking about the
past?”

I don’t know the answer to that; I only have one question. And it’s
such a devastating inquisition. But as a woman, as the mother of his
children; and even as his lover I have to know.

“Did you have sex with her?”

I use the word sex because I know he can’t make love to anyone but me;
that’s the lie I’ve told myself, even when I knew he was making love
to others—Kristen and Isabella; he loved them. But a good girl puts
those blinders on and sees only those pertinent things. If it’s
possible for John to fall in love with my best friend in such a short
time after he lost me, then he can probably make love with another
woman without regard to his feelings for me. He may even have done it
to hurt me believing that I probably deserved it then.

“How could you ask me something like that?”

“Did you?” I say easing from his embrace. I take two steps back and
start walking to the other side of the room where he can’t touch me.
Tripping over some of Nicky’s toys as I go, I bend and pick them up to
also put them away.

John is watching me. He speaks softly, “When Nicholas was ill, I
thought about you constantly. I don’t know if you know this but when
I’m going through anything, you’re the person I look to heal me but
you needed healing yourself. So what do I do? I can’t go to your
friends because we’re all unsure of what’s happened to you. I don’t
want to worry your parents because they don’t deserve that. I’d never
felt so alone in my life Doc because you were here but you weren’t the
person that I know and love.”

“You’re so weak when it comes to loneliness,” I retort soon after he’s
finished talking. My sarcasm doesn’t match the sadness of his voice.

Resentment comes back without invitation. It’s how we spent a year of
our lives, how Nicholas was probably conceived. When I look John in
the eyes from across the room I feel the way I did when Kate was the
only thing we fought silently about.

He doesn’t take my sarcasm offensively. “You see weakness; I see a man
who was losing everything. She seemed like the perfect extension of
you: she was caring and loving to Nicky. She took such great care of
him.”

“You haven’t answered my question,” I feel the need to remind him.
“Did she turn into an extension of me when you needed to be satisfied
too?” I’ve forgotten that I can be just as upset with him over
perceived betrayals as he can be with me; I also forget that jealousy
is a natural part of my relationship with John. I don’t want to think
that he’s not faithful, even when I’m not in his life.

“I’m not going to answer that because you already know the answer,”
John says shifting his weight in the carpet.

I don’t know why I have to continue to hunt for answers that I don’t
truly know if I can handle. My whole body feels tense. I cross my arms
at my chest and sit on the edge of the sofa table. Crossing my feet in
front of me, I look down and take a few deep breathes. If I don’t calm
down, it’ll only escalate and then he’ll become angry and
unresponsive. But I have to ask questions or I won’t be able to live
with myself.

“What do you mean I know the answer to that? Of course I don’t. If I
did, I wouldn’t have asked you.” I explain calmly. “I want to know.”

“You want to turn a dinner date into a sexual addiction and that’s not
what it was.”

“Then tell me what it was John.”

Chapter 24 (NC-17) Part 2

He finally sits down again, slamming his incessantly ringing cell
phone onto the coffee table. He wrings his hands together in his lap;
he doesn’t say anything. His shoulders sag and the rest of his body
slackens.

He’s thinking too much; I always know when he’s protecting me from
something by his sagging posture. “You know…”

He darts up, taking only three steps to reach me.

“What?” I say staring blankly at him.

It’s unnamable: that force of energy that strikes you magically in
your anger. Once Dr. Shalit likened John and I’s relationship to a
Greek tragedy or something more disastrous. The common sense of any
one studying our relationship could agree: “it’s obsessive and
compulsive” he said when I talked about our affair. “Maybe you were
never meant to be a normal couple. If it were possible, you and John
would have exhausted yourselves of each other years ago.” I didn’t
agree then; I only partially agree now. If Dr. Shalit is correct in
his assumption of us then we are so destructive in our love for one
another that it’s not cogently possible to remain together. And if
that’s the case, then our children are merely results of an obsessive
union. I do love him in a place that doesn’t recognize the usually
reserved version of love. I love him; but I also obsessively love him.
If that weren’t true then I wouldn’t envision him and Pia, though her
face is still a mystery to my memory, hugging and sharing something
more intimate than simply news about Nicky.

“Where did you take her?”

He shakes his head at my question.

“How long did this go on?”

Another head shake; he’s not going to play my female game.
Psychologically, my need to have those answers stems from a place that
wants to protect my child and his family. Pia is the interloper that
my conscience rails against, while John fills the emotional cheater
role.

“You’re not going to answer me?”

“You know the answer,” he pipes up finally.

In his smugness, I find an urge to shake him though I don’t follow
though. But I want to violently shake him until his confidence wears
thin and we’re back on the same page: sharing our jealousy. I have the
presence of mind to push him away from me in order for me to walk
away. He follows as is his nature to do and grabs my wrist between his
fingers to still my movements.

“Sit down,” he commands as he pushes me a little roughly onto the
loveseat where our conversation began. “I’m stronger than you,” he
reminds me as I struggle with him to get back up, “so just calm down.”

He is much larger than me, but my anger makes me feel ten times as powerful.

“I want to get up,” I tell him trying to move again.

“Marlena calm down.”

He holds me against the back of the loveseat with his arm.

“John, okay,” I stop fighting him and relax my body. “I don’t need you
to police me. I’m calm.”

“I believe you,” he says lowering his arm. “I’m not trying to police
you; Nicky is only a room away.”

I can’t resist making a dig, “Where was Nicky when you and his nurse
were gallivanting around town?” I question dragging the inside of my
cheek into my teeth.

“Would you stop this?”

“What, I’m just asking a question? I’m trying to get a clear picture of this.”

Any clearer and I’d have to strike John with an open hand.

“What do you want me to say to you?” He asks dejectedly and angrily.

“Did you make love to our son’s nurse?” I ask crossly, biting back the
tears that want to spill. He’ll read them as pain but they reveal more
about my anger. Just the notion that he even considered a casual fling
with anyone is enough ammunition but add to it that she was taking
care of my child when I couldn’t.

“Why do you keep asking me that question?” He finally shows his ire,
especially when I pull my hand away from his grasp. “If you wanted me
to—if you believe that I did then yes.”

“If I wanted you to?” I ask him incredulously, turning my body to face
him. “Of course I don’t want you to John. Did you?”

I feel very uncomfortable with our exchange. It’s growing beyond me
and his estimate of my reaction. How could he be so cavalier about
this? I don’t remember or maybe I choose to forget, but those months
in the hospital were long and lonely for me as well.
My baby was ill, at my own doing and I was trying to find a way to
deal with all of that; and he was falling into old patterns.
Loneliness equals woman equals betrayal.

“I’ve already told you.”

“You haven’t told me anything.” I don’t think I can bear to hear it
anyway: I can’t even bear to think it.

“I want to know why you think so little of me. I’m not the same person
I was. I wouldn’t betray you. You know that.”

Widening my gaze at him, I lean close to his face. “I know you’ve said
that but then there was Hope, Kristen, Isabella, Kate…apparently you
don’t know the definition of betrayal.” I’m insipid in my recantation
of John’s indiscretions. “What do you expect me to do?”

His words are simple: “Believe in me Doc.” He says widening the
distance of my face to his. “You have got to stop thinking that I’m
going to hurt you. I wouldn’t do that.”

I consider what he is saying. I just made love to him last night. The
residues are still tangible—the cramped muscles and love bites that
line my neck when my hair is pulled up. We had gratifying orgasm after
orgasm. And now I’m sitting beside him trying to stop myself from
doing something dishonorable like verbally assaulting him for past
wrongs because it would make me feel better.

“I didn’t honey. I swear on our children that I never touched her.”

The words build ominously. I’ve felt it before but haven’t had the
audacity to actually say them aloud. If my heart could speak, it would
burst and bleed as a way of communication. He cheated, even if it was
just emotionally. He shared something that was ours with another
person. And I’m not okay with that.

“Sometimes I really hate you,” I mumble as I cover my face with my hand.

He reacts immediately, “Don’t you ever say that to me.”

“But it’s true,” I confess miserably, “and I sometimes I hate the part
of me that doesn’t just leave you.”

He stares bewildered by my revelation. Why does he always have to be
so intense? And feel everything to the hilt. I’m cowering behind my
hand, but I know and feel those blue eyes rendering my judgment.
Without a word, he leaves me sitting there alone. He pads heavily
across the living room toward the den.

For the first time, I’m desperate for the fighter in him. Because if
he fights, I can give up—and I feel like we’ll never be right for each
other. If he can always do this to us, and turn to others then how
much does our relationship mean to him? I don’t want him to prove his
love—and that’s all he seems to want to do. But proof is only genuine
when it’s not done to waylay anger and accusations. I don’t know if
I’m wrong for being honest or if my jealousy is so much that I’m only
trying to hurt him.

I can hear him breathing on Nicky’s monitor.

It is my body’s natural response to seek him and find out how wounded
he is. Even if I’m extremely upset with him, I need to know that he is
all right. I’m being too human for the both of us now. And I’ve taken
some of the confidence that making love gave him.

“If it’s true that you hate me,” he says in a low murmur when I reach
the den, “then this little boy wouldn’t exist.”

He’s holding Nicky cradled at his chest; he is still asleep.

Our son’s soft breaths are the only sound that exists in the room
after John’s sad words.

Truth be told, Nicky is the reason that my reaction is so strong. I
nearly gave my entire life for that child; I almost took his life—and
why: because of this dysfunctional relationship between his father and
me.

“How can you make love to someone that you hate?”

I can’t bring myself to answer him.

“I would lay down my life for you without a second thought. I know you
better than you know yourself at times. How could you say something
like that to me?”

Our son is taking in all of the emotional turmoil pervading the air. I
want to take him from John’s arms and put him in a safe, emotion-free
place. Somewhere away from this dysfunction but he’s a part of it;
he’s always going to be a member of this obsessive game between the
two of us.

“Every part of you belongs to me: our kids, your life, and your
stability; every single part of you.”

His comment stings me.

“If that’s true, if you say that I belong to you then what about you
belonging to me? What about you being completely faithful to
me—emotionally and otherwise?”

That hurts him enough to lay Nicky back in his pen where he leans to
kiss him and cover him back up. He then quickly walks past me, heading
to the living room where his cell phone is ringing again.

“What?” he barks angrily at the caller.

I watch him verbally berate whoever is on the other line. In my mind
I’m thinking that perhaps nothing last forever. Maybe we’re not meant
to be one. It could just be that we’re drawn physically to each other;
that we don’t actually even like each other on a friendly basis. But
that’s not true; it couldn’t be. He was my best friend who also
happened to be my lover. And then he became a father to my children;
and then I became his wife. All of these things scatter through my
head.

He slams his phone shut and throws it angrily across the room. He’s
feeling badgered; the tears fall down his cheek. He sits down and
drops his face into his hands.

“John don’t…” I touch his shoulder from my position behind the couch.

“You want to leave me?”

He takes my hands when walk around to be nearer to him. I kneel in front of him.

“John…I shouldn’t have said that.”

He doesn’t like that answer. His hands tighten around my wrists.

“I’m not going to live without you,” he tells me passionately, “and
I’m not going to let you live without me. Do you think I’d allow you
to take Nicky and start a life without me?”

“John…I didn’t”

He interrupts me again. “Do you? Tell me that you don’t hate me.” He
says demandingly, releasing my wrists to grab onto my elbows instead.

“John.”

“Say it….I don’t hate you John.”

“I don’t,” I say quietly, recognizing the danger of such raw and
explicit emotions. “I don’t hate you.”

“You love me,” He adds mechanically, “don’t you?”

His reinforcement tactic scares me. The way he demands that I say
exactly what he says is reminiscent of Alex. The manner by which he
drives his point is very threatening.

“John you’re frightening me.”

“Just tell me that you love me,” he directs me, still holding me
bowing in front of him.

“I love you,” I say to make him release my arms. “But you can’t be
this person with me. I won’t tolerate your bruteness.”

He lets go and moves me to the side to break away from my invasion of
his personal space.

“Wait a minute,” I call behind him when he starts to climb the stairs.
“John, you can’t just walk away from me.”

He hides his face when he speaks, “Doc, I almost struck you.” He pulls
his hands to his side. “I felt that anger that hides itself—that gross
anger—rising inside me.”

“But you didn’t,” I assure him, “and you won’t. I know that.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” he says lowering his head.

I take his face between my hands. “You wouldn’t. I know you couldn’t
do that to me anymore than you could hit Belle. You’re stronger than
the anger.”

“I’m not. I wanted to hurt you when you said that..that you hated
me…badly. That’s why I left the room. I didn’t know if I could control
myself.”

“John, I’m not worried about you hurting me in that way. I know you wouldn’t.”

“You just showed me that you don’t know me at all,” he says dejectedly.

“I love you,” I say simply hoping that it is enough.

He holds his mouth tightly closed when kiss him. He resists even when
I hold his face still from turning away. He pushes me back from
touching him and looks sadly at me.

“You don’t have to….”

I silence him with my mouth and immediately beg for entrance into his
with my tongue. I can taste his tears when I press my lips against his
face. Taking my hand, I wipe his face the way I wipe Nicky’s. I’ve
hurt him as much as I’ve been hurt by his admission. Jealousy
maneuvers each stroke of my tongue against his. It’s not about Pia or
me not loving him—it’s about him needing something more than he needs
me; that threatens my womanhood in a very hurtful way.

“I love you so much John,” I say breaking our mouths apart. “And there
are times when I can think about nothing but you touching me. I’m
sorry. I shouldn’t have said that to you. It’s just— I can’t bear to
think that you would touch someone else in the same way.”

His confidence is remedial. His arms hang loosely at his sides as we
stumble against the stairwell from me pushing roughly into him. I
clamp one leg around his waist and pull his arms to circle me. He
raises the other leg to his waist and lifts me up by using my behind
as leverage.

“Marlena don’t.” He cries out brushing my hair with his lips.

“John please don’t tell me no,” I beg instigating his arms to continue
to hug my hips.

“I can’t.” He says mirroring something I said to him just this morning.

He carries me slowly to the couch with me still wrapped around his body.

“If you want me to believe in you then you have to,” I whisper,
tugging his ear between my teeth; it drives him crazy.

“I didn’t sleep with her,” he says forcefully pulling my hair to get
my attention from nipping his neck.

He unwraps my legs to sit me down. Eye level to his waist, I reach for
his waistband.

“No.” He says putting my hands back in my lap. “We’re not going to
solve this by making love.”

I agree, “No but it will make us feel good. Aren’t you tired of
feeling bad about us?”

“What are you trying to do to me?” He asks taking my face between his
warm hands. “Are you jealous?”

“I’m jealous of every woman that has ever been in your sight. And I
need you to make me feel better. Won’t you do that for me?”

The vulnerability in my voice is genuine—and it has always turned him on.

He sits down beside me; and I climb into his lap, straddling him.

“Baby, this doesn’t make sense. First you want me and then you don’t.
I’m lost here.”

“I know. I’m as confused as you are,” I admit drawing my arms around
his neck, “but I need to feel close to you right now.” My body is
already reacting to the possibility of making love: the familiar
throbbing between my legs, the pools of moisture soaking my underwear.

“I can’t,” he says dropping his head forward.

I angle my neck to nibble on the part of his neck that makes him feel
amorous. My breath and tongue manipulation draw him gradually into the
act. His hands start running up and down my back, beneath my shirt.

“I need you,” I plead blowing against the place on his neck that I’ve licked.

“Marlena.”

“We can talk about all of this tomorrow. I swear,” I say dipping my
head back so that he can kiss my throat. “Just love me.”

“I do love you,” he hums at the base of my throat. He leaves there and
proceeds to my chin and then captures my bottom lip between his teeth.

“Well make love to me,” I appeal to him.

My imploring ignites the aggressive part of his sexual nature. He
grabs my face so that our lips mold together. And we kiss like we are
teenagers who’ve just discovered the art. His petting is soft, as if
he’ll break me with the need surging through both of us if he allows
himself to be rough. A light hand on my face; another curved behind my
neck. I think it’s because of the uncertainty. He’s not sure if I’ll
think that he did this to another woman.

Sometimes I feel like I am someone else when I’m aroused by him; he
makes me go beyond any sense of reason. I find myself saying and
thinking things peculiar to my nature. Lost in his touch, my
imagination flashes to Hope. Oddly enough, my husband and best friend
making love turns me on.

He’s marking my neck with incredible precision and determination. The
throbbing along my skin tells me that a purple blemish will be there
tomorrow. And though I hate to be marked, it’s incredibly arousing. He
inches me back on his lap and starts to unbutton my shirt, stopping
halfway through. Lowering his face into the valley between my breasts,
he swirls his tongue and then starts to nip and kiss there. I want to
taste his mouth again; but I can’t pull him away from my breasts. I
grind my body into his lap, reacting to the pleasurable kneading and
sucking. John has often said he adores my body, but I suspect that his
most admired part would be my breasts. Blessed with naturally full
breasts that the years have been good to, John is more appreciative of
them than perhaps I am. He spends time paying careful attention to
them.

“I love that,” I say running my fingernails through his hair because
loves the feel of them against his scalp. “I have to ask you
something?” I say breathlessly. He doesn’t respond but I ask it
anyway. “Am I better than them?” I am solemn in my question. I feel
for a moment that I shouldn’t have let the words come so easily from
my mouth. I’ve wondered, especially about Kate but haven’t had the
guts to ask. But he’s at my whimsy and I’ve got him right where I can
get a response.

“Baby, don’t ruin this,” he says swirling his tongue around my nipple.
“Just enjoy this.”

“Am I?” I question sincerely again.

“Is this your idea of foreplay?” He asks lifting his head from my chest.

“I’ve just wondered,” I inform him, as I lift his shirt and pull it
over his head. “I think about it now and again,” I say purposely
lowering my voice. John is always seduced aurally. He responds to the
change in my voice with heavy hands that fumble to unbutton the bottom
half of my shirt, exposing my bare breasts to the chill. “Have you
made love to other women the way that you make love to me?”

My peculiar question ceases his movements again. He counters my
inquiry with quiet actions that educe a series of low, throaty moans.
His fingers stop moving; his eyes deadlock on my face. I blink to
shield myself from the intensity of what comes next. Unexpectedly, he
seizes my face, drawing it—with my resistance—closer to his. He
breaths and I seemingly draw them into my body. My own hands crawl up
the span of his muscular chest, tracing through the ridges of his
stomach and well defined abs. I reach his collarbone and stop, waiting
for his next move.

“Why do you say things like that?” He asks softly. Changing the level
of emotion with his softened features, he lowers one hand to my chin
and clenches tightly around it.

“I want to know,” I say straightforwardly, biting into my lip. “I want
you to tell me the truth.”

“Is there another woman who makes love to me and lets me make love to
her the way that you do? Is that the question?”

I nod as much as his grip on my chin allows me to. Between us, our
bodies naturally warm and provoke each other. My heaving breasts
boasts of hardened nipples that tease the skin of his chest; his
erection strains harshly against the fabric of his sweatpants, poking
aggressively at my center.

“That is the question,” I moan seductively running my hands slowly up
his chest. He twitches when my fingernails slightly scrape his the
surface of is slick skin. My senses are so stimulated that I can’t
stop myself from bumping my hips slowly into his.

“Did Roman let you do this to him?” He lowers his lips to my neck and kisses me.

My eyes are closed when he asks that; and I keep them closed to hide
the dread of answering him. It’s my own fault for trying to pry things
from him that should be better left unsaid.

I’m paralyzed in that dread. If he means did Roman allow me to seduce
him, then it’s a mute point to argue. Nothing measuring seduction took
place between Roman and me, not if he’s referring to our sexual
encounter in the castle.

“Did he let you ride it out, or take it from behind you?” He asks in a
dangerously low, trite voice. “Did you wrap yourself around him and
cry out his name?”

Nothing from me.

“Did you?”

Opening my eyes, I see exactly why his voice is lower. His eyes have
narrowed, matching the tight line of his angry mouth. He releases his
hold of my chin and lays his hand on my legs to stop me from moving.

He looks up, “I don’t want to hear the answer to that anymore then you
want to hear about me with someone else.”

He’s right but it doesn’t make me feel any better. I see our
situations differently. I didn’t really have a grip on my feelings
when I was away from him; I really expected to die with Roman but I
always knew where my heart remained—even Roman knew.

“Wait,” I tell John as I push his hands from my leg. I stumble from
his lap with legs that have gone numb. Buttoning my shirt up, I back
up and trip over the coffee table, tumbling to the carpet. The
immediate pain of the impact of my back hitting the sharp edge of the
table causes me to muffle my mouth.

“Doc?” He kneels quickly at my side. He searches me for blood, running
his fingers along my neck and head; after finding no bruising he lifts
me to cradle me into his arms

“No, I’m fine,” I say with false bravado. My back is searing with pain
and my heart is shattered. And I don’t know how I got there: I can’t
control my own emotions. I wanted him to make love to me, to really
remind me of what we share. I wanted this to be a step in the right
direction. I wanted all of him to want all of me, but I’m so jealous
that I can’t see straight. And I’m so hurt that he threw Roman into my
face yet again.

When he helps me up I pull away when I’m able to stand on my own two feet.

“Why are you pulling away from me?” he asks retreating like I’ve
physically harmed him.

“I knew who I loved when I was with Roman. I’ve never lied about any
of that to you.” I lower my eyes to the carpet, my voice follows suit,
“and I wasn’t asking for details,” I say walking away from him a third
time.

“When are you going to stop arguing with me?” John asks, turning me
back around to face him. “This feels too familiar to me. We did this
when you were sick and I know better than that. You’re better and so
we are going to be better.”

“John stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“You’re not a doctor. Don’t diagnose me.”

The expression on his face changes. That anger that shows itself in
tight lips and squared jaw lines blazes. “You want to know,” he asks
suddenly. “You really want me to hurt you, don’t you? So then you can
keep being angry at me and keep pushing me away. Is that what this is
suppose to accomplish?” He asks rather loudly. “I haven’t felt this
close to you in months. Why do you want to ruin that?”

My own anger clicks. “Did he let me ride him? Did I take it from
behind?” I repeat mimicking the exact way he said those disgusting
things to me. “Don’t you ever talk to me like that. I’m not….”

Afraid he interrupts, “Oh damnit Marlena. Stop doing this to us.”

“I didn’t.”

He clenches his hands into tight fists and pumps them in front of me.
“You fucked Roman.”

Taking stock of what is happening to us, of the feelings and the
emotions, I don’t react out of necessity. I don’t yell back or move. I
ask myself what I’m really feeling; what I really want from this
encounter.

I don’t know.

I want him to love me. I want him not to have almost cheated on me. I
also need for him to realize what a large misstep and how
inappropriate his relationship with Pia was. But I also want and need
him to quiet the throbbing between my legs, and to kiss me and make my
body quake because he is the only one who can do that very well.

“I did,” I say finally, “and it wasn’t anything like you imagine it
happened but that doesn’t matter.” I push my hair behind my hair and
look to see if he’s not only watching but hearing me. “I really need
to know that your need is for me. And that I satisfy you as much as
you satisfy me—that’s what I want from you.” John sighs and I’m
distracted. He scrunches his face up; he’s listening. “You’re angry
about Roman; I’m angry about your indiscretions, also. And I don’t
know what I can do about that.”

He’s loosens his fists, and runs his hand through his hair frustrated.

“Is it unhealthy to be turned on by this?” He says after a long silence.

“It could be deemed inappropriate, yes.” I say trying to lighten the
conversation. “But in my professional opinion you making love to me
would be highly recommended.”

And just like that, we go from anger to love again. To him undoing my
shirt again; to me lowering his sweatpants while he unbuttons my
slacks; to him pulling them off and lifting me off my feet. We fall to
the carpet near the hallway leading to the den. Somehow he manages to
divest me of my underwear without taking off his own. And he just
loves me as slowly as his tongue can in my nether regions.

He teases me with petting and biting all over my skin—no place is
exempt. And then he dives again to the place where my arousal is
greatest. He grips my hips between his hands and unhurriedly circles
his tongue along the swollen folds of my center. This is one of the
things that I wonder about with John’s other women: has he kissed them
until their juices flow from their bodies. It’s one of the most
intimate forms of sexual intercourse. The very act of him sealing his
face between my legs and feasting hungrily on me is his best
technique. He’s gentle and careful to pay attention to every component
there. He not only licks with soft prodding, he also uses his fingers
to open me up and thrusts into the wet canal of my body.

He uses his tongue to thrusts and suck simultaneously; I respond by
threading my fingers through his hair and drawing him further into my
body.

We are unusually quiet except for the slick noises of our bodies
mating. It could be our baby sleeping in the room down the hall or the
fear that talking will make the ugly feelings resurface. I bite my lip
to stop from moaning and calling his name when he finally takes my
body to the edge of ultimate pleasure, stopping to blow and tap
lightly on my bundle of sexual nerves. When he replaces his finger
with his mouth I pull his hair harshly as my body arches and explodes
in ecstasy.

He covers my quivering legs when he crawls back up the bareness of my
body, removing his boxers as he moves.

He nudges my legs open with his knee. I still haven’t come down from
my orgasm but I don’t hesitate when he situates himself between my
legs with his stiff member in his hand. He slides himself around my
wet skin before easing gently into me. I clamp my muscles, whimpering
from the intrusion of John’s lengthy manhood. He stops to see if I’m
okay. I nod. He lifts his hips, lessening the girth of his shaft
inside me. I pull him closer.

“I want more,” I manage to whisper. “I want all of you.” I dig my
nails into his back to encourage him to proceed.

“Baby?”

Chapter 24 (NC-17) Part 3

“More.” I tell him widening the span of my legs to allow him deeper.
He lifts my legs and I place the flats of my feet firmly on his
backside and start gyrating my hips. “I can feel you all over me.”
It’s true. The essence of my lover is the smell of our bodies mixing
as one. It’s in my hair, inside me, under my fingernails. “I don’t
want,” I hesitate when John thrusts deeply into my canals, “baby I
don’t want to share you with anyone else.” I say tightening my inner
muscles around him. “I don’t want you to want anyone.”

“Baby.”

“John,” I cry lifting my hips to meet the impact of his thrust, “Need
only me. Don’t cheat.” I clench his bottom lip between my teeth.
“Promise me.”

He devours my mouth; we volley between who takes control. He wins when
he sucks my breath completely from my mouth and allows his weight to
fall heavy against me.

“I have never wanted,” he punctuates with a hard grunt filled plunging
into my middle, “anybody as much as I want you.” He slides out and
glides back in forcefully.

“Oh honey…honey,” I lose whatever response I had. Every time he fills
me, I hold him closer a little longer and bite down on his shoulder to
muffle the possibility of my body betraying the quiet.

“The reason I want you so much,” John murmurs near the bottom of my
ear, “is not about sex and how much you satisfy me. It’s because I
crave you.” He says pushing his hardness into my willing body. My skin
is aflame from the melding of his skin to mine. “I’m crazy about you
baby.”

I encircle my hands around his back, and he slows down his thrusting.

“I want to die like this,” He says pulling out of me.

“John don’t say that,” I find myself crying, and opening my legs wider
so that he can enter me again. “I want you to live with me forever.
Don’t talk about dying.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he swears as he picks up his pace. “Don’t
cry baby.” He says wiping the tears strolling down my cheek.

His demand is futile. I always feel overwhelmingly emotional when we
are connectedly so intimately. I’m crying because he’s making love to
me like I’m made of porcelain. I kiss his chest when he leans down to
kiss my forehead.

“I love you Marlena.”

I moan something that resembles I know and squeeze his buttocks,
propelling him to move faster.

“You’re the best,” he says ramming harder and harder, “and sexiest.”

I drag my nails against the moistened skin of his lower back and lean
forward to bite his shoulder. I drive him to pound into me. And I meet
his thrusts eagerly, unexpectedly feeling the burn rise in my belly
again.

Words are not enough for our end. The way he props himself up on his
elbows and hammers into me, makes me come harder than I did last
night. Exhausted, he falls on top of me and pumps until his own body
becomes rigid. He holds me still while trying to get his last thrusts
out, emptying portions of himself into me.

After regaining his breath, he unsheathes himself from me momentarily
returning with a sheet from the linen closet. He scoops me up and
carries me to the den where Nicky hasn’t been disturbed by our
argument or ensuing sexual escapade.

John lies down on the large sofa there and I climb sated on top of
him. Resting on our laurels, he holds my hand over his heart. I inch
closer to his abs and kiss him, opening my mouth to taste his
perspiration with my tongue. I can smell the mix of our sex in his
sweat and I turn my nose to inhale it. Pressing against him, I tangle
my legs between his and lay exhausted just above his pelvic bone. My
hair fans across his skin. He loves to play in the mass of curls that
have formed from the perspiration. He rubs my hair gently until my
eyes falter and I fall asleep.

( )

John’s warm fingers awaken me. He drags lazy circles across my back,
drawing me out of my sleep. His stomach rises and falls against my
cheek, almost in perfect syncopation with his slow finger.

“Hi,” I mumble as I prop my chin against his stomach. I love that
feel; the tautness of his skin and how warm his body is beneath me.

“Good evening,” John says adding more pressure to his massaging
against my back. “Does your back hurt?”

I stretch against him, “it’s fine. Just keep doing what you’re doing.”
By the looks of the dusky skyline, I realize how long I’ve been lying
with John. My watch reads half past five. “Honey it’s so late. Nicky
hasn’t awaken yet?”

“He did a little but he must have found his bottle.” John says, still
stroking my back. “The boy is a heavy sleeper.”

“You mean because he can sleep through his mommy and daddy’s trivial
arguments?” I say grinning. “This is the best part of arguing isn’t
it?”

“It wasn’t trivial honey,” he says seriously.

To keep the moment light, I roll my fingers across his well defined
abs. He responds in just by running his fingers down my back
underneath the sheet that shields us from the chill in the air. He
squeezes my legs between his and cups my behind firmly.

“I have hope,” I begin, pressing my lips on the spot beneath me, “that
we can make it through this when we’re together like this.” I know
every curve of his body, it’s a familiar study that I’ve conducted
ever since the first time he touched me. There’s a small discoloration
near his belly button that looks like a strawberry. His hair is finer
near his stomach and curlier toward the his chest. And he breathes
heavily after intense sex.

I pull hungrily at his skin, deliberating trying to leave my imprint
on him. He likes to be marked, I don’t; he enjoys marking me, I don’t.
Something about him tattooing his love on me, leaving a mark that
shows possession is barbaric except I think we’ve reached another
level in our sexual communication.

“I’ve always had hope,” John tells me moving nimble fingers into my
hair. “I don’t believe in giving up on the greatest thing that’s ever
happened in my life.” He shifts himself lower so that I’m not laying
on his pelvis bone. He scoots down until my head is level with his
shoulders. “I will never hurt you anymore; I promise you that,” John
assures me, tipping my chin up from his chest.

“You can’t promise that,” I tell him running my open hand along his
chest. “The only thing we can do is take everything one step at a
time.”

He tells me, “Look at me baby.”

Complying, I prop myself on my elbows across the plane of his chest.

“I know how much I hurt you in the past…with other women,” he says
looking undeterred in his confession. “I don’t know how to say this
without making it hurt you,” he says squinting. “I don’t want to hurt
you anymore.”

I encourage him with roaming hands and soft spoken words, “Just say it.”

“Every woman that I’ve been with since I had you has been a sad
replacement of you,” he admits stroking my cheek. “Every one of them.”

“Then why do you do it?” I asks circling his nipple with the edge of my nail.

John lowers his hand to my stomach and rubs from side to side. “I
don’t know why.”

“Maybe your punishing me,” I suggests finding a more comfortable
position by angling against John’s body.

“Punishing you?”

“Residual anger for our affair and the way I treated you,” I painfully
remind him.

“I got over that as soon as you opened your heart to tell me that
Belle was our little girl.”

Belle’s name sends a warm surge through my body but I can still hear
the words he said to me only a couple of hours ago. “Then why do you
think you were filled with such rage earlier? Anger often masks itself
as something else.”

By the aggrieved expression on his face, I know that he regrets
admitting how much he wanted to strike me. He needs a touch that
lessons that guilt; I take his pert nipple into my mouth. I just want
to erase the ugliness of that moment. I don’t know what I would do if
John ever did strike me. I’d like to believe that I’d declare my
independence—the way I tell physically abused patients to do however,
I don’t know if I’d be strong enough to leave him. But that’s not my
husband’s nature. I’ve seen him be a terror to most people, and he’s
even been a little rough with me but never have I been afraid that he
would harm me.

When I kiss a path across his heaving chest, John snatches my face and
steals a passionate kiss. Our tongues mesh around each other, mashing
against teeth and the roofs of our mouths. He kisses me hungrily,
holding my body firmly against his. I can barely breathe but I need
his mouth to hover and invade as its doing because it’s our
communication.

“I don’t want to talk about the past,” John pants when he unlatches
his hold on my mouth.

“Do you know why your dating Pia upset me so?”

John’s eyes close in frustration.

“No, listen to me,” I appeal quietly, cupping his cheek, “I want you to know.”

“Baby, I’m sorry about that.”

I press against his mouth again.

“You can’t be sorry about that. It’s what happened. It was too much
for me to know that you actually thought about sleeping with someone
else. I haven’t worried about that—I never used to worry about that
until Kate. I never even thought it was possible.”

“I’m sorry.” He says kissing me.

“I can take anything other than you loving someone else, I never want
to think that you’ll stop loving me.”

“I haven’t stopped since the first time I saw you.”

John’s hands wonder lower.

“No, honey,” I say gathering the sheet, covering my body and sitting
up, “Wait just one second before you seduce me again.”

“Me seduce you,” he says with a naughty grin.

“Don’t be cute,” I admonish him playfully, “I’m being serious.”

‘“Well be serious only do it on top of me,” John suggest pressing me
back down to him.
“I haven’t had you in my arms in months. I want to enjoy this.”

I rest my head just below his chin and hook my legs through his sinewy calves.

“Now Pia,” I say twirling the curly hair of his chest between my
fingers. “You shared something with her more intimate than sex. You
shared parenthood with her.”

“I wanted you,” he reminds me looking very much like Nicholas. “I
wanted to have you there but she was it.”

“Exactly.”

“Not exactly, I would have never moved on with her. There is no moving
on from you. How many times do I have to tell you that?” John starts
stroking my hair at the nape of my neck.

“I guess just enough so that I hear it,” I say honestly. “What if I
were saying the same thing about Roman to you? That I wanted you but
he was there. Wouldn’t that hurt you?”

His hands stop moving in my hair. “Didn’t you use Roman when I wasn’t there?”

“No,” I say more timid than I intend. I’m afraid he’s still not mature
enough to handle the kind of conversation that discussing Roman and
I’s relationship requires. John is the kind of man that thinks in
terms of what belongs to him; and he hasn’t forgiven Roman for
reclaiming the life that was stolen from him—even if he gained me only
after stealing Roman’s life. “You don’t want to discuss this. We
shouldn’t do this without a proper mediator.”

“Don’t tell me that,” He says tensing beneath me. “I’m your husband,
you can tell me anything.”

“I told you: I knew who I loved when I was with Roman in the castle.
There was never a question in my mind John.”

“Sweetheart, I believe you.”

“But…”

“I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive you…you created a baby with him.”
John tells me. His entire body tells the silent narrative of his
unresolved feelings over Roman’s fatherhood of another of my children.
He remains stiff as he lets his hands fall easily away from the places
on my body that he was touching.

I felt that way once too. JT. I was devastated when John revealed to
me that he was JT’s father; and I made him pay for it dearly for many
months after it was revealed. The proverbial slap in the face wasn’t
because he’d made love to her on our honeymoon, I could have found
some way to live with that. What hurt the most was that he had given
her—or we thought he had— a piece of himself. It drove me crazy lying
next to him at night to think about a baby that John made with someone
else. In those nights, I wanted him to make love to me enough to
forget that slight against our marriage. And there were days that I
wanted him to not be anywhere near me, touching me in any of the ways
that I imagine that he’d touched her. So I understand how painful me
conceiving a child with Roman really was for John.

“Is that the worst of it?” I ask him trying to keep him engaged, to
keep him from shutting down. Massaging his skin, I maneuver my fingers
into his shoulders trying to ply him open. “Because I know what that
feels like. I felt all of the things that you’re probably feeling when
I thought that JT was your son. And you told me then that I’d have to
deal with it or we wouldn’t be able to move on from it.”

“It changed. He wasn’t my child.” He says releasing air through his
flared nostrils.

“That didn’t lessen any of the pain that we went through, did it? I
still remember those as some of our worst days. I thought you were
slipping away from me. I saw you disappearing and immersing yourself
into a place that I couldn’t exist with you. So I know how much that
my being pregnant with that child hurt you…and I’m sorry for the
circumstances of that situation but never about my child. I’m sorry
but I can’t take that back.”

“If there had been no child,” he asks finally resting his hand on my
lower back, “would I have ever known about you and Roman?”

He can speak about that lost child because it wasn’t his loss. It’s
not fair: Roman and I barely think about it less known speak about it.
After I lost the baby I assumed that John measured my betrayal as only
having slept with Roman. I know better than that but without regard to
John, I measure what I lost as far more devastating.

“If there had been no Belle, would I have ever told Roman about us?” I
posit for him, reminding him of our infraction on that marriage.

“It’s not the same thing.”

“Why not? Our baby—both of our babies are here; Roman’s child died.
That’s the only difference.”

“It’s not the same thing.”

I attempt to change the subject. “John, we’re lucky.” I peer at our
sleeping son, appreciative that he made it safely into this world
through all the madness. I don’t know why we were allotted this angel,
why my body after so many years decided to finally receive another of
John’s seeds after so many other opportunities but I’m grateful. “We
have Nicky.”

“We almost didn’t,” he reminds me, thumbing a piece of hair from my face.

“And that’s the hardest part for me, because I was so unhappy about
each of these pregnancies,” just the remembering is enough to break my
heart in two. I’ve never been one to hold back my emotions, and
talking about my babies opens the floodgate as the tears start pouring
down my face. “I know that there is some part of you that’s relieved
about what happened. I don’t blame you; it’s a tough situation.
Neither of them, not Nicky or my baby deserved what happened to them.
I never even held my child; that bothers me. I’m grateful that I have
Nicky to hold.” I have this awful sense of determination to speak my
truths. “If I could do his birth and that pregnancy all over again, I
would do them again in a heartbeat. I would thank God for another
chance at nurturing a piece of your heritage in the world. He is
completely like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. I can appreciate
motherhood fully now and it’s all because of Nicky. You can’t know
what that’s like to be so responsible for your pain, and Nicky’s
pain.” He catches my tears before they fall. “I feel responsible for
Roman’s pain too.”

“Why Doc?”

“Because all pain is the same John. You act as if our past didn’t have
a blot in it. We haven’t always been so righteous.”

“Are you talking about Roman?”

“I made love to you,” I say emphatically, “and conceived our child.”

“So what….” He says dismissively. “You haven’t answered my question.
Would you have told me about you and Roman?”

“If it were left up to me, I hope that I could have been brave enough
to tell you but I don’t know. I can’t really answer that.”

“What does that mean?”

“John I didn’t make love to Roman.” I say somberly, matching eyes with
him. “I didn’t want him to do the things that I want you to do with
me. It was a mechanical, emotional breakdown that was communicated
through sex. That’s all it was—sex.” I stress taking his chin into my
grip. “It wasn’t like anything that we share. I know that you don’t
want to hear that from me but you are my very soul and lying to you is
not something that I can do. I’m sure I would have eventually told you
about that night in the castle if not just to quiet the guilt. But
that night was a accumulation of so many emotions. Roman and I were
both angry and sad at the relationship that we saw developing between
you and Kate…” I falter because I’m afraid to say what I’ve been
feeling about that night.

“What?”

“You hurt me.”

He leans and kisses my forehead, “I know.”

“No, you have no idea. I never want to see you making love to another
woman. It was terrible.” The way he moved with her is forever burned
in my memory.

“Terrible enough for you to get revenge,” he asks calmly.

I nod as an answer to his awful question.

“I figured.”

“I was resentful and I still am at times.”

“Isn’t that natural?”

“I hate feeling that way about you. I regret that night so much
because of the betrayal. I can live with many things except lies.
Finding out the baby was Roman’s was heartbreaking John because that
baby wasn’t created out of love.” It still fills me with sorrow to
think about my baby and what happened after I lost it. I allow the
tears fall instead of trying to hide them away. “I wanted more than
anything for that baby to be yours, truly. I was absolutely sick over
it.”
John decides that it is an appropriate time to seize my mouth with
his. Either he finds my vulnerability sexy, or the thought of Roman
and me makes him want to prove to himself that I’m his completely.

“Honey…”

He silences me by enveloping my lips with his. I think the urgency
frightens me enough to ask him why he kisses me so possessively. And
when he mumbles he wants me I plant my hands firmly on his chest and
sit up.

“We’ve communicated through sex enough today,” I say glancing towards
Nicky’s playpen. “I want to talk.”

“I don’t want to talk,” he tells me pinning me with his body.

“Why not? Why the urgency to make love all the sudden?”

He raises his eyebrows, “it’s not all the sudden. You’ve been touching
me and working me ever since you woke up.”

“John, really talk to me. Let’s talk through it. I would love to make
love to you again if I knew that we weren’t just avoiding more serious
subjects.” I separate my body completely from his, moving to the far
end of the large couch that we actually brought specifically for
lovemaking.

“I’m not going to ever be comfortable talking about you and Roman
honey, and that’s my problem.”

“It’s both of our problems.”

He reaches for his sweatpants, watching me as he steps into them. “You
look like you’ve had a long day.”

“Don’t dismiss me John,” I say without anger. “Talk to me.”

He sits down, “I don’t know what you want me to say. I can’t talk
about you…with any man. And I’m sorry for saying that about Roman to
you. I shouldn’t have said that—you don’t deserve that.”

“You’re the first man who’s ever made me feel sexual and not be
ashamed by it. I never had that with Roman.”

He lifts his hands to protest.

“I could never be free to be a full woman with Roman, or any of the
men in my life. To me that speaks volumes about our marriage…our
relationship. Honey with them, and I know you don’t want to hear this
but I need you to hear me: I was never sexually satisfied. I’m not
saying so to boost your ego. It’s true. If I really examine my
relationship patterns I realize that Don and even Alex were paternal
figures. They treated me very tender, especially Don. He used to call
me baby,” I tell John without looking at him. “and it was the
strangest thing because I really felt like I was his baby, but not his
lover or wife.”

“Doc I don’t want to hear this.”

“Please for me,” I ask sincerely. “I need you to know these things. I
don’t want to hold them in anymore.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“I’ll make it as painless as possible.” Bringing my knees to my chest,
I lean heavily into the safety of the couch. “You’ll tell me if it’s
too much.”

He sighs heavily.

“D.J. came so suddenly that I never had a chance to grow up but I
learned motherhood isn’t something that you grow into. It just happens
to you. I thought that having a baby with your husband sealed you
together forever. That’s true but not in the way I thought. It just
means that I’ll forever have a soul tie with Don, even if he isn’t my
soul mate. And the same is true of Roman. I became a mother with Don
and Roman, but I became a woman with you.” Water fills my eyes for the
hundredth time. “I don’t think you ever wanted anything from me except
for my love. Don needed me to be a status symbol, and Roman needed me
to conform to his ideals. It wasn’t about me at all.”

“And what about Alex? What did that son of a bitch need?”

His name, the very thought of him still sends chills down my spine.

“Control,” I say clearly. His need for control was lethal. I’m still
having trouble remembering certain aspects of our life together, but
I’m sure that it was the worst period of my early life. “I learned
early sexual behaviors from Alex. Our sexual communication was
unhealthy, and always fueled by jealousy. That’s why I don’t like when
you gloss over things by using sex.” The thought is a new one that
only came to me when I glance at John. He’s sitting with his hands
locked in his lap.

“I don’t want to control you baby.”

“No. No you don’t. But I learned about sex from a sexual deviant John.
There was only my professor who was very missionary in his approach to
sex. I never felt any connection to him other than him being inside my
body and even then I wasn’t completely sure. I was a kid; I was going
through the sexual motions for the sake of it all. And then Alex
started telling me how sexy I was, and how pretty. I didn’t know it
then but I believed him when he said so. He had a way of convincing me
to do anything.”

“From the beginning?”

“He was charming from the beginning, yes. I didn’t want him to think
ill of me so I waited until our honeymoon to have sex. He used to say
how impressed he was at my virtue, even though he was always aware of
what happened with my professor.”

John’s rapt attention feels stifling at the moment but I take a deep
breath and muddle through it. He’s wanted to ask questions about Alex.

“He hit you on your wedding night, didn’t he?”

I still feel the impact between my face and his hand. I can touch the
place that he hit and still tingle when I think of how brutal it all
was.

I nod and wrap my arms around my legs in front of me. “He picked me up
off of the floor where he’d thrown me. It was surreal the way he went
from menacing me to loving me. He took each piece of my clothes off
and folded them up. I remember being afraid to even breathe wrong when
he was undressing me. The feeling of his breath on my skin nauseated
me. I’d never felt colder hands, I’d never seen eyes that cold
either.” He had taken a long look at me, I remember before touching me
but I feel as if I’m already giving John too many details. “He raped
me for over three hours.”

“Doc don’t.”

“No, I’m trying to recover the memories,” I say peeling John’s
extended hand from my knee. “I haven’t remembered them until now.”

“I don’t want you to finish that story.”

“Marital rape is the worst form of sexual abuse for a woman. There is
no way to prove that your husband disregards no for an answer. He
would force me to take cold baths when I protested too much, so I
learned to go deep within myself when he was demandingly sexual with
me.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I don’t know. I need to tell someone.”

“I’m not that someone. Dr. Shalit,” he suggests.

His name causes me to freeze, worrying John. “What is it,” he asks
looking like the man who worships me and feels every hurt that I feel.
I haven’t seen that man in John lately.

I’m unable to speak and that forces him to react quickly. He sees the
terror in my eyes. I have to tell him something that I’ve been holding
onto because I thought I should handle it alone. He doesn’t know, he
only sees that silence means that I can’t share something with him. He
bends me into the curve of his arm, into the depths of his chest. My
favorite place to reside on his body is the nook of his neck where my
head fits firmly and he covers me with his arms as protection.

“I’m being dramatic,” I say wiping my face with the back of my hand,
“I’m sorry I don’t mean to worry you.”

“I didn’t mean to yell at you. I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t know that it’s not him. Speaking of Dr. Shalit and our kiss
is easy in a dream, my subconscious controls John’s reaction. In real
time, I’m here with him and I’ve already riled his jealous spirit up.

“Stop apologizing. You react strongly because you love strongly. I
understand that John. It’s just,” I pause and relish the way his warm
arms enfold me, “I need to tell you something.”

John lowers his head and pulls me closer into his embrace, “No Doc,
let me just hold you.”

“Sweetie, I should have told you this when it happened. We haven’t
been as honest with each other the way we’ve been today.” I breathe
easier when he laces our fingers together. The cold of his wedding
band presses against my ringless skin.

“I can’t believe you still wear that,” I say bring his hand to my lips.

“You’re my wife…hell at least my common law wife.” He tells me
laughing. “You’re always going to be my wife.”

I lean back, bringing his mouth to me. “I love you so very much,” I
speak into his open mouth. “It means the world to me that you still
wear your ring.”

“I want you to wear my ring too,” he clamps our mouths together,
plunging his tongue across the barrier of my lips.

“John I have to tell you something.” I don’t want to get aroused
enough not to finish our conversation. I really need him to know; I
want all of our cards on the table.

“Okay, talk….talk before I kiss you again.”

I absolutely don’t know how to tell him that my doctor kissed me. I
don’t know how awful it will be for him. My inhaling only agitates my
heart, instead of calming the rapid pumping.

“Honey, you look so serious,” he notices before grabbing my face to
look squarely at him. He adjusts our bodies quickly settling me back
level with the couch while he hovers over me. He props himself up on
an elbow, using his free hand to caress my face. “You can tell me
anything.”

“Anything,” I question scrunching my face. “Maybe not anything, but
it’s not life or death. I’m just nervous. I don’t want to lose this
connection that we’ve started again.”

John leans to kiss me. “You can’t say anything to make me not love
you, so say it.”

“It’s about Dr. Shalit John…he kissed me after one of our sessions,” I
blurt out softly.

“He what?” John asks as if he didn’t really hear.

I know he has. He’s slowly retreating from my body, breaking quietly
from me and the closeness between us.

“He kissed me,” I repeat firmer than my first admission. I touch his
shoulder to make sure that he won’t pull away; he doesn’t.

“You have to explain that Doc, I don’t understand—your therapist kissed you?”

My nodding beckons another question from John.

“It wasn’t anything intrusive, I just thought I should tell you,” I
explain sitting up and pulling my legs in front of the couch. The
sheet feels somewhat too revealing. Scanning the room I see some of my
clothes strewn in a pile.

“Where are you going,” John questions blocking my movements when I
head for my clothes.

I point and snatch away from his grip. Lowering my eyes to the ground
in front of me, I quickly redress. “Don’t get crazy about this,” I say
sitting down beside John, “I handled it.”

“You handled it?” He says shaking his head. “That’s a good way to put it.”

I catch the double-entendre, “Don’t be disgusting John.”

He bites into his lip, “What do you expect me to be? I just told you
how I feel about this sort of conversation.”

“Would you rather I didn’t tell you?”

“No, I’d rather you didn’t keep secrets or share intimate kisses with
the man who is supposed to be helping you,” he says slamming his
elbows into his knees and resting his head in his hands.

Moving to the table in front of the couch, I plop directly across from
John so that we can remain eye level.

“It’s not a secret,” I tell him, leaning forward.

He looks up from his hands and grins, “Doc what happened?” He is agitated.

“A rough session, I guess he thought it was comforting me. It didn’t
and I told him so. I trust that he won’t do it again.”

“I don’t think that you should go back to him,” John suggest
slackening his rigid posture. “You don’t need his kind of help.”

“I do…and I need to do this for me,” I reveal to John’s dismay. I owe
Dr. Shalit the benefit of doubt. “John, he’s not infallible. He’s a
man who thought he was helping.”

“Helping,” John guffaws, “that’s a sure way to help. Kissing your patient.”

I try a different approach, “John, he’s not a threat to you. He’s my
doctor. I’m not going to fall in love with him.” I only want to help
him while he helps me—the doctor in me needs him to be well also.

John’s eyes roam the room; he taps his foot heavily against the carpet.

“John,” I place my hand on his face and lean forward, “do you hear me?
I’m not going anywhere. He’s not Alex and I’m not that person
anymore.”

“But Alex started out this way too,” He says quietly, “and I couldn’t
save you from him.”

“You did,” I remind my saddened lover, “and I’m grateful but you have
to trust me here. Nothing is going to happen between Dr. Shalit and
I.”

“When did it happen?”

I search my mind for dates and times, but it’s futile to remember
exactly when. “Weeks ago.”

“Weeks ago,” he repeats incredulously. “I sat in that session with
that smug son of a bitch after he made a play for you.”

“John, it wasn’t a play.”

“Well what was it,” He retorts.

“I don’t know.”

“What did you do?”

“I stopped him.”

“You stopped him?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you stop him before he kissed you?”

It’s a relative question but I don’t have a relevant answer.

“He kissed me, I was shocked and that was it.”

He eyes me suspiciously, “You didn’t stop him, did you?”

“I did as soon as I realized what was happening,” I say feeling
cornered by his rapid fire comments. “I just didn’t push him
immediately away.”
‘
That makes John leap up from the couch and start pacing the room.

“You’re going to wear a hole in the carpet,” I say turning around to watch him.

“It’s not funny.”

“I’m not laughing,” I say tossing my hands into the air. “I’m trying
to be honest with you.”

“And I’m supposed to allow you to go back to this jerk to help you get
back together with me? Why did you let him kiss you, did you want him
to?”

“John, no I didn’t want that. It just happened. And me going to Dr.
Shalit isn’t about you and me—”

He yells, “It was about us in the beginning.”

Nicholas shrieks as I’m thinking of a way to lessen the dynamics of
our rapidly rising conversation. I cover my face with my hand to sigh.
Waiting for him to settle himself, I check my wrist and realize that
he’s not going to after oversleeping.

“Oh honey,” I coo when lifting Nicky from the playpen. His eyes are
alert and scanning for familiar faces. “Daddy’s upset with Mommy.”

“I’m not,” John responds still pacing.

“Aren’t you going to acknowledge him? He’s looking around for you,” I
say shifting Nicky to my hip. He’s gotten better at gripping his legs
around my body. “Dr. Shalit could never come between us,” I say
indirectly to John as I nip Nicky’s face with my nose.

“You slept like a trooper kid.” John says finally coming closer to our
child. He nuzzles Nicky’s fly-away hairs. “I love you son.” He smells
our son’s hair, inhaling some of the innocence that Nicky exudes. “And
I’m not mad at your Mommy. I just wish she’d let me help her.”

“Nicky tell your Daddy that Mommy appreciates having him in our life.”
Nicky senses something amiss between us. He shouts some finagled
English at John and then looks toward me. “I know baby, you’re upset.
You can feel the tension.”

“No tension,” John dismisses layering Nicky with kisses. “When is your
next session?”

“I haven’t scheduled one,” I say watching John’s curious face, “why?”

“I’m going. I don’t care what that son of a bitch says.”

Mama’s voice blares down the hallway near us. “We’ll discuss this later.”

Chapter 25 (NC-17) Part 1

”A successful marriage requires falling in love many times, always
with the same person.”
Mignon McLaughlin

The notion that I have any control over my life is solely mine;
whether subconsciously or otherwise John disagrees. I think it’s
because we’ve made love that he believes we can fall back into those
places—roles really, that have been awaiting our return. Sadly, I
guess, for him the fact that we have made love has not changed the way
I feel about our living and sleeping situation. John likes to
micromanage; it is because of my illness. Old patterns unravel and
create new ones in their place. With him, I often feel like an
overgrown child seeking redemption; but I’m not bitter about that. I
know that it’s his way of taking care of me. I just don’t want to be
taken care of anymore. I still feel as though I need to manage myself
without John’s interference, and without feeling as if I owe anyone
any explanation of what I intend to do. And I’m confident that
everyone is wondering what that is; confusion is often blissful for
the wonderfully unaware. Sex doesn’t mean what it once meant for us.
It’s still amazing; and John is arguably the best lover I’ve ever been
with, but in my rationalization, I think that John and I were more
than anything else sexually overdue. The truth about our relationship
is that it is very physical; before the separation, my breakdown, and
Nicky our lives were largely spent in each other’s arms. I shudder to
think that others can see how much enjoy being with John, that I
actually crave being sexually satisfied by him. That part of me has
lain dormant for months. But I wanted him to want me. The consequences
were ignored by both John and me. I just wanted to be normal—for both
of us. And yet, I still want my independence. It’s amazing how we can
still communicate vertically and yet still be unable to communicate
verbally when there is a definite need to. He retreats to silence when
he’s unhappy. He hides behind disingenuous words that scar my
conscious. I didn’t mean to hurt him with my carelessness; I only
wanted to be honest with him. I have to learn to curve my honesty. All
I’ve given him is another image of me committing—no matter how
slight—infidelity. The night that we made love in the den, afterwards
John spoke only two words to me; he stood in Nicky’s door to say good
night. Before that, he’d bathed Nicky and put him down for the night;
he then excused himself from a late supper with Mama and Daddy. He
told Daddy that an early call the following morning required more
sleep than usual; he looked away when he said so. The following
morning we had breakfast with Nicky and it was then that I told John
that I would call Dr. Shalit to schedule an appointment—alone. John
looked as if I’d said I was taking Nicky and leaving him. He simply
shook his head and said not without me.

( )

We said goodbye at the airfield before Mama and Daddy boarded John’s
plane. I didn’t imagine that saying goodbye to Mama would be so hard.
At times, she has been my savior, and at times, by my own perception
she has been my jailor. I haven’t needed her over the years; I prided
myself on being a very capable adult. But when I looked into her eyes
in my mentally exhausted state from my hospital bedside, I realized
how much I had missed keeping her at bay and essentially out of my
life. Of course, those thoughts were new, and I hadn’t felt them at
the time of my suicide attempt; however, I felt them greatly as we
said goodbye.

I held her tightly until I felt Daddy slip behind me to encase us into
his arms. I’ve always been Daddy’s little girl even though I matured
too fast; and in his opinion gave away too much. He’s never blamed me
either way. Holding me, he told me how proud he is of me—and I needed
to hear that from the man who has shown me unconditional love my
entire life. He will always be the first man I’ve ever fallen in love
with; I’ll always need him to love me in that untainted ‘daddy’ way of
loving. Daddy held me, asking me if it was okay. ‘Can I go in good
conscience,’ he’d asked sounding fearful. He needed my permission to
go, to leave me to fend with my demons and myself. It was only by my
father’s doing that I was able and brave enough tell them to go.

In some ways I feel as if I’m being orphaned by their departure; that
now I have to deal with the reality of my life without their
protective shadow—I know it’s time but I still don’t know if I’m quite
ready. I’m sure want to be ready. As I watched them taxi and take off,
my stomach was tied in knots when their plane had finally disappeared
into the clouds. The only available emotional was one of sheer loss.
I’d never felt so alone. John’s shoulder absorbed the onslaught of
tears as he walked me back to my car; he never realized I was crying.

( )

The fact that we’re driving to Dr. Shalit’s in complete silence
worries me. The silence is profound, speaking volumes about what
turmoil is, and how quickly it rears its head. John doesn’t know that
the quiet way he maneuvers the car, strumming his hands along the
steering wheel, bothers me. And in my observing him I realize again
that nothing about our lives seems ordinary. Nothing.

His quietude shouldn’t unsettle me; yet it does. And tiny things about
our extraordinary life seem provocative. But it’s contrary to how I
thought my life would always be. I like ordinary. I liked coming home
to my husband and children at the end of the day before everything
around me started to feel suffocating. I liked Belle and Brady’s
innocent childhoods. It wasn’t until Belle asked me why we lived in a
Penthouse overlooking Salem, or why I dropped her off to school in a
Mercedes, that I realized how much different my life became once John
entered it. That larger than life presence, his opulence; I haven’t
been ordinary since the day he walked into my life.

The most amazing part of our story is that we are still together.
Still working through problems we should have figured out long before
now. The anger and tension should have found a way to reside
peacefully beneath the surface after all of this time. If I’ve learned
anything from my illness it has been that inside of these middle-aged
bodies dwell the emotions of varied ages. Of my teenage willful
years—of constant indecision and emotional collapses; of the little
girl who was afraid of the dark, of an insecure wife and mother.
Everything that you believe leaves with each birthday, each landmark
is always lurking at the surface, threatening to rip apart
well-stitched seams. I could hide all of that from everyone in my
life, that inner turmoil that causes me to question my existence; I
could do that from everyone except John. John has always been the key
to unlocking every hidden pain and emotion.

The ache of our relationship is the constant shifting. How could he be
so sullen still? How could we be so close, a breath’s length my skin
to his, and I still feel so far apart? How can Nicky’s car seat be in
the back seat with toys strewn across the leather exterior—totally
belying the image of luxury—and we still be at odds? How is it that he
looks at me with such love and torment?

Perhaps I worry too much. My entire morning has been worrisome—in
truth, the past couple days. I’ve been cemented in the fear of the
unknown but it’s because I’ve given John all the power. The besmirch
of a foreigner into the realms of our intimacy. My lips being touched
however lightly it may have been, accost John’s acuity of me. I can
tell by the way that he’s been walking into rooms that I’m already in
with his eyes downcast; there is no searching me out as he normally
would. The eggshells are cracked—at John’s insistence. Sullen works
for him. I’m actually happy that I told him; I don’t want to have any
secrets between us; however, John—as the man who has just made very
passionate love to me—can’t appreciate that type of honesty, and
instead of welcoming the truth, he finds ways to be quietly
combative—about anything.

He has taken issue with my indecision on allowing him to hire someone
to help with Nicky. That’s one sore spot that has quickly arisen in
the days since our lovemaking. I remind him that Mama spent almost a
year with us. John and certainly I grew accustomed to having Mama in
the unofficial role as Nicky’s live-in nanny. I don’t venture far from
Nicky however having her there meant that when I did, I never worried
about Nicky’s well being. And now with my parents exit, I’ll worry as
John watches me doing so; my worrying makes him anxious, which also
makes him fearful. I think his fear makes him want to hold on to me
tighter, which causes him to question my motives; if the answer is not
agreeable to him, then we argue. That merry-go-round spins. He wants
to yell about Dr. Shalit, to ask me how could I be so open to another
man’s affection, but he won’t. He’ll be defensive and question
everything else as he’s been doing.

Our most uncomplicated child kindly ended the last argument that we
had before dropping Mama and Daddy at the airport. It was, as all of
the latest discussions have been about me being inflexible to his
needs i.e. my insistence that he stay with Nicky while I attend my
session. Belle volunteered to watch her brother—her first time—while
her father and I attempt to sort out the ruins of our tentative
recommitment.

“Are you nervous about something?”

His tone is measured and I detect that he is concerned. He’s noticed
my fidgeting in the last couple of miles—in my purse and with the hem
of my skirt. The drive from the private airfield that houses John’s
plane is long and unobtrusive journey; miles of trees and roadways.
I’ve been staring out of the window, relishing the fact that he hasn’t
asked me any questions up until this point. Thinking of ways not to
argue about Nicholas’ well being and wondering if John will confront
my good doctor about his lack of professionalism. Silence seems an
appropriate response to his inquiry.

My silent nodding to his question implores him to continue instead of
just letting it be.

“Don’t be worried, I’m not going to snap his neck,” he says laughing
lightly. “Relax.”

Relax. My heart pumps quicker at the sound of that word. I haven’t
relaxed in nearly two years. I have a mental rolodex of all the times
that I’ve been fearful of John’s uncontrollable urge for
self-destruction where I’m concerned; with Roman and Alex, or anyone
who he feels threatens our relationship. I know where that feeling
comes from; it’s deep within him. Caged in the depths of a man with no
past who is constantly trying to hold on to love, I treasure that man,
but I’m also apprehensive of him.

“Do you think that that’s funny,” I say pushing my hair behind my
ears. I don’t dare look at him when I tell him, “Your comment makes me
think that I should have come alone.”

He accelerates through emerging traffic, causing me to jerk back
against the seat. The speed is instant, but smooth as we bypass slower
cars.

“Will you please slow down?” I ask in a calming tone.

“Do you want to see him alone?” He asks readjusting the speed.

Everything in his body language defines the intensity of his mood. At
least I can say that he is consistent in that. He thrives on
intensity, whether during lovemaking or everyday conversation. He is
an intensely loyal, loving man. If that weren’t true, if he didn’t
love us—the idea of who we are together—then I’d be able to walk into
Dr. Shalit’s office with no qualms about John being there; however, I
know him, he feels like he’s in the fight of his life.

I feel pulled away from the situation for only a second when John
finally turns into the parking lot of Dr. Shalit’s office. The
building is sort of like him: neat and concise. Uncomplicated. Quite
unlike John whose rigid posture slackens, after he pulls the gearshift
into park and shuts off the car.

John brushes my arm and I recall his words, “I didn’t say that John. I
don’t want everything to be an argument.” But I know it’s a vain
request. We have to argue because we can’t make love; it’s an untidy
equation that I have yet to figure out.

“That’s right,” he says clicking his tongue against his teeth, “you
have no opinion to argue.”

He releases his breaths slowly. That presence of him, his breathe, and
heartbeat—beating in syncopation with my own—centers me. We both know
what matters most; we just have different ways of getting there.

“I’m not comfortable with the idea of my six-month old child being
around strangers,” I say pulling at the cashmere scarf around my neck.
“I know that with Belle I didn’t mind it but it’s a different world
now-I am a different mom. I can’t say that I trust everyone with him.”
Pia’s name nearly slips from my mouth. Nicky’s nurse is one hindrance;
and if he can be upset about Dr. Shalit then I can still be displeased
with his dalliance with Pia.

He correctly reads into my non-statement. “Is this really about Nicholas?”

“Of course it is; what else would it be?”

He inhales suddenly and my heart quickens again. “Dr. Shalit.”

I feel flushed. “I would like to know what you’re going to say to Dr.
Shalit, if anything.”

“Doc, let’s go,” he says getting out of the car to open my car door.

“John I want to talk about this before we see Dr. Shalit.”

“Isn’t that why we see him? To talk about things?” He asks drawing his
mouth into a serious line.

The brisk chill of the air whips harshly against my face when I climb
from the car with John’s assistance. Suddenly my choice to wear suede
calf-length boots and a flattering A-line skirt seems very provocative
as John’s cobalt gaze sizes up my entire frame quietly. He lowers his
head to the wind, avoiding my burgeoning concern.

“John?”

“Doc,” he slams the door behind me, “why do I feel like you’re
protecting this guy? He was completely inappropriate with you.”

“Yes, and I told you that I handled it.”

He rolls his eyes and ushers me toward the glass doors of the
building. It’s one floor. Every step toward Dr. Shalit’s office, the
slow, tediousness of our footfalls along the linoleum floor brings
John closer to my side. His hand falls to my lower back, the other
reaches for my hand.

“Don’t worry,” He says when we reach Dr. Shalit’s door.

All the breakthroughs that we’ve experienced, every time that Dr.
Shalit has made me feel less anxious about my life are seemingly
erased when I cross the threshold of his office with John clutching my
hand. Why? Because he’s changed roles in my life, while he once was
the person I sought to treat and heal me, I now see a man who I feel I
can also help.

“Marlena…John, welcome. Come in please.” He says eyeing me curiously.
His focus is drawn from me to John, the tight hold that John has on
me. He knows that something has shifted between us. “I was only
expecting Marlena but John it’s a pleasure.”

Following Dr. Shalit, John steers me toward the back office where we
last had our session with the children. The room seems to shrink with
every visit. Perhaps I’m outgrowing my illness; or feeling larger than
even the problems that surround me. Dr. Shalit hasn’t changed. I
always expect him to be different but he’s not; he has the same
serious brown eyes, the same serious demeanor.

“You look well,” Dr. Shalit says taking his seat, “you both look well.
How are things going since our last session?” He sizes me up, another
stage, another flawless performance.

John notices Dr. Shalit’s staring. He holds me possessively; I think
he’s unaware of it. The rigid posture returns when he sits down on the
leather couch. Dr. Shalit is immediately to his right, furthest away
from me. John allows very little space between us on the cushion.

“Everything is well,” he answers for both of us, draping a hand
casually over my stocking clad thigh. The skimpy material lessens the
intimacy of his gesture. “The kids have a better understanding of
what’s going on with their mom.”

I haven’t heard these sentiments.

“You look as if this is the first you’ve heard of this,” Dr. Shalit
says detecting my surprise.

“It is.” I say simply. Searching for a better way to further my
explanation escapes me. John’s hand circling the span of my thigh is
distracting to both Dr. Shalit and me.

“It was a first step,” Dr. Shalit says lowering his eyes to John’s
hand, “in a long journey.”

John agrees and leans forward. I know he’s tense. His anger
manipulates the mood of the session. Dr. Shalit seems ready for it.
I’m positive though that he’s not ready for John’s opinion on him
kissing me.

“So?” Dr. Shalit says raising his eyebrow; he removes his glasses and
scratches his temple. “Marlena you seem a little withdrawn. You were
more open in our last session.”

His perception causes me to fidget against the cushion.

“It’s John’s presence here; it’s been an ongoing argument.”

“An argument? Why an argument?” He takes his notepad from the table at his side.

“There has been no argument from me,” John tells Dr. Shalit clearly,
“things have changed between us.”

“How so?”

“We’ve grown closer.” John says sitting back. His body matches my
posture. His hand is still caressing my thigh.

Dr. Shalit’s eyes shift suddenly from my face back to John’s hand, “I
can tell though I feel as if Marlena is hesitant to discuss it.”

“I’m not hesitant,” I lie almost too quickly. If I allow John to
divulge what has happened between us before I tell Dr. Shalit then a
discussion of the kiss could come up; we’re not ready for that. I
wanted to tell Dr. Shalit in my own time that I told John but his
insistence on being in the session impeded that idea.

“Are you comfortable with John’s renewed affection?” He asks motioning
his hands toward my leg.

“I have never lost interest in my wife,” John tells him without missing a beat.

I cover John’s hand to the kneading fingers.. “Dr. Shalit, I’ve never
been uncomfortable with John’s attention—affection.”

“I hear hesitation.”

“Do you?” John asks him directly. “We’ve reached several milestones
since our last session.”

“Have you?”

“We have,” I say trying to feel a little less invisible between the
two of them. “That’s what I wanted to discuss with you.”

“Why without John?”

“I wanted to talk about John,” I say watching for John’s reaction,
“and about what’s happened between us.”

John’s body shifts into mine. “We were intimate…very intimate,” He
says scanning Dr. Shalit. He wants to see how much his revelation will
jolt Dr. Shalit, but he is unconcerned with the embarrassment coloring
my face. “Over the period of a couple of hours, we expressed our
love—that’s my wife’s favorite expression for our lovemaking—numerous
times.”

“Your wife—you must be feeling very connected,” Dr. Shalit says, his
face is stone.

“She’s always been my wife. Paperwork doesn’t mean anything to me.”

“I see,” says Dr. Shalit scratching his temple again. “Well this is a
change…a real departure from our past sessions. John I don’t know if
Marlena is comfortable with me sharing some of the things we’ve been
discussing.” He looks up, tilting his head. His ever thoughtful,
present face reveals more than he says.

“It’s been a transitional time for us,” I say feeling John relax
beside me, “and everything actually happened so quickly. I don’t know
if we need to rehash what’s happened, I’d rather look at the
present…and where John and I are going now.”

“I agree,” John tells him, looking back at me. “You know how much I
want us to get back to normal.”

I find myself chuckling at his suggestion. “Our version of normal?”

“To us.” He says touching the place below my ear. “We haven’t had a
night like that in years.”

Dr. Shalit imposes on our private moment. He’s supportive. He’s been a
very large part of my healing process yet as I sit with John demanding
my body and attention I remember that I’ve felt his silent judgments.
He writes and scratches, confusion perhaps. I’ve told him so many
times that I haven’t wanted to be loved by John, to actually express
our love or otherwise yet I sit in his presence freshly coated in the
remnants of all those things I’ve been denying. He seems upset by my
newfound hope and love for John. He brings his pen to rest on his
mouth, biting it hard. For just an instant, I imagine John’s large
hands gripping his throat. The image makes me shudder.

“Are you alright honey?” John tilts my chin toward him.

“Fine…just fine.” I say shaking the sight of my husband hurting Dr.
Shalit completely from my conscious.

“Can we talk about the,” Dr. Shalit hesitates as he lowers his eyes,
“night you decided to give into your sexual impulses.”

It sounds like a crude way to describe that night. It was a very
tempestuous, passionate night. And speaking openly about the actual
mechanics of our lovemaking with Dr. Shalit makes me uncomfortable.

John isn’t affected in the same way.

“It was probably one of the most passionate nights we’ve ever spent
together. We did things that I hadn’t imagined my wife doing.”

He uses ‘wife’ so casually; Dr. Shalit scribbles notes every time he does.

“John I don’t think this is Dr. Shalit’s field of knowledge,” I try
dissuading him.

“You’re comfortable discussing this,” John states rather than questions him.

“I’m absolutely comfortable. Are you Marlena?”

I know my voice is too shaky to answer; I smile politely and nod instead.

“Go on,” Dr. Shalit encourages John.

Our actions are open for Dr. Shalit’s interpretation when John lays it
out. John doesn’t mind it; he states details with his usual intensity.
Replaying a very intimate account of me giving into my desire for him,
after I’d denied him so many times. Listening to his version of our
night of passion, I hear the seducer role being assigned to me.
There’s something else: he has finally conquered me. He doesn’t know
how prideful he sounds; he could care less. He’s marking his
territory. Dr. Shalit doesn’t quite understand why, that much I can
tell from his face. He has deemed John possessive; I haven’t made him
believe that his assessment is wrong. When John refers to the night of
lovemaking, he’s sure, and sound; the details about the following
morning are less so. John clears his throat when he speaks of the
conversations that took place in between our lovemaking.

“So that was a very awkward exchange?” Dr. Shalit unknowingly
challenges him. “Have there been any more intimate encounters since
these?”

I shake my head.

“Marlena why are you so quiet?” He asks in a rather discomfited tone.
“This is a big step in your relationship. I assume that you would have
a lot to say about it.”

“She’s been very quiet lately,” John informs him, “her parents left
today.” The pads of his thumb run along my wrists gently, “I think
that their leaving is hard on her.”

“And what does Marlena think,” Dr. Shalit asks in an unmissed
condescending tone.

“He’s right, but we’ve been combative lately. And to tell the truth,
I’d rather not argue with John.”

“You’re combative? Post coital?” Dr. Shalit questions, crossing his legs.

Sometimes he is such a doctor.

“Post coital?” John chuckles. “Doc,” he says taking away some of Dr.
Shalit’s credibility,” it was lovemaking pure and simple. We argue, we
make love. Those are the gears. It was that way when she was
sick—before Nicky was born.”

Our lives are again measured in eras: pre-Nicholas, post Nicholas. The
latter ascribes more responsibility to each of us; we are far more
vigilant in our parenting than we’ve ever been before. Our son has
changed me. I hadn’t realized how much until this week, when John has
been adamant about me getting back to my life—but he hasn’t realized
that Nicky is my life. That’s what’s changed about us: I’m no longer
simply his wife.

“Nothing is as it was before John,” I remind him. My arm automatically
loops through his; it’s a kind of reassurance. “Nicholas is my life.”

“I understand that honey,” he says stroking the inside of my arm. It
is the closest we’ve been in the past couple of days.

“Do you?”

Dr. Shalit intercedes, “Is this one source of the combativeness?” His
lips curl abrasively.

“A small disagreement,” John asserts, “that I intend to rectify.”

“What is the nature of the disagreement exactly?”

“A nanny,” I chime in. “John favors having help with Nicky; I don’t agree.”

“Do you find Marlena totally disagreeable?”

John hesitates. His answer, a second later is accompanied by a small
squeeze. “Not always but lately yes.”

Dr. Shalit affixes his glasses atop his nose, pulling the notepad with
him. “John, can I make an assessment based on my knowledge of certain
aspects of this argument?”

“That’s what I pay you for, isn’t it?” John says peering into Dr. Shalit.

“Touché.” Dr. Shalit closes his eyes, rejuvenating the lost momentum.

We are probably the toughest case he’s experienced. In my own
experience with counseling, I know how hard it truly is to work with
people with the same field of expertise.

“Before you do,” I interrupt them, “I think it’s important to
understand where John is coming from. As a mother, I’ve never been
quite hands on and we’ve discussed that Dr. Shalit. This is not a
totally new experience for us, but I’m savoring just being Nicky’s
mother. All other ambitions have fallen away; I’m fine with that.”

Dr. Shalit’s eyes brighten. “The mother in you—it’s very touching
Marlena. You have come such a long way from that cold, aloof woman who
was disgruntled about a difficult pregnancy.”

“Thank you.” I am genuinely flattered that he recognizes the change.
I’ve tried very hard to be good enough for Nicky.

“She is—has always been a wonderful mother,” John says with another
reassuring touch. “We just got off track.”

“Not we John,” I say shaking my head, “it’s me, I was the problem.”

“Problem solved,” he says slapping his hand against his knee.

“Is it?” Dr. Shalit asks. “I think it’s time for me to give my
professional opinion.”

I feel John bracing himself. His entire demeanor changes to the
offensive. Up until now, the conversations have always been about me,
about my need to do things differently. Dr. Shalit has been fair to
John, focusing the session discussion mainly on me, even before John
was banned from them. And now Dr. Shalit is loading both barrels; his
intent is apparent.

“John has a very dominant personality,” Dr. Shalit says indirectly.

I fear what would happen if he were speaking directly to John. I rest
my hand across his and move closer to him. Though I’m trying to lessen
the blows of Dr. Shalit’s words, I still find myself nodding in
agreement.

“I recall Marlena speaking about the dynamics of your relationship…and
it’s an interesting one at best. From my recollection and even seeing
you here today…you are very possessive of your wife.” He cringes at
the word, or perhaps the suggestion that I have allowed myself to be
put back into that role. “I use the term wife loosely because in the
past Marlena has been very careful of accepting the title.”

“She’s still very much my wife,” John says with nostrils flared.

“I understand that, but in her eyes the role has perhaps shifted. She
is in no uncertain terms the mother of two of your children.”

John stops him, “She’s more than that; I share my life with her.”

“So she is more like a life partner?”

“We are beyond category Dr. Shalit. This woman is my everything; I
don’t deny that.”

“Is she a possession?”

“Possession? No not at all, I look at Marlena as an equal. She has
always had her own identity. It’s one of the reasons I wanted her to
let me find someone to help with Nicky; she is one of the best that
psychiatrist I know,” John says for effect, “from my personal
experience.”

“In my opinion I think that your wife is a possession, which is why
you exert a certain amount of control over her.”

“Let’s be fair Doc, I don’t tell my wife what to do; I couldn’t if I
wanted to. I respect her.”

“Do you? Your past conduct doesn’t reflect that sentiment. You
disrespected her marriage vows to another man. You pursued her until
you impregnated her with your love child.” Dr. Shalit says challenging
John.

“I don’t want to discuss that,” I inform both my doctor and John, who
is poised to speak. “That is our past.”

Dr. Shalit continues, “It’s important. Past behavior predicts future
behavior. We’re clear on that; it’s never been disputed in our field
Marlena. From what I see, John has transformed your ideas. You were
very wary of him having such a vigilant role in your life and now it’s
as if you’ve been put under some sort of mind control. What’s happened
to you?” He asks with a hint of sadness clouding his eyes.

Is he jealous? I can’t read him as well as I can read John.

“I think you’re overstepping the boundaries of your profession,” John
states physically hovering over me, shoulders inward, arm draping
along my back.

Dr. Shalit closes his eyes. I saw the flash of jealousy; that’s a
peculiar word to use about my therapist. He collects himself mentally.
He repositions his body into a closed state.

“You’re right John,” he says quickly, “Marlena forgive me.”

I can only mouth ‘it’s okay.’ John is so aware of what’s happening and
I hate to see Dr. Shalit in such a state. It’s unfair of me to expect
him to remain objective with John, even if that is his job. I feel
myself wanting to protect him from John’s arrogance about getting me
into bed. No—that’s not the way it happened, but looking at it through
my sad doctor’s eyes it feels as if that is exactly what happened.

Dr. Shalit fumbles through his notepad as I breathe a sigh of relief.
He’s regaining his sureness. His mouth purses for a moment; I’m
watching obsessively. His lips are full, matching the roundness of his
straightforward face. The gentle features are contrary to the smart,
highly intelligent man I’ve come to know. He looks as if he should
remain behind desks and walls because there is something so sensitive
about him, so on the edge. I’d like to tell him how proud I’m sure
Elizabeth would be of him, but I feel John’s breaths, reminding me
that I’m not alone.

“When you say that you did things that you never have before,” Dr.
Shalit begins, never taking his eyes from the notepad, “what did you
mean? Were you referring to the actual sexual act or the emotions
behind it?”

John’s chest heaves a little higher. He thinks it’s his opportunity to
gain an advantage over Dr. Shalit.

“All of it,” John answers before I have my bearing together enough to
give him a non-threatening answer. “I’m not ashamed to admit that we
have magnetic sexual chemistry. I’m proud of it in fact. I’ve never
been more attracted to any woman in the way that I’m attracted to this
lady here. She seems very reserved on the surface, but that’s not the
woman I see in my bed.”

“John,” I can feel the redness warming my cheeks, “You’re embarrassing me.”

“Don’t be embarrassed baby,” he kisses my cheek. “It’s true.”

“Do you think that you’re the only man that Marlena is sexually
connected to in the way that you describe?”

“I don’t like to think of my wife with other men.” John responds
automatically. “I don’t give a damn about any other man either way.
She belongs to me.”

Dr. Shalit allows the comment to pass. He jots another note and looks
up from the notepad. “Is it unique to John?”

Both of their eyes fall to me. I cross my legs, matching the position
of Dr. Shalit’s closed body. I can count the number of lint pieces on
Dr. Shalit’s chair, and I do. I look to the ground. I have to look
away. John waits as patiently as Dr. Shalit does. He clasps his hand
over mine, latching our fingers together.

“I’ve never had a relationship,” I say slowly and in a low tone, “like
the one that I have with John.”

“In what way?”

“Every way,” I tell Dr. Shalit humbly, ashamed at the connection that
he probably will never understand.

“Do you mean sexually?”

“I mean everything. I was only half a person until I met him,” I tell
him discreetly cringing. It’s cliché to say so but John is my other
half, and I haven’t been complete when he wasn’t with me. “I know that
sounds needy.”

“No it doesn’t,” John assures me again with a soft kiss along my warm
skin. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.”

“It’s true,” I say wanting to kiss him full on the mouth; however, Dr.
Shalit’s silence takes hold of the thought. “That night was more than
just releasing endorphins and sexual impulse. Dr. Shalit, I needed
very much to be connected to John. I know we have a lot of issues to
work on but I realized in our son’s nursery how much I really need
to.”

“For Nicky?”

“I used to think so, but no. For us. We were a unit before we had
Nicky,” I say apologetically. “Nicholas changed our lives but he
hasn’t changed the way I feel about John.”

“Did this encounter take place in your son’s room?” Dr. Shalit asks
appearing intrigued.

“Not all of it,” John tells him.

“You were intimate in front of your son?” He asks as if it’s the most
disgusting thing he’s ever had to say.

My head dips tragically low before I can stop myself. What must he think of me?

“Not in his nursery,” John explains.

“I don’t understand,” Dr. Shalit says. “You were very forthcoming with
the details of your lovemaking, however the where of it was left
completely out of it.”

“Is that important?” John asks.

“Yes John, I believe it is. By Marlena’s avoidance of the question, I
must assume that you were intimate near your child. I have to say I’m
rather shocked by that.”

“It wasn’t…Nicky was in the bed asleep,” I explain quietly. The bad
girl tag is not one I can wear without guilt. His tone is
reprimanding, very painful to hear. “He never knew what was going on.”

“Marlena this kind of reckless behavior is just not in your
character,” Dr. Shalit says.
“Was it your choice?”

“Doc, I don’t like what your insinuating here. It’s natural for us to
be affectionate in front of our children, hell in front of family or
complete strangers.”

“Affection is one thing complete disregard for your child’s well-being
is another. What purpose does it serve to do such a thing?”

“Dr. Shalit, I have no explanation. I’m quite embarrassed by my
actions, truly. We’ve never done anything like this before.” Lying is
an easy way to rebuild his image of me. The truth of it is that we’ve
been intimate with our children in the bed before.

“Don’t you apologize to him,” John says sitting forward. “What happens
in my bedroom doesn’t concern you.”

“I’m concerned for your reckless behavior.”

“Don’t be. It’s not the first time. When I want my wife, I want her.”

“Your children don’t burden your passion at all?”

“Nope, it never did in the past. We’re very passionate people. Love is
not something you hide from your children, Dr. Shalit. I don’t know
what kind of parents you had, but I always wanted my children to know
how much I loved their mother.”

“And you don’t mind that Marlena?”

I allow my hair to fall over my eye, “I’ve always been a willing participant.”

He jots note.

“Dr. Shalit, it’s not what you’re thinking. It’s exactly as John said.
We don’t want our children to be ashamed of love and emotions. I know
that in some people’s views that’s destructive, but I’m sure my
children were not adversely effected by that.”

“I believe that you believe it’s right, but it’s reckless behavior.”

“No more reckless than…”

I cut John off, placing my open palms against his chest.

“I hope you’ll rethink those actions, and what repercussions there
are.” He scolds me more than he scolds John.

John has completely tightened up again. His arm is pressed so firmly
against my back that I inch forward to relieve the pressure. When he
notices, his arm slackens. He runs his hand up my back and rests it on
my neck.

“I can’t predict the future Dr. Shalit. In all truth, as far as our
sexual relationship goes, we’re still in separate bedrooms. So that
chance may not present itself for a while.”

Dr. Shalit’s face changes upon hearing the news. “Separate bedrooms,
explain that.”

John falls back against the couch.

“He’s not happy about it,” I explain glancing at John. “I guess I’m
not ready for all of it.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not really sure,” I admit biting my cheek.

“You want to hold on to your control,” he offers as a way of
explanation. “Am I right?”

“Maybe.”

“Were you ready for the step that you and John took?”

Somehow, the conversation has become a private thing. John’s presence
is irrelevant.

“I was a very willing participant, it’s not about that.” I say
unlatching my hand from John’s hand. “I don’t know what it is.”

John remains silent.

“We can discuss this next time,” Dr. Shalit proposes, looking at his
watch. “Times up.”

“Yeah,” I tell him standing up too quickly. My sense of the room
jumbles and I sit back down to calm the sudden dizziness. John
responds as usual, at my side with my face in his hands.

“Are you okay?”

“I think so,” I say shaking my head to slow the building pressure
situating itself at the base of my neck. “I have a slight headache.” I
say excusing myself to the washroom near the corner of the room at Dr.
Shalit’s insistence. I splash cold water on my face, standing in the
mirror of Dr. Shalit’s personal bathroom. It mimics him. Staid beige
painted walls and chrome accessories lining the steel stink. I dry and
then examine my face. My cheeks are still rosy, my eyes a little
moist. A pale imprint of John’s hand resides tenderly on my reddened
neck.

Dr. Shalit’s eyes travel to mine when I open the door to him and John
standing face to face with John’s back to me. And then I hear the
words that I’ve been dreading since I released them to John. He says
them absent of malice and anger, surprisingly. John turns around and
sees me. I look from Dr. Shalit to John’s smiling face, back to
worried Dr. Shalit’s face. John turns and looks at him once more
before grabbing me by my elbow and leaving the office.

Another silent car ride. It’s too much to have to worry that he’ll
hurt someone over me. I feel responsible for the way Dr. Shalit’s
confidence shattered right before my eyes. I can’t stomach having
someone else being hurt because of John and me.

“Why are you so quiet? You were damn talkative in there with him?”

“Where should I start?” I ask leaning against the headrest. “Did you
have to say something to him?”

“Yes, and I don’t know why you don’t understand that.”

“You didn’t have to say anything.” I tell him dejectedly.

Ironically, the optimistic Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wondeful World”
is humming from the speakers. It’s one of my favorite songs. I used to
play it for Belle when she was still in my womb; and then when I
wanted her to feel safe, I would play it in her nursery. Her daddy was
there then, and I didn’t always feel safe.

“You’re upset because I told him about us making love, right? It’s not
because I let the bastard know that I knew he was making a play for
you.”

“Well there is that,” I say inhaling heavily. “You didn’t have to mention it.”

“I don’t want to hear you defending him again,” John tells me irritably.

“It’s not about Dr. Shalit. You don’t trust me. That’s what this is
all about John. You said that you believed in me, but it’s not true.”

“It’s true, but you’re unreliable when it comes to your emotions. You
let your heart lead the way, even if it’s dangerous.”

I’ll never be able to make him forget how much control I gave Alex,
and I’ll never be able to erase that another man hurt him by using me.

“He’s not Alex, John. He’s a good man.”

“Sweetheart, I trust you.”

“You don’t.”

“Damn it, Marlena. How the hell else am I supposed to be around him? I
don’t respect any man who doesn’t respect our relationship. This isn’t
about my trusting you. I’m trying to protect you.”

“I don’t need your protection,” I say without malevolence. “I have to
learn to trust my own instincts again. He would never hurt me.”

“You sound like a robot,” he says bitterly.

It’s something I said about Alex, and I only remember how much those
words affect John after he looks crossly at me.

“I know this process is scary John,” I say with my hand on his knee,
“it frightens me too…especially because I need someone besides you.
That’s never happened to us before, but I have to be emotionally
honest with myself. As much as you don’t want to hear it, I need him.”

He moves his knee from beneath my hand.

“When I was sick, I began reading a book of poems,” I recall
whispering. “Not that it was beautiful, / but that, in the end, there
was/a certain sense of order there; /something worth learning/in that
narrow diary of my mind.”

“Sexton?”

“Yes,” I say nodding. “And do you know what that poem is called?”

“For John who begs me not to inquire further,” he says surprisingly.
“I read that same book. It was on your nightstand.”

“Yeah,” I say staving off the urge to cry. “She wrote that because one
of her mentors asked her not to be so revealing in her poetry…she was
so raw that her emotions stung her. But had she held them in, she
might have died before her time. She wrote that because she wanted him
to understand why she had to be so honest, and dig so deep. Do you
understand what I’m saying?”

“Do you understand? She died. She gave up and if I recall, you
pinpointed her ode to death in that book. Don’t talk to me about raw
emotions. What I feel for you is raw and untouched. I don’t give a
damn how much you fight me, I’m not going to stop trying to protect
you; or trying to keep you in my life.”

“I don’t mind your help, but you can’t control the process. I have to do this.”

John takes a deep breath, “And if I tried/to give you something
else,/something outside of myself/you would not know/This is something
I would never find/in a lovelier place,

Chapter 25 (NC-17) Part 2

My dear, although your fear is anyone’s fear,/like an invisible veil
between us all…/and sometimes in private,/my kitchen, your
kitchen/my face, your face.”

“You remembered that?”

“Isn’t she trying to say that if she were any different that no one
would recognize the trueness of her character?”

“I can’t believe you remember that.”

“When you were in the hospital, I was looking for anyway to connect
with you. I went through your things. I tossed clothes from drawers,
ripped clothes from the closet. I emptied your purse and briefcase,
just to read and touch something that you’d said or done before you
got sick. I saw the book only after I’d completely destroyed our
bedroom.”

“Why did you read that poem?”

“Because I had to stop inquiring, it was the only way I stopped
questioning myself and moved on. When she’s talking about giving
something else, I knew what she meant. It’s not like me to not protect
you. I’m afraid just like you, but I have to do it just as much as you
don’t want me to.”

Touched by his consideration of a poem that clearly resonated for both
of us in different ways, I twist around to face him. “Then you
understand why I have to do this?”

“Yes, but I don’t understand why you have to do this with him.”

( )

Belle and Claire are holding court with Nicky when we enter the
Penthouse quietly. My granddaughter is the first to notice our
entrance. Her brilliant eyes flash and she runs toward us. John bows
to her height and lifts her.

“How is Poppy’s girl?” He asks our delighted granddaughter. She’s a
beautiful blend of my little girl and her father. Claire over the past
couple of months has grown exponentially. She’s such a little person
with big ideas just the way her mother was.

“Baby,” she says pointing to her mother and uncle.

“Yes,” I tell her kissing the bridge of her nurse. “How is this baby?”
My granddaughter circles my neck with her small arms. It’s been nearly
three years since her birth. Time has spent itself unapologetically.
“Your nose feels cold sweetheart,” I say taking her from John. She
wraps her legs around my waist, still hugging me.

“Is it?” Belle asks bringing Nicholas from his bouncer to John. She
cups Claire’s forehead. “She doesn’t feel warm. Come here sweetie.” I
hand Claire to Belle, turning to Nicholas I ask, “How’s this big boy
doing?”

Nicholas recognizes my voice from the cradle of his father’s arms. He
turns his head frantically, searching me out; he smiles when I’m
visible. I kiss my favorite spot on his head and rub his back.

“Guess what I have for you Claire-bear,” John says heading toward her
and Belle, who is searching her for a temperature. “Ice cream. Tell
Mommy to let you be for a moment.”

Belle lets Claire go and she follows John and Nicholas toward the
kitchen. “Don’t give her a lot Daddy.”

“Yes Mom.”

Belle stands and wraps the slender frame of her body around me.

“Do you know that I love when you do just that?” I tell her squeezing
her, relishing the fact that this little girl still needs me. I enjoy
feeling needed. “I needed that so much baby girl.”

“I love you Mom.” She tells me without lifting her head from my chest.

“I love you sweetheart,” I say kissing the top of her hair.

“Mom,” her voice still sounds so child-like to me. “Sometimes I wish I
was still your little girl.”

“You’ll always be my baby girl Belle.”

“No, I mean to go back and have our lives be as if you never got sick,
and I never had to lie to Claire about who her daddy was. All of it
seems so unfair to me.”

“Baby, life is often like that. Unexplainable and unapologetic.” She
wears her emotions close to the vest, just on the surface. “Belle what
happened to Claire and to me, it’s just life. It’s our life and we
have to deal with it and move on.”

“I know,” she says holding me as if it’ll be our last time. “But I
want everything to be normal again. The way we were when I was growing
up.”

“We can’t go back to that,” I tell her softly, “because that life
doesn’t exist anymore. We have to take this one and make it work.”

She pauses, hearing the earnest desire in my words. I want her to go
on with her life and not worry about me so much. I’m the mother; I
want to start worrying about her again. She looks as if she can’t
stand to say what she eventually does. “You and daddy have been
arguing a lot more lately. I’ve noticed it; Grandma Evans noticed
too.”

“Did she say something to you?”

“She told me to keep an eye on you,” Belle admits as she lies her head
heavily against my chest again.

“Look at me Belle,” I tell her prying her face from my body. “You
can’t worry about me and daddy. You have to worry about you and my
granddaughter. Do you hear me?”

“Mom?”

“Belle let me do the worrying from now on. I really believe that daddy
and I are going to be just fine. I wouldn’t tell that if I didn’t
believe it. Okay honey?”

When she was five, it was as simple as “okay honey.” I always tell her
that everything will be all right; she always believes me. She looks
as if she wants to trust what I say, as if she’s still my little girl
who only eats peanut butter and jelly after her Daddy cuts away the
crust.

“I believe you Mom.” She tells me sighing in relief. “I love you and
dad so much.”

“We love you. And don’t worry yourself so. Just be happy for your
Mama. You kiss that little girl who we’ve been blessed with each night
before she goes to bed, and be there when she opens her eyes every
morning—that is all I’ll ask of you. I’ll keep the rest of our family
intact. I promise.”

( )

“What are you thinking about?” John asks wrapping his arms around me
from behind. We’re standing on the balcony where I’ve been since
saying goodbye to Claire and Belle. He wraps the blanket that is
strewn around my shoulders tighter.

“That sounds like a line I’d use,” I say feeling light and at peace.
I’m surrounded by some of the most magnificent views of our fair city.
The sky is starkly black, small glints of stars splattered vividly
across its canvass. The view is one of the first things I loved about
the penthouse. In recent years, it’s felt like it’s too much of a good
thing. Too extravagant. I worry that Nicky will slip from my attention
and find his way to the numerous dangers of living nearly 20 stories
up. I think those thoughts only happen to older mothers. Maybe they
only happen to mothers that have seen the bottom fall away from a life
that had always been perceived as perfect. “Is Nicky sleeping?”

“Barely.” He traces the outline of my spine. “He does that weird
humming that Brady did. Do you remember that?” John asks pulling my
body against him.

“Yes of course I do. How could I ever forget that beautiful sound?” It
was a cross between a cat’s meow and the delicate breathing that is
the mark of every Black child; even Belle had inherited it for a time.

“Belle seemed a little serious when she left. Is everything okay
between you two?” He asks crossing his hands over my stomach. Every
touch is tempting, especially because memories of making love to him
haunt me. I close my eyes and moan to myself. It’s always that easy. I
can be upset with him and then need him to touch me just to make sure
we’re still here.

I snake my hand behind his neck. The prickly hairs stick up beneath my
fingertips. His breathing changes with every stroke. “She’s just fine.
Belle is just her daddy’s girl is all. She wants everything to be
normal again.”

“She gets that from you,” he tells me motioning his hand across my
stomach. “I keep telling you that Izzy is all you.”

“I guess,” I say feeling my head loll forward from the pressure of his
head against mine. I know where we’re going, and it’s tempting to stop
him from using one hand to unzip the back of my skirt. “John.” It
sounds like a question: are we really going to do this, again? Can I
just lie back and allow him to seduce me when we both know that there
are so many issues yet to be worked out between us.

“I’m sorry for the way I behaved earlier,” he whispers. He steers us
toward the balcony. The metal stings my hands when I wrap my fingers
around the frosty rungs. John leans me forward and cinches the
material of my skirt into his fist. “I don’t think that you want
anyone else. I know that but you know how crazy that makes me to even
consider it.”

“Not now,” I plead.

He stops talking and uses his hands to communicate. Fingertips traipse
across my lower back, across the roundness of my cheeks, disappearing
between the valley of my inner thighs. I fall forward harder,
spreading my legs.

The sound of traffic and horns collides with my senses. I open my hazy
eyes; I feel the coldness of the winter night cracking against my
exposed skin. “John, we’re not going to do this here.” I say trying to
regain some control of my overheated body. He lowers my skirt. He
doesn’t care where we give into our desire; it has never mattered to
him. He pivots me by wrist so that I’m facing him.

“You’re such a classy lady,” he growls letting his hands slide from my
shoulders to my hips. “I love that you are only free with me.”

I smile because I recognize the ploy. It’s worked before. He can tell
me how I am a sexual goddess for him until I cave in and make love to
him. It’s happened in my office, in both of our cars—places that I
would never feel comfortable making love. That is until he bats his
bedroom eyes and uses psychology that I’ve probably taught him.

“John, I don’t care what you say,” I say still smiling at him. I’ve
made love to him on our balcony; I’ve made love to him everywhere he
wanted to. But the living room balcony seems so open just then. I’ve
regained some of my inhibitions sense my illness. “Not here.”

“I guess I should be happy that you’re willing after the bullshit I’ve
pulled today.”

I raise my eyebrow; he barely ever uses curse words to express
himself, especially to me. “Honey, I don’t want to talk about this
again.”

“I don’t either,” He tells me lifting me. “I just want to make love to
my beautiful wife.” He wraps my legs around him. “Kiss me Doc, one of
those killer ones,” he says aggressively layering our mouths on top of
each other. He pulls my hair back until my neck is fully exposed to
his exploring mouth. His nipping turns to gentle suctioning, pulling
mounds of skin against his grazing tongue. I moan. He knows the place
that makes me moan and wet; he searches there with his tongue until my
mouth is fully open, my head thrown back. He’s doing a good job of
marking his territory. I’m lost in his touch. He’s the master
puppeteer and my body yields to his manipulations. I can feel myself
soaking through the sheer panties that are press against his torso. My
mind is racing with so many carnal thoughts that the fact that we’re
still standing on our balcony in the middle of foreplay is an
afterthought. I pull his face back to my mouth and kiss him hard on
the lips. I want to keep him there forever, exploring each other’s
mouths as our tongues dart hungrily against the other. Kissing him has
always been as intimate as the actual act of sex. When I can barely
breathe, I loosen our mouths and wrap my arms around his neck. Just to
feel him. To have him breathing against my skin.

“I have to,” John tells me pulling my skirt above my hips. “I can’t
move from this spot until I’ve made love to you.”

I shake my head remembering too close calls with our neighbors, or one
of the children rushing into a room.

“Yes,” he says nodding. He turns quickly, moving offending patio
furniture with his foot. He clears a spot that is partially shielded
by the tall plastic plant that separates the view of our balcony from
our neighbors. “I don’t ever,” he says pushing me roughly against the
cool brick wall, “want to be with another woman.” My skin bristles on
contact with the rough concrete. In contrast, John’s smooth palms
raise my shirt over my head. The coolness causes me to shiver. John
lets my shirt and the blanket drop between us. He has that
animalistic, possessive look filling his eyes.

“I don’t want you to make angry love to me,” I tell him trying to
soften the hardness of his touch. I lift my hand to rub his cheek. He
swats it away and pins my hands to my sides. “John, look at me.” He
looks wounded. The wonder of cerulean blue orbs has darkened.

“I can’t look at you,” he murmurs leaning close enough to kiss the
base of my neck. He tightens my slackening legs around him, lowering
me to his shielded erection. “You have too many clothes on.”

“Honey, will you please look at me?” I plead freeing my hands from his
possession. I trace his forehead with my crooked finger. His skin is
burning. There are tears glistening in his eyes when I lean in to kiss
him softly. He pushes against my lips without opening his mouth. “I’m
sorry that I keep hurting you,” I say against his lips. “It’s not my
intention.”

“Doc…you can’t keep doing these things and expecting me to
understand,” John tells me pushing me away again. “I’m a man with
pride. You’re lucky I didn’t smash his face in today because I wanted
to. I’ve wanted to do that to every man who’s ever tried anything with
you.”

“I have never wanted to be with anyone,” I try reassuring him. “Not
since you became mine. I don’t know why these things keep happening. I
just want to love you…and be loved by you.”

He slams me into the wall rougher than before. He’s rough with me when
he’s afraid.

He can’t voice his fear—it’s because of his pride. I can’t distinguish
pride from fear or love from anger. I just know that I love him; even
when he’s treating me as if I’m someone that he’s picked up from the
streets for quick pleasure. Sometimes he has to make love this
way—that’s what I’ve told myself over the years. But he loves me and I
love being with him. How else could I explain why I allow him to
devour my flesh with his mouth and teeth? Isn’t it love when you
accept every component of your lover? This is the John that Hope made
love too: the man who has a single mission to invade my body with his
and leave traces of his manhood all over me. He ignores the yelps that
escape my body in response to his groping. He reaches between us and
pulls my underwear to the side. Sliding his fingers between the
swollen skin, he enters me with two large fingers and starts to thrust
them. My head rolls forward and falls to his shoulder. I bite into his
skin, tasting his sweat. The mix of our heated bodies and the chill
stifles our voices. He plunges his fingers deeper into me as I bite
down harder into his shoulder. My body climbs higher with every slide
into the groves of my womanhood.

“Talk to me,” I beg him. The silence is too scary. Too unsettled. I
help him position my body forward so that he can enter me easily. When
he does, it’s quietly and without remorse. He fills me until my
insides feel stretched. “John wait….wait…” I beg a little more. It’s
all going too fast. He stands still for a second before wrapping his
arms around my back. “John?”

He moves inside of me like a prey stalking. Just deliberate motions
that elicit satisfying moans from me. The only sound between us is the
meshing of our bodies, and the breathing. The sound of car horns
blares below us. A neighbor’s phone ringing. My own internal crying
out. I lose all sense of our atmosphere as John continually pushes his
love inside of me. All love is good love. Even when it comes out in
this raw, painfully wounded manner. Without warning he relocates us to
the chair at our side. He sits stiffly, feet flatly planted on the
cool concrete. He helps me straddle him. The blanket that fell to the
floor now covers my back as he guides me up and down his shaft.

“Faster,” he commands leaning back against the chair. He focuses on
the bobbing of my freed breasts. He cringes when I start tightening
muscles to milk him inside of me. When he cries out my name softly, I
pull my hand to his mouth.

Even though we are in our own world, I can feel an intruder’s eyes
beyond the balcony. Without regard for them, I continue riding John.
The impulse to stop is not compelling enough.

“I think someone’s there,” I whisper rising and falling in perfect
time with John’s rotating hips. He only pulls the blanket tighter
around me. I think he likes the fact that someone is watching us. He
starts kissing my breasts lightly. Hitting my stride, I toss my head
back and his mouth quickly envelopes my right breast. He teases with
his tongue then starts softly biting my nipple. His hands groping; his
tongue twirling; his breathes quickening; they make me dizzy and
wanton. I start rotating my hips faster crashing into his hipbone. He
cups my waist and guides us to another height. I look over my
shoulder. The spectator hasn’t moved. They are more than likely
enthralled by the sight us making savage love on our balcony with no
consideration for other people. And probably shocked at how loose John
makes me during sex. I turn back to John; whoever it is, I don’t want
to know. I don’t care enough when John hits my spot and my body
responds by releasing a steady flow of hot liquid down his shaft and
my thighs. He thrusts until the force of his seed spurts into me. His
body stiffens beneath me and he grips me tighter as we both lose the
edge of our orgasm.

( )

“You’re here,” John says rolling over in our bed. He smiles instantly,
running a hand through his hair mussed hair. His eyes are especially
bright. Last night after we made love he carried me to bed—our bed.
Exhausted, I asked him to check on Nicky and closed my eyes. Even in
my sleep, I felt his arms surrounding me. I awoke once thinking that
I’d heard Nicky; it was only my imagination. The only sound to be
heard was John’s reassuring breathing. I closed my eyes again and
laced my fingers with his fingers.

Turning into his body, I inhale his scent. “I’m still here,” I answer
with a kiss.

“Do that again,” he says closing his eyes and grinning.

I kiss him again. The intermingling of tongues and fluid entices me to
wrap my arms around his neck. He falls against the pillows and pulls
me to his chest. Running his fingers through my hair, he takes strand
by strand between his fingers bringing them to his nose. I close my
eyes. It’s the little things like this that I’ve missed most.

He stretches his body, exposing his bare chest. “If you let me make
love to you every day, I’ll never be angry with you.” He says in all
seriousness. “Can we sign a contract?”

I laugh playfully tapping his chest.

“I’ll have Ms. Reese draw it up.” He lightly taps his fingers against
my scalp. “It’ll say that you’re not allowed to say no,” he decides to
himself. “And by no means will you be allowed to make love to anyone
else.” He seals it by dipping his head to kiss me.

“You don’t need a contract for that John,” I say sliding my hand under
the comforter. “I’m perfectly content to only make love to you.” He
shivers from me tracing down the line of his perfectly sculpted
stomach. When his head droops back, I climb lazily on top of him. “I
simply adore you,” I say kissing the base of his throat.

“You’d better,” he says cupping my face, “Because I’m obsessed with
you. If you tell anyone, of course I’ll deny it but all I think about
is being with you.”

I smile and peck his lips.

His face grows serious. “Did you ever think it would be this easy?”

“What?”

“Getting back to normal,” John answers. “You’re mine and I’m not going
to let you go. Not ever again.”

“Good.” His body is so warm and close when he intertwines our limbs.
We’re both completely naked—it’s his favorite way of sleeping. And in
our bareness, my body tingles from our skin-to-skin bond. He rubs my
back tenderly as I stroke up and down his arm. “Are you hungry? Do you
want me to get you something?”

“How about I get you something?” he said raising his eyebrow in
exaggeration as he pokes his burgeoning erection into my stomach.

“You’re so romantic.” I say hitting his chest again. “You’re getting
older though honey. Don’t you think you should save your energy for
work?” I tell him playfully.

“I’m not getting older honey. Do I have to prove it to you?” he asks winking.

“Uh no, I’m well aware of your…skills,” I say pecking his lips
quickly. He lays me on my back and slowly crawls between my legs.
“Honey as soon as you get started, he’s going to wake up.” I warn him
recognizing the aroused glare in his eyes.

John shakes his head, “My boy would never interrupt his daddy making
love to his beautiful mother.”

I laugh heartily; he’s cute when he’s eager. He fumbles underneath the
comforter to position me perfectly beneath him. “I didn’t sign that
contract yet.”

John covers my mouth with his hand, “Did I ever tell you that you talk
too much?”

“No,” I say rolling my eyes exaggeratedly. “Do I really?”

“Doc.” He replaces his hand with his mouth.

“Hmm?” I moan as he kisses me.

“Shut up.”

I oblige and encourage him, opening my legs wider to him. He traces
the line of my chin softly, dotting the line with kisses. “Foreplay is
going to get you into trouble,” I tell him guiding him to my
moistening entrance. “Time is limited.”

“Baby, we always have time for that.” He growls poising himself to
push deep into me. He lowers his mouth and captures my earlobe. The
heat alone causes me to wriggle giddily. He holds me still and enters
me very slowly.

“Oh baby,” I moan aiding his body further into me. “All the way,” I
plead when he stops short of filling me.

“Baby…” he kisses me again. His tongue is like a piston jetting in and
out of my mouth. “Am I hurting you?”

“No…I want more…of you,” I cry still leading him into me. “You could
never hurt me. I want all of you…” I say moaning into his shoulder
when he answers my begging. He stays deathly still as I writhe from
the invasion of his thick manhood. I take shallow breaths to calm and
relax myself. My body is still tender from being sexed on the balcony
but it yearns to be connected to John’s body. “Don’t stop.”

He starts moving at a gentle pace never taking his eyes from me. The
lust is always there intermingling with devotion and part obsession.
And love, always full of love. I tighten the muscles in my face. It
turns him on. In bed with him—and only with him—I’m a different
person. I wear varied masks. Narrowing my eyes is playing the role of
vixen. Thrashing my head back and forth causing my hair to fly wildly
across my face is the insatiable lover. He smiles appreciatively.
There is something about that smile. The genuine happiness bending the
corners of his mouth makes me introspective. If I had never met him,
never welcomed someone so uniquely different from anything that I’d
ever known, where would I be? How much happiness would I have found
without him? I’m grateful for every experience; I appreciate every
time he’s made love to me. I’m glad that he stayed when I made it hard
for him to do so. His body begins to move faster against mine,
bringing me out of the reverie of my thoughts. I love him. When did
that become so simple? I love him now more than simply needing him or
even just wanting to be with him. Distinguishing the two makes me feel
renewed in our lovemaking.

“I love you,” I feel compelled to tell him as he pushes his love deeper inside.

He bites his bottom lip as he gyrates.

“I love you,” I repeat rolling my hips into his to further our stimulation.

He sticks his elbows into the mattress and picks up his pace. I dig my
nails into his back until I feel like he’s close enough. He finds my
mouth in the frenetic motioning between our bodies. I slam my eyes
shut and turn my head. John turns my face back to his and mouths I
love you against my lips.

“Baby…John…” I whisper slowing my body down as I strain to hear.
“That’s Nicky.” I would know his sound blindfolded in a room full of
other babies. He’s no doubt searching the darkness for one of our
familiar faces. His fingers are probably jammed into his mouth while
he kicks the blankets covering him. “John.”

“He’ll go back to sleep,” he murmurs as if Nicky can hear us talking.
He tries to regain the momentum. “Come on baby.”

I clench my muscles around him, clamping down hard on his thick shaft.
“John, I can’t concentrate.” I say listening for Nicky. He takes my
face between his hands to kiss me as he continues to pump in and out
of my body. “John.”

“He’s not crying,” he says through clenched teeth. “I can’t stop baby.”

I try to see John and his needs. I know that Nicky won’t be
traumatized if I don’t rush immediately to him. His daddy is surprised
when I push against his chest to ease him on his back. I straddle his
hips with my knees resting beside his thighs. He loosens his grip on
my hips when I put my flat palms against his chest. I start riding
him. He’s already at the top of his arousal; the red hue of his skin
is the sign. His cheeks are suffused with his upcoming satisfaction.
His entire body changes from olive to deep red as the blood rushes
through his veins, engorging his nerves.

“Oh Doc doc doc….” He cries out. He puts his hand on the small of my
back as I rock my hips roughly. “Doc.”

“Are you there?” I ask seductively, kissing his mouth. “Are you going
to come for me? Please?” I say using my vixen low, gravelly voice.
“Just don’t think about anything but me…and you inside of me.” I moan
despite my best efforts to give only him pleasure.

He closes his eyes and falls back, allowing the sensation between us
to build without interference. I continue riding him steadily,
capturing his manhood into my cavity with force. I rise and fall
against him until his toes shoot forward and then twist, as his body
contorts and then loosens. He clutches my thighs and roars my name.
His body is rigid when he holds me pressed against him as he rides the
orgasm completely out. When it subsides, he loosens his grip on me and
I climb from his body. He pulls me to his side.

“I owe you one,” he says kissing my forehead. After he beat, he tells
me, “Doc you were amazing.”

“Thank you,” I say feeling the blush coloring my cheeks.

“So amazing,” he says stroking my skin.

“Uh, no…” I tell him as I move to get out of the bed. “You rest for a
little bit. I’m going to attend to Master Nicholas.”

“I’ll get him,” he offers sitting up.

“No. You’ll have to get up in an hour for work. I’ll get him.” I say
climbing from the bed.

“You might want to get something on,” John calls out to me.

Laughing at my forgetfulness, I spot John’s black satin pajama shirt
and slip it on quickly. “I’ll be back,” I say with a kiss before
scurrying to Nicky.

( )

Nicholas Ethan Black has his father’s charm with another ounce of pure
adorable thrown into the mix. I will admit that I’m prejudiced. Of
course, I’d view him as the world’s smartest and cutest baby.
Everything he does amazes me as if he’d invented it just then. But it
is the fact that he is his father little boy that makes me feel that
he is even more amazing. He ages everyday; changes are small but
significant. In a couple of months he’ll be a year old, and I’ll be
just that more sadder. He’ll walk any day now, skipping crawling all
together. Nicholas fascinates me with his somewhat difficult
personality. At times, he is as needy as his father is for my
attention. And in those times, he’ll cry and throw determined
tantrums. But I’ve noticed how content he has been to be alone in his
room—surprisingly. We had a relatively easy morning after his father
left for a meeting at Basic Black. Alone, we played the game of
counting fingers and toes as he watched in amazement. He barely made a
sound when I left him in his crib so that I could shower and get
dressed. He made me so proud that I wanted to call John—sad too
because he’s growing up emotionally—to brag about him as we drove to
Claire’s school. Belle and Shawn over scheduled themselves and neither
could get away from school to pick her up.

“What’s he doing?” John asks. His voice fills the interior of the car
through the loud speakerphone. It was his decision that I drive a
Mercedes with a vanity plate that reads Mrs. Black. I could do without
all the bells and whistles of my car. The car phone and the constant
contact with the world are a bit much. But I realized a long time ago
that John’s life requires a certain air. His business is about image,
maintaining a glamorous image for the world. I’d be happy with a
husband who works a 9-to-5 job without all the prestige and money but
I attribute that belief to John’s character. “Is he having a good
morning?”

I look quickly over my shoulder. “He’s looking for you.” Nicholas
peers through the disheveled hair flapping against his forehead. His
neck muscles are strong enough that he can lift his head from the
headrest of the car seat and scan the entire car for his father. “Baby
Daddy’s not here.” I say seeing disappointment filter through his
face. He sticks his pointer finger into his mouth, falling dejectedly
against the headrest of his carseat.

“Hi buddy,” John says spiritedly. “Is your Mommy still fresh faced
from lovemaking?”

“John,” I shriek, “Stop that. I mean it.”

“You’ve never been shy about lovemaking before,” he argued laughing raucously.

“That’s not funny. I keep telling you that you’re going to warp his
little brain.”

“I’m sorry honey,” he says trying to contain his laughter.

“Sure you are.” I pull into the slow crawl of afternoon traffic.
Claire’s school is on the outskirts of town—a prestigious preschool
that John insists on paying for. “You’re going to be sorry.”

“I’ll look forward to that.”

I smile despite myself. It’s almost as if nothing bad had ever
happened between us. It only makes me wonder how long the honeymoon
will last. How long until I’m drawn into being distant again? And then
John’s only response will be one of anger. It doesn’t seem quite right
that we’re so jovial and talking about our beautiful, growing son. Or
that Belle has asked me to pick Claire up from school. That’s normal.
It’s something I should have been doing all along. Without knowing so,
Belle has given me a vote of confidence. And her daddy is still making
me smile. My life is slowly regaining composure.

“How’s your day going?” I ask checking my watch. His meeting would
have been over ten minutes ago. When he left the house in a crisp dark
suit with a dark tie, he thanked me for our lovely morning.

“It’s lonely here. No beautiful blondes or adorable little boys,” John says.

“Oh honey that’s sad.”

“Then come see me. Claire loves her Pop-Pops office.” I smile because
I love our granddaughter’s moniker for her grandpa. Claire is the kind
of child that makes grandparenthood fun.

“We’ll see what we can do about that.” I say non-committed. “We have a
lot to do.”

I turn into the parking lot of the large brick building that houses
Claire’s school. There are legions of luxury vehicles lining the curb.
It’s just the kind of place that John wants our children and
grandchildren to attend, nothing but the best for them.

“This school seems more like a college than a preschool John,” I say
eyeing the large structure. It houses more than a preschool; an
elementary school and prestigious middle school also hold classes on
the spacious campus. They picked her school—Hope Academy—while I was
sick. If I had been given a vote, I’d have chosen a smaller place. I
think children learn better in intimately small classrooms.

“Hope Academy is a great learning institute.” John counters as if he’s
written the brochure of it.

Nicky blows raspberries as if he’s in disagreement.

John’s laughter barrels through the car startling Nicholas. “He doesn’t agree?”

“Not at all Daddy…I guess that means he won’t be attending Hope
Academy if he has any say in it.” I tell John finally spotting our
granddaughter spilling out of the building with a myriad of
well-dressed children. She is led in a single file line by a friendly
looking teacher’s assistant down the dark brick stairs. “I see Claire.
I’ll be right back,” I tell John and Nicky inadvertently. The
assistant watches carefully as Claire scurries from the line toward
me. She follows behind my granddaughter dutifully.

“Hi, are you Dr. Evans?”

“Yes I am,” I say taking Claire’s hand.

She hands me a paper to sign as she kneels beside Claire, “This is
your grandmother?” She asks for further confirmation. It’s her job. I
respect her for being so tenacious.

Claire nods affirmatively. Her assistant stands up and takes the paper
from me, fresh with my signature. “It’s this new age. We have to be
careful.”

“I understand. Thank you very much.” I take Claire’s packed book bag,
wondering why preschoolers need to carry book bags. I open the door
and strap her in the car seat across from Nicholas. “John?” I call out
once I’m behind the wheel again.

“Where is my Claire-bear?” He asks.

Claire squeals at the sound of his voice. She searches curiously for
him. “Pop-Pop?”

“Sweetie Pop-Pop on the phone,” I explain to my inquisitive
granddaughter. She narrows her eyes and balls her fist—her Brady
temper is in full effect. “I want to see Pop-Pop.”

I can see where this is headed. As much as we try, it’s impossible not
to spoil her or her uncle who is sitting beside her. Nicky mimics her
tantrum-like mannerisms. It’s impossible to imagine that years from
now, I’ll be attending Nicky’s graduation from school and Claire’s
graduation from college. When Nicky coos at Claire and she responds in
kind. She adores him; she looks at him in fascination. Her observation
of Nicky is an easy distraction from John. I lift the phone from the
cradle and drive away from the school, “Honey, we’ll see you later.”

“So soon?”

“Yes, I’m going to spend quality time with my two babies. We love
you,” I say kissing the phone receiver.

“I love you. See you at home.”

It’s nearly seven in the evening when I finally drive into the garage
of our building. Calling ahead to John, I tell him that I’ll need his
strong arms to carry the numerous bundles and sleeping children.
Claire is conked out in the back seat with Nicholas. I’d almost
forgotten what it was like to be with two toddlers alone. The twins
were a handful and I was a young woman when I had them. My grandchild
and young son only remind me that time has been kind, fast but still
kind. Shopping and lunch with Sami wore the two of them out. Gathering
the toys and French fries that Claire spilled when she fell asleep, I
notice that Nicky’s hand is clasped to Claire’s hand. “So sweet.” I
say noticing as John pours out of the elevator with other residents.
He starts shaking his head when he sees all of the shopping I
accomplished.

“Are my cards in the red?” He asks opening the door for me. “You’ve
managed to put these two to sleep…must’ve been a long day.”

“Don’t be cute,” I say climbing out of the car. He hugs me as he
brushes my forehead with a kiss. He’s out of the 9-to-5 suit and back
in a simple black t-shirt and dark jeans; my favorite version of John
Black. “Wouldn’t it be nice not to have to climb an elevator with kids
and packages?”

“It would be wonderful, just say the word and I’ll buy you the biggest
house in Salem,” he challenges as he gathers the packages into a
larger bundle that he puts into the biggest bag. “Did you need any
more clothes that won’t fit in the closet?”He asks unstrapping Claire
from her seat and lays her over his shoulder.

“I’ll put them in my closet,” I say taking Nicky from his seat and
following John to the elevator.

“Your closet is my closet.” He lifts an eyebrow and puts his hand
across Claire’s back. “I have that contract. It also says that you
sleep in my bed with me every night as per our agreement.”

Shaking my head, I throw a look his way. “I didn’t sign any contract,”
I remind him playfully.

In the elevator, he closes the space between us when our neighbor Dr.
Krauss enters the from the lobby floor. He’s been a tenant about as
long as we have been and a thoracic surgeon who has never been
married. We have on occasion chatted in the elevator, especially when
I was working. John grabs my forearm, positioning me in front of him.
He pats my hip and leans forward to plant a kiss in my hair. Dr.
Krauss says hello and then averts his eyes to the floor as we travel
silently to our mutual floor. John allows him to exit the elevator
first once we’ve reached our floor. He waits until he is out of
earshot to turn me toward him.

“It was him.” John says balancing Claire and bag harmoniously.

“Don’t tell me that,” I say feeling the color escaping my cheeks.
“I’ll never be able to look at him again.”

“He won’t either.” John jokes opening the door. He sets the bag down
and cradles Claire to his body. “Beautiful girl,” he murmurs as he
kisses her forehead. She stirs when his lips leave her skin. “Shh,”
John says swaying her.

“I’ll put Nicky to bed.” My baby boy hasn’t moved an inch since we
left the car. The hum of his breath sings along my neck as I walk to
his room. It won’t take a bottle to put him to sleep once he’s
sleeping as comfortably as he is. I transfer him easily from my body
to his crib. He stirs slightly when I change him into a sleeper and
change his diaper. I turn on his nightlight and the classical music on
his bureau; John makes fun of this peculiar habit of mine. I’ve been
doing it since the twin’s were little, but it’s a great way to
stimulate Nicky’s brain.

“Honey?” I hear John from the first floor when I’m headed back down
the hallway. I can see Claire’s body slung loosely over John’s when I
reach the balcony. The pile of vomit that has apparently poured from
Claire is at his feet. He’s rubbing her back and telling her that it’s
okay.

“John,” I say as calmly as I can. I don’t want to frighten her but
seeing her so disheveled unnerves me. “What’s wrong sweetie girl?” I
kneel in front of her.

“I think we got it all out,” John says pulling Claire’s dark hair from
her face. “Right sweetheart?” She has John’s brilliant blue eyes and
the Brady’s coloring and dark hair. The color has drained from her
face.

Claire shakes her head and opens her mouth to vomit the hotdogs that
she’d eaten only a few hours before onto the carpet. She frightens
herself. The urge to vomit and not being able to stop it terrifies
children. I pin her hair back and encourage her to let it go. She
starts crying for her mommy and daddy as she struggles through her
regurgitation. I press my hand against her forehead. She’s warm,
warmer than she’s been since the last time I touched her.

“She’s pretty warm honey,” I tell John trying to reposition her more
comfortably on his lap. “Tell Grandma where it hurts baby.”

Claire points to her tummy and her head.

“Oh sweetie,” I say feeling suddenly overwhelmed. I’m horrible when it
comes to taking care of sick children. John has a natural touch for
making it all better. My doctor sensibility makes me want to fix
things clinically when all it needs is a mother’s touch. I block those
doctor’s emotions and embrace how much I need to help Claire.

“I’ll get a towel.” John offers as he puts Claire in my arms.

“My sweet girl,” I whisper into her hair, kissing her furiously.
“You’re going to be okay. Grandma’s going to take care of you. I’m so
sorry that you’re feeling sick.”

She stops crying and looks up into my eyes. She has so much of her
mother in her face that it’s hard to not think that I’m holding Belle
and it’s twenty years ago. We both look up relieved when John rumbles
down the stairs two at a time with a wet towel.

“Do you know where the thermometer is?”

“In the medicine cabinet?” I say trying to place the last time I used
the thermometer. “Did you look in Nicky’s room?”

“I will…where’s the Tylenol?”

“Same place.”

“How’s my girl?” He asks helping Claire sit up from my lap. “Should we
call Belle?” he asks over Claire’s head.

“We will,” I say removing Claire’s stained shirt. “I want to make sure
she’s feeling better first. Will you get the Tylenol?”

“I’ll be right back,” John assures Claire.

I move Claire from the immediate vicinity of her vomit. The fumes are
potent enough to cause me to gag. When we reach the end of the couch,
she lays her head in my lap.

“Has your mommy ever told you what her favorite story is Claire?”

She shakes her head.

“She hasn’t. Well Grandma will tell you what it is. I used to read
this to Mommy all the time when she was a little girl like you.” I
tell her stroking her hair slowly. I’ve read it so much that it’s in
my immediate memory bank. “It’s about a mommy like yours…and she loves
her baby so much Claire. She rocks and rocks her baby singing a song.
I used to sing it to your mommy.” I say rubbing her back. “I’ll love
you forever, like you for always as long as I’m living my baby you’ll
be.” I recite choking back tears. “That’ll always be true no matter
how old you are. I want you to remember that.”

“You still can’t get through it without crying,” John says rubbing my
shoulders. “How is she?”

“Miserable. She doesn’t know how to really tell us what’s hurting her.
She’s frustrated.”

He walks around the couch. “I called Belle. She feels terrible but I
told her that we had it covered.” He looks at the packages and the
pile of Claire’s vomit. “I’ll get this all cleaned up. You take her
up.”

“Are you sure? I can help,” I offer lifting Claire into my arms.

“It’s fine.” He pats my behind and scoots me to the stairs. “I left
the thermometer in our bathroom. I’m sure you’ll want to give her a
bath. I’ll bring up a bucket for anything that’s left in her stomach.”

Another thing about John that I’ll never find in anyone else is his
devotion to our family. Whom else in the world can I look to and say
“she has your eyes” or “he holds his head the same way that you do”?
No one else could understand it in the same ways that we do. He bends
low and starts to sludge through the mess decorating our carpet as I
walk Claire slowly upstairs. I take her temperature—not alarmingly
high but enough to warrant Tylenol. She bravely swallows a spoonful
when I ask her to sit up and swallow. After running a warm bath and we
both climb in. I hold her tightly as I wash her face and hair of any
sign of sickness. She asks me to repeat her mommy’s favorite story
again as I’m rinsing the plumeria scented shampoo from her hair.

“All better?” I ask toweling us both off. She nods through heavy eyes.
I layer her skin in lotion that I’ve warmed between my palms before
putting her pajamas on. It’s an old nightgown of Belle’s with
Strawberry Shortcake emblazed on the front. She clings to me when I
try to lay her in the bed. John walks into our room with a bucket in
hand. He stops and stares unapologetically at my bare body.

“You’re impossible. Will you take Claire until I’m finished here,” I
ask handing her over and heading back to the bathroom to finish
dressing. I emerge fully clothed to John’s disappointment.

“Sweetie come lay with Grandma,” I say pulling down the comforter. She
climbs from John’s lap and curls up beside me. “Is it all better?” I
ask rubbing her back.

“She’s out Doc,” John says examining Claire’s sleeping face. “I’m
going to check on the boy.”

“I haven’t heard a peep from him,” I say snuggling closer to Claire.
“I do expect you to behave with this child in the bed.”

“Who me?” he says mimicking my voice. “I’ll be admirable. But it’s
sexy as hell when you take care of our babies.”

“John.” I warn narrowing my eyes the way Claire does.

“Okay, shh. Get some sleep.” He kisses Claire’s cheek and then rubs
mine. “I love you.”

“I love you,” I say as he walks from the room. “Thank you for loving
me.” I whisper under my breath.

Chapter 26

“I have found that to love and be loved is the most empowering and
exhilarating of all human emotions.”
Jane Goodall

My lie was sealed with a kiss. It shouldn’t be this easy. I’ll tell
John when it’s over, but for now, I have a greater need to right my
wrong. I kissed John before I walked out of the penthouse, lingering
longer than I would have—if I had not lied to him. I made an
appointment to see Dr. Shalit. I feel as if I owe him some sort of
explanation for my silence in the face of John’s anger over our kiss
when John confronted him at my last session.

I didn’t intend to lie; I treasure honesty above all else. And honesty
would work under normal circumstances, but we are not dealing with
normal circumstances. I lied to John because I can’t give up the
closeness that we’ve had since our last rough patch. Telling him will
erase that and I couldn’t bear it. We’ve nursed our sick grandchild
together, and made love three times in two days. I’ve told him how
much I love him without feeling unsure of it. I’m not ready for him to
stop looking at me in adoration. Call me selfish but I adore being
treasured by John; I’ve missed it. I’d forgotten how good it feels to
be loved and cared for on a constant basis. And yet, even with all of
these accomplishments I’m willing to risk it because I owe Dr. Shalit.
John can’t understand that, and I don’t have the explanation that he
requires. I’d rather face the consequences of my dishonesty after I’ve
settled things with Dr. Shalit.

We—women— can lie with smiles and kisses. Our bodies can betray us and
reach out for pleasure even when our minds are seeking other forms of
stimulation. It’s the complicated composition of a woman; our entire
being is contradictory and contrite. Until lately, no one viewed
ever-perfect Marlena as complicated. They haven’t thought so since I
had an affair with John. But I hope that they can see it. I’m as human
as it gets. I hope they can see that I fall in love just like them; I
lust and need human touch as much as any woman does. And I’m no better
at love or sadness. I just have access to tools that help me
distinguish how and why I feel the way I do.

It is an intricate balance and amazingly, our husbands, lovers, and
children never realize how much turmoil is hidden behind the smiles
and constant managing of their lives. John and Nicky are clueless. I
played the game: I smiled and become flirtatious when I knew that I’d
be going to Dr. Shalit’s office. I enticed John with looks from across
the room, with small brushes against him whenever possible. I pulled
him into the laundry room when Nicky fell asleep in the living room
yesterday afternoon and made love to him against the washer.
Afterwards, while I was still draped across his naked body I mentioned
that I would be having lunch with a colleague that he didn’t know.
That was the lie: basic dishonesty that was sealed with a kiss.

( )

Dr. Shalit didn’t want to have our session in the patient room; he led
me into his office and asked me to sit down—more like a meeting rather
than session. His attire matches his mood. Dark tweed jacket with grey
slacks. A button down shirt is peeking beneath the sweater that dulls
his eyes.

“You told him,” Dr. Shalit says sadly. Not in an accusatory, sardonic
tone but one of simple resignation. “I didn’t think that you would.”

“I didn’t know that I would do that,” I admit weakly. My intention is
not to be apologetic because I don’t feel it’s improper to share
things with John. I am sorry that he confronted Dr. Shalit with my
confession. “I should have diffused the situation instead of letting
John have control of the information. I wanted to tell you before he
had a chance to. And then I heard it, I didn’t know what else to do.
I’m sorry that I walked out.”
He smiles up at me. “I know you are. That’s your nature—compassionate
and empathetic. I’m not upset with you if that means anything to you.”

“It means so much to me.” Maybe more than it should. My doctor’s
opinion is very important to me. “You understand that my intention was
not for John to become so upset with you. I should have known better.”
Sitting there in front of him, I see it so clearly. There is a chink
in the armor. I’m suddenly, in his eyes, the empress without clothes.
“I can’t control John but please accept my sincere apology.” Dr.
Shalit silently dissects my words.

“Do you think that you will ever control him?”

It’s not about controlling John and I tell him so. I want John just
the way he is, anything less than that would be a watered-down man who
I wouldn’t recognize. John loves possessively. It’s taken years to
understand and finally be at peace with it. I have to allow him space
to be the kind of man that he is in the same way that he allows me to
be myself.

“I don’t see the logic. You have told me on occasion that you don’t
appreciate that part of John’s personality….that,” he signs quotations
in the air, “she belongs to me mind frame. Does sex change the way you
allow John to treat you. Can’t you separate your lust from plain
common sense?” He nearly spats. He leans back into his chair and
lowers his eyes to the file on his desk. My file. Dr. Marlena Evan is
written in his scrawled handwriting. “I’ve been thinking in light of
the events that occurred between John and me that maybe you would
benefit from a doctor who is less emotionally involved.”

The ax drops and crushes the icy surface separating us. My doctor
shows me the most awful sense of humanity. He’s opened the surface to
reveal that he’s as flawed and fabled as I now know myself to be.
Doctors who don’t admit that they have a god-like complex are
deceiving themselves. I think it’s healthy to own up to that fact;
it’s also beneficial to patients when they look to doctors to cure
what ails them. Emotionally or physically. But my doctor is human. His
emotions pour from him through many avenues. Darting, retreating eyes.
Tweaking fingers tapping the desk. His male pride has been assailed
and it’s my fault but he can’t fully blame me. He doesn’t want to, but
then again, he can only play the game as much as I allow him to.

I’m still a doctor, although I’ve happily given it up for Nicholas, I
can still see when someone is protecting themselves through false
words. His intention to scare me off is feeble. If I were to walk out
of his office right now, we’d both always wonder how far we could have
gotten in therapy. That sense of being god-like makes him and me want
to contain the grief and pain so that nothing else we feel will be as
bad as the moment that we first felt it. That’s the gift of being
god-like; it is a necessary thing. He was the first person to give me
that when I was sick. “You’re giving up?”

“Don’t twist my words,” he counters slightly aggressive. “You see
what’s happening here don’t you?”

I nod. “Yes, you’re giving into the fear of the unknown.”

“I don’t fear the unknown. I know exactly what’s going to happen.” He
leafs through the notes in my file. The tidbits of my life that he’s
taken note of since the first time he met me, all those months ago
when John thought that the biggest problem we had was infidelity. “You
were and have been a consummate patient. You do what I ask and nearly
always give more than is expected.”

“But?”

He takes his glasses off. “John. You don’t have a consistent view of
that relationship or your place in it. I can do all of the things that
this form of therapy requires if you stop fighting me on that.”

A little taken aback, I plant my palms against his desk. “I’m not
fighting you. You just said that you were happy with my progress. It
seems like you’re the inconsistent one.”
“I am happy at your success.”

“You’re too focused on John. You should take a step back,” I advise him calmly.
“I agree but I’d direct that comment to you also. This is not about
John’s recovery…at first I’ll admit that he gave me a view of you that
I otherwise would have remained invisible. But John has all the
advantages here, and I feel at times it’s to your detriment.”

“Are you saying that John is a hindrance to our therapy?” I ask
because I want to hear him say so to me.

“I haven’t said that at all.”

“Well what are you saying? I’m not clear on what you want from me,” I
reveal in a raised tone. “You have all the power here…even more than
John.”

“I disagree,” he argues. “John controls everything, especially you and
if that remains the case…there isn’t much more I can do to help you.”

His lack of empathy is unsettling. I’ve never seen his eyes look so
dull and uninterested in my reasoning. It’s as if he’s shut himself
down from feeling anything for me.

“Don’t you have anything to say?” He asks. His tone has shifted to
testy. He starts to fidget with his collar, taking his hands away from
nervously tapping on the desk.

“I’m frankly speechless.”

“Speechless?”

“Speechless….maybe that’s too small a word,” I say searching my brain
for a better way to voice my distress. “I’m shocked at your reaction
to my reconciliation with John. I thought you wanted to help me. Isn’t
that what our work has been about?” I ask trying to control my shaky
voice.

“It’s still about helping you. If you don’t know this by now Marlena I
would do anything you asked me to do. I care for you,” he pauses and
looks directly at me, “I care about what happens to you. It worries me
that you don’t know that.”

“I thought I knew that,” I answer quickly, “you would do everything in
your professional power to help me.”

“I will but I can’t help you this way,” he says rising suddenly from
his chair. He crosses the room to the table holding the coffee maker.
Much like a therapist, he uses avoidance instead of confrontation. He
looks as if he’s suffocating from being too close.

“What way?” I say twisting around in my seat to look over my shoulder
at Dr. Shalit.

“John…he’s dangerous,” he voices confidently, eyes peering at me as he
sips coffee.
“He wants you to be his entire world. That’s not healthy. You
experienced an emotional breakdown because of his insistence to
control every part of your life. And when I see you falling back into
his control without so much as a fight, it worries me.” He turns away
and says over his shoulder, “I can’t help you in that way.”

“Dr. Shalit look at me,” I insist before going on. When he doesn’t, I
walk to him and put my hand on his shoulder.

“Marlena.” He says my name with such intimacy.

“No, I want you to hear what I’m about to say,” I plead shifting his
body to face me.

“What is it?” He asks with his eyes focused plainly on me.

“I’m here because I know what you’ve done for me and John. I haven’t
forgotten the person I was before you came into my life. Nicholas is
probably alive because you helped me get through the darkest period of
my life. I’m here because you cared so much. It hurts me that you
think I would allow John or anyone for that matter dictate what
happens between us. I trust you.”

“John doesn’t.”

“That doesn’t matter, John’s not my doctor. You are.”

“Marlena I don’t want to cause friction between you and John.”

“You could never do that. I’m here aren’t I?”

“Yes you are though I suspect that John doesn’t know it,” he says
tipping his chin up.

“You’re right. I didn’t tell him.”

“Why did you feel the need to lie to him?”

“Dr. Shalit, if any of this mattered I’d discuss with you every aspect
of it. But it doesn’t.”

He tightens his grip on the coffee cup. “Doesn’t it?”

“Not really, it’s my life. You don’t have the right to make judgments
on it. Neither does John. I love my husband…and I respect you.”

“Your husband,” he says slowly. He lowers the cup to the table and
runs his fingers through his hair. “I understand now.”

“I hope so.” I say feeling as if he’s understood what I’ve said. “I
will not be made to choose between you and John.”

“He would win,” Dr. Shalit says walking back to his desk.

“It’s not a matter of winning. John will always be in my life. He and
my children are my life; I can’t and won’t apologize for that Dr.
Shalit.”

“I don’t expect you too.” He says. His confidence is uplifted.
Renewed. The hint of a smile creases his lips. “Now on to business.
I’ll continue to help you. I believe there is much more to be done
here.”

( )

Depression is rage turned inward. John rages; I turn inward. Nicholas
knows what angry daddy sounds like. He doesn’t like angry daddy’s
voice. His eyes widen when his daddy’s voice fills the living room.
His little hand holds tightly to my wrist. His body locks against my
hip. The mercurial face of his father is what alarms him more than the
volume of his voice. It’s more than my own body tensing and retreating
from John’s complicated argument. Nicholas feels everything. He’s the
monitor of all of our rights and wrongs.

“John, will you please calm down,” I ask, frustrated for all three of
us. “Nicholas is trembling.”

He obliges. Tensing his jaws. Balling his fist. I could direct his
anger in stages. It’s so uncontrollable and yet I know everything that
comes to light when he feels it. He’s been stewing for more than a
moment. He must have imagined Dr. Shalit and me in an intensely
private conversation that I intentionally hid from him. That makes him
not trust me; and it makes him question why I couldn’t trust him.

“I am calm,” he says lowering his voice and his balled fist. “I want
to know why you couldn’t tell me the truth.”

“Look at yourself,” I say pointing at him. “I knew you’d react like this—”

He interrupts, “then why would you lie?”

“I did not lie exactly. It’s not as serious as all the anger in your
voice and face.” He can’t help himself. I know that but I can’t allow
him to continue being so demanding. “John, I needed to clear the air
between us. He deserved an apology for the way you treated him.”

John lumbers past me, “did he?” He picks up the work that he brought
home and throws it into his briefcase.

“I think so,” I say retreating from John’s direct line of view.
Setting Nicky down in his playpen causes his burgeoning tears to
spring from his eyes. He shuts his them tightly, pressing his
trembling lips together. “Baby, give Mommy a minute.” I say sweeping
through his hair and walking away. It’s too much. I’m too emotional
and I can’t recall when I started to feel overheated. It wasn’t John’s
reaction entirely. As soon as I left Dr. Shalit’s office, I felt it.
It being an indescribable rush of emotion. Nicky is only a baby; he
doesn’t know emotions the way that John and I do. Nicky doesn’t
differentiate between John’s love and anger. I know that John is
yelling because he feels out of control, out of the workings of my
life. Nicky shouldn’t have to understand his daddy’s temperamental
outbursts. He can’t know that his father’s tirade is something that
will push me over the edge. I have to remove myself from the
situation, just for a moment. Just to regain my lost composure. To
ensure that I am brave enough to stay. I’m not afraid of the
confrontation. I just need the time to feel my way through it all. I’m
not running from Nicky; I’m trying to hide from John. I don’t know
what to say about my deception. Of course, I should have known that I
couldn’t just come back into our sanctuary and say that’s that. And
then expect John to say all is well.

“Where are you going?” He asks following me into the kitchen. “I want
to talk about this.”
I find myself immune to John’s anger–only when I feel so emotionally
drained that I have to go inside myself, and recharge. My son is
crying fitfully in the living room because we have left him. I expect
John to quiet him and leave me be just for a minute. He’s not crying
in vain. We are all he knows in the world. To have his father yelling
and then have his mother disappear must weigh heavily on his
perception of things. I’m thinking of Nicky and ignoring John’s
glaring. I also ignore the nagging guilt of my having lied to him. I
did it for me because helping me also helps him in the end. Taking a
deep breath, I spin around and look toward the doorway. Hoping that
John will take the hint and go to Nicky to console him. But he
doesn’t. Anger makes him a relentless bastard.

“I didn’t mean for it to be a secret meeting. I’m sorry.” I say
because he won’t budge otherwise.

He accepts my apology and nears me. We are standing by the
refrigerator; he leans against the door with one arm. “You can’t think
that sorry seals the deal. I know that you are not naïve.” He can be
such an ornery man sometimes. And very unforgiving when it’s the
easiest solution–that unforgiveness is maddening.

“If it’s not enough,” I say lowering my head, “then leave me alone
until it is. I don’t know what else to say John. It wasn’t about you.
I wasn’t doing anything behind your back that I wouldn’t do when you
were there.” I explain calmly as he watches me incredulously. His
jealousy is and will always be one thing that I do not love about him.

“Wake up Marlena,” he says slamming his hand against the door. “He wants you.”

“I don’t want him,” I answer simply. “This is my fault because of what
happened with Alex.” His memory bank is full of all the little things
I said and did under Alex’s control.

“You still think that I’ll leave you but Dr. Shalit is not Alex, John.
He’s so not the type of person who would do anything to hurt our
family. I keep telling you that our future is dependent on us.”

He cups his forehead in frustration. “Stop being so damn naïve.” He
walks away. Thankfully, I hear Nicky crying dissipate. His father is
probably cradling him close and wishing that his mother would be less
naïve. The headache that has been dormant all day is blaring now. I
find the antique teakettle that Mama gave me and fill it with water.
John’s making Nicky giggle and coo. He can go from anger to love in
seconds. I can go from anger to loving him in a shorter time. Is it
naïve to think that he means well when he’s yelling and trying to
control the situation? Even if it is, it’s what I believe.

They are playing when I enter the room with my cup of steaming tea.
It’s chamomile. My head is still pounding, more so than before. I love
the interaction between John and his son. When he’s being daddy—the
one who throws stuffed baseballs at Nicky while helping him swing a
tiny stuffed bat—I stop and watch in awe. He’s the best father I’ve
ever known beside my own. John is in tune with all of our children,
even the ones that we don’t share. He knows when Sami needs a hug; he
knows that Eric’s independence is a cover; he kisses Carrie on the
bridge of her nose, making her feel as if she’s the only little girl
who has ever had his heart; he gives Brady confidence and pride in
himself; he strokes Belle’s blonde curls and calls her Tink; and he
devotes himself to Nicholas in ways that the other children never
experienced. He is the consummate father. His attempt at being the
consummate husband is not the same thing but we differ on what that
means. But for now, I’ll enjoy Nicky’s smile that comes from being in
his father’s arms.

( )

I’ve had the same headache for a week. Unfortunately, for both
Nicholas and me, he’s feeling awful. He is in the throes of his first
full-fledged cold. His little nose runs; his coughs are persistent. He
and I have been battling for the award of who can sleep longest after
John leaves for work every morning. By Friday, we both have it down to
a Science. He sleeps from midnight until noon; I toss and turn,
checking his temperature during the night, waking up at ten.

The clock says that it’s 10:15 but it feels like I’ve slept for ten
hours. Nicky is curled at my side with a bottle jammed into his mouth.
He’s been sleeping in our bed since his cold began three days ago. The
slight chill in the room makes me shiver and like all mothers, I
assume that Nicky’s body reacts in the same way that mine did. I pull
the comforter over his legs. He’s sleeping in a t-shirt and diaper; he
fights having anything more on than that. On Wednesday, John and I
took him to see his pediatrician and all she could do was give him
cough suppressant and fever reducer. She explained how cold viruses
are getting tougher to deal with; they last much longer than they did
in the past. Of course, John didn’t want to hear that, he only wanted
relief for Nicky. He’s been vigilant about humidifiers and eucalyptus
leaves around the room. It has improved his chest congestion steadily.
He squirms when I brush his cheek to see if he has a temperature. His
brown eyes flicker open. Our routine is a steady minute of staring
where he makes out my face, makes sure I’m Mommy and then moves
immediately to my chest to lie down. Hoping against hope that I’m not
catching Nicky’s cold, I know that I’m wrong. My body is achy at just
the smallest contact between us, especially my breast where his head
rests.

“Mommy wishes I could help you,” I whisper to him as he coughs. I
gently pat his back to get him back to sleep. To help him find some
peace from sickness that he doesn’t understand. I’m anxious for the
day when he says Mommy or more than three syllables. His potential is
endless. He’s a gifted child. All parents think their children are
spectacular; I feel that very much with Nicky. I think it’s because he
fought so hard so early in life that there’s a purpose for him. He
flashes his eyes at me, widening them before they fall under heavy
lids. He’s so exhausted from having germs invading his body. He slumps
against my chest as his sleep overrides everything else in his body. I
try to catch another nap with him until we absolutely have to get up.
I hear my name in my fogginess. I’d know John’s touch anywhere. He
taps my cheek and then twists my hair between his fingers until I open
my eyes. I shake away the sleep and realize that Nicky and I have
overslept. It’s close to four and we’re still in bed; Nicky’s hasn’t
been fed.

“How are you?” He asks sitting on the edge of the bed. Lately all he
wears are suits and ties while I tatter around in pajamas and
comfortable yoga pants. He looks as tired as I still feel.

I check Nicky, who has rolled from my chest to the bed again. He’s on
his side, still pressed closed to me. “Tired I guess,” I say gathering
strength to sit up, squinting against the light that John must have
turned on.

“Does your head still hurt?”

“A little,” I say sitting up against the headboard. Nicky’s
temperature feels normal under my palm. “I haven’t taken anything for
it. I have to get some food into Nicholas. It’s been hours since he
last ate.”

“Did you give him medicine?”

I shake my head. “All we’ve done is sleep.”

“I think you’re finally coming down with this cold,” John says patting
my legs through the comforter. “You actually look a little peaky.”

“Do I?” I say threading my fingers through the tangles in my hair. My
mouth is a bit dryer than usual. “I’m going to splash some water in my
face. Do you want to get him up to get some food into him please?”

“Sure, but let me help you first. He’s obviously tired.” John offers
peeling back the cover. He puts his arm around my back and lifts me
up. I lay my head on his shoulder and appreciate the fact that John is
home and able to take care of Nicky and me. “I’ll get you something
for your head. Get a shower; it’ll help you feel better.”

“Thank you,” I mumble against his neck before he puts me down. He
turns on the showerhead and then helps me undress. “You don’t know how
sexy you look all mussed up and tired looking.” He says cocking his
eyebrow.

“No, I don’t.” I laugh stepping into the shower and standing
underneath the water. The hard pressure of the spray is a welcome
against my aching back. I lean back and the water splashes my face,
drenching my hair.

“How are you doing in there?” John asks sliding the door open. “Here
sweetheart.” He opens his palm with two round pills and hands me a
glass of water. After swallowing, I hand John the glass and stand
again under the spray of water.

“I’m exhausted.” I say realizing how true it is.

“I’ll help.” John offers taking my shower gel from the caddy and
squirting the pearly gel into his large hands. It’s innate. He has
spent all of our lives together taking care of me, protecting me. Even
when I don’t want him to, he just loves in that all encompassing way.
He hasn’t forgiven me for going to see Dr. Shalit. He hasn’t moved one
bit on his understanding of that issue but he’s stopped starting
arguments over it. John can’t very well fight the woman who has been
taking care of his sick son. And now he’s taking care of me, tenderly
soaping my aching joints. “You need to rest honey.”

“I’ll be fine. I want to make sure the baby is fed,” I reply sleepily.
Yawning, my exhaustion, I lean back into the spray to rinse away the
soap lines on my body. I can barely keep my eyes open. The pressure
from my headache continues to assault my temples. “I’ll handle this
from here.”

John looks disagreeably at me. He reaches for a towel and opens it for
me to wrap myself in.

“I don’t want to get you all wet.” I say stepping out of the shower.
“I’ve got it covered from here.”

“Honey, let me help you.”

“I give up,” I tell him smiling coyly. In all truth, I don’t have
enough energy to make it back to the bed. My arms feel as heavy as my
eyelids feel. “I’m starting to feel a little dizzy.” The room starts
to close in around me. My body suddenly feels alien to me. “I need to
maybe sit down…” I say walking slowly to the vanity and plopping down.
The pills that I swallowed are sitting in the pit of my stomach,
causing me to feel nauseous.

“You haven’t eaten,” John asks kneeling in front of me.
It rises so quickly that I nearly don’t make it to the toilet. John
hovers near and drapes the towel over my back as the little that’s
left in my body pours from me. He holds my wet curls at bay as I
continue emptying the contents of my stomach into the bowel.

“Baby, are you okay?”

I shake my head and dip it back to the bowel. I’m not sure if I’m
finished releasing everything. The porcelain is cold against my
shoulder blades. The smell is enough to make me gag. John’s reassuring
touch is like that of Mama’s touch was when I was sick as a child. He
rubs my back and shoulders slowly. His lips leave an imprint in my
hair and on back.

“John, I think I’m finished.” I feel as if I’ve lost ten pounds in the
small exchange with the toilet. He lifts me gently into his arms. I
wrap my arms around his shoulders and close my eyes again. He lowers
me to the bed softly without disturbing Nicky’s sleep. He towels the
water droplets from my body. He’s so good to me when he needs to be.
In our exchange, I forget that we aren’t married really. I forget
until I put my left hand on my stomach and don’t feel a cold metal
band against my skin. He kisses my forehead before pulling his pajama
shirt over my head.

“Claire?” He says as he lays me against the pillows.

It takes too much energy to answer. I nod and turn toward the middle
of the bed where Nicky is sleeping.

( )

Nicky is there. Pale and ghost-like. He can speak and calls me Mommy
repeatedly. His voice is strangely familiar. He’s walking away from me
into a kaleidoscope of dark colors. He’s tall like John. His hair is
dark, nearly lacquered to his head. I know it’s him. His crescent
birthmark tells me so before I can make out his face. Mommy. And then
he turns around and on the body of a grown man is the cherubic face of
Nicky as he is now. All smiles and innocence. He reaches for me but my
arms don’t extend to him. I can’t hear myself when I call his name. He
turns away and starts to walk. I chase after him and when I finally
reach him, he turns into a baby. I try to take him into my arms before
noticing the lines of blood pouring from his nose and mouth.

I open my eyes and search the darkness for my little boy. My dream has
instigated a sudden sense of doom. It’s after ten. The skyline is so
dark, the hallway light outside the bedroom door doesn’t illuminate
the room. I reach around in the bed a second time to feel for Nicky.
His place is empty, as is his father’s place. Moving too suddenly
jumbles my sense of the room. I sit up and turn on the lamp. I want to
get my hands on Nicky. I want to touch him and make sure he’s okay.

Nicholas and John are conked out on the couch when I walk downstairs.
He’s tucked under John’s arms. The remnants of a meal are on the
coffee table. Their breaths rise and ebb in perfect syncopation. I
stoop beside them and bend my ear to hear them. John’s breathing
overpowers Nicky’s tiny tufts of air. Inspecting his body for trauma,
I touch his ears and nose. He’s perfectly fine. I’m not a prisoner of
my nightmare; my baby is not injured. As if on cue Nicky’s eyes spring
open and seize me.

“Sweetheart.” I whisper and kiss him on the back of his neck. He
cranes his neck, scanning to see if John notices me there yet. He’s
still soundly sleeping. “You tired your pour daddy out.”

It’s only when John and I feel so tired that we can’t do anything but
sleep that I realize what a difference age makes in parenting. The
look on John’s face—tranquility—is hard fought. I realize that he’s a
major business executive who handles acquisitions and million dollar
deals daily and that the idea of coming home to a baby is exhausting
but he does it faithfully, without complaint. I know he’s as tired as
I feel. We’ve been watching Nicky carefully over the past couple of
days and now he probably feels as if he’ll have to watch me. Sometimes
I wish we could go back to those days when he was still just a police
officer. And then I could go back to being normal Marlena who doesn’t
fret over ominous dreams. But I remind myself, looking at Nicky that
we’re not those people anymore. I’m an ex mental patient and the
mother of a child under the age of one; this is my life now.

Nicky half rolls from his father’s chest into my arms not realizing
that his move is dangerous and has my heart quickening. John feels his
absence and wakes up startled.

“Hi.”

“Hello.” I smile getting a better grasp on Nicky. He hasn’t had much
energy since his cold. His movements have been rather lethargic.
“Thank you for taking such good care of me and the baby.”

“Don’t thank me,” he gently admonishes me as he lifts up. “You all
right? You’re color is still not right.”

“Don’t fret.” I say sitting next to him. “First Claire and then
Nicky…it’s something that is going around.”

John touches my forehead. “You don’t have a fever.”

“I know. I have a cold.” Nicky slides against my stomach as he jumps
from my lap to John’s. It’s one of his favorite games. He’s testing
his limits. “It’ll pass in a day or two.
Do we still have those Vitamin C tabs?”

John nods as he lifts Nicky over his head.

“John he’s going to become unsettled and possibly vomit.”

“He’s fine. I gave him a dose of the meds after you went to sleep. He
ate and then we slept. I think he needs some stimulation.”

“Stimulation but not tossing his cookies. I still feel slightly queasy
myself.” I admit rubbing my stomach.

“I’ll make you some soup.” John suggests lowering Nicky back to his
lap. “Or I can order you something else. Have it delivered?”

“No honey, I don’t think I can eat.”

“No?” He says kissing Nicky. “Mommy still doesn’t feel well Nicky. We
have to take care of her.”

“No, you take care of Nicky.”

“I can do both. Now soup?” He asks standing up. “Nicky and I will make it.”
My two guys disappear and I lay back down, covering myself with
Nicky’s blanket. If my stomach is any indication, I won’t be touching
anything that John sets down before me. I haven’t been sick in a long
while. Not having babies in the house pretty much kept me out of the
sick-whirl-round that most mothers go through with school age
children. It’s taking more out of me than it should. I close my eyes
intending to rest until John and Nicky come back.

I awake back in my bedroom with Nicholas playing with my hair. He
doesn’t see me often with loose curls; he’s checking to make sure that
I’m still Mommy under all the new hair.

“You fell asleep again,” John tells me as he closes the space between
us. “I want you to make an appointment.”

“For?”

“Doc, I’m worried. I’ve never seen you take to bed like this….” He
stops and looks from me to Nicky.

“I know.” We both remember when I was last like this. “It was when I
was pregnant with Nicky.”

He shakes his head and takes my hand across Nicky, who’s lying on his stomach.

“Honey, it’s not like that. I’m not pregnant or depressed. I’m just
sleepy. I haven’t been sick in a long time. I think my body forgot how
to fight it off.”

He doesn’t look convinced. “Baby, I’m really worried.”

“One day.” I tell him holding up a finger.

He looks confused, “one day?”

“It’s only been one day. Give my body time to fight it and let’s just
hope that you don’t get sick too.”

“What if it’s not just a cold baby?”

“What else could it be? It’s not something serious John…really. I’m
sure it’ll pass.”

He pauses to kiss Nicky’s fingers, which have gone from my hair to John’s mouth.

“When you were sick in the bathroom, you know what I thought?”

From the look on his face, I can only guess. “I’m not sure if I do?”

“I thought, what if? It’s a big what if but what if you are pregnant again?”

I gasp at the thought.

“Is that so shocking?” He asks seriously. “We didn’t plan for Nicky. I
mean we didn’t try for him.”

“John, I’m not going to have another baby.” I say definitively. I know
my body well. It’s not pregnancy. It couldn’t be. After the turmoil of
my last pregnancy, it’s the last thing I’d have thought of. It’s been
three weeks since John and I resumed our intimate relationship. It
would be wishful to think that there wasn’t a possibility. Anything is
possible. Nicholas proves that. Everything has been a whirlwind since
John and I made love again. Everything. My feelings are up and down,
purely emotional but it can be attributed to the state of our
relationship. It can be attributed to many things that do not require
another nine months.

The next morning John is rubbing my stomach when I open my eyes. We
have traded positions in our sleep. Nicky is in the middle of the bed
and his daddy is sandwiching me from behind. The first thing I notice
is how clear my head finally feels. That’s before I have the urge to
vomit. I cup my mouth and rush from the bed toward the bathroom. With
nothing more than liquids on my stomach, it’s more painful to throw
up. Heaving into the toilet bowl repeatedly until my stomach feels
settled, I sit Indian-style on the floor in front of the toilet.

“Sweetheart, it’s not just the flu,” John says coming to me with Nicky
in his arms. He sits down behind me. “We really have to think about
the possibility of you being pregnant.”
I’m tearing up before I realize that John notices it. He wipes my face
and pulls me to him. Nicky is only half-awake. Dread. Thinking of that
prospect fills me with absolute dread.

“Honey say something,” John encourages me with his hand circling
against my back. “It’s not that bad. We’ll have a shotgun wedding.” He
says jokingly.
I look up and destroy his happiness with one shake of my head. “No
John. I’m not going through that again.”

He looks unnerved by my refusal to participate in his dream.

“Do you remember what happened with Nicky? I know you haven’t
forgotten how bad all of that was. I don’t want to relive that John.”

“You may not have a choice,” he says touching my stomach. My empty stomach.

“John, don’t get your hopes up. Nicky is our miracle. I know it’s not
a baby.” I know that I don’t need it to be another baby. I quietly
calculate the date of my last period and our first night together.
Like a worried schoolgirl who wants to evade pregnancy. It’s possible.
“It’s the flu.” I tell him trying to stand up. My balance is shaky but
I manage to steady myself at the sink. John takes my hand and walks us
back into our bedroom.

“John?”

“I made love to you. I’ve been making love to you for weeks now.” He
says as if I wasn’t a part of the lovemaking. He and Nicky make an odd
pair sitting across from me talking about our sex life and an imagined
baby. “You’ve been in bed for three days…not just one. And the
headaches.”

“You’re reaching honey.” I warn him. “In a day or two this will pass.
Don’t get yourself worked up. I mean John what would we do with
another baby. Nicholas is more than enough.”

“I’m not saying he’s not. I’m saying that our hearts are big enough
for another baby.”

“John.”

He can’t help grabbing my chin to make me see his point. “It could be
wonderful. Nicky
having a brother or sister who is close in age. Another chance to get
pregnancy right.

Everything would be fine this time. I promise you.”

“You can’t promise that,” I say feeling dejected by his pregnancy
right comment. I’m the one who fouled up Nicky’s gestation. “It’s not
happening anyway.” I say dissuading myself from being caught up in the
fantasy. “John I’m at an age where pregnancy is not encouraged. I
don’t want to risk that.”

“Baby you’re the strongest that you’ve ever been.”

“John please honey, it’s not…”

“Don’t rule it out,” he adds quickly.

I haven’t ruled it out. After all of John’s surmising, I can almost
feel the beginnings of pregnancy settling in my body. The flutter of
life floating through my womb. The sudden urge to nurture. But it’s
all a fantasy. I can’t be pregnant unless I am.

“I just want to sleep,” I say crawling back into bed. John mumbles
something about feeding Nicky and I hide my head under the covers. I
secretly touch my empty stomach. It’s not filled with life. I know it
but John also makes me unsure of that. I close my eyes hoping for rest
and non-thoughts.

Chapter 27 (NC-17) Part 1

“Courage doesn’t always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at
the end of the day saying, “I will try again tomorrow.”
Mary Anne Radmacher

It doesn’t make me a monster. I simply cannot give birth to another
child. I cannot risk dooming another one of my children to the
possibility of being trapped in my unstable body. It’s all John’s
fault that I’m even thinking this way. It doesn’t matter: we haven’t
conceived another child by accident or otherwise; it’s just
impossible. But I’m naïve.
I’m the only one who feels conflicted by the possibility. John is
quite the opposite. His eyes dance when he comes into our bedroom and
sees me with an unexplainable sickness that he’d like to attribute to
pregnancy. But a new baby isn’t the only answer to why I can’t keep
food down. It’s possible, but there is not a high probability that I
am. I’ve counted the days since we became intimate again, twenty-four
in all; no protection or thought of pregnancy risk; just sex plain and
simple. Yet it’s only been ten days since Claire had her bout with the
flu in our bed. I choose to believe the nausea is a result of a flu
bug and that my headaches have come from undue stress.

“I brought you a gift.” John tells me as he sets a tray down over my lap in bed.
“Where’s Nicholas?” It’s past his naptime and I’ve only seen him once
all day. John put me to bed after my last meeting with the toilet,
after he tried to convince me that I was carrying another one of his
babies.

“Fed, diapered, and asleep.”

“I want to see him,” I say examining the contents of the dinner tray.
“I haven’t touched him all day.”

John looks at me. “You need rest.”

I lack the energy to argue with him. “Soon?” I ask hopeful. “I just
want to hold him in my arms.”

“Yes baby as soon as you eat.” He spoons some soup into my mouth.

“I don’t think I can handle this,” I realize when the liquid doesn’t
sit well on my stomach.

“I can’t. It’ll come back up,” I say holding my mouth. I reach for
crackers and chew them frantically.

“What can I do?” He wonders pawing my hair.

“Hold me,” I suggest pushing the soup away. “Kiss me and tell me that
it’s just the flu.”

He does what I ask after lifting the tray and putting it on the floor.
Climbing back into the bed, he hands me a rectangular box that is tied
in purple ribbons.

“What is this?” I ask inspecting the box, as I get comfortable against
his outstretched body.

“Let’s see,” he says pulling the ribbons loose. The metallic paper
tears easily away.

“Open it.”

I used to receive gifts every week from John. There were jewels and
clothes, anything that he believed made me look gorgeous. The last
gift I remember receiving was when Nicky was just a little thing in my
belly; John brought me a beautiful charm for my bracelet. It was a
small token to christen the event of our then new baby; it was a
newborn baby charm. I am really a rather simple girl, the smaller the
gift, the more I cherish it. John can and has bought me anything I
could have wanted, but the simplest things are what make me happy. I
remember not being happy about my pregnancy, but I was happy about the
charm. And now he’s holding this box in front of me and I’m weary of
taking it. He is, after all, the master of the big gesture in small
forms.

“Oh John,” I say once the box is open and the pregnancy test is
visible. I measure the look of joy lighting up his face. I don’t know
how to process that kind of faith. And I feel terrible that I don’t
share his excitement. But the ordeal of Nicholas’ birth is never far
from my memory; of how I became an alien in my own body. I can’t get
past it;
obviously, John has. “A pregnancy test huh?”

“To be sure,” he smiles taking the box from me.

It’s ironic how such a small thing can have the power to change my
life. I have to look around, and visually snapshot the moment; cherish
the peace that exists before the storm. Maybe that’s what my dream
meant. That God’s awful sense of humor has stricken us yet again, that
there is always another shot to get things right. But I’m thinking too
much. This is John’s fantasy, not mine. I’m content with my miracle
child. I don’t need another miracle that could possibly turn tragic. I
don’t have a need to tempt the fates. My mind and emotions have yet to
heal from the last go round in miracle row.

“Honey…I…”

My inner turmoil is vivid, written all over my face. “It’s not going
to be that way ever again.” He refers to the circumstances of
Nicholas’ birth without being so graphic or assigning blame. “You and
I will handle this together. I wasn’t there for you the way I should
have been during your pregnancy.”

I bury my head deep into his chest. Pregnant. I mean it’s not true,
but what if. What if I am pregnant again, at this age, with a baby who
is still in diapers? How could that life happen? I’ve seen it
countless times. Women who put their all into a career and then
suddenly—selfishly even—they want babies because their work isn’t
fulfilling. That’s not how it was for me. I loved my life. I’m not
like those women who worry that they can’t have it all. I had it all.
I am a wife and mother but I also had a career that gave me great
satisfaction. And beyond even those reasons, we’re content, finally. I
trust that John and I will spend the rest of our lives together with a
lot of hard work. I don’t however trust myself to another baby. I
can’t do that to us again.

“You know how much I love Nicky, how much I adore him?” I stress
quietly. I don’t know how to tell him that I wouldn’t even consider
having another baby. Man’s perception of birth is not cohesive with a
woman’s understanding. I’m the holding station for a massive amount of
hormones and mercurial emotions during pregnancy. All John will have
to do is hold my hand and breathe me through it. John regards me as a
superwoman. He believes in me; he thinks that I can do anything. I
know how untrue his version of me is. Beyond being physically unready,
emotionally we are both still searching for the semblance of life. We
are bonded but we are still frayed. “I know you look at me and think
that I can do anything.”

“You can.” He asserts caressing my arm. “All we have to have is a
little bit of faith.”
I’m afraid to see it, that dreadful hope in his wonderful face, in
those warm, beautiful eyes. He’s so generous with his hope that it’s
hard not to want to grab a hold and go for it. Everything should be
okay because my husband is loving me. His arms are encased around me.
His heart is beating against my cheek. Our son is sleeping down the
hall. The storm has slowly passed us over.

“Do you hear me Doc?”

I hear more than just his voice–all of the reasons why it can’t work,
or can’t be true are also begging for an audience. “I know you think
so John, but we both know how untrue that is. I don’t want you to get
your hopes up.”

“I have faith in you.”

“I know you do,” I say shutting my eyes. The test is still in my hand
clutched tight. “John what if it is positive?”

“Then it’s positive,” he tells me as if he’s answering a simple question.

“How would you feel if I didn’t want it to be positive?” I ask him
humbly. I don’t want him to take his hands from around me because in
this moment I feel strongly connected to him. And I’d do anything he
asks of me, except have another baby. “Logically, it just doesn’t make
sense…” I hesitate because I sound clinically detached from what I’m
trying to say. I can’t approach this matter in that way. “I’m worried
that you won’t understand about my feelings on this. You may think of
them as selfish.

He brings his hand to his favorite spot on my back, just below my
neck. “You’re so knotted back here,” he says circling the knots away
with soft fingers. “Don’t get tense
honey. Relax.”

Opening my eyes, I lift my head from his chest. I peck his lips and
lie down again on his rising chest. “I don’t want you to hate me.”

He squeezes me. “How could I hate you? Baby, you’re the only person in
this world that I’ve ever really loved beside our children.” Kissing
my hair, he stays there. “I don’t hate you; I couldn’t hate you.
Nothing you could ever do would make me not love you.”
I know he believes that but he doesn’t remember the way he looked at
me when I woke up from my coma. After they had taken Nicholas from my
body, to protect him from me and give him a chance to live a healthy
life. John did hate me then. I don’t blame him; I hated myself enough
for the entire world. He looked at me with as much disgust as I felt
when I looked at myself. “You’re kind. And I know you mean well, but
I’m not pregnant.”

There is an expectant pause.

And then Nicky cries.

John disentangles from me, leaving a kiss on my neck. I’m not strong
but I’m determined enough to pull myself from the bed and go into the
bathroom. Turning the lock to keep John away, I look at John’s gift.
His own tiny glimmer of hope.
It doesn’t take long for the lines to tell me that John’s suspicions
are just wishful thinking. But there is no victory for either of us.
Surprisingly the mark, the dark line in all its singularity hits me,
striking a sad blow. It’s unexpected. As much as I don’t want to be,
I’m very discouraged that I’m not carrying another baby. I won’t be
adding another child to our family tree. And more than that, perhaps
I’ve passed my childbearing years unceremonially. I’m growing older.
Time is shortening.

John taps lightly on the door, startling me with the anxiousness
coloring his tone. “Doc?”
Nicky cries muffle from his place outside the door. He wants me.
“John, I need a minute.” That’s the least that I need. I feel my own
tears wetting my cheeks.

“Open the door.” He says knocking louder.

“John…just a minute.” I blot quickly at my face but it’s useless.
Tears always tell the story when words fail. It’s a sign of cleansing
or as Mama once said ‘taking your soul to the Laundromat.’ It doesn’t
matter that I didn’t want to be pregnant because now I really only
care that I’m not.

“Marlena open the door before I break it down.” John demands of me.
He’ll do it, even with Nicky in his arms. I have to face him either
way. I blot again quickly before turning the lock to allow John and
Nicky inside the bathroom.

John opens the door forcefully. There is no exchange of words, only
questioning looks as he hands me Nicholas. He looks over my shoulder
and sees the obvious reason for my tears, on the sink. The last crush
to his dream of new fatherhood, he walks pass me to see what he must
already because of the look on my face. Squeezing my child closer to
me, I bury my face and my unexpected emotions of not being what John
wants. Feelings that have no concern for prior situations, it’s about
the now of it all. Right now I’m very conflicted and disappointed.
Once I bottle my own emotions, I’m able to be nearer to John, to stand
behind him and let my head drape sadly on his back. He reaches behind
me awkwardly. I’m not sad because of me; I don’t think it’s about my
feelings. I’m sad because I can’t give him what he needs or wants.

Nicky breaks our silent monotony; the tears and unspoken words stand
still. Nicky shrieks and it’s a sound that I’ve never heard come from
his body. I remember then that just moments ago he was all I needed. I
cajole him with tighter hugs and gentle cradling while John fingers
the indicator on the pregnancy test.

“I was so sure.” John finally says trying to lift Nicky from my arms.
He emphatically denies his father’s extended arms by kicking and
thrashing his arms and legs.

“Nicholas what….what is it baby?” We have to be in this moment with
Nicky’s crisis but John is still in awe that the test didn’t reveal
what he wanted it to reveal. He watches me struggling with Nicky’s
peculiar behavior. Our son doesn’t usually throw tantrums. He’s seven
months old; he doesn’t even know what a tantrum is. He only knows that
his parents seem distracted from him. “Please baby….what?” I say as if
he’ll answer me. I physically search for what could be causing his
crying. He’s not overly feverish. He’s been fed and diapered.

It takes over an hour to settle Nicky down, all the while he refused
to let me go. We paced back and forth through the house; we sat beside
John and I rocked Nicky incessantly; I held him close to my heart and
patted his back; I sang a tranquil lullaby in his ear. And when he was
seemingly cried out, he took hold of my finger to suck gently on it,
instead of his bottle, and fell asleep on my chest.

( )

John’s been walking around like a wounded soldier. The baby or lack of
the baby disappointed him much more than he’ll let on. As I predicted,
my pseudo pregnancy symptoms disappeared three days after taking the
pregnancy test. My recovery has only reminded him that we aren’t going
to have another baby. My mood surprisingly matches John’s mood. We’re
so contrary; so confused and predictable.

“Are we ever going to talk about it?” He inquires when he calls from
the office to check on Nicky. He retreats there now. It’s easier to
boss employees than it is to micromanage me. I don’t make it easy for
him.

“I didn’t think you wanted to discuss it. I can accept that.”

“Nicky’s been sick. I didn’t want to burden you with my selfishness.”
He says. He shuffles papers in the background. He is very determined
and focused when he can’t have what he wants. He turns his attention
elsewhere. I wonder who it is that is at the receiving end of his new
determination. That focus is what makes him a successful businessman.
“I really wanted you to be pregnant. I can’t explain why I wanted it
so badly.” He’s been holding that in; he sounds relieved to be able to
voice it out loud.

“You’re a man. Your lot in life is to procreate,” I say sarcastically
without meaning to be that way. “I’m sorry. I’m just tired from Nicky
and getting over this cold.”

“Do you want me to come home?” He asks attempting to decipher
something more than
I’ve said. “Is he worsening? Is it a fever?”

“No,” I say visually checking Nicky across the room. He’s asleep in
our bed, his new sanctuary. “He’s fine. Grumpy and very sleepy.” I
walk to the glass doors and take in the view from behind the glass.
These four walls are all I’ve seen. It seems as if the penthouse grows
smaller every day. “I feel like I’m being held prisoner in this room.”
He laughs and says my nickname in that familiar John way. I love to
hear him laugh and be playful with me. I begin to miss him intimately
as I think about how long it’s been since he last touched me. Since
before the pregnancy scare.

“John,” I almost don’t find the nerve to continue. “Will you make love
to me when you come home tonight?” It’s one of the most sincere
requests that I’ve ever made to him. “I miss you so much.”

He breaths hard into my ear.

“I don’t want this to dent our growth. I want us to keep moving
forward as if we didn’t have the pregnancy scare.” I challenge
quietly.

“Sweetheart nothing has changed for me. I was giving you your space.”

“My space?” He has never known how to give me my space.

I hear a new voice in the background. He covers the phone and I try to
decipher the broken voices. “I’m sorry sweetheart,” he says coming
clearly across the phone lines after a second. “I miss you and I’ve
wanted you.”

“Why haven’t you tried then?”

“When? Our son has been crawling all over you every night. I can wait
my turn,” he tells me confidently.

“Even though we’re not making a baby?” I can’t resist saying.

“Baby, I want you because you’re the sexiest mother in the world.”

“John, I’m being serious.”

He pauses before changing his tone. “I would have been ecstatic to
have another baby with you but I’m happy just being with you. I was
disappointed honey. Not in you but for us.”

“I was disappointed for you. I want to make all your dreams come true,
as much as I can. I just know that I’ll never fulfill that one again.
When I read the test I realized that my childbearing years are beyond
me. Nicky was a miracle. We’re blessed to have him.”

“I know and I’m sorry that I put all my hopes on you.”

“Don’t be sorry about that John. I’m sorry that we can’t have babies anymore.”

“Honey don’t keep saying that. You said Nicky was enough,” he reminds
me. “I think so too.”

“He is but it might have been nice to have a baby that was close in
age to him.” I say realizing how selfish I was in not wanting to have
a baby. It shouldn’t have been all about me. Nicky and John would have
benefitted from another child.

“Baby,” he sounds like he’s on the verge of tears. “You’ve already
given me enough. I can’t ask for anymore than that. I feel like I have
all of you.”

“You do,” I confide.

“I know. And when I come home, you’ll show me how much?”

“Over and over again,” I whisper into the phone. “Come home soon.”

“I love you sweetie.”

“I know… about as much as I love you. I’ll see you soon.” I say ending
our conversation with a kiss.

John came home as promised. If Nicky weren’t crying when he came in, I
would have made good on my promise to share my love with him. It is
challenging just being near him while we try to console Nicky, without
touching. For whatever reason, Nicholas doesn’t want to be touched or
held by anyone except for me. John is jealous; who wouldn’t be? He
only wants to help and be there for Nicky.

“He really loves his daddy,” I say to console John. We are watching
Nicky drift off to sleep. It’s been a tough week for us all. John is
torn between leaving me to fend with Nicholas’ first cold alone or
staying around to be ignored by Nicky and me. “He doesn’t know that it
hurts your feelings.”

John’s hair loops easily through my fingers. He’s keeping it trimmed
shorter; grey hairs are sprouting around his crown. It’s 8 in the
evening and Nicky is lying across my lap. And all I want to do is have
a private moment with his father. His tired, worried daddy. He brings
me to his shoulder to rest my head.

“There is nothing more that I want to do right now,” he whispers,
“then take you to bed.”

“I wish you would.”

( )

“You’re getting out of the house,” John announces holding up a bag as
he enters the penthouse.

What John doesn’t know is that Nicholas is having a clingy day that
has been tortuous for me. Crying and stubbornness ruled the day
regardless of his father’s ambitious eyes and plans. We made love last
night and again this morning in the shower. Nicky slept through both.
Afterward, John held me and we talked about how lucky we are. He wants
to move forward as much as I do. My biggest hope is to leave the past
in the past and be happy in the present and future. As he stroked my
skin and told me how much he loved me, I recalled how much I counted
on that in the past. I loved being Mrs. John Black. I wasn’t envious
of any woman because I knew that my husband was the best that there
was. It slipped away, right through my fingers. I lost my mind, my
husband, and my sense of comfort in the span of two years. Everything
that I’d worked for, all the years that John and I put into loving
each other vanished and I’m still trying to catch up. But none of that
compares to how I feel when we’re holding on to each other for dear
life. Or the way that he looks at me still.

I wrap myself around his neck and hold on until my heart feels well
enough to let go. I’ve been heartsick because our baby is ill and I’m
neglecting John because of it. “I missed you honey.” He’s been gone
for three hours. He didn’t call today, and the smile on his face tells
me all I need to know about that. He’s been orchestrating.

“I know how that feels,” he says pecking my lips and tucking me
underneath his chin.

“That’s why we’re going to spend tonight together.”

“And leave Nicholas?”

“Yes,” he says emphatically, “we’re going to be bad parents and leave
our sick son.”

“John, I don’t think that that is very funny.” Peeking into the bag, I
see a beautiful frock on a hanger. “It’s cute that you think I can
wear dresses like this anymore,” I tell him pulling it completely from
the bag. It is John’s signature taste for an evening gown, black
spaghetti –strapped dress with a low back.

“Have you seen yourself lately?”

Chuckling I hold the dress up to my misshapen outfit of loose yoga
pants and a fleece jacket. My hair is tied in a loose ponytail, no
make-up or even lip balm. “I only wish I could look half as good as
that dress.”

“You already do,” he tells me with another kiss. “Now get yourself
together. I’m taking you from your prison.”

Smiling, I pull away from him and sigh. It’s hard to say no to that
eager face. “Oh my, I love you so much.”

“We both love Nicky but honey we need a break. He has a cold. He’ll
get through it if he’s my boy..”

I nod affirmatively. “He is.”

“Well?”

“I love you.”

“And?” He cocks an eyebrow.

“Will it make you extremely happy to have me on your arm tonight?”

“It will.” He tells me moving hair from my forehead.

“And who will keep our precious boy while we prance through town tonight?”

“Don’t worry. Daddy’s got everything covered. Now do me a favor: get
more gorgeous for me.”

“I don’t know about this daddy….our baby boy is having a tough time of
being away from his mommy,” I falter biting my bottom lip.

“I just want to hold you close to me tonight.”

“I want to be held,” I tell him grinning, “and loved by you.”

“Go.” He directs me. “I have everything under control.”

“Who’s going to keep Nicky?”

He places his finger to my lips. “I’ll handle it.” He kisses me and
sends me on my way.
I hear Sami downstairs after I’ve showered, powdered, and dressed. I
dabbed John’s favorite scent on key points on my body. The diamonds
from a couple of birthdays ago are a soft accessory for the dress. I’m
anticipating the look on John’s face when I finally walk down the
stairs. The dress is beautiful; I feel beautiful in it. The soft
material lies perfectly against my skin. I smooth it out and stop at
the top of the stairs.

It’s not until I see his eyes shift exaggeratedly—the I have to have
you at this very moment look—that I realize what a sexy combination
that my post-pregnancy body and the dress are. John does a double
take, scanning from my head, full of long blown out layers to the
stiletto pumps that I save for occasions like such. Taking the stairs
one at a time, I prance lightly on my toes, lifting the hem of the
dress higher with each step. My breasts are full, spilling over the
top of my dress as subtle as I could manage. The need for a push up
bra ended after I gave birth to Nicky. Though less firm, my breasts
are rounder and perfect for John. He meets me at the bottom of the
stairs and takes my hand. The look on his face is priceless: part
lust, part adoration.

Sami seems stunned by my transformation. “Mom you look so beautiful,”
my daughter tells me as she hugs me. “You smell so good.” She says
snuggling her nose into my neck.

“Thank you baby.” I can never pull her close enough or hold her long
enough. When she was small, she couldn’t get enough of me. She would
sit and watch me get dressed from the doorway, on her belly with hands
propped underneath her chin. That was my Sami girl. “Do you remember
when you were little how you would wait for me to get dressed and you
would give your final approval?”

She pulls back and smiles. “No.”

“Oh honey, you would stand with your hands planted firmly on your hips
and say I approve. And then you’d throw your arms around me and do
just what you did,” my voice dips recalling this, “except you’d say in
your little voice ‘you smell good Mama, you always smell so good.”

She tilts her head. For a glimmer of a second, I can see Sam smiling
back at me. That precious soul who never met my twins or Belle and
Nicholas. Sami gives me another hug. “Well you still smell good Mama.”

“Grandma Marlena.”

My six-foot-tall grandson Will lurches from the kitchen area with a
tall glass of milk tilted to his mouth. His mop of brown hair hangs
just below his emerald eyes. In another year, he’ll be taller than his
grandfathers are. I hope he remains the sweet boy that he has always
been. “Hi honey.” He comes very easily to my arms. Will has always
been such an easy child; so open and willing to accept love.”How is
everything going?”
Will eyes his mother before turning to answer me. “Great. Mom and Dad
are back together. I’m happy with that.”

“I bet you are honey. I’m happy about that myself,” I add feeling
John’s hand fall to my lower back. The cut of the dress leaves bare
skin for him to caress. “So you’re going to keep your uncle company.”

John winks at Will. “I told you that I had it covered.” He kisses my
naked shoulder and tosses Sami a glance. “You’ll call if there are any
problems.”
“With my little brother,” she says mimicking John’s eyebrow lift,
“don’t worry about it. Have fun Mom. Don’t worry about Nicholas.” She
kisses me again and hugs John. He pulls me toward the door.

“Can’t I even tell him goodnight?”

John shakes his head. “He’s sleeping. You just checked on him, I’m sure.”
He’s right. I did and he was sleeping without a fever. He’s stopped
coughing as much and his color is good. It’s only his daddy who could
drag me from him, but I know he’s fine.

We say goodbye and he pulls me into the hall.

“Baby you look beautiful,” John says bearing a sexy smile. He guides
me into the elevator and backs me slowly into the wall. “We might not
make it to that dinner reservation.” I know it took all of his
restraint powers not to react in the penthouse. For Will and Sami’s
sake, his pent up lust is now being spent sucking eagerly on my lips.
He places his hands in familiar haunts, behind my neck to draw me in.
He cups my breast through the thin material of my dress.

“John, you have to stop,” I say looking at the large digital numbers
of descending floors.

“You promised me dancing and dinner.”

“Let’s skip dinner and go to that hotel you love downtown.” He pulls
away from my mouth and lowers his lips to my chest. “I’ll call ahead
and get that room you love. If my memory serves me correctly, you and
I quote said ‘I love to have sex here’.”
I blush as I pull his face up so that I can peck his lips again.
Pushing him away, I straighten my dress. “I love to have sex period,”
I tease as the elevator door slides open. There is a small bustle of
activity in the lobby when we stride out of the elevator.
Mr. Kennison, a neighbor that John doesn’t particularly care for
smiles appreciatively at me. John takes my hand to intertwine our
fingers. He has accused Mr. Kennison of gawking at me on more than one
occasion, but only to me. His eyes do what I consider a natural
reaction to seeing a provocatively dressed woman, widening and
concentrating on my cleavage. John tightens our hands and pulls me a
little closer. He hasn’t quite gotten the concept of people being
allowed to look without touching. He can go stores and choose sexy
dresses but he still can’t take that he is not the only one enjoying
the show.

“Good evening Mr. and Mrs. Black,” Sam says coming from around the
lobby desk to shake John’s hand. He’s been managing the lobby for as
long as we have lived here.

“Hi Sam,” John says through gritted teeth. “The truck please.” He is
distracted by the enclave high society neighbors coming into the
lobby. If he could pull me any closer I’d be standing in front of him
with his arms draped around my waist. He smiles politely at the group
returning from an obviously elegant event. I out of deference to
John’s discomfort with wondering eyes in my direction keep my
attention solely on him. He lean into his shoulder and give him a
quick embrace.

“You’re wife is beautiful,” one of the passerby commends to John
before he enters the elevator. “Stunning.”

I turn to John and offer him a timid smile. I didn’t know the dress
could cause such a stir.

“Yes she is.” John responds coolly.

“Thank you.” I say looking at John.

The valet brings his truck to the front and he walks me from the lobby
quickly, tossing my coat over my shoulders before we hit the cold air.
He opens the door for me. I climb carefully into the car. Caressing my
legs as he puts my seatbelt over my lap, he snaps the buckle into the
clasp. “You’re never going to be allowed to go out without me again.”
He kisses me again, this time with more aggression.

That gains a smile from me. “I love you.” When he climbs into the
seat, he gives me another smile before pulling away. The jealousy is
too much, it always has been but I understand where he’s coming from.
If he could only trust my love, then he’d know that it would be next
to impossible for me to willingly leave him.
“I love you too baby.” He relaxes and turns on the radio. “I don’t get
why guys think that it’s okay to gawk at another man’s wife.”

“Don’t you?” I ask slightly turning in my seat.

He looks as if I’ve cut him deeply. “I don’t look at other woman.
You’re all the woman that I’ll ever need.”

“Good to know honey.” I lean to kiss the side of his neck. I’m just so
drawn to him. I reach and touch him, his hand at first and then slowly
I creep to his leg. Running my hand up and down the hard muscles of
his thigh causes him to twitch.

“You’re sure you don’t want to go to that hotel?” He moans when my
hand stops close to his stiffening erection.

“I’m sure.” I say rubbing him through his pants. “I want you to take
me out and dine with me like a normal couple. Then I want you to dance
with me all night long.”
He puts his hand on top of mine. “If you want all of that, then you’d
better stop doing that.”

I force my bottom lip to pucker out. “If you insist. Where are we
going?” I wonder as he avoids the highway leading to downtown. “I
assumed we were going to Maggie’s place.”

“I told you that I wanted you all to myself. We’re going to this
little place that I can promise that no one we know will be at.”

The restaurant is charming, very private. Regales. John had them seat
us in the furthest corner of the oval-shaped restaurant. He orders a
bottle of wine while I examine the room. The rich red colors pin a
elegant theme to the room but it still feels very laidback. A large
oil painting of a middle-aged couple sits on a wall near our table.

“Those are the owners,” John tells me after the waiter leaves the
table. “Gino and Dominique Regale.”

“They look like they love each very much,” I say examining the
portrait closely. Their hands are clasped; he’s staring at her while
she looks away. The picture is missing the vitality of a real
photograph but the painter’s vivid strokes and bold colors add an
ethereal quality to them. “Do they have children?”

“A daughter named Nicole.”

I’m mesmerized by their faces. “How do you know so much about them?” I
ask looking at John’s face for the first time since we sat down.

“Business.”

We are sitting across the table from each other. It’s a long distance
for both of us when all we want to do is put our hands all over each
other. I lay my hand across the table for John to grasp it. “Thank you
for this,” I say lifting his fingers to my lips.

“I think you’re too far away,” He insists. He stands up to my surprise
and drags his chair next to me. When the waiter returns with the wine
he shakes his head knowingly at
John. “Can’t get enough of her,” John tells the waiter.

“Excuse me for saying so, but she is beautiful,” the young man says kindly.

“You’re sweet,” I say feeling embarrassed by the attention.

John rubs up and down on my back as he orders for us. He is in take
charge mode. I think it’s because he’s been so out of the loop at
home. And with the pregnancy debauchery, we have been under a little
pressure. But he can buy me a dress, take me out and make me forget
for a second that things are really hard in our life.

“I want to call home,” I say quickly. “I know it’s only been an hour or so but…”

John cuts in, “you miss your baby?”

“I do. He’s spoiled me with all of that charm.”

John tilts my chin down and leans in close to my face. “If something
were wrong then Sami would have picked up the phone and called my cell
or yours. Now do me a favor and just pay attention to me, please. I
really need you to need just me tonight.” He says in all seriousness.
“I just want to sit here and admire your beauty and touch all over you
until you can’t stand it anymore. And then I’m going to make love to
until your body can’t stand it anymore.”

My heart and hormones react. I feel a slight puddle between my legs. I
stroke his face softly. “Sometimes I look at you and I have to wonder
how I got to be so lucky. Look at you, how handsome and sex you are.”

He responds with his mouth pressed firmly into mine. He thankfully
doesn’t devour my lips the way he normally would instead he holds the
back of my head until I break the kiss by speaking his name softly.

“Baby, isn’t it beautiful…”

“You’re beautiful,” I inform him with a side kiss to his cheek.

“Sweetheart it’s you again,” he says with wide eyes. “You’re yourself
again…sexy and confident. And our boy is healthy and you’re letting me
love you again. That’s beautiful to me.”

He strokes my back as I lay on his shoulder and inhale him. The scent
is one that Brady and Belle started buying for him when they were
teenagers. Smelling it reminds me of those days with the kids and
John. We were like a new family with all the hopes and dreams of
idealistic dreamers. I find myself staring into his eyes when I pick
my head up. There is so much life there that it’s hard not to love and
be loved by John.

“The only thing I regret,” I tell him putting his face between my
hands, “is that your son doesn’t have your eyes. I love your eyes.”

He smiles and his eyes crinkle around the corners. “I love that you
gave me a son. It’s hard to believe that honey, that you and have a
baby boy.”

dmrp1968March 12, 2015, 6:05 pmIP: 24.38.138.147 · Post #32

Posts:655Group:Mod SquadMember#7Joined:November 8, 2014Chapter 27 (NC-17) Part 2

I drop my hands to the table and tilt my head slightly. “I pinch
myself every day.”
At every chance, John and I touch each other; over the red wine and
bread, through dinner and a small desert. The magnetic connection
between our bodies pulsates enough that I’m decidedly turned on. It’s
because John’s looking into my eyes, as well as touching me, that I
keep kissing him. Just the tiniest meeting between our lips. Some
pecks turn into a longer kiss. Food and drinks forgotten, I drape my
leg across John’s lap beneath the table and turn inward to be nearer
to him.

“You’re making it hard to stay put.” He says breathing heavily into my ear.

“No, no just relax and keep doing what you’re doing,” I instruct him.
“Please don’t stop.”
I roll my neck back so that he can kiss me there.

“Baby I’m going to take you in the bathroom.” He suggest, lowering his
hand under the table.

“No you’re not,” I say alarmed by the urgency in his voice. “We’ve
done that before; I’m not doing that again.”

“We’ve got to do something,” he says clenching his teeth in frustration.

I ponder as he pries my legs a part beneath the table. “You’re wet,”
he says as if he’s surprised that all the touching has actually
affected my body.

I put my hand against him mouth. “Could we not let the entire
restaurant know that?” I look for a distraction. “Dance with me.”

He shakes his head, “I can’t move right now.”

“Oh come on sailor, dance with me.”

I lead him to the floor where he crushes me against his body. The
dance floor is dimmer than the rest of the room. His erection is
thankfully shielded by the darkness. On the jukebox is a bluesy song
that I’ve never heard and John leads me in a slow sway to the rhythm.
He hums to the sensual moan of the saxophone, all the while rubbing my
back. He treats my entire body like a tender child. Touches that
manifest need or want—with us it’s never clear. Even in the public,
I’m not sure if I should be allowing him to be so open and
unencumbered in his seduction. With John, every move becomes sensual
when he’s aroused enough. He clutches my hand into his and brings both
to rest on his heart. We’ve danced like this a thousand times. It’s
not a choreographed production, it’s just the way our bodies find
themselves most comfortable.

“I want to do things to you,” he whispers, “that others might find
objectionable.”

I tilt my head back laughing. “I don’t think I’d find them objectionable.”

“You don’t know what I want to do to you,” he says snatching my mouth
between his lips. “You’re at your sexiest. You’re beautiful and all I
want to do is be alone with you.”
His desire is noticeably apparent from the poking into my stomach.
“This probably isn’t helping you.” I decide. His hands are becoming
warmer, affecting me more than I wish to be effected. Even as much as
I try not to let him, Nicholas comes to my mind. He’ll want me; he’ll
be pleading for me to hold him until he’s fast asleep. And our mutual
desire will be an afterthought. “Honey?”

“I’m sorry.” He says with astounding vulnerability.

“Why are you apologizing?” I wonder staring into his eyes.

“These past weeks…I’ve been all over you. And here tonight, I just
want to make love to you. I need to be with you tonight,” he says
wrapping himself around me.
I tip my head to his forehead. “I’ve loved every minute of it.”

“You look sexy as hell in black.”

“Thank you,” I say closing my eyes. If I continue to look into his
eyes and see all the love there, all the pure lust, than I’ll be
unable to say no. “But honey, we have to go home.”

He exhales. “He’s good baby.”

“If it were any other time, I’d be happy to go anywhere with you.”
It’s painful to deny him because in truth I’m denying myself. And I
want to be with him as much as he wants me. The wife in me wants to
cave and find a quiet place where we prove how much we love each
other. Yet there are many parts to me, all of which wants to please
the men in my life. My Nicholas and my man, my guys, who are in a
quiet battle for my attention. John is losing. The truth of it is that
I only have fractions to share with both of them, and the other
portions are divided for the rest of our family. We have only moments
in time, just tiny portions of a larger picture. We’ll only remember
the smallest of these. I’ll remember how secure John’s hold was when I
took his hand from mine and walked him from the dance floor. It’s just
a small piece of our life. These moments matter because they equal
what we are as a whole. As I’ve learned, people’s understanding is
cumulative. John will eventually understand that I can turn him down
only for the sake our son.

He helps me with my coat, drumming his fingers against my skin. I
don’t know if it’s purposeful or if it’s just his natural reaction to
our closeness. I turn and look regrettably at him. He kisses me and I
turn on my heel.

She’s a beautiful girl—young and pregnant. Her husband watches her in
the same way that John does me. If fate had been kind, that would have
been us thirty years ago. He takes her hand and they walk pass us with
their hands linked. She smiles at me. Her face is full of hope.

I’m envious. I pull my coat on my shoulders and scurry out of the restaurant.

“Sweetheart,” John calls after me.

My pace is slow, my footsteps heavy—a symptom of my heavy heart. I see
my breath in the air when I release the built up air that has filled
my lungs. “I’m sorry.” I tell John when he catches up to me and covers
my shoulders. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”

“The pregnant lady,” he asks pausing to turn me around to face him.

I ignore his concern and choose instead to lay my head on his heart.
He covers me with one arm and pats my head with the other. He deserves
a chance to have a happy wife who is not conflicted. My heart confuses
me; my emotions even more so. I shouldn’t be so embattled; it makes me
feel so ungrateful for the all the good things that we do have.
“It’s all right,” he consoles me. John has the knack for making me
feel as if nothing is as bad as it seems lately. “We can go home.”
I nod and walk in perfect time with his step. We are a perfect rhythm,
even when I have moments like this. But it is a moment in a tunnel of
time. John opens my door and lifts me into the check. Behind my glassy
eyes, the walls that I’ve often used as tools of distancing, tears
threaten escape. All it takes is him climbing in, grabbing my hand and
pulling it to his mouth. They wet his knuckle when he wipes my cheek
with the back of his hand.

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be so emotional.” Even my apology is
pathetic. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“I’ll fix it..whatever it is.”

He’s trying to be playful when all I want to do is stop crying. How
can you explain how significant bearing children are to us women?
Seeing the beautiful girl, in her glory just brought it all back home.
Nicky will be my final child. I never thought about it until John
thought that we were having another baby. It’s not something women
like to think about often. I’ve counseled women in the same situation,
with the same emotions: loss and regret. I count it a joy and blessing
that I was even allowed the grace of becoming a mother five times.
That is more than enough but suddenly it feels like I want more.

“Sweetheart talk to me.” John tries coaxing me after we’ve been
driving for a little time.

“Come on. You can tell me anything.”

“I don’t know about that,” I say turning to look out of the window. He
can’t handle everything that I have to offer him, not these thoughts
and feelings. I want to bottle them up to keep for myself—and
especially to myself.

“Don’t shut me out. I know it was the girl. I saw the look on your face.”

But he doesn’t realize that I saw the look on his face also. I saw the
hope that turned his face downward, the little piece of him that
couldn’t hide his disappointment. It was quick but struck a massive
blow to my already fragile ego.

“Baby?” He says putting his hand beneath my hair to touch my neck.

I turn back to him and smile sadly. “No I—”

He cuts me off with a determined look. “You can be sad. It won’t make
you any less strong in my eyes. I saw how that affected you to see a
pregnant woman. Face it: you want a baby as much as I would have.”

“John,” I say timidly and unsure. Uncertain of how he will hear my
words. “I saw how you looked at her.”

“I didn’t.”

He can’t lie to me, even when he’s lying to himself. “I saw it.”

“What? A smile? I wish them luck.”

“No,” I dissuade him, “it was more than that John. You wanted to be
that guy with his pregnant wife. And all you have is an unstable wife
who can’t give you children anymore.”

I don’t know where all of my decisive indictments are coming from.
It’s like he’s ripped open the seam again, and I’m spilling out for
him to see. It’s my truth: plain and simple, easy as all that. I
didn’t know that it meant so much to me, the possibility of pregnancy,
until it wasn’t an option anymore.

“What are you thinking about Doc?”

“I don’t know. I’m just getting it all out John. I haven’t processed
it thoroughly.”

“You haven’t processed it, but you can assume that I have?”

I shut my eyes, shaking my head wearily. “John don’t argue with me.”
It’s not a demand but a plea. A silent plea not to inquire further.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know,” I say opening my eyes again and looking at him. “John, this
is difficult for us. We tread so lightly on topics because at any
given time we start battling. It’s a symptom of our past relationship.
We were afraid to be honest with each other then. It’s why you lied
about Hope and why I lied about Roman.”

His reaction is contentious. “Don’t talk to me about Roman. I want to
know about us.”

“Okay,” I say quietly, “you want to discuss us. I love you. That’s it.”

“I know. I love you to. I love you and our family. I’m not asking for
anymore than that.”

“I can’t give you more than that,” I tell him sadly. “I’m all emptied
out.” That does just what I didn’t want it to. The instantaneous
combustion of saying and realizing causes me to drop my head to hide
the tears. “We’re out of time.”

Because he is maneuvering the truck and our very lives, he keeps a
hand on the steering wheel and one moves to tilt my chin up. “Doc, we
have nothing but time.”
He doesn’t comprehend that when things reach their limit, they have to
find another route to go. I’ve reached my final stage of womanhood,
and it’s news to me. “I didn’t know I wanted it so much.”

“What?” He says obviously confused.

“A baby. I didn’t know that I needed it as much as you did.” I confess.

“Baby, it’s not over. Why are you talking in such finality? You’re not
unable to have babies. You just gave birth to our son.”

He’s right but I still feel like it won’t happen anymore. But it’s
more than that. “John, do you realize that you could have a baby with
any woman you choose. That’s something that you could do. You don’t
have to worry about not being a full woman anymore.”
“What are you saying?” He asks me incredulously. “I would never leave
you.” His hand tightens. “Never,” he repeats emphatically.

“I know that,” I say pulling away from his intense gaze. “You don’t understand.”

We continue to drive home in silence. Complete silence. I gave him
everything I could. My body. Our children. My love. And now I’m empty.
That is the truth that I have to live with—I think all woman learn to
live with it. You can give up every part of your soul for someone that
you love but it’s never enough. It’s scary that our lives revolve
around what we can give to someone else; it’s never about what we can
do for ourselves. The map of my life is dotted only with what I did
for others, for John and my children. And now that I can’t give them
anymore of myself because I’m emptied now I have to give back to
myself.

He pulls into the garage instead of valet when we arrive at our
building. I’m ready to bolt. To turn off the tears and go inside to my
little boy. But he stops me by grabbing my wrist when I try to open my
door. He pulls me forcefully back into the car.

“I have to tell you something and I want you to hear me.”

“John I don’t want to…” He clutches my face between his hands.

Glaring at him, I lower my eyes to his hands. He doesn’t realize his
strength. He is only forceful when I’m being disagreeable. I wouldn’t
take that from anybody except him; I don’t know why that is. My
humility is on the line. “John, don’t do that to me. I can hear you
without you doing that.”

My words don’t change our positions. In fact, his touch becomes harsher.

“John.”

“You say these statements like I’m supposed to just brush over them
and blame them on emotions. I don’t know why you can say things like
that to me—why you think that it’s okay. I would never do that to you
again. I remember how JT hurt you.” He doesn’t give me time or room to
respond. As usual, he moves to kiss me, instead of really feeling the
hurt or hearing what I have to say to his declaration. I squirm and
pull away but it’s too late to stop his hand from sliding up my dress.

“We’re older. Just because it didn’t happen this time doesn’t mean it
can’t again.” He says torturing my lips with his mouth. “It wouldn’t
be easy baby but it’s doable. We can do anything.”

I shake my head, “I don’t believe you.” I say moaning into his mouth.
Yelping from the way he digs his tongue into my mouth. He lowers his
hands to my hips and lifts me from my seat. The intent is very clear.
Just twenty minutes ago, I was warning him that we couldn’t make love.
And now he is doing everything in his power to prove me wrong. I
adjust myself atop his lap. On top of the bulge I tried to quiet
earlier. He doesn’t care about the cars driving into the garage. I’m
straddling his lap in an awkward position that jams my legs between
the seat and the door. He manages to lift my dress to my hipbone while
unzipping his pants. “There are people all over this garage,” I warn
him panting through his tongue delving.

“I don’t care.” He moans pulling my damp panties down my thighs. It’s
hard enough trying to keep myself from being exposed in the open
space. He parked in our reserved parking spot, near the elevator
entrance. Any person can walk out and see what we’re doing.

“I can’t make love to you in a parking garage,” I say unbuttoning his
shirt. His chest is begging for my lips to leave a trail. I’m saying
one thing while doing another. While telling him no, shaking my head I
open my mouth wider and let my head roll back. I guide his hands to my
breasts because they need his touch.

“Stop talking,” he growls restraining my hands behind my back. He dips
me against the steering wheel to kiss my chest. “If I could give you a
baby, I would do it now. I’d push all the love I have inside you and
leave my seed there.”

I smile faintly and pry one hand lose. He hates it but I stroke his
hair and hold him to my chest. He pulls one breast from my bra and
sups hungrily on my nipple. He does not attempt to cover what he’s
doing when a car skims past. “Honey….ohh” It’s next to impossible to
say that I want him to stop what he’s doing. “Honey I need you to
stop..”
He shakes his head.

Another car passes and I shield my face from the glare of the
headlight. Hiding is naïve. Everybody knows his car. Everybody who
walks or drives by knows what is going on. Why the windows are
steaming up quickly or why I’m sitting on his lap with his face
between my breasts.

“Come here,” he says opening the door quickly. He carries me quickly
to the backseat, slamming the driver door with his foot and the other
with his free hand.

The back windows are tinted but I’m still leery of passersby. John
could care less. He’s already stripped my panties all the way down my
legs and tossed them into the last row of seats. He flattens me
against the backseat and locks my legs around his waist. It’ll be
quick and more than likely rough by the look on his face. I can’t say
that I mind it. He locks my hands above my head without warning and
enters me quickly. We both know that it’s reckless to be having sex in
a public garage. I don’t look to him to be my moral judge, nor does he
for me. The only thing we know now, looking into each other’s eyes
while he drives himself in and out of me roughly is that we are
insatiable. I hope that once will be enough to satisfy him, though it
never is. He starts to kiss me as he rams harder and harder. I always
liken my body to a pressure cooker when we’re making savage love. One
more drop of steam, one more burst of anything, and it’s likely that
I’ll explode. Hopefully we’ll explode together. I just have to close
my eyes and catch my breath while he hammers into the depths of me.
His skin is slick and warm in the friction of our bodies moving
together.

“Oh baby baby baby,” I sing out after gaining control again. After
he’s made my body convulse multiple times in the span of three
minutes. He’s lying spent across my stomach. He pulls out slowly and
lowers my legs from his waist without lifting his head.

“That’s what I want,” he says kissing my flattened belly, “a baby baby baby.”

I leave the comment for silent interpretation. He whispers about
resting a minute before we move. He and I both fall asleep, entangled,
and sated.

The sound of a horn startles me awake. We’ve slept almost an hour this
way—still entangled. Watching John holding so tightly to my body with
his head laid on my stomach reminds me that even fires consume
themselves; they can’t burn forever. This is just one more moment that
is passionate in our long story of encounters.

“Honey?”

He stirs a little. His wavy hair is slick with beads of perspiration;
his hand is splayed across my belly.

“John…we fell asleep.”

He looks up with a smile that seems boyish yet mature and sexy. He
lifts himself up and steadies on his elbow. Before he made fierce love
to me in the backseat of his car, I was in my usual tour-de-force of
conflicted Marlena.

That is until he made love to me and not until then did all those
conflictive emotions drain and pour from my body like a flood.

John puts his hand beneath my back and brings me to his chest. I’m
shivering—not from love but from the coolness of the garage air.

“Baby you’re cold.” He slides his hands along my skin to warm me. “You
shouldn’t be so irresistible. Let me get you home.”

“I am home,” I affirm. “Whenever I’m with you, I am home.”

He considers my pronouncement. He appreciates them.

Anne Truitt once famously said ‘I have no home but me.’ I disagree.
All I have to do is look into the wonderful face of my children’s
father and see everything that I’m desperately trying to be.

It’s time to go. John handles me with the care that one would take
with a porcelain doll. I have been taken from the shelf and now it’s
time to go back; in the sense that our home and life is the shelf. He
gathers the dress that he brought into the door hours earlier, the
same dress that ended up crumpled in the back seat. Ever the good
girl, I lift my arms and John pulls my dress down my body. Planting a
kiss on my forehead, he throws my legs across his lap to pull my heels
back on. He brushes my tousled hair over one shoulder and kisses the
other. He pauses there to nip my collarbone. I wish then that we had
taken our time and made slow love to each other’s bodies instead of
the roguish mechanics that resulted in mutual orgasms.

“Honey, playtime is over,” I say running my fingers through his damp
hair. “Sami will be worried.”

John shrugs and adjusts his clothing. In the dimness, he looks
younger. Sex gives him a freshness; it makes his skin healthy and his
face brighter. He opens the back driver door when he thinks I’m
presentable again and helps me climb out of the truck. When I stumble
into John, he steadies my posture and dips his arms beneath my legs to
lift me. My bones seem to crush painfully together. The connection
between my legs and pelvis aches from being stretched underneath John.

I cling to him, when he walks us to the elevator, as if I’ll lose my
balance if I let go. Our bodies take non-verbal cues to stay close;
soft stroking of his back from my hand; his lips graze my forehead.
I’m grateful when the doors slide open and no one pours out. Our sex
is so apparent, so present on both our bodies. I see my reflection
lying across John’s shoulders in the elevator panel as he inches
against the wall. My lips are bruised; there is a misty gaze
inhabiting my eyes. His body is less apparent: an assured stride and
damp hair. And there is the mix of our body’s scents colliding into
another aroma that only we could appreciate.

We continue alone to our floor.

John finds ways to brush against my breast and backside when he
settles me on my own two feet outside our door.

“Everyone’s going to know what we’ve been doing,” I warn him in a
playful whisper. Of course, he doesn’t care.

He pats my bottom and opens the door. “Well, that’s life.”

The look on my daughter’s face almost causes me to cower from
embarrassment. She starts to speak and then stops when her eyes fall
to my neckline. I reach and start fingering the skin where her eyes
are. I find the culprit of Sami’s shock; it is a tender spot above the
swell of my right breast. In the heat of the moment, I’d missed the
fact that John had taken special care to mark me.

“What?” John says turning around to see what has Sami rendered
speechless. He flashes a quick sympathetic look before bursting into
quiet laughter.
“John,” I sigh covering the love bite with my jittery fingers. “You’re
incorrigible.”
He mouths ‘I know’ and then turns to address our startled daughter.
She is hiding an amused smile that Will silently questions when he
enters the room with Nicholas in his lanky arms.

“He’s awesome Grandma Marlena,” Will declares of his uncle. The humor
of their age difference is thankfully lost on him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing honey.” Sami instructs my grandson to give Nicky to John.

“Leaving so soon,” John grins at Sami.

“It’s late.” She answers still smiling. “Will, tell your grandparents
goodnight.”

Will walks in his awkward teenage stride from John, who he hi-fives to
me. He hugs me and his mother snatches him by the elbow toward the
door.

“You sure know how to clear out a room?” I tease John once they are
gone. “What are you doing up little boy?” I question Nicky who is
wide-eyed and reaching for me. My aching legs prohibit a fast rescue
for Nicky. He throws his head aggressively against his father’s body
and starts thrusting violently in John’s arms.

“Tantrums? Isn’t it too early for this?” John questions placing Nicky
in my arms. “I’m going to start taking real offense to his aversion to
me.” He says jokingly but I know there is some concern there. We both
share that concern. Nicky is regressing into the needy stage that
doctors assured me he would outgrow. “I know what’s it’s like to want
to be in your arms but this kid has cornered the market on it.”
“Is daddy jealous of the baby?” I ask in a small voice. It makes Nicky
check my face with his hands. For the moment, he is quiet and content.
“It’s me…it’s your mama.” I assure him, nuzzling our noses together.

“After tonight? I’ll be okay for a couple of hours,” he says rolling
his eyes in exaggeration. John kisses the side of my neck softly. I
lean into his kiss, longing to be just in his arms and finding sleep.
Nicky disagrees. He fusses, seemingly at John, and throws his hands
roughly against the tender mark chest.

“Honey.” He’s getting irritated. It’s a wonder how kids find the
emotions that they need to without vocally doing so. “Don’t hit Mama.”

He whimpers at the strong tone of my voice. His mouth opens and hangs
agape; a wail follows.

“Son, what is it?” John wonders as he tries to take Nicholas. Even in
his wailing, he refuses his father. He slams his head against my
chest.

“Baby.” I have a lifetime of mothering, decades of dealing with this
kind of pain and crying, yet I’m still unprepared to deal with seeing
my child so unhappy. There is no visible reason for the incessant
crying. He is in my arms; he is dry; his eyes seem clear enough.
“John, I don’t know what’s wrong with him. He’s not warm.” I check his
diaper.

“He’s dry. I don’t understand this. He was perfectly fine until we
walked into the door.” I close my eyes for patience, and maybe
strength. I try to pull Nicholas to my chest and whisper in his ear.
He fights at first and then slowly settles down to hear my voice. I
tell him softly that he is my baby and that I love him more than life
itself. I remind him that I can’t help him because I don’t know what
is going on with him. Nicky listens as if he knows exactly what I’m
saying. I tell him that our lives will be filled with absolute
happiness because he deserves it. I kiss him repeatedly, until I feel
him relax. Without telling John, I head for the stairs. Maybe he’s
upset because he misses me. I’m there and then I’m gone. He can’t
process that. It could be an emotional upset that has my son acting
out against his father.

I sit in the rocking chair in his nursery and cradle him as best as I
can. He’s growing rapidly. But for me, in my heart, he’ll always be a
magical little boy. He looks up. His familiar eyes full of faith. He
believes that I’d do anything to make him happy. I can’t say how he
knows it but he just does. I look at him and get so full. Thrilled to
be his mother, I count my blessings in the night-light lit room. I
smooth his tufts of black hair from his eye. Soon we’ll have to trim
it; soon he’ll be walking more than he attempts to. And then before I
know it, he’ll be Will’s age and height. And then he’ll be Sami’s age.
But right now, I’m all he needs.

It is only my love for John that could create such a perfect child; my
last great hope for redemption. He is perfect in all the ways that his
father is in my eyes. Because he is mine, they both are; he has all
the physical attributes of a child filled with John’s DNA and mine.
Dark hair doesn’t cover it; neither do hazel eyes. He’s just us, in
the most awesome sense of that word. But there is something about the
way that Nicky clings to me that worries me. His desperate need to be
all over me has meaning that I’ve not found a cure for yet. He is not
selfish to want me; I’m the person who centers his world. There is
something about that that worries me; he should allow his father to be
in that role too.

He becomes lethargic in his attempt to hold sleep at bay. Humming
softly while stroking his belly disarms him. He cautiously watches me,
his eyes move with every stroke of my hand against him. He swats at
his left ear and tries to shift himself from the crook of my arms. I
release him and stand him tall on my thighs.

“No sleep tonight?”

Nicholas stops and presses his wet mouth to mine. He starts shaking
his head as if he understood. He rubs his eyes and swats again at his
ear. When I try to inspect the inner ear, he turns fully away from me.
His neck becomes visible. The crescent shaped birthmark holds a
prominent place on his neck. I rub the outline and nuzzle him there.
When he’s older, I’ll tell him that I loved him so much that I gave
him the moon. My son’s eyes droop heavily under the constant massaging
of his skin. I turn him and drape him on my chest so that he’s lying
on my shoulder. His daddy kissed me on that same shoulder; now it’s
Nicholas who leaves his mark there. A tiny pool of drool glides down
my shoulder and back. He breathes heavily into my neck as he brings
his two fist to rest tucked beneath his chest.

My baby boy Nicholas. John chose the name Nicholas because it sounds
like a strong name. I researched the name myself. Nicholas Ethan is a
combination of strength and determination. Nicholas means Victory;
Ethan means steadfastness. That’s what I’m thinking when I lay
Nicholas in his crib. Two steps away and I’m called back to his side
by an immediate barrage of crying.

It’s frightening to see him so out of control. He thrashes heavily
against my body when I attempt lifting him from the bed. He refuses me
by shaking his head angrily. He rolls around his crib uncontrollably,
clutching his head as he goes. I struggle again to reach Nicholas
through his crying but he is in his own world and I’m not able to go
there. He closes his lids and continues to scream as if I’m not
standing there to hold and comfort him. After the third minute, I call
out to John in a shrill, panicky voice.

“Nicholas you are making me nervous. You have to let Mommy help you.” I beg him.

John thunders down the hallway toward Nicky’s room.

“Doc, we have to call someone.”

I crumble into his chest. “I don’t know what to do. He won’t even let
me touch him. He keeps tugging his ear. John, do something.”

He pulls his cell phone out and dials. Whoever is on the line bypasses
the usual minutia of answering service. John grinds his teeth as he
listens intently. I’m looking between John and Nicholas, who is still
exercising his lungs, trying to figure out what to do next. Praying
that he’ll allow me, I go to Nicholas again and carry him from the
crib. He fights it and my chest is again the landing place for his
blows. His father is alarmed by the force that Nicky’s fist applies to
my skin. For me, it’s not a matter of my pain; it is about Nicholas
and why his response to pain is to inflict me. John thanks the person
on the line and closes his phone.

“Are you alright?” He examines the location of Nicholas’ blows.

“I’m fine. I’m good, he’s not. It doesn’t hurt. What did they say?” I
struggle with Nicholas’ limbs fraying. “I can’t take much more of
this.”

“He’s coming over. Dr. Sampson.” John assures me. “It’ll be okay.”

“Will it? I’ve never seen him like this John.”

“Sweetheart, it’s going to be fine.” He says solemnly.

I don’t have any choice but to believe him. I sit in the rocking chair
again and hold onto my fighting baby. Looking at his father, I
silently chide myself for Nicky’s condition. I should have been here
instead of having sex in the back seat. I never should have left him,
not even for a second.

After Dr. Sampson has gone, Nicholas and I lie down together in our
bed. John circles the room trying not to intrude on the tranquility
that we finally have. The source of Nicky’s problem is an ear
infection. He gave Nicholas a dose that quieted him; it’s the source
of our peace now.

Nicky is cooing as if nothing bad had happened. He is tired; his
little body is worn out but his eyes are still vibrant when he turns
away only to turn back to make sure that I haven’t gone. I am
exhausted. My heart and brain couldn’t withstand another thing
tonight.

Drifting in and out of sleep, I feel John slip into the bed behind me.
Nicky lay sprawled beside me in the center, making the room that John
and I occupy small. John spoons my tired, aching body.

“Baby, are you asleep?” He inquires near my neck.

“A little.”

“I admire you so much.” He kisses my hair and takes a deep breath. “I
don’t mean to make your life any harder. Or put pressure on you. I
don’t need anything except for you and what you’ve already given me. I
don’t need another baby. We have this one. And I have you.”

I protest when he slides his hand across my belly. My body is just so
used to being needed by him that I assume that’s what his hand means.
It’s not. He uses it to pull me next to him. I don’t tell him that
even though I am grateful for the way he feels, I am still saddened by
not giving him another baby.

( )

“Honey, are you sitting down?” is the way our conversation started. He
called from his morning errand having taken off work to be home with
Nicky.

I sigh into the phone. “I will be in just a minute.” Nicky and I are
walking around the living room to scoop up all of his toys. “Why do I
need to be sitting down?” I ask him suspiciously before plopping down
with Nicky on the couch.

“Well, you’ll see in just a moment.”

“Will I?”

I hear his key in the lock. “Yes.”

We’re so close that our voices echo over each other on the phone when
he walks in.
He’s bearing gifts. A large box. He sets it down in front of me.

“It’s a gift for you both.” He says smiling wide.

“Oh, Nicky what has your daddy done now?” I examine the box. “John what is it?”

“Open it.”

When I hesitate, he does it for me. He reaches into the box and pulls
a small puppy. A beautiful, white puppy with brown eyes that look as
frightened as anything.

“You bought a dog?” I say shocked.

“I bought Nicky a playmate.”

I shake my head. “This is not…John this is not…”

“It’s a gift. Enjoy it.” He says kissing me quickly.

Chapter 28

Not flesh of my flesh
Nor bone of my bone,
But still miraculously my own
Never forget for a single minute,
You didn’t grow under my heart,
But in it
–Anonymous

Claire calls the puppy Pika. She and John decided on that name after
spending an afternoon playing peek-a-boo with our rambunctious new
housemate. Like me, Nicky is still unsure of the puppy. He is hesitant
whenever John brings Pika to him, shying away whenever she’s too
close. He retreats to my leg if he’s trying to crawl or my chest and
neck if he’s in my arms. He is learning the master of avoidance.

A flu, ear infection, and unusual neediness cause me to observe him
carefully, far more studiously than I have been. Moreover, Nicky is in
the first stages of getting not one but two teeth in his lower gums. I
hover when maybe I should back off. I rescue him whenever he starts
crying or fighting his father. I’m just trying to keep him safe—from
what, I’m not certain.

I’ve spent a week trying to keep Pika and Nicky from each other. I
don’t quite trust a puppy completely around my helpless 8-month-old
son. The puppy is beautiful and unmenacing. A Lab with short legs and
droopy ears that perk up at the sound John’s voice, she also has a
cute wet, black nose and glaring brown eyes. She is well trained; she
is also a ball of energy. Every thirty minutes or so, she picks a
clear path and starts to sprint around the penthouse in exhausting
circles. I might learn to appreciate her presence later on but as of
now, I’m still not happy with John’s choice of gift. I haven’t had the
nerve to tell him that you can’t replace a baby with a puppy.

“Admit it…she’s cute,” he tells me wrapping himself around my
midsection and sinking his chin into my shoulder.

I can’t dispute that Pika is a beautiful dog, especially as Claire
rolls around the floor with her. Pika and Claire have bonded; she’s
been spending afternoons with us after school while Belle and Shawn
attend classes. I love having her around; her energy is good for all
of us. I notice how Nicky perks up for her, mimicking her and
imitating her sounds. She is his leader and he willing follows when
he’s not in my arms or sleeping.

“Claire Bear thinks she’s great,” John says squeezing me. It’s a touch
that last longer than needed; he hasn’t been able to touch me since we
made love in the garage. I’ve been understandably preoccupied with
Nicholas.

“That’s wonderful.” I reply dryly.

“Doc, it’ll be good for Nicholas to have another person in the house.
We can’t pay attention to him all the time.”

That annoys me enough to unclasp him from my waist. He won’t come out
and say so but for the past couple of weeks I’ve been neglectful. I’ve
been Nicky’s constant source of comfort, ever since this bout with
childhood sickness took siege of my usually happy son. John is right
to feel neglected. Walking away from John, Nicky sees an opportunity
to be in my arms; he teeters on his tiptoes to peer over the rail of
his playpen. The ear infection has been taken care of with
antibiotics; his intense proclivity for me hasn’t. He won’t sleep
alone in his bedroom anymore, and especially not without me lying
beside him. Nicholas craves my attention. He smiles when I bring him
to my chest and snuggle our bodies together. A kiss is next in our
routine. Sloppy and wet, he plants his mouth on mine and pushes
forward.

“I’m happy that one of us is receiving affection,” John comments as he
walks and sits down next to Claire and Pika. He avoids looking at our
son and me. Claire stands and climbs on John’s back, declaring him her
horse. He obliges and gets on all floors to traverse her back and
forth along the carpet.

I notice that Nicky doesn’t seem interested in his father and Claire.
He holds on; it’s his only noticeable reaction to his surroundings.
Pika’s tiny yelp doesn’t catch his attention either. The only thing he
does is lay his head down and clutches my shirt in his hand. More and
more, he seems to be retreating into himself. He has been
tired—exhausted really. He doesn’t want to be bothered by anything
other than me, not even his father.
It bothers me that he is seemingly losing interest in his daddy. I can
still remember that it was John who Nicholas clung to when I was
absent from his life. The feeling of Nicholas’ isolation stays with
me, burdening me with incredible anxiety as John and Claire continue
to play unaware on the floor with Pika. That there is something wrong
with Nicholas, I’m sure. What, I don’t know. It makes me want to hold
him tighter. I’m probably doing him more harm than good; I’m attached
to him as much as he is to me; I allow him to be consumed with my
arms, my steadiness. If he can’t tell me why he is so sad and tired,
then I feel it’s my duty to help him, and I believe my body can serve
to reenergize him.

Last night, we fell asleep on the couch. I’d rubbed his gums with a
warm cloth to sooth the soreness. John sat on the floor in front of
the couch and watched. I saw this terrible mask in Nicky’s eyes, one
that bears a description that I don’t have. Intuitively I am
frightened by it. I massaged his back as I calculated in my head how
many weeks it had been since Nicky became sick. More than four. How
many visits to the doctor we had had? 3 in the past 3 weeks. He
languished on my chest while I mentally recorded everything that
seemed out of place. I guess I grew tired and fell asleep doing that.
Yet, I’m doing it again. I’m rehashing events and recalling scenes as
I hold him. There is something awfully normal about John and Claire
playing on the carpet—oddly familiar because it resonates in what
should be. Nicky should be there with his father but instead he is
attached to my body, clinging as if he’ll lose his breath without our
contact. It’s takes a small voice to pull me from my unnamable rising
dread.

“Mama?” Claire has no notion of the difference between Mama and
Grandma. I don’t intend to intrude on her perception of who I am in
her life. I’ll be Mama as long as she needs me to be.

I turn to her; she is standing before me. “Yes sweet girl?” Her hair
hangs loosely about her cherubic face. She is layered in pink tones
because Belle swears that it is her favorite color.

“I want you,” she says throwing her hands upward.

I look at Nicky, contentedly pressed against my body, and then to
Claire. Her face is hopeful. She has her mother’s innate sense of joy.
I remember, many hard memories resurface when they are least expected,
when Claire was just about Nicky’s age and she was losing her life in
a metal crib at the hospital. Even in my confusion, I was deathly
afraid for her. But now there is no sign of the trauma that her body
withstood. She received her uncle’s organs and in turn a healthy life.

“Baby, Nicky doesn’t feel well.” My words immediately disappoint her.
I’m disappointed in myself for not making a small concession. I watch
her retreat back to her grandfather. She climbs into his lap and
mirrors the way that Nicky is in my arms. “I’m sorry baby girl. When
Nicky takes a nap we’ll have more time together.” My plea falls on
closed ears. She becomes consumed with her grandpa who is visibly
angry because of my denial of her.

I put my hand across Nicky’s back to pull him closer. There is
something about this child that tells me that we’ll always love each
other desperately. Nicky will always be needy, and even expectant
where I’m concerned. He needs me in a deeply profound way. I can’t
tell John why or even Nicholas but I know it. There will always be a
sea between John and Nicky, who needs me more, who I have to attend to
better. Across that sea—and it’s a sea because my feelings are so
large for both of them that only a sea could encompass them. I feel
the something deeper coursing through Nicholas at this moment;
something deeper than a physical pain; there is something more.

When we go to bed that night, I lay my little boy down and watch his
reaction to being detached from me. It’s an immediate sense of
withdrawal. His body tenses and he does the only thing he can do: cry.
I catch the roll of John’s eyes as he collars Pika to take her
outside. He’s tired of being second; I wish it were different. I’m
trying to see the world from Nicky’s standpoint. I pretend that I
can’t talk, can’t gather words for things that I don’t understand. I
remember that when I was sick, I found quiet a better solution than
speaking. Nicky doesn’t make that distinction. His choice is me. He
reaches and leaves his hand on my cheek. I see clearly into his face,
searching his eyes, it’s there. There is something wrong.

I remain calm and await John’s reentrance into the room fifteen
minutes later. His boots make crunching sounds in the carpet. I wait
until he’s close to the bed. He stops by the edge and looks over
Nicky.

“We have to take him to the hospital tomorrow.” I say with little
emotion. I don’t want to alarm him. “I know you probably think that
I’m just being paranoid about him but humor me.”

“Doc?”

“John, believe me…I know my child. Something is off with him.” I
explain placing my hand atop Nicky’s hand. He avoids making eye
contact with his father, as do I. We are staring into each other’s
eyes solemnly.

“Marlena, what’s wrong with him?”

“I don’t know. I just feel so strongly that something is.”

“We’ll go tomorrow.”

( )

All pain is the same—quiet or raging. It’s raw and overwhelming. And
sometimes, just sometimes it might be necessary. I wish it wasn’t for
Nicholas’ sake. I wish that I didn’t have to wait helplessly with him
cradled in my arms in the sterile doctor’s office. I wish John would
stop pacing the floor and asking me if I’m okay.

There is never anything innocent about a doctor’s visit. Nothing. I
dressed Nicky this morning in clothes that would come easily off; I
was already preparing myself for tests and procedures. I knew then
that whatever had my baby in a state of pained quietude required
needles and samples. I felt portentousness brooding as John drove us
to the hospital to meet with Nicky’s pediatrician; all the while
Nicholas held on to me, faithfully. It never wavers, not even when I
passed him off to his daddy so that he could hand him to the nurse. Or
when the doctor examined him. He never stopped watching and waiting
for Mommy to rescue him.

That awful moment when Dr. Moody took my hand and said that there were
more tests to be run will forever live with me. I’ll remember that
John was sitting behind me, his hand secured against my back. Nicky
was planted firmly on my lap, lethargic and unconcerned. My eyes were
vigilant in searching Dr. Moody’s pinched face. He looked as if he
were dying just having to tell me that a physical test hadn’t
concluded anything. He then questioned how active Nicky seemed. I only
peered at Nicky for my answer. When Dr. Moody said that the results of
Nicky’s initial blood test were troubling, I held him closer than I’ve
held him before. The room felt as if it could swallow us whole. My
life preserver was John and his steady hold on my back.

I was the first to speak. I asked how serious. Dr. Moody used a
typical disclaimer, “I don’t want to alarm you, but his blood cells
are a cause for concern.” I dropped my head to Nicky’s and breathed
him in harshly. I wanted every morsel of him to fill my nostrils. To
envelop him with my body, I wanted to shield him from the words that
Dr. Moody would say. When all was said and done, we took an elevator
to the pediatric oncology floor.

When I’m frightened—absolutely frightened—I am as clinical as any
other doctor. I’ve counseled mothers who told me what this moment
would feel like, how helpless and bitter they felt. Nothing prepares
you for it; not a word or manual. Frightened might be too small of a
word to compare what overrides my initial fear. Oncology. Cancer.
Death. All of those simple words that have finality attached to their
meaning run around my head in dizzying circles. I’m thinking, even
while I sit next to John, hands entwined, and we listen to the doctor,
I’m thinking this has to be a dream or rather a nightmare. It can’t be
that Nicky’s complete blood count test reveals low white blood cells
and anemia. Even as she explains it—the pediatric oncologist—I don’t
want what she says to be true. Low red blood cells. I’ve forgotten her
name when I interrupt and ask a battery of questions that come with my
medical training. She answers each one. They all in measure equal one
thing: leukemia.

“Leukemia?” John repeats after she finally voices it aloud for us.

She nods in a controlled manner that reminds me of the many times I’ve
done so to a concerned parent. Her tag reads Dr. Anita Kingston.
Normally parents deal with nurses when questions need to be answered.
I suspect it’s because I am a doctor in this hospital that we are
receiving special treatment. Dr. Kingston has a tiny voice that I
strain to hear. The room where we sit is large. We are separated by a
conference table but her amiable face lessens the distance.

Dr. Kingston pauses before answering John’s question. That dreadful
question that makes me clench my body tighter to the chair and squeeze
his hand. I’m suddenly afraid to look at John. He’s the strength
between us. I can be clinical, even if I’m breaking down inside. But
John. John is a tower who hides emotions when needed. I know he can’t
be that right now—not with such a terrifyingly real implication being
laid out before us. I steady my eyes to Dr. Kingston. She feels
terrible in having to deliver such grave results.

“Mr. Black.” She flattens her hand across the table in front of her
chest, hunching over the surface on her elbow. “Dr. Evans. I’m afraid
that yes, Nicholas has Leukemia.”
It’s funny. I don’t hear Leukemia. Well, I hear it but I don’t process
it. The thing that sticks out in my mind is that she speaks my child’s
name with such familiarity. Such love and devotion already. It’s easy
to love Nicky. I need the woman who has been placed in our lives at
this crucial time to love Nicky. That’s most important. I couldn’t
stand a detached doctor who gives me clinical answers and looks. I
imagine she must have spent just a second with Nicholas, realizing how
important he is to us.

John runs a frustrated hand through his hair and sighs very heavily.
He doesn’t know what to say or what questions to ask her. He finally
looks down and then turns slowly to me.

“I’ve taken a look at the medical history. It suggests that the
anemia, sluggishness, and infections are a result of the
overwhelmingly low blood cells.”

“He’s had infections,” I add. “A cold and then ear infection. He’s
been so exhausted. I never thought…”

Dr. Kingston raises her palm up to stop me. “Leukemia is hard to
diagnose without laboratory testing. Nicholas is here now. That’s all
that matters, really.”

“Doc?” John says moving to lean across the barrier of our chairs.
“Doc. Our boy.”

I nod and clench my mouth together. Now is not the time for my tears
or emotion. It’s about Nicholas. “What’s next?” My voice retains
control. I’m putting on my bravest face when all I want to do is
collapse in the floor and bang my fists against the floor. Protect and
do no harm. That’s an oath that we all take—not just as doctors but
also as parents. Me falling apart will only stop the steady progress
of what we need to do for Nicholas. I don’t need a second opinion. I
believe Dr. Kingston. I know that blood tests don’t lie; I’ve seen
Nicky succumbing slowly to sickness. Of course, it’s all relative now.

“How’d this happen?” John asks as the non-medical person in the room.
I know it’s an overabundance of leukemia cells and white blood cells.
It’s a disease of the blood. It is Nicky’s body fighting against
itself to remain well. Dr. Kingston explains this to John in laymen’s
terms. He nods to each statement. “What do we do?”

“Time is of the essence,” she tells us clearly, “Nicky needs a bone
marrow aspirate. It’s an uncomfortable procedure but it’s necessary to
determine what form of Leukemia we are dealing with. I’d like to
schedule one as soon as today.”

“Of course,” I concede without John’s consent.

“After we analyze the results we will better know what we’re dealing
with.” She assures us. “I want you to know that I’ve respected you for
a long time Dr. Evans. You don’t remember this but my mother died of
Cancer when I was a teenager.” She smiles sadly.

“You counseled my father and me. I’ve never forgotten you. It’s why
I’m in this field of medicine. I’m going to do everything to help
Nicholas.” She stands and walks to John and me. Taking my hand, she
squeezes my wrist. “I promise.”

“Thank you.” I say with my brain scrambling. I’m itching to hold Nicky
before the invasive procedure that will undoubtedly terrify him.
Without thinking, I gather her in my arms and hold her until we are
both satisfied. She rubs my back kindly and then pulls back.

“I’ll take you to Nicholas while I get the procedure scheduled.”

We follow her out of the conference room down the corridor. I realize
that I am one of them now. I am the mother of a sick child. These
mothers who sit beside their children’s bed and pray for a miracle.
That will be me. John latches my hand and we walk faster to Nicky. I
pause at the door as John hurries in. I pull my hand away from his
grasp. I realize I haven’t breathed since we left the pediatric floor.
Last night, I was the mother of a perfectly normal child. I’ll never
be her anymore.

Nicky’s eyes bear into me. They are dull but somewhat vibrant. The
hazel in the soft light looks golden. Even though I am breaking
inside, I smile at my baby and walk slowly to him. When I’m beside
John, next to the railing of the crib holding Nicky, I lift him out of
the bed. He rubs his eyes sleepily and drops his head. The words to
console and make him feel less anxious fail me. The only thing that I
can do for him is love him enough to make it okay until it truly is.
We’re stagnate in what we can and should do, or say—John and I are.
What can you say to the only other person in the world who knows what
it’s like to love this child? Nothing. All of my words would be spent
in unnecessary emotion. All we have is now, this moment of peace. The
reality will intrude and the fear will return. But right now, I have
Nicholas in my arms and he’s safe for the time being. His hair seems
more beautiful, his skin appears paler; he has lost some flesh. He in
truth looks like a sick baby.

We stand in silence. I don’t move. As long as I’m with Nicky, he’ll
permit John small allowances of touching and kisses. In my mind, I
have a horrible thought that passes quickly. If I had succeeded in
taking our lives when I was pregnant, Nicky would not be facing
sickness. John shakes his head and hugs us from behind; as if he’s
reading everything that I’m thinking. The squeal of wheels kissing the
linoleum floors startles me. It’s a gurney. Dr. Kingston appears in
the door with a nurse.

“It’s time.” She tells me. I have to hand my baby over to them. “It’ll
be as quick as we need it to be.”

“Can I go in?” I ask anxiously. “I really need to go in with him.” I
say desperately.

“It’s not procedure,” the nurse explains.

“I don’t care about procedures. Dr. Kingston, he’ll need me to be there.”
She squeezes my shoulder gently. “It’s fine.” Her answer is for the
nurse more than it is for me. “Mr. Black we have some paperwork for
you to sign while we prep Nicholas. Is that okay?”

He wants to go with us. To be my strong tower, the rock of our family.
His eyes tell me so. He’s torn between duty and terror.

“John?” It’s a questioning tone that makes him draw me away from Dr.
Kingston and her nurse. He takes a couple steps out of their earshot.

“Baby, I can’t sit here…”

I stop him with my hand. “It’s not about what you or I can do right
now. Okay. Right now it’s about Nicky.” He doesn’t know what it will
be like to see them sedate our son only to stick a long needle into
him and extract necessary specimens. He thinks I’m trying to be brave;
I’m not. “If I don’t go in there with him, I won’t forgive myself. Now
I need you to handle that without being offended,” I tell him harshly.
I haven’t had a minute to be angry. This is it. “That child is my
world; I can’t think of all the things that could happen. Right now, I
need to be with him. And I need for you to understand that.”

“Doc.”

“No,” I say pulling his hand from stroking my cheek, “Nicholas. That’s
what this is about. I’m going to go in there and be with him. He won’t
understand John. The last thing that he sees when he closes his eyes
has to be me.”

He lifts his hand again to my face. “Doc…I understand.”

Dr. Kingston intervenes, “We have to go Dr. Evans.”

He kisses me quickly, as well as Nicky. “Go. I’ll be here.”

I nod and allow him to kiss us both again before I give Nicky to the
nurse. She puts him on the gurney. He’s too tired to protest; that
makes me sad. His eyes follow me as we walk down the corridor and
disappear into the large metal doors. I still haven’t taken a breath.

Chapter 29

“If you’re really listening, if you’re awake to the poignant beauty of
the world, your heart breaks regularly. In fact, your heart is made to
break; its purpose is to burst open again and again so that it can
hold ever more wonders.”
-Andrew Harvey

Having a sick child is like being trapped in a cocoon. Life moves
along around you while you stay stagnate in the unmovable force that
has enraptured your life. I watched with bated breath as the team of
masked figures extracted the necessary matter from Nicholas’ leg after
he went under. I thought I saw his hand flex in the middle of the
silent activity; it was only a trick of my imagination. He was
definitely asleep. Dr. Kingston had turned and nodded over her
shoulder to assure me that he was asleep before any extracting took
place.

I sat perched on the end of my chair, looking over the surgery room
from the theater, watching with all the faith that I had left. Without
John there beside me, I felt lonely. I wished for him to be with me.
But he wasn’t.

Nicky lay unconscious. I told myself that this was only one in a line
of many procedures like this. I would learn to be tough.

It seems a cruel joke—could God be this cruel to me, I wondered after
they wheeled Nicky into a recovery room. Two hours–that’s how long my
baby will be asleep from the force of the sedation required to do a
bone aspirate. He lay so perfectly unaware of the burden facing him.
His perfect future, beautiful countenance and endurance over the past
now seem in flux. Everything is unresolved. There’s a word, a sickness
now that defines his future; one for which I have no ammunition.

I haven’t given myself time to think on what it really means for us as
a family, what it truly means for Nicholas. I’ve simply gone moment to
moment, drawing on inner strength. Checking my watch, I count out the
eight hours that we’ve spent in University Hospital. I recall that I
haven’t held Nicky in far too long, and that my strength is only
amplified when John is with me. In my anxiousness, I forget that he
must be waiting for me to come back.

The recovery room is crawling with genial faced nurses who wait on all
the patients with tender caresses and watchful eyes. One in
particular, Rachel, catches my gaze and scurries to me. In the large
room whose privacy comes in the form of a long drawn curtain, I feel
lost in the large sea of disillusioned parents. There are so many of
us finding our way about the unstable circumstances. The only concrete
thing that we all have is knowing that this too shall pass. I sigh and
reveal a small smile to Rachel. She is a petite blonde with large
brown eyes and small hands. I remember her hands because she helped
Dr. Kingston in removing Nicky’s marrow.

“Dr. Evans?” She pauses near the end of Nicky’s bed, looking to make
sure that he’s not in distress. “Is everything okay here?”

“I’ve forgotten to have my husband paged to let him know that we’re
out of surgery.” I run my fingers through my hair and bite
self-consciously into my lip. “He’s probably burning holes into the
floor.”

“Oh, well I can do that for you Dr. Evans.” She offers widening her
eyes. Her smile is quick. “His name is Mr. Black?”

I glance at Nicholas; he’s still in deep slumber. “Will you do me a favor?”
She nods obediently.

“I’d rather tell him in person that everything went well.” He’ll
appreciate the gesture but I don’t tell her so. I also don’t tell her
that I need a minute to myself without all the eyes watching me. I
know they are concerned. They have been ever since my breakdown, maybe
even before that. My reputation has always been strong, sturdy
Marlena. I’ve upset that ideal. “Will you keep a special eye out for
Nicky?” I feel guilty asking. Across the room is a tiny girl about
Claire’s age who has just received a round of chemo. I heard her
mother ask a nurse about losing her hair. The nurse gave her a
sympathetic answer that ended with a hug. There are more than enough
worried mothers, but not enough nurses.

“Dr. Evans, I’ll do just that.” Her hand is warm when she presses it
into my palm and squeezes. “He’s okay.” I have to believe her. I need
just two seconds away from the room that feels consumed with dread. I
nod and leave after kissing Nicholas goodbye.
My feet move swiftly. I pause outside the waiting room where I left
John. It’s been longer than he can usually stand to be away from us,
especially not knowing what’s happening with our son. I resolve not to
break down when I see him, to hold back every emotion that doesn’t
help Nicky now. Because it’s about Nicholas now; that has become my
new mantra. In the span of 24 hours, the trajectory of my life has
changed. The one person who shares that with me is John.

I survey the waiting room for him. I’ve forgotten what he was wearing.
The hours have passed remorselessly, trudging through the sanctuary of
our untouchable and safe lives. Other parents awaiting a final
diagnosis look up when my heels announce my arrival into a room that
acts as a dam in the threatening sickness. The nurse staffing the
information station points and mouths the word chapel.

God’s voice must be a whisper otherwise, chapels would be brightly
lit. Isn’t that how God works, how faith works really? Isn’t it said
that the darkest hour is just before the day. John is kneeling in
front of the altar. A halo of light profiles his face. I walk lightly
toward him, careful not to disturb his prayer. He is earnest in his
supplication. He mouths Nicholas’ name repeatedly without a sound. My
touch startles him from prayer. He looks up, realizing that it’s
finally me; he stands and pulls me into a suffocating hug. In his
arms, I finally exhale.

“Baby I don’t know how, but we’re going to get through this,” he vows
without loosening his grip. Even though he believes that, and I
believe him, I am still numb to it all. My body is resistant in
falling so clumsily into his arms. I have to chide myself for trying
to keep myself distant from him. This is our child. If there is anyone
in the world I need right now, it’s John.

“Honey.” I finally pull away, only a fraction. John’s hold is such
that I can only move as he allows. “He’s in recovery. The procedure
went well. They’re going to put a rush job on analyzing them as a
favor to us.”

John looks puzzled. “Marlena, did you hear what I said?” He snatches
my chin forward.
“Honey.” I gently remove his hand. “I know. After diagnosis, treatment
will be swift,” I recall from memory with cases like Nicky’s.
Everything will happen like a domino effect. “I want you to be
prepared for what that means.”

He pauses and asks solemnly, “Are you prepared?”

I nod and tilt my head against his chin. “We have to be, don’t we?” My
uncertain tone forces his blue balls of fire to narrow on me.

“Whatever it takes. I have some of the best doctors on hand. I’ve
already put in the calls. We can get a second opinion. We can get
other suggestions.”

It hurts to say it but I have to. “It won’t change the fact that Nicky
is sick honey. I saw all the signs. He is a very sick little boy and
all I know is that we have to help him…” I stumble on the word
survive. I haven’t thought about the numbers and the odds of not
surviving. My goal is to preserve the life of my little boy. Whatever
avenues, we’ll cross them.

“I can’t believe that this is happening. He’s such a strong little guy.”

“Of course he is. It’s only his body that isn’t.” I cover John’s
thumping chest with my hand. “He has your heart, you know. That’s what
will get him through this.”
John nods.

“I have to believe that God wouldn’t give me Nicholas only to take him
back.” It was true once; I lost a little boy to God’s awful will. I
refuse to allow that to be our fate. Not with the level of love that I
feel for Nicholas.

“Doc, it’s amazing to me that the hardest thing that we faced last
week was the prospect of another baby.”

“It wasn’t last week.” I remind him. Everything is happening so
rapidly that all events seem sudden or ordinary compared to what we
face now.

“No, it was yesterday or an hour ago. Time is finite.”

“No it’s not. It’s as open and vulnerable as it’s always been. We’re
only more aware of it.”

He agrees. Taking my hand, he leads us to the pew behind us to sit
down. I feel undeserving sitting in such a holy place. We probably
should be married again. I’ve never thought much about it before, but
Nicholas is a bastard—illegitimate like his sister. God doesn’t bless
unsanctified unions. Could that be why we’re being punished? It’s not
that Nicky could ever be sinful enough to deserve a disease that is so
threatening. The sins of the father are visited on the child. John and
I owe God a lot; I hope it’s not Nicholas who is repaying our debts.

“He’ll have to have treatments, bone marrow from a sibling?” John asks
interrupting my thoughts and personal condemnations.

“We have to see what type of Leukemia it is. I’m not quite up to date
on the research for this disease. There is a possibility that he will
but I can’t say for sure. We’ll test every possible person if it’s
necessary.”

“Chemo?”

“I think so, yes.” I say sadly. “I don’t want to outguess the doctors.
I’m not even sure what type it is. That matters in the long run, in
terms of survival.” I rattle off the idea of death without realizing
the magnitude of it all. Not until the pressure from John’s fingertips
collide with my forearm, and I’m wincing in pain. “You’re hurting me.”

“He’s going to survive. There is no question about that. I don’t want
you to think in terms of not surviving.” He chides me. He’s afraid to
say death. So am I. I’m afraid even to think it.

“I know that.”

He lets go and gathers his arms protectively around my shoulder. “Baby?”

“I’m scared too.” I admit looking away. We can’t look at each other.
“I’m just functioning right now. I haven’t processed any of it. I
don’t have time to wallow in what is or isn’t, I’m going to deal with
what is.”

I feel him agreeing beside me. His body moving as his head bobs.

“Do you want to see Nicky? He should be waking up soon.”

“Of course.”

We stand and walk back down the corridor to recovery. I use my badge
to bypass the security door. Their looks are immediate. They all look
at you as if you’ll break. Every one of them, I think it’s a look that
nurses learn in training. Rachel certainly has it when she sees John
and I walking hand in hand towards Nicky’s recovery cubicle.

“Dr. Evans…Mr. Black. Nicky just opened his eyes.” She has a warm
smile emblazed across her lips. “He has a friend visiting him now. She
says she took care of him when he was a newborn.”

“A visitor?” John says curiously.

Without initially seeing, I know who it is. She’s standing beside his
bed with him in her arms. Her back is turned toward us. I drop John’s
hand and scuttle across the small distance to Nicky and Pia. I
uncontrollably reach and take Nicky from her.

“I don’t think it’s appropriate that you’re here.” I say in a low
whisper. Nicky is still groggy but happy to see me. That’s my first
concern. I couldn’t contain my rage at seeing her with him in her
arms. In my anger, I forgot that he’s just had surgery on his lower
body. I lay him back in the bed and cover him up. John is standing
awkwardly between Pia and the bed.

“Dr. Evans, I would never hurt your child. I’m a nurse.” She says calmly.

“Please.” This is not the time or the place for this conversation. Not
with Nicholas lying half-awake in the bed watching our interactions. I
turn away from her.

“Maybe you should go,” John suggests quietly to her.

Her voice is weak. “John….”

John exchanges a look with her that makes me uncomfortable. One that
is too intimate for me to witness. She seems eager for his approval,
or to have him continue to watch her.

“Pia,” he tries to dissuade her eagerness, “my wife is right. Now is
not a good time.” He walks closer to me, laying his hand on my arm. It
is only Nicholas who lessens my anger at the situation, at the
reminder of our murky past and present lives. I remove his hand and
turn back around to Nicky.

“I’m sorry for causing any trouble.” Pia says retreating from us quickly.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” I tell John when he molds himself to
my body, wrapping his arms around me from behind.

“I love you.”

“Do you?”

“I do with everything I have, I absolutely do.” He says breathing
heavily. “My love for you surpasses everything else in this world.
This is the only place that I want to be.”

The city is starting to lose the natural light of the sun. I’m staring
out of the window of Nicky’s new room. The rectangular shape and large
window make it seem looming but it is really small and suffocating.
The large bed that Nicky occupies is in the center of the room; the
necessary IV bags and electronic monitors are hovering beside it. In
the far left corner is a small couch that turns into a full-size bed.
Parents are well taken care of, Rachel assured me when she helped
transport Nicky from recovery to here.

Nicky is sprawled haphazardly in the center of the bed, with its gates
and rails it seems more like a cage than a crib. John sits in the
chair directly beside it, staring at Nicky; hoping that his earlier
procedure doesn’t hurt as much as it did.

“Doc, he keeps pulling at the bandage,” John informs me. “He’ll
irritate it, won’t he?”

I look over my shoulder at them. The day is worn on John’s face. His
skin is pale, his hair tousled from all the fingers running nervously
through it. It’s going on eleven hours. We’re awaiting a diagnosis
from Dr. Kingston, an official prognosis on Nicky’s condition after
which we can make legitimate decisions about treatment.

“I hate seeing him like this,” John says springing up. He moves with
agility, reaching to scoop Nicholas up into his arms. “How’s my boy?”

Nicky responds with sleepy golden eyes flashing. He charms a smile
from his daddy by speaking da-da lightly. It’s the most that he’s
managed to do all day. Turning away from the window, I walk to John
and lay my head on his shoulder. Nicky leans and inhales a mouthful of
my hair before blowing a raspberry to release it.

“This has been the longest day of my life.” I say closing my eyes.
They will only get longer. I realize this but I don’t share it with
John. I’ve been trying to steel myself into a silence where existing
is the only criteria. I’m preparing myself for whatever prognosis
there is for Nicholas. John’s hand covers my hair. A gentle touch that
makes me yearn for the peace that I always find in his arms. I want
him to take us home and close the world out, and make us safe the way
he always has.

“When he was born,” John begins, speaking in a distant voice, “he was
the tiniest baby I’d ever seen. Even then, I knew he was strong.”

“I wish I had those memories,” I say regretful of our splintered past.
“All I have is now and the last couple of months of our lives. It’s
been wonderful, hasn’t it?”

He nods. Of course we’ve had hard times but looking over that and now,
only the goodness matters. We’ve given Nicholas a loving life, a
somewhat stable home. No matter how much I want to, I can’t protect
him or myself from the bad things.

“He’s 8 months old. Barely walking and talking, and now something like this.”

“It’s not fair, is it?” I ask knowing the answer. We went over his
medical history with Dr. Kingston. 8 months of life hardly constitutes
a history. But it’s the course of action we must take to be proactive
in finding a treatment for Nicholas. I’ll have to find a way to
prepare John for what lies ahead of us. To share with him all the bad
things that will overtake Nicky’s body in the name of helping him. All
the waiting has reminded me of challenging cases of counseling parents
of sick children. I remember that haunted look in their eyes, the same
look that John has, that I myself probably have too.

I kiss the side of Nicholas’ face. His cherubic cheeks are warm. He
looks up to me from the thatch of black hair draped across his
forehead. He’ll lose the healthy look that comes from being chubby
when he’s being filled with medicines that weaken and strengthen his
body. I search for the spot on his neck that my lips always find and
kiss the crescent there. He is pressed against John’s chest. I’m
thankful that he’s allowing John to hold him. To finally allow him to
feel like he’s doing something for him.

We all look up when Dr. Kingston crosses the threshold with an
unfamiliar face trailing her. She looks tired but just as determined
as she did early this morning. Her partner is a lanky man with a baby
face and caramel skin.

“Dr. Evans and Mr. Black, this is Dr. Castor.”

John and I politely shake his hand. Dr. Castor smiles awkwardly. “It’s
nice to meet you both. I’m here to consult with you on Nicholas’
case.”

“Okay,” I say robotically.

“Let’s have a seat,” Dr. Kingston suggest, gesturing toward the larger
area of the room.
John settles Nicky back into the crib and twines our hands together.
We sit on the couch while Drs. Kingston and Castor pull up the swivel
round chairs. A sense of relief washes over me, even though I’m unsure
of what either of them has to say. Having John beside me, with Nicky
close by lessens whatever it is. We’ll be together; and we’ll face it
together.

“The tests are conclusive: it’s acute myelogenous leukemia.” Dr.
Kingston announces rather stoically. “AML as it’s known is one of the
more rapid growing cancer of the blood and bone marrow. The bone
aspirate revealed a large number of leukemia cells.”
I grip John’s hand tighter. Rapid growing cancer rings in my ears long
after Dr. Kingston has stopped speaking. She is giving us time to
digest what she’s said. That there is an actual name for what is
slowly killing my son or rapidly, depending on what side of the
microscope you’re looking.

She continues. “AML is a common form of leukemia, however it only
accounts for 10 percent of cases in children.”

John’s voice is strong. “Is that a bad thing?”

“It’s not positive Mr. Black. It’s aggressive even with treatment;
it’s almost always likely to come back. We want to do some x-rays and
ultrasounds to make sure that the cells are situated only in the blood
and marrow and haven’t spread beyond that. I don’t mean to be blunt
but we have to move quickly on this. With AML, time is of the
essence.”
How can three little letters be so potent and dangerous for my child?
I look from Dr. Kingston to Dr. Castor, who is sitting quietly. I am
technically familiar with AML and its consequences. “So we do
chemotherapy first?”

“It is a standard first phase,” Dr. Kingston explains. “Induction
chemotherapy is very intense. The goal is to bring the disease into
remission. It’s a weeklong process that requires a 3 week recovery
period for Nicky.”

“He’s only a baby,” John reminds us as if any of us could forget. “Can
his body withstand an intense round of treatment?”

“It’s his only hope,” I say to John. I can transfer myself from
patient’s mom to doctor as needed.

“Exactly. We hope that it only takes one round of chemo to destroy the
cells but pragmatically, other options have to be discussed. Most
patients who receive chemotherapy will go into remission; however as
I’ve said, relapse in AML is common.”
We can’t get any closer or hold each other any tighter.

“Which is my field of expertise,” Dr. Castor says. “I’m a geneticist.”

I unbind my fingers from John’s and lean awkwardly on my knees. My own
bones feel callous and tired. My skin feels blotchy; my mind is not
acute. But I will all of my energy to this conversation; it is after
all the answer to what happens to Nicky.

Dr. Castor starts talking again. His voice sounds fragile as his lips
curve around words that are familiar to him and foreign to us. He says
that Science has advanced, given us more options than leukemia
patients ever had in the past. He points to Nicky during his
explanation to assert his point. He talks of cells and cord blood
transplants. All generalized like we’re simply learning biology 101.
Of course that’s not the case; he’s talking about a donor for
Nicholas, as he puts it ‘one who we can count on to help Nicholas as
much as it’s needed’.

I stand up because it all seems so big to hear and hold just sitting.
John follows me up and puts his hands on my shoulders. My own hands
fall to my hips.

“A donor?”

“Yes Mr. Black, one who as close to a genetic match as possible.” Dr.
Castor answers.

“We have a daughter together; I have a son and my wife has two other
children,” John rattles off in a helpless breath. “Can they donate
whatever he needs?”

“It’s likely,” Dr. Castor allows, but his face is concealing what I
already know.

I look up into John’s glassy eyes. “A baby…he means a baby who can
donate to Nicholas as much as it’s needed,” I say with Dr. Castor’s
own words.

“It’s not the only option, of course but we have had success with cord
blood transplants because of the premature cells. You can get these
from any umbilical cord; however a sibling match is the best match
there is.”

John’s breathe stops evenly. He clasps his fingers behind his neck
with his elbows poking. The idea of another baby apparently stuns him.
He looks to me to speak first. I wonder where the words are that I
should be speaking. Dr. Kingston stares up intensely into my face. All
the power rests with me; they all know it. Even if John protests or
demands, it is essentially my body. My storage.

“We can go through the national registry and your family, but in all
truth bone marrow transplants, which is what we would do with an older
child or unknown donor, could simply prolong an inevitable.”

John drops his hands. “Inevitable.”

“Mr. Black bone marrow is and has been a wonderful way of prolonging
the life of leukemia patients, but more than not they are only a
bandage on a larger problem. With the immaturity of stem cells in
these kinds of transplants, patients have greater lengths of
remission. We firmly believe in Nicholas’ case, due to his age and
other circumstances that a cord blood transplant would be his best
option.”

“His best option?” I repeat. “So in order for Nicholas to survive
this, then we need to produce a perfect genetic match for him. You’re
talking about engineering a baby.”
“I’m talking about helping Nicholas. Of course there are moral issues
that you and Mr. Black should discuss. I’m just here to give you all
the options. Nicholas’ treatment is entirely up to you. Dr. Kingston
and I have been colleagues for a number of years,” Dr. Castor explains
pushing his glasses back from the bridge of his nose. “She respects
you immensely; I trust her judgment. We all want Nicholas to be a
healthy little boy. That is the goal here.”

I don’t need that reminder. But as fate would have it, Nicholas starts
wailing and my gait ambles directly to him. He stops when he sees me
reaching for him. He comes into my arms and I fold him into my
embrace. He smells antiseptic-like. It’s clean and uncomplicated. John
stands back with Drs. Kingston and Castor. Without their intrusion,
I’m able to have a moment alone with Nicholas. To feel his heartbeat
against my hand when I reach between us to cover his heart. He’s as
alive as he any of us. Inside his body, he fights for health and life.
I’d do anything to save him. We stay this way—close and quiet—while
John talks at length with Dr. Castor. I take a seat in the rocking
chair at Nicky’s bedside and lay Nicky across my arms. His body curls
against me. His head rests beneath my breast. We rock slowly, lulling
him back to sleep.
John taps lightly on my shoulder and I realize that I’ve fallen asleep
with Nicky. He takes him from my lap and puts him back into the bed.

“I didn’t want to wake you up, you looked so peaceful.” He says
cupping my cheek.

“They’re gone.” He tells me when I look around for the doctors.

“What about….”

“We’ll discuss chemotherapy tomorrow. He’ll have to have it then.”

“John, he’ll hate it. I’ll hate it for him.” I say wrapping my arms
around him. “Why the hell is this happening to us?” I’ve never
questioned why. I didn’t feel it was my right. I didn’t and yet now I
do. Why does Nicky deserve to be one of the 10 percent of children who
get Cancer of the blood? “I hate it.”

“Sweetheart, all that matters is that we’re going to help him. He’s
not going anywhere.” The last time he said something like that he held
my arms so tightly that I winced. He’s more loving this time. He lifts
his arms beneath mine and grips my shoulders. “I wanted another baby.”

“Yeah you did,” I say as a matter-of-factly. I look over to Nicky. He
has no idea that his life is about to change drastically. That’ll
he’ll spend more time being isolated from us and the world; that he’ll
have to be watched carefully for the rest of his life. Does he know
that his daddy is thinking of giving him a sibling that we can dip
into any time we need to keep him safe and alive? He can barely
distinguish evening from day. He barely speaks words. “I hope he knows
how much I love him.”

“We all love him.”

“Yes we do,” I allow. “We love him enough to create another child to
give him as many chances at remission as we can. Isn’t that what you
discussed with Castor?”

“The way I see it Doc, we have to do what we need to. I don’t even
think a discussion is necessary. Nicky needs us to do this; we have to
do it.”

“Do we? I don’t know what that’ll be like for a baby.” I say unsure
even as I’m speaking it. “It doesn’t seem fair to put the life of one
child in the hands of another. Does it?”

“Don’t ask me something like that.”

“Well who else can I ask? This will be our child.”

“That’s right. One we’ll love just as much as Nicky.”

“One who will be Nicky’s savior? It’s not fair John.”

He shifts positions and takes hold of my forearms. The look that I
hate creeps into his face. His jaw tightens as his eyes narrow to icy
blue slits. “Are you saying that you’re not willing to do everything
in your power to save him?”

“That’s not what I’ve said at all. Of course, I’ll do everything in my
power to save him. I’m just…”

“Marlena, this is the life of our child. If they told me that I’d have
to give my life to give him life, then I’d do that too.”

“I don’t want you to have to do that. I don’t want to have to make
decisions like this. I want him to be healthy.”

John drops my arms and moves them to my face. “He’s not Baby, he’s
sick as hell. It’s not fair but this is the hand we’re being dealt.”

“This is the hardest thing…” John stops me with two fingers pressed
against my lips.

“No it’s not. Losing Nicholas would be the hardest thing.”

I exhale and look sadly into John’s eyes. “I miss normal.”

“I know.” He says kissing me flush on my mouth. “I know. I want you to
feel safe. You’re not alone.” He whispers and the words sound
seductive. My body takes them to be that way also. I reach for his
neck and hold him against my mouth while I dig with my tongue into his
mouth. I just want to be loved and held. Even with Nicholas only a few
feet away. I feel my own tears wetting our faces. They are the first
ones that I’ve lost since we came to the hospital.

He slips his hands beneath my clothes and starts undoing clasps. The
room is already dark, the door already shut. Privacy is precious in
our private room. I pull him to the couch and he pries himself away
from me to unfold the bed. He moves in the darkness quickly, spreading
the sheets and blankets.

“I love you so much,” he tells me as he lays me down on the flat
mattress. We don’t say more. He slips inside of me and for the first
time that day, I don’t feel empty. I cry into his shoulder until they
turn into groans and soft moaning. I hold onto his body as he makes
love to me softly, quietly. We are only half clothed. Not having his
skin rubbing against me is foreign to me when we’re making love but
it’s not the best place to be completely naked. I pull his face. He’s
crying too. I lick his salty tears from his cheeks and then press
harshly against his mouth. I cringe when I come, squeezing John
tightly against me. He kisses my neck until I can breathe again.

Chapter 30

“In our sleep, pain which cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the
heart until, in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom
through the awful grace of God.”
–Aeschylus

I awake enfolded in John’s arms, relishing the feeling of sureness. I
snuggle closer and bury my head beneath his chin. Making love to him
gives me something more than the emptiness. We’ve been so isolated
dealing with the initial shock of Nicky’s illness that I force myself
to remember there are other people who also love him. I know Mama and
Daddy will want to come back to be with us during this. Belle and
Brady, and even Sami and Eric are Nicky’s siblings. They will all need
to know what’s going on with Nicky. Eventually we’ll have to allow
other people into our closed mournful circle, but until then I rest
pressed against his body until he stirs from his sleep.

What we know for sure is that he’ll have to have a central line
surgically implanted into his chest. A central line limits the number
of needles poking into him for all the medicine that will be driven
into his system. It’s Rachel who explains exactly what a central line
is. She’s a guardian angel who has fallen in love with Nicky and maybe
us a little too. She is young and impressionable. She probably assumes
that before this, we’ve never had a bad thing happen in our lives.
Rachel is always ready to help.

She was smiling her toothy grin when we emerged from a fresh shower.
We made love there too. I realize that I just need to be filled with
something beside the fear and dread. John feels some of that too; it
helps us both feel less desperate. The small vicinity of the shower
made it nearly next to impossible but having his arms around me while
I cried and let the water pound against my skin made me feel
vulnerable. With Nicky away having tests run, I knew that we had an
extra couple of minutes and so I begged him to love me in the small
space.

Rachel’s clear eyes volleyed from me to John; she looked as
embarrassed as I felt. Perhaps she’d heard, or maybe she just knew.
Maybe she catches private moments between desperate people more than
not. Either way, she offered us a seat and began the task of
explaining Nicky’s central line procedure. She had paperwork that
explained what she said in easier, far more sympathetic language.

As I listened, I remembered that I was wearing John’s shirt instead of
one that would fit me. Sometime between sunrise and noon, a bag had
arrived with a fresh stock of clothing for both of us. New clothes
from Basic Black’s shelves because we haven’t wanted to alarm Belle
with a call to bring us clothes or check on the Penthouse and Pika.

When Rachel pointed to the place on her chest where Nicky’s central
line would be, I gathered the material of John’s oversized shirt, the
same one that he wore yesterday, and rung it between my fingers. She
gave us a minute to digest it all: the entirety of a new procedure,
far more serious than just digging into Nicholas, one that opens his
chest cavity to insert a small tube into a vein that flows directly to
his heart. She left behind pamphlets when she excused herself from the
room.

I check my wrist: 1:07 p.m. Nicky has been gone for more than 2 hours.
Dr. Kingston ordered a battery of tests to make sure that the
cancerous cells are only in the blood, and not his brain and spinal
cord. I wanted to be with him at every procedure but Dr. Kingston with
John’s help convinced me that he would be back soon enough. For most
of the procedures, he wouldn’t even be aware of what was going on.

John finds me twiddling my thumbs when he walks back into the room
after having stepped out to make a phone call. He immediately pulls me
into his lap after sitting down on the couch. I bury my head between
his neck and shoulder.

“I scheduled an appointment with Dr. Castor and another geneticist,
Dr. Barnes; he was recommended to me.” John tells me. His hand slides
lazily up my spine.

“For today?”

“Yes,” he replies quickly. “Time is important, right?”

I nod and release air through my nostrils. “I want to know what’s
going on with Nicholas.” I say checking my wrist again. Time is
important but it’s moving so slowly.

“What I’ve gathered from my conversations with Dr. Castor and Dr.
Barnes is that the chemotherapy will not kill all of the cells; a
second procedure will need to be done, and soon.”

It seems disingenuous to call the conception of a child a procedure.
Even if we have to manufacture a baby that is a perfect match for
Nicholas, it’s still our baby, our child and he or she will be the sum
of parts that come directly from John and me. Damnit. How naïve of me
to think that I could rub my hands and think that I was finished with
bringing life into this world. God rewards human arrogance with his
awful sense of humor. If I was afraid of it before, it only seems
larger and more daunting now because Nicky’s life depends on it.

I hate when I delude myself with grand illusions.

“Sweetie,” John says softly. He untucks my face from his neck so that
our eyes lock.

I find that my voice has disappeared when I try to answer him.
Although I’m staring into his eyes, we’re not connecting. Usually it
would only take a look, and I’d be there in our secret place , and yet
I haven’t found that space yet. I bury my face again. Didn’t we have
things to do today? Even, yesterday. I’m supposed to call Mama
tonight. I have also finally been convinced to have a girl’s lunch
with Hope and Maggie at the end of the week. Everything that was
something is so superficial. The bills and small things like oil
changes and new tires. Instead, the monster of Cancer has invaded; all
the old things have passed away. Now there is only sickness, health,
and our pursuit of the necessary. Sickness is a verb now, something
that claims my tranquility and sense of mind.

“Talk to me honey, you’re too quiet.” John holds me tighter.

“I don’t know what to say,” I admit pressing my lips tightly together.
A shiver runs up my spine and I tremble. It’s the thought of Nicholas
being opened up again; he’ll have an open wound on his chest, making
him susceptible to infections, which in turn means that he’ll be in
the hospital until he’s not. I wish that I could take every ounce of
chemotherapy into my bloodstream for him. I wish I were the one whose
body had to fight.

I nearly leap from John’s lap when Rachel’s sing-songy voice travels
from the hall to the room. She wheels Nicky in a smaller gurney into
the room. He’s asleep, clutching a small dark bear with button eyes.

“This is Da-Da.” Rachel explains when I finger the bear in Nicky’s
firm clutches. “He’s been calling the little guy that ever since I
gave it to him this morning.” Rachel covers Nicky’s hair with her
hand. “He’s been such a trooper with all the tests. He deserved
something for his trouble.”

I look up to smile at her. “Thank you Rachel. Can I hold him? Is he in
any pain?”

She shakes her head. “He’s been taking it easy for the last hour. I
just wanted him to get some rest before I brought him back to the
room. This will be a tough day on him after the central line and then
the chemo.” She rubs Nicky’s head. “I’ll leave you be. His surgery is
scheduled for 2:15. I’ll do pre-op at 2, okay?”
“Thank you.” I say simply, hoping that it’s enough.

I’m a doctor; I understand the mechanics; I am well versed; I know the
significance of a doctor’s looks. However, looking at the three men
sitting in front of me, all of my years of schooling and practicing
are useless. Dr. Barnes is middle-aged, pudgy and to the point in his
assessments. Dr. Barnes’ consultation IVF specialist Dr. Patton is an
older man with white hair and crinkled skin framing his grey eyes. Dr.
Patton does most of the talking, Dr. Castor defers to both of them as
the younger of the two.

John listens intently to Dr. Patton’s description of implanting an
embryo into my uterus. He seems surprised that I’ll actually have to
have a mini-operation in order to actually get pregnant. He jokes that
we normally go the old-fashioned route. All three doctors laugh
sympathetically as I look on numbly. Words like pre-implantation
genetic diagnosis fall easily from Dr. Castor’s mouth. Picking an
embryo that would be a perfect match for Nicholas, they all agree is
Nicky’s best chance at surviving. Dr. Patton pats me condescendingly
and asserts that that’s why we’re all here. I slam my eyes shut and
bite into my inner cheek until I don’t feel like screaming anymore. I
picture Nicholas. I will him as much strength as he needs for what
lies ahead of us. The last time I saw him was thirty minutes ago,
leaving with Rachel; he is always going away now. But in my heart, I
know that Rachel is a godsend and that he’s safe in her care. That’s
what this is about, right? Even this discussion that fans around me;
having a child that will be an instrument of care for another.

Nobody has asked this question: can we morally conceive a baby in this
way? Even if it’s for Nicky. There isn’t time to think about it
really. Dr. Patton tells us that he can put us into his schedule as
early as next week. They assume that I am quiet because I know and am
familiar with medical jargon; even John, who asks all the questions
for me. When all is said and done, John shakes Dr. Patton’s hand and
slips him a business card with a promise to call him before the sun
goes down. And just like that, my future is decided.

The next move is back to Nicholas. John and I stand side by side,
hands laced, in the elevator to the pediatric wing. I can’t recall the
last words that John said directly to me. We’ve been rushing through
our day, planning and waiting, hoping and watching. John pulls me into
his arms. He towers over me. I lean my forehead against his chest and
breathe him in. We’re both exhausted.

He whispers something incoherently into my hair. I look up and ask him
to repeat himself.

“You’re beautiful,” he tells me sincerely. “And I love you more than I
know how to show you.”

“Honey, you do a fine job.” He reminds me so much of Nicholas that I
have to close my eyes and steel myself from crying again. I want to
see Nicky in thirty years loving a woman and his family the way that
John loves us. He deserves that; and we deserve to witness it. “I’m so
terrified about all of this,” I readily admit unencumbered. We are
thankfully alone.

John’s face turns sympathetic. His mouth curls upward and he kisses my
forehead. “How are you holding up?” The fact that I had a nervous
breakdown is the reason he asks that question. Otherwise, I’d be
stoically accepting every verdict read to us.

I avoid me and point to other pertinent issues. “We have to tell the
kids soon. Maybe it’ll be less lonely if we aren’t the only ones
carrying it on our shoulders.”

“We’ll tell them,” he assures me kissing the side of my mouth. “Let’s
just get past this day with Nicky.”

I nod and circle around to the opening elevator doors. Dr. Kingston
greets us in the hallway as we’re nearing Nicky’s room. She signals
the thumbs up sign with a decidedly cheerful face.

“Nicholas is an excellent patient. The central line is in place.
Initially he’ll feel discomfort but we’re going to give him something
to help,” she explains as she leads us into Nicky’s room “We’ll
administer the chemo right here in this room. We can go over any
questions that you may have before hand.”

It takes all of my strength not to fall to my knees when I see my
child. I’ve never seen him so listless. He makes no move to
acknowledge either me or John. His eyes flutter open for a second
before they shut back tightly. I walk quickly to the bed. He’s wearing
a cotton gown that’s held together by thin ties by his belly and
underneath his neck.
“He’s going to be lethargic for the rest of the day. It’s certainly to
be expected.” Dr. Kingston explains. “But we’ve already scrubbed him
for chemo so I’ll ask that you not touch him.”

The central line is taped firmly to Nicky’s chest. I think to myself
that it’s impossible for a baby to be expected not to tug on such an
intrusive thing. A tube that protrudes from his skin. I know that it’s
better than Nicky being pricked continuously but it’s still too much
for me to bear. I fold my arms over my chest as a preventive measure;
I’ll surely want to examine the incision, checking for how much it
will bother Nicky. He doesn’t seem affected by any of it. I’m grateful
for that.

“We’re going to give him a couple cycles of chemotherapy over the next
ten days. We want to see how he responds to it; and then we’ll give
him a period to rest.”

John joins me by the bed. I had almost forgotten that he was in the
room. “He’ll stay here for all of this, right?”

“Yes,” she tells me. “We want to monitor the progression of the
disease. We’re also watching for infections and side effects.”

“With children as young as Nicky, what side effects do you normally see?”

“Every case is different. Mouth sores, diarrhea, hair loss. It’s
dependent on how his body responds to the medicine.”

I turn and look her clear in the eyes. “He’s strong enough for this, isn’t he?”

She doesn’t falter when she has to answer. “He’s been a relatively
healthy little boy. I think that he’ll respond to these treatments in
a positive way. I’m hoping for a clear remission stage but that’s not
up to me. We’ll keep our fingers crossed.”

“Thank you.” I say because I’m too sad and worried to ask anything
else. John shadows me, draping his arms over my shoulders. “I love you
so much Nicholas.”

The phone rings several times before he answers in a grumbled voice.
It’s after hours; it’s the emergency number.

“Dr. Shalit?”

He pauses, trying to catch my voice. It takes a minute before he recognizes it.

“Marlena? What’s wrong?” He asks. His voice is filled with alarm.

I curl my hand around the phone and fall against the wall behind me.
It’s dark. I’m in the woman’s bathroom just down the hall from Nicky
and John. I bring my knees to my chest once my butt hits the floor.
Nicky’s been asleep for hours, having woken once to cry and not allow
us to hold him.

“Marlena?”

“I’m sorry,” I tell him trying not to sound weak. “It’s Nicky…he’s
sick Dr. Shalit. And I haven’t had a moment to myself. I’m not going
to make much sense. My mind is going full speed ahead. All I can tell
you is that he has cancer—leukemia. He’s 8 months and he’s being shot
up with drugs that will destroy his immune system.”

He stops my nearly unintelligible rambling. “Marlena. Take a breath for me.”

“I don’t have time to breathe Dr. Shalit.”

He pauses and then asks, “Where are you?”

“University Hospital.”

“Is John with you?”

I shake my head as if he could see me. My own emotions startle me as
tears pour unbidden down my cheeks.

“You’ve been being brave again.” He deciphers knowingly. “You’re not
superwoman honey; you have to understand that you don’t have to do
everything for everyone.”

“Dr. Shalit, my son needs me not to be crumbling right now. I need
your help,” I barely whisper.

“You need to pause and take a breath. For me, just do it. Breathe in
and out slowly for ten seconds,” he directs me gently. “This situation
that you find yourself in requires a level mind. You can’t hold all of
those emotions in, you have to remember how fragile you tend to be
when you don’t take care of yourself. Now Nicky is fine right now,
isn’t he?”

“He’s here and alive.”

“Then he’s fine,” he posits. “And you’re going to be fine.”

“Am I? Am I well enough to go through this with him?”

“I believe that you can do whatever you want to do. I’ve always
believed in you.”

I drop my head against the wall behind me. “Dr. Shalit….I need you.” I
find myself saying. I haven’t told him everything. I need to have him
sitting in front of me to do that. I have to hear myself talking with
him about another baby, about Nicky’s illness. Everything that
matters, I want to talk to him about it.

“I’ll come.” He says simply.

It’s not that I enjoy lying to John. I tally them all to a growing
bill of things I can reveal as needed. I’ve dried my face and pulled
my hair from the ponytail that’s been holding it at bay. For our sake,
I will play the sad clown. Layers of my hair conceal the weariness
when I lower my head to John’s chest to rest. I keep my hair long for
him, just so he can rake his fingers through it and paw adoringly at
it. He pushes errant strands back and turns my head up toward him.
From my position, I’m eye level to his chin and small mouth—which
never seems so small and weak when he’s plundering my mouth. Stubble
pokes my fingertips when I them roll over his skin.

“Tomorrow,” I warn him, “we’re going to have to tell them.” Dr. Shalit
will help us but that’s the part he doesn’t need to know.

“It’s okay sweetheart. We’ll do it together,” he says as if he’s
reading my mind. “We’re going to have to tell them about everything.”
By everything, he means the plan that I haven’t officially signed off
on, although how could I not? He lifts one eyebrow in a suggestive
arch. This is a quirk I’ve come to count on. It’s what I know; I need
to be surrounded by things that I know right now. “I’m proud of you.”

“Of me?” I ask shyly.

“You’re the bravest woman I know.”

I’m really not, but I appreciate that he thinks so.

When I close my eyes, I expect the world to stop. I want my dreams to
take over. I’m powerful in my dreams. I can call off the dragon and
pull Nicky back from the brink of the fiery lake. I can save his life
and mine too. I wake up in a cold sweat. John’s still asleep.
Untangled, I follow the monotonous beeping toward Nicholas. Tilting my
head brushes loose strands of blond hair from my eye. I have a perfect
angle of Nicholas from the foot of his bed. Da-da is underneath his
arm; Rachel wrapped a white bandage around its furry arm. She told
Nicholas that Da-da had a boo-boo too. I can’t bring myself to disturb
Nicky’s calm sleep.

It’s true: there is nothing more desperate than love; there is nothing
in the world that would cause any one of us to change the very core of
ourselves except love. I love him more than I did before, more than I
knew possible. It’s as if I could just burst from the way I feel
knowing that he’s my baby. And all I want in this world is to share my
life with him, not because I deserve it but because Nicky is just that
wonderful. Sickness as it were doesn’t pale that for me. The future is
still so much inside of him.

My hand drops conspicuously to my stomach. If there were any other
way, we’d try those too. But we haven’t tried any of those other ways.
I know the odds. Claire and even Will are probably not matches and if
they were, it wouldn’t be healthy for Claire to donate anything to
Nicky. I’ve read the research. The studies are conclusive and favor
implanting a specially chosen child into my womb for Nicholas’
benefit. The issue of loving and appreciating that child is a
non-issue. I love what is mine; and I especially love what are both
John’s and mine. It’s just happening so fast. This whirlwind of now,
now, and right now. Acute means critical response time. I see that
when I thumb silently through Nicky’s chart. Babies under the age of
one are less likely to bring about a cure or remission. Allogeneic
Stem Cell Transplant. Parents considering possible HLA identical
sibling donor. Seeing all of our options written in Dr. Kingston’s
highly legible handwriting is jarring. I close the chart and cover my
face with my trembling hand. It’s scary that all of my child’s life
and history consists of only two or three flimsy papers in a cold
shelter. It’s not nearly enough. There are so many chapters left to
explore.

Nicky’s body is warm when I slide my arms beneath him to lift him to
my chest. I bring Da-da with us. For now, he’s just a little boy and
not the cancer patient. I tap John’s shoulder. He rolls over, ready to
leap up but my hand settles his worry. When he sees that I have Nicky,
he pulls back the blanket and moves to the other side of the bed. I
climb in and settle Nicky between us. Wordless communication leads to
me summoning him with my finger. He walks around the bed and climbs
into a spooning position. He’s just a little boy I tell John touching
Nicky’s hair. The slightest germ from us could send him into a
critical state but how could they ask me not to touch my child. In a
day or two, he’ll probably be throwing up what little he eats now. His
hair will probably fall out. I don’t care about all of that now.
Because right now, he’s only Nicholas Black and the two people who
love him most are with him, loving him in the best way that we can.
John starts talking about him as a newborn, telling me things that I
don’t remember or couldn’t know. He reminds me that he used to love to
lie on my belly and talk to Nicky when I allowed it. Think of Nicky,
he says. Balled up in you, listening, and waiting to finally be in
your arms. I think of that. I also think of the leukemia cells that
the god-awful chemotherapy should be killing right now. I think of
another baby in my belly waiting to cure Nicky. I’m thinking of how
Nicky will never remember being sick. And I’m also thinking, what if
nothing works. What if we do everything that we can but we still lose
him. Babies under one rarely bring about remission or cure. He’ll be
the one in a million. I encourage John to hold onto me snugly and fall
deep into his chest. I can’t make him love me any more than he does.

I dream again. This time, a little girl is on the other side of the
lake. She has eyes of fire and dark curls that thrash against her back
when she takes Nicky’s hand to pull him back from the fire. He calls
her Jules when they clasp hands and run away from the lake and me.
They run into the abyss and my dream ends.

Belle’s frightening intuition about us quickens her pace when she and
Sami pour out of the elevator toward us. She knows that something is
not quite right. When John called her, she badgered him about why we
haven’t contacted her over the past couple days. We left her high and
dry with Claire but more than babysitters, she misses us as parents.
Sami doesn’t need us as much, but we’ve been getting closer. She
realizes that something is amiss, too. Both of my blonde headed girls
wrap their arms knowingly around me. Sami is behind me while Belle
occupies my front. John stands at our side, quietly trying to remain
the calming center of our crisis.

“Where are the children?” I ask as Belle pulls away to rush to her
father’s arms.

“They’re fine.” Sami says taking my hand. “What’s going on Mom? You
said it was urgent. You said Nicholas? Where is he?” She’s the easily
rattled strain of my gene pool. Sami is highly emotion. Even in her
anger, her heart has always been on her sleeve. She covers my cheeks
between her palms, “Mom?”

“Come sit down.” I offer, pulling her toward the family conference
room down the hall. Belle and John follow us into the small room with
eggplant colored walls. I avoid their faces as I take a seat around
the oval shaped table in the center of the room. John sits down next
to me while Belle and Sami occupy seats on the opposite side of the
table. He threads his fingers through mine and lays our hands on the
table. So much has changed for us that it’s surreal that we’re even
still together. That he still loves me with such fierce devotion that
I have to turn away from it sometimes. He’s been trying to convince me
that our children are strong enough for anything. Looking at them, I’d
have to agree. Belle and Sami have been through much more than I had
been at their ages. They have grown and done exactly what was expected
of them. It’s hard, at times, to look them in their eyes knowing all
that I’ve done to erode their confidence in living happily. If a
parent is an example of that, then I’ve stumbled through my own
confusion. But my girls are survivors, and as mothers, they now know
that we are only human in our experiences. That’s what convinced me to
call Dr. Shalit and tell him that I could do this alone, and with the
love of my family. If I need strength, it has to come from my husband
and children.

John and I watched Nicholas receive his second round of chemo this
morning. I watched as Nicky’s newest fan club member Mona filled his
body with chemotherapy, all the while breaking apart inside. It’s the
part of me that I have no control over. After the session was over,
John asked Mona to stay with Nicky while he took me outside for some
fresh air. Though tears, I agreed. He led me away in a stupor and we
ended up standing outside of my office door. I touched the nameplate
numbly. This was the place where I was god-like; giving answers to
people’s problems as if it were my right; diagnosing illness and
sickness; being the person who could give hope to so many others. And
in truth, I was as weak as those who sought out my counsel.

It was always John. He was always the one who made everything
possible. I never felt beautiful until he said it was true. I never
felt worthy of such love until he made that possible. I was never a
good mother until I gave birth to his daughter. I was never able to
break apart until he allowed me to do so. When he opened the door,
we’d stood in darkness for a couple of silent minutes. It was a
comfortable silence that lay evenly around us. He knew that that was
the place I took strength from. In that room, I had to be someone
else; that someone was other than my less than confident persona.

“We’re going to get through this,” he’d whispered so fiercely that my
skin tingled under the collision of his breath on my neck. He was
standing behind me with his arms wrapped around my waist. “We’ve been
through hell for each other. We’ll go through hell for our little boy.
I know that we can do this because I believe in you.”

I felt myself teetering at the brink. Just one more inch and all I had
built up since my breakdown would come crashing down. I could be more
than enough for any person, except myself, I realized. My little boy
had been born under such dire circumstances and would now have to face
the biggest problem of his life. And all I felt like doing was
crumbling. “John?” I’d barely whispered his name. I could barely hear
myself when I said it again. In that space of confusion and sadness, I
reached out for John. Vulnerability started the descent of clothes
falling away. He unbuttoned my shirt from behind and then turned me
around to face him. My face was wet with tears. He wiped each one away
before unbuttoning my pants and sliding them down my legs. I stepped
out of them one at a time and slid down on the couch. We’d been in
this same place many times before, but in those times, I’d only been
aroused. It was different, every time since we first found out about
Nicky’s leukemia had been different. The urgency and desperation of
our situation compounded what I knew to be fear. John mistook it for
something else. He was trying to build me up with his strength and
love by giving me himself. I greedily accepted. I pleaded that if we
were going to help Nicky that we needed to realize that it would be
best not to make love. I was willing to use other avenues to please
him but he was unyielding. He told me that if we made a baby, then
that baby would be Nicky’s savoir. Knowing the odds and knowing
better, I opened my legs and helped guide him into me. And in my
weakness, he made love to me. He whispered affirmations that reminded
me that I would never be alone in what was happening with Nicky. He
spoke poetically about our child that would come into the world to
save Nicky.

There is nothing more sacred or religious than making love to your
lover while looking each other in the eyes. He drew out my confession
of calling Dr. Shalit to help me deal with Nicky’s illness. Soliciting
the information like an indifferent priest, he calmed us both with
peaceful words. He helped me get dressed again and then guided me to
the phone to relieve my good doctor of his duties to me. He looked on
as I stumbled through an apology for calling and being vulnerable.
When I stayed on longer than he thought necessary, he took the phone
from my hand, said a curt goodbye and hung up. He then lifted it from
its cradle to call our daughters.

“Nicholas is very sick,” I admit to Belle and Sami, after shaking the
visions of John and me away. “I don’t want you to be alarmed or
frightened. We’re doing everything in our power to help your brother…”

Belle speaks first, “help our brother?” She blinks in confusion. “You
haven’t told us what’s wrong yet?” Her voice trembles.

“Baby, it’s serious. Nicky has been diagnosed with leukemia.” I reach
and grab the hand that she’s extended toward me.

“Oh Mom,” Sami says rising to walk around the table. She kneels beside
my seat. “Nicky has cancer.”

I nod and take the hand that she’s draped across my knee. “An acute
form that requires immediate action.” I look from Sami to Belle.
Bravely, they keep their eyes set against me. I remember the words
that John whispered to me just that morning: we’re all stronger
because you’ve showed us how to be. Belle, the introspective daughter,
sits quietly for a moment. Her eyes flash with a passion that only
John’s daughter could exhibit. She’s going to fight with us. “There
are a lot of decisions that have to be made regarding his care. And
daddy and I have talked to experts. In my heart, I know that Nicholas
will be just fine,” I add bravely.

“Mom, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay Sami. You’re brother is so brave. He’s taken all of this
without too much fuss.” I say smiling. Bravery must be encoded in
John’s DNA. His son and daughter are perfect bearers; even Sami.

Belle leans forward. “Mom, what are they going to do?”

“Chemo honey. He started yesterday. They want to see how many cells
can be destroyed by the first round. After that, it’s a wait and see
game.”

John breaks his silence. “Not necessarily a wait and see game,” he
adds moving into our closed circle. “We have a beautiful option. We
can give you all another brother or sister…and that child will be
Nicky’s savior.” My eyes close voluntarily on the word savior. “We’ve
been in discussions with a team of people. It’ll happen as soon as
next week.”

Belle lowers her chin and voice, “mom? You’re going to have In vitro?”

I smile in answer and drop my head.

John answers their questions. They are concerned, of course, but agree
with John that we should do all we can to help Nicholas. What monster
would deny that Nicky’s wellbeing outweighs every other issue? It has
to be about Nicholas and his recovery.

We stand, shoulder to shoulder, as we walk through the corridor of the
hospital. Nicky is half-asleep, with his hand draped across Da-da when
we crowd around his bed. Belle looks him over carefully. I think she
feels more connected to him because of the closeness of their DNA.
They both share John and me. Sami and Eric love Nicky; Brady does too.
It’s just that Belle spent so much of her time being the child born of
John’s love for me; and it’s an incredible bond for any child to
withstand. “I wish my blood could help you Nicky.”

“I know honey.” John says brushing his lips against Belle’s hair. “We
all do, but Mom and I are going to do all we can to help him Tink.
Don’t worry.”

She bends her head to his chest. “Dad.”

“It’s okay.” He assures her as he’s been doing me for the past couple
of days. “I want you to listen to me. I’m not going to let anything
happen to your brother.” She falls so easily into his arms that she
looks years younger. If I blink, I can still see the little girl who
loved her woobie bear. “You need to be strong for us now. Everything
is going to be alright.”

Sami, always the voice of reason, asks, “Is it? Can mom handle another
pregnancy?”

“She’ll have to,” John replies without hesitation. “This is your
brother’s life Sami. Your mom is stronger than she’s been in months.
I’m confident in her.” He squeezes my hand. “We can do anything
together.”

The irony of life strikes at the oddest of times. I know that John is
the man who I’m supposed to spend the rest of my life with. I also
know that he would try to prevent unnecessary harm to me and our
children. And because I know that about him, I understand why he has
such a problem with Dr. Shalit. But Dr. Shalit—the ram in the bush. He
appears in the midst of our self-satisfying affirmations about Nicky’s
sickness. He appears to me; he beckons without words and I relinquish
my hold on John and walk slowly to him. I feel John’s eyes burning
into me when Dr. Shalit and I move to the hall outside of the room.
Without one word, Dr. Shalit folds me into his arms and declares that
everything will be just fine. And in that oasis of security, I believe
him.

Chapter 31

“Commonplace miracle: that so many miracles happen… A miracle, just
take a look around: the world is everywhere.” – Wislawa Szymborska

A monitor beeps, and the staccato collision of intravenous drips and
oxygen filling Nicky’s lungs sings a jarring rhythm. I never
appreciated the sound of silence until it wasn’t available to me
anymore. He’s as quiet as he’s ever been. Pale. The 36 inches of his
small frame lays prostate in the center of a sterile white bed. The
only sparkle of color is the mint green hospital gown covering him;
his dark hair is a stark contrast against the white sheets.

The infection set in last night. His skin became extremely warm to
touch, and then suddenly there was swelling and redness. Mona and
Rachel were ready for the setback; I wasn’t. I was willing myself to
believe that he was getting better. His color seemed to be returning
to his face. A light seemed to beam from his eyes. And then
wham—infection. Illness is such a false entity, but an entity
nonetheless. Just when you’re feeling confident, one little spot or
test result, and all that confidence is useless.

We moved him into NICU during the early hours. Rachel and Mona were
both thankfully on duty. They made the transition comfortable. Rachel
explained why Nicky was being coma induced while a new team of doctors
worked on Nicholas; he needed to restrain all activity until the
infection could be eradicated. Infections are the enemy. Anemia,
fatigue, diarrhea, and shortness of breath all signal a decline in
health. And 3 hours into Nicholas’ infection, we’d seen all four
symptoms. That’s how we ended up in NICU, where time is exhaustive and
scary. Every minute is filled with incredible anxiety. Every sound is
a signal of something.

Nicky says nothing, and does nothing. In an induced coma, my little
boy’s only movements are the fluttering of his dark lashes and the
rise and fall of his chest. To leave his bedside is unacceptable. I
haven’t, not even when John’s begged and tried forcefully to remove
me. He talks about the in vitro procedure that was scheduled for this
morning, which I’d prepped for two days. That was until Nicky’s
setback resulting in my vigil at his bedside. We are not allowed to
touch him. No fingers, no breathes or any form of contact that can
transfer diseases.

My memories come relentlessly as I sit with my hands pressed into a
tight bridge across my stomach. Nicky has spent too many of his days
in hospital rooms fighting for his life. I wasn’t there for the first
time; and I’ve yet to forgive myself. It is all more than too much to
remember. My selfishness—Dr. Shalit calls it sickness—kept me away
from Nicky when he needed me the most. Even with his eyes closed, I
know that he feels me here. And that’s why I can’t move. I can’t go
through invasive surgery, not now. Not until Nicky is able to open his
eyes again. I don’t have the patience to care that John thinks I
should go through with the in vitro. It’s all of little consequence if
we lose Nicholas anyway.

“Sweetheart, time is vital. You know that, don’t you?” John argues
from the other side of Nicky’s bed. We’ve been having this circular
conversation for twenty minutes. The exhaustion of being so afraid for
Nicky makes us both combative. You strike those closest to you in
pain. The whirlwind of sickness and health has divided us once again.
The way he held me a couple of days ago is forgotten because the chasm
is widening; Nicky is unfortunately in the middle.

“John, I’m not leaving his side.” I whisper out of frustration. I fold
my arms across my chest to quell the burgeoning coldness enveloping
the room. John’s gaze is icy and concentrated on me. His mouth droops
wearily, his brows stretched angrily above his dimmed eyes. Lowering
my head, I cup my throat with my fingers. There is a cough building in
the base of my throat, so fierce in its determination that my hands
act as a blockade when it finally glides up and out of my mouth. “I
can’t breathe.” I clutch roughly at my chest and attempt breathing
through my nostrils. It’s of no consequence. Tightness rises suddenly
and I stand to find some control.

“Doc, what’s wrong?” John hurries to my side. “Do you need a doctor?”

I shake my head wearily.

“Are you alright?” His hands dig heavily into my arms, as he turns me
toward him. “Doc?”

I nod and close my eyes. I count out my breaths slowly, measuring as
each one fills and leaves my lungs. It takes a moment for the panic to
dissipate from my body. When I’ve gotten control over my breathing, I
open my eyes again. John puts both hands on my shoulders and leans
into the small space between us. “A panic attack,” I whisper, still
expelling breaths. “I’m fine. I’ll be okay.”

Not convinced, he slides his hands down my arms to pull me against
him. “Baby, are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” My vision is blurred by the water filling my eyes. It
spills down my cheek slowly. John takes his fingers and wipes them
away. “He’s so precious to me John. I haven’t done a great job of
protecting him and being there when he’s needed me,” I explain. The
procedure that could enhance his life is something that I’ve resigned
myself to doing, but it is not as important as being with Nicky now.
My mind can’t wrap around leaving him in this state, even for a
second. It’s unnatural that a mother should have to sit at her baby’s
bedside and watch him under the influence of coma inducing drugs. It’s
also not fair that out of all the babies in the world, God chose my
child to be the sick one. None of these things makes sense to me. I
shouldn’t have to choose between Nicky and another sibling. I
shouldn’t have to become pregnant with the goal of saving Nicholas’
life, if need be. And yet, I’m doing all of these things because God
laughs while we continue to make plans.

“He doesn’t hold that against you.” John fingers my cheek softly. “We
know how you feel about him. That’s why I’m proud of you for trying to
do this for him. But you’re place should be with Dr. Patton. That’s
where you’re most needed.”

“My place is here,” I snap back. “And I don’t need your admiration. I
need you to respect my decisions.”

“Honey, I don’t want to overwhelm you.”

I put my hand against his chest. “Then stop.” He takes my admonishment
heavily and backs away. “You can’t demand things of me. Not now,” I
say as a plea, planting myself back in the seat at Nicky’s bedside. “I
can’t handle it. I’m completely overwrought with this sickness. My
priority is Nicholas.”

“If that’s true,” John says in a lowered voice behind my back, “then
why did you call Dr. Shalit?”

I glare in answer. The same conversation— I wouldn’t mind having,
except it strikes me as inappropriate. “I sent him away,” I say
simply.

“You called him in the first place. You also found comfort in his arms
before you sent him away,” he says without anger. “I don’t get this.”

“John, people strike out in anger when they feel afraid and helpless.
We’re both feeling that emotion right now but I don’t have the energy
to do this. I’m not going to discuss Dr. Shalit—not here.” I sound far
more anguished than angry. “You have a healthy jealousy of Dr. Shalit.
I get that honey, I really do,” I offer. I know where the feelings are
springing from, but I don’t need them now. “You have to give me room
here. You’re not in control and that frightens you. It frightens me
too. It makes you feel like you have to control something; that
something can’t be me. I can’t hang my head in contrition every time
you feel threatened by Dr. Shalit’s presence. “

“You don’t; you smile and grin in his face.”

My voice rises, “John, not now. I can’t do it.”

He walks around to the front of my chair. Kneeling, he looks at
Nicholas. He touches the edge of the bed, flickering from the urge to
go further. “I do things because of my love for you and my son.”

“Our son,” I say gently correcting him.

“That’s a fact, he is our son.” John scans the entire length of
Nicky’s bed. If I reach out and touch him, the way my hand tells
itself that it has to I’ll succumb. There are strands of grey hair
threading through the deep forest of his black hair. They catch the
high light in the room, making them obvious. It would appear to anyone
that he is kneeling at my behest; that, I am an altar that he deems
worthy of worshiping; that, he kneels out of his powerlessness to my
considerable omnipotence. I’m no goddess—that much has always been
clear. But for me, John has always been cast as the hero in our Greek
tragedy and I have been the damsel in distress. We know our roles, and
still they continue to shift and emerge. In the blink of an eye, I can
become the queen without fear, to his trembling dark knight. That
we’ve been usually lucky to withstand any of the tragic circumstances
in our lives is clear. But, we’ve survived on pure instinct; and my
instinct commands me not to move away from Nicholas, the prince.

“As soon as Nicky is free and clear,” I speak softly, bending my neck
sideways, “I’ll go.”

John considers it and then regards me strangely. “You know, we never
planned for another child. I mean Nicky—we never said that we were
going to try to create him. We never planned for any of our children
together. In my head, I’ve been the mastermind of your pregnancies. It
must seem that way too you now.”

Shaking my head, I tell him, “You’re thinking too much into this.”

“I am,” he admits looking up sadly. “You’re my life and I still feel
like I can lose you. Our bond is so fragile that the only thing I can
claim is that I am the father of your children. I feel like he has so
many pieces of you while the rest of us struggle to get our share. You
don’t know what that’s like.” He rubs his face, frustrated. His hand
falls to his chest and starts scratching idly. “Is he telling you not
to have the in vitro?”

My face registers the hilarity of his suggestion. “Don’t look at me
like that.” He demands, dropping his hands roughly atop my knees.
“You’re being unreasonable. I don’t understand how you couldn’t want
to—”

“John,” my voice strains, “don’t do this to us. Don’t make it a battle
of wrong and right.”

“Then choose us,” he says calmly.

“I have chosen you. I’m doing this because of that choice. That little
boy is my life. I would give up everything for him. Everything.”

“That little boy is my son,” he yells, standing up tall. I cower under
the strain of his height and anger. “I am his father and no one else.
If you’re letting your doctor dictate your decisions now, then as his
father I’m going to be angry.”

I shake my head sadly. “Don’t be angry at me John, please.”

He moves but stops short when he hears a nurse summoning for us. I
shield my face, embarrassed. Our conversation got heated and probably
a little loud for them. But when John goes to her and then comes back
for me, I see the serious demeanor in his face. There is a pious
looking nurse following him. She puts her hand on my shoulder and asks
if she can pray for Nicky. I nod and move as she falls to her kneels
beside the bed.

“We have to go,” John tells me pulling my elbow.

Mouthing no, I turn and look over my shoulder to Nicholas. “Why can’t
I make you understand this?” I ask him, my voice ragged. “Don’t
torment me with your insecurity.”

I cover my face and step back from John. The praying nurse, or so I
thought is really a nun. She is whispering over Nicholas furiously.
Turning my back to both John and the nun, I squeeze my eyes shut and
drop my head into my hands.

“Mrs. Black?”

“Dr. Evans,” I say without turning to the voice.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Evans. I have to talk to you and your husband.”

I spin around, ready to protest until I recognize the face of the
nurse who prepped me for the in vitro. She’d taken special care to be
gentle when taking blood samples. I remembered her warm smile.

“I’m sorry to be short with you. It’s been a long night.”

She squeezes my shoulder, “I understand. Any parent would be. But as I
told your husband, we need to speak privately.”

“What about?” The way she directs her words are alarming. Speaking
privately has never been a good sign. John steps forward and takes my
hand. “Just tell me,” I say clearly. No pretense. No ruminations; I
only want to full truth of whatever has struck the odd look about her
face.

“I don’t know if it’s appropriate to do this here.”

My hearts skips a beat. What could be left in the tragedy that hasn’t
yet occurred? I steel myself against whatever is coming, removing
John’s hand from my back and snatching my hand away. “Please, just say
it.”

“It’s not bad,” she tells me gently. “I promise.”

“What?”

“You’re pregnant. We can’t do the procedure.” She says smiling.

John’s hand presses the small of my back. I’m grateful for the
support. My legs feel heavy and my head starts spinning. “Pregnant?”

“Yes. Imagine our surprise when we saw it in your hormone levels. I
wanted to be the first to tell you congratulations.”

Stammering, I thank her and face John. Another chapter to add to the madness.

dmrp1968March 12, 2015, 6:07 pmIP: 24.38.138.147 · Post #37

Posts:655Group:Mod SquadMember#7Joined:November 8, 2014Chapter 32

Keep your face always toward the sunshine – and shadows will fall behind you.
-Walt Whitman

For the rest of your life, we’ll worship you. We’ll look at your face
and see not only us staring back, we’ll also see Nicky’s savior. It’s
a large role to fill. And at times, you’ll think how unfair it must be
to be the spare parts for your brother. I’m telling you this now,
while you’re inside me because I won’t be brave enough to say so when
you’re here. Your Daddy and I, we’re not perfect but we have been
given the ability to create perfect babies. I know that you’re
protecting Nicky, even inside of me. You’re tiny and barely human, but
I know there’s a connection of your souls. You’re here to save Nicky;
one day, he might be able to repay the favor.

We don’t give up easily; it is one justification for us still being
together. Even in turmoil, one moment can shift the dynamic and we’re
back and balanced. I savor that peace. I warm at the sight of John’s
curled mouth. The exuberance lighting his eyes is contagious. Maybe
the tragedy has lost some of its power because our love has power of
its own.

After the nurses and doctors have gone away with their charts and
recommendations, it’s only John and me. We’re lying on the extra bed
next to Nicky’s holding onto the little joy we have found. I find
myself giggling lightly. John lowers his face, regarding me in the
dark room. Covering my mouth, I burrow into his chest. “I’m sorry.
It’s just….God laughs while we make plans. I had that thought today,
when I was watching Nicky. How true is it, now?”

“Baby I’ve always been a strong believer in miracles.” John says,
rubbing his thumb beneath my earlobe. “Sometimes I forget that you
allowed me to love you. I think that’s a miracle too. Belle and Brady
are miracles.” He exhales slowly. “Now these babies.”

“Our babies,” I say, a smile framing my lips. “It never ceases to
amaze me, the magnitude of how we have no control over the enormity of
our lives.” A dream of a little girl who Nicky called Jules burst from
the memory reservoir. The lake that she shielded Nicky against and her
eyes of fire become clear; I keep the dream for only myself. “I live
in preparation for anything, but I’m still amazed that we can still do
this.”

He whispers, “What?”

“Bring life into this world.” I tell him, allowing him to pull my hand
to his heart. “John?”
“What baby?”

Taking a deep breath, I release the burden of my conscience. “You have
to stop being antagonistic towards me and my decisions. I’m not asking
you not to be my husband; I don’t want you to ever stop being my
husband.” He groans inwardly, the sound of it rolls beneath his chest.
“I’m serious honey. I know that it’s hard for you to turn that off.
Your sureness is one of the reasons I love and trust you so much,
especially when it comes to our children.” I hesitate before speaking
again. Not out of uncertainty—I’m absolutely sure of my position. I
know what’s best for my body and my life. I know that John’s
intentions are well meaning. I also remember it being said that
intentions pave the way to hell. “You don’t know what’s best for me
better than I know myself. I must’ve given you the impression from our
life together that I needed you to direct my life.” He loosens the
hold of his hand over mine. “I don’t mean to sound callous John.” An
unsettling quiet moves around us. “Sometimes your passion scares me.”
He considers the possibility and sucks in a hard breath. The hero
learns he has faults. They never write that part into the story.
“Don’t get tense. I just want to clear the air.”

“Marlena.”

I ignore the slight ire of his voice. “John, I’m telling you this out
of my respect for you. You have a problem with Dr. Shalit.” He groans
again, this time more forcefully. “I know. It’s hard for you…being the
kind of father and husband you’ve always been.”

“The bad guy?” He sighs.

“Excuse me?”

“The bad guy. The husband whose only concern in this matter has always
been your well being.” He says with such deflation. “I have told you
before: I’m not going to apologize for loving you.”

“I don’t want you to. I want you to think of me equally. And I want
you to accept the fact that Dr. Shalit helps me—and I know that hurts
you.” Lowering my eyes, I mumble, “It scares me.” He moves back,
shifting his body so that we’re not touching. “You’re a part of my
life.”

I flinch when he covers my neck with his hand and pulls me forward.
John’s face transforms in the darkness, from a pitiful downtrodden
sulk to a glowering gaze; one that I don’t dare to hold for long.

“You are my life. I don’t apologize for making you my priority.”

That’s not to say that you alone should make decisions for me,” I tell him.

Stop arguing with me Marlena. It’s not you.”

I smile in spite of the tension sending throbbing pain to my nerve
ends. “It is me. You just don’t know how to accept that.” I exhale.
Clearing the air, and metaphorically clearing the air with the action.
I lower his hand from my neck and collapse into his chest, pressing my
nose into the soft material of his shirt. “I love you. The fact that
we’re going to have a baby again is one of the most wonderful things
I’ve ever experienced.”

“This baby will be the one to…”

The responsibility of that sentence causes me to cut in. “Save Nicky.
I know that. But can we just focus on the blessing.”

“Yes,” he says reluctantly. “We did this together.” He slides his
proprietary hand down my chest to rest on my flattened stomach. “Thank
you God.”

In the excitement, I neglected to ask what we knew for certain about
the baby. How far along? If I’m in danger of a miscarriage? How
certain they truly are? I haven’t had a chance to be elated about this
child. That saddens me. A child being used as a band-aid also saddens
me too. In my line of work, I’ve come across women faced with the same
choice: one child’s life being created for another. The wonderful
thing about this child that I’ve just discovered is that we didn’t
create it expressly for the purpose of helping Nicky. We made another
being through the difficult, controlling, undeniable, expression of
our love. Ironically, at the same time that I was swearing off
motherhood again, fate was saying not so Marlena.

Nicky’s infection is subsiding slowly. He could be in the coma for
another couple of days, Rachel explains. She promises me that her
Nicky will come out of this like a trooper. I again choose to believe
someone other than myself. She congratulates me on my pregnancy. We
hug because I feel that she’s more like family than a nurse. She’s
held my hand when I’ve been crying at Nicky’s bedside. We’ve prayed
together. She’s told me tidbits about her family in the little time
that we’ve been in the hospital. Rachel Gregson is young woman whose
life story has more layers than possibly even mine. She’s barely
thirty and has lost a fiancé and both her parents. I listen to her
story and start to feel less sad about my own.

“You’re such a wonderful girl.” I tell her as she checks Nicky’s
vitals and IV tubes. I’ve never noticed how beautiful Rachel is.
Nordic in her physical features: light skin with light brown hair,
blue eyes that are always brimming with compassion. When she closes
her hands over mine, there is a feeling of familiarity that makes
Nicky’s sickness bearable. I know that she’ll always have Nicky’s best
interest at heart. “You look just as tired as I feel.”

“I am, but don’t tell my boss that. I don’t know how not to be
concerned about patients. When I’m at home, I worry about them. When
I’m here, I quell some of that. So I ask for all the overtime I can
get.”

I smile. “I knew you were hanging around more than usual.”

Her laugh is a gentle, almost quiet sound. “I hope I’m not becoming a nuisance.”

“No, you’re wonderful. Nicky loves you.”

She averts her eyes. “I do too.” Her shoulders loosen under the force
of my hands. I pull her into a hug. “Where is your husband?” She asks
after breaking apart from me. “I saw him this morning.”

“John went home to check on things. We haven’t left the hospital since
we got here. I encouraged him to go home.”
“I bet that was hard for him to handle. It’s easy for anyone to see
how close you two are.”

I roll my eyes inconspicuously. “Perhaps too close. My husband loves
his family to a fault.”

“We can all see that.”

“I bet we’re the talk of the nurses break rooms.” I say in humor, but
there is a sad truthfulness about my statement.

Rachel glances at me. “I don’t listen to or participate in any of it.”

I shake my head and smile again. “You’re a dear for that. I’m no
stranger to gossip. Especially in these past couple of years. I can
handle it. I’ve come to expect it.” The weight of my words builds a
bridge between this stranger and me. “My life has been anything but
conventional.”

Rachel agrees quietly. Her eyes widen in the intimacy of our
conversation. She’s not expecting anything that I’m going to tell her.
“From the very first time that I saw my husband, I was smitten. Do you
know what I mean…completely taken with him. Drawn to him and there was
little I could do to help myself.”

“It’s understandable. You’re husband is special.”

“He is special. He’s not without fault, but he believes wholeheartedly
in everything that he does. The intensity of his convictions is what
makes him a great father. Our children appreciate that.”

“I wish I had a father like that.”

“You lost your father young?”

“No, just right about the time that I needed him most. I was 16 years
old. My parents were older when I was born. My dad was 60 years old.
He died of a heart attack in front of me.” For all the sadness, her
voice is remarkably strong. “My mother died a year later. I think she
died of a broken heart. “

“I’m sorry Rachel.”

“I am too.”

“We have a chance everyday to change the trajectory of our lives. You
have that power.”

Rachel considers my suggestion quietly. “You’re very easy to talk to.”
She says after a silent moment.

“It’s my job but I believe that earnestly. With every moment comes a
chance for change or renewal. I have to believe that or I’d have to
give up.”

Rachel turns and I see an abrupt shift in her face. “Is that why you
tried to commit suicide?”

The question isn’t unwelcome but it is unexpected. “Rachel, I’m not
sure why I did that. I’m convinced that I’ll never know. Science has
all kinds of explanations. Post partum depression. Post traumatic
syndrome. Sadness.” I shrug. “Whatever it was, I pray that I never
experience that again.”

“You won’t. You have more love in this world than you know what to do
with. People with that much love can’t leave this world.” Her words
affect her strongly. The curve of her back slackens as she bends over
the windowpane. “I think that’s why I’m still here too. There’s a
strong desire for me to be more than I know I can be. I’m positive
that my place in the world is needed.”

“It is.” I shadow her in the window, taking her hand. “You are Nicky’s
guardian angel. And you’re going to always be in our lives, I can feel
that Rachel.”

“Thank you. I sort of feel as if you’re the mother who I lost.” She
keeps her eyes shielded from mine. Protecting herself from rejection.
“That sounds strange but it’s true.”

“It doesn’t honey. People project qualities of others into people who
remind them of loved ones all the time. It’s okay. I don’t think
that’s strange at all.”

“Good.” Rachel turns around and I’m awarded with her cheerful smile.
“Now back to business. I’m going to have a meeting with Nicky’s head
doctor in a minute. I’ll let you know about it.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that.”

Dr. Shalit’s impeccable timing coincides with John’s arrival in
Nicky’s room. They enter together, both sets of eyes gazing critically
toward me. Prominent jaws jut forward, the back gathers strength. The
beginnings of a pissing contest.

“Hello.” I say casually. The tension mounts quickly and I walk, taking
Dr. Shalit’s arm to leave the room. “I’ll be right back honey.”

John’s face tightens. He moves to block our path from leaving. “Now?”

I nod. It’s my best attempt at trying to keep control of the
situation. He doesn’t know why I need to discuss things with Dr.
Shalit. He doesn’t know that doctors have come and spoken with me
about our children and things that must be done to curtail any
foreseeable problems. Words like abortion, genetic testing and other
horrible decisions have been thrown casually into the arena. “John
please, I’m not asking for your permission.”

“Good.”

Dr. Shalit extends his hand toward John’s chest. I feel like I’m
involved in a high school brawl for my chastity. “John, I’m not here
to exert any power over her. She called me and I came. She needs my
help and I wish you, as her husband could understand that.”

“I don’t pal. I never will. You have some unholy hold over her. You’re
not the first man that has tried to come between us.” He speaks and I
feel the flame of his breath. Such bitterness and unforgiveness.

“I’m well aware of your position.”

I move between them. “John please.”

He looks crestfallen. “Me?”

“Look over there,” I direct pointing to Nicky. “That’s our priority.
This isn’t helping.”

“Then maybe you need to think about that before you invite him into
our life.” He bends forward. “Don’t talk to me about my priorities.”
The conversation that we had the night before is long forgotten. He’s
back to feeling threatened. I look sadly up into his eyes. He turns
away before stepping out of our way. “Don’t you ever think that you’re
bold enough to handle what I can give you.” He tosses bitterly over
his shoulder.

“Is that a threat?” Dr. Shalit asks, stopping in his tracks.

“No, it’s a guarantee. If you ever touch me again, I won’t be
responsible for what happens. And if you try and hurt my wife, in any
way, I guarantee you will suffer.”

“John.” I say in shock. “This isn’t about us. If you keep this up,
you’re going to be the only one hurting us.” I don’t wait for a
response. Dr. Shalit and I walk down the familiar corridor of the NICU
floor. There are eyes that shift and dart when they see me rest
against his shoulder and allow him to wrap an arm around my waist as
we walk. “Get me out of here,” I whisper. He obliges by leading me
into a private room just off the left of the corridor. Once the door
is shut, I fall heavily into a couch in the small room.

“I’m sorry about that.”

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault. It’s mine. I can’t get him to
understand what’s going on between us—that there is nothing.” I say
holding my pounding head in the bowl of my hands. Headaches are
becoming an everyday occurrence. “Dr. Shalit, I’m pregnant.”

He blinks. His only register of emotion. He stiffens his back for the
second time today. “From the way you look and sound, you don’t seem
happy about it.”

“I am. Believe me, I’m wildly happy.” I say convincingly.

He reads my overabundance. “Then what’s the problem?”

“There isn’t one exactly. This child is a miracle. I’ve told you that
I was going through with in vitro to produce a child who would be
available to donate necessary marrow and cells as needed to Nicky.” He
nods and I continue. “You and I discussed the ethical issue of it all.
I still feel that way. It’s probably not right for a child to be
created as a savior. I know that’s true…but being a mother outweighs
the ethicist in me. If I had to give birth to 20 children just to save
one, then I’d do it and love all 21 of those children. The ones who
were born to help and the one who needed helping.”

“Okay.” He says and his body language softens. He sits beside me on
the couch. “So the dilemma is this child wasn’t created in vitro…and
this child is possibly not a match for Nicholas.”

“And if that’s true, how am I supposed to justify aborting a child
because of that.” I ask, striking the emotional crisis that forced me
to pick up the phone and summons him. The same doctors who had been so
ready to help us conceive a child were the same that offered and then
took my hope. They sent Dr. Patton to speak with me. He’d been
cautious about congratulating me because he knew the obstacles that
stood in our way. Being his field of expertise, he didn’t appreciate
the law of fate; he only respects the law of science. If he can
implant a child that is exactly what we genetically need for Nicholas,
it makes it easier to look in a parents face and say congratulations.
Instead, he rambled off numbers that were low in percentage. “He wants
to do a test on the baby to see if it is a match. And if not, he’ll
let me decide what to do.”

“An abortion?”

“That word is so ugly. It makes me hurt inside.”

“Well bring that out, don’t internalize this news. There is a chance
that this child could be a match. Then all your worry will have been
for naught.”

I set my weary eyes forward. “And there’s a chance that it’s not.”

Take the test.”

And then…”

Deal wit the consequences, but you have to be sure. John isn’t going
to be much help in that area. His behavior is irrational. I’m not
worried about me. I’m worried of how he’ll respond to you, once you
walk back into that hospital room.”

John’s not an abusive man.”

I’m not talking about abuse…but since you used the word, interestingly
enough, I think that he is. Of late, I’ve seen him talk down to you,
threaten you and make you feel inadequate. Clinically we define that
as emotional abuse.”

“Can we not do this exactly right now? I have a sick child.” I say,
remembering that I am also carrying one. The difference being that I
haven’t felt immediately connected to my child because of the untimely
discovery and Nicky’s coma. “You and John will have to come to terms
with one another sooner or later.”

“It’s easier for you to focus on that right now, than it is for you to
say that you may have to abort your child?”

“It is. I can control John to an extent. With this, I’m out of the
loop. I have no power. I can only wait.”

“Marlena, in your heart you know what’s best.”

“I don’t think I do.”

“You do,” he assures me. “That’s the one thing I knew about you from
the beginning. Your moral compass is the greatest guide you have. I
can’t tell you what to do but I can tell you that you’ll do the right
thing. I’m positive of that.”

I quietly allow him to take my hand. He pulls me up and we stand
together interlocked. I just want to be as calm as I can be. “I don’t
know what to tell John.”

“Tell yourself first Marlena. The rest will come naturally.”

dmrp1968March 12, 2015, 6:07 pmIP: 24.38.138.147 · Post #38

Posts:655Group:Mod SquadMember#7Joined:November 8, 2014Chapter 33

The moment a child is born, the mother is also born. She never existed
before. The woman existed, but the mother, never. A mother is
something absolutely new. ~Rajneesh

“We’ll bring him out of the coma slowly.” The doctor tells us
definitely. I complained yesterday; it was all I could do not to stop
the drugs that keep Nicky in his restless state. “Dr. Evans, I know
this is trying for you and your husband.” He is sympathetic enough to
look straight ahead and not toward the ceiling or the ground.

“I haven’t touched my son in more than a week.” John’s hand presses
firmly against my lower back. They have started to give him small
doses of chemotherapy again. And I have started my frantic pacing of
the floors. “It’s not that I don’t understand what you’re doing. I
understand and I appreciate all of your efforts. “

“Don’t misunderstand me Dr. Evans. I’m not concerned entirely of how
this affects you. Your son is my patient and his well-being is
determined on how we treat him.” Dr. Anderson Kaufman has a firm voice
that is authoritative. The gold, shiny nameplate boasts of his
position: head internist. I’ve also dealt with Dr. Roland Chase and
Dr. Susan Ericson. To me they are all names in the rolodex of my mind;
to Nicky, they are a team of people dedicated to curing him. Dr.
Kingston has also been in and out of the NICU, looking after Nicky.

“You don’t need to speak to my wife in that condescending way.” John
says coming to my defense. He moves me to the side and steps in front
of me.

“John…no.” I dig my fingers into his arm to stop his advancing on Dr.
Kaufman. “It’s okay. No, honey…it’s fine.” I pull him behind me and
shrug at Dr. Kaufman. He’s standing in shock. I can see the fear
rising behind his eyes; he clutches the pen in his hand tighter. “I’m
sorry Dr. Kaufman.” He mumbles an apology and shuffles away.

“Don’t say it,” John warns walking quickly by me. I watch as he exits
the room, turning sharply out of the door. He’s been waiting for a
battle that he can win because he’s lost the battle to keep Dr. Shalit
out of my life. I dislike the distinctions of him or me. I’m not
choosing. I’ve chosen, and that choice is John. Even when it’s clear
that that is the case, he isn’t convinced; it’s the wrong time for him
not to be. I can’t justify my actions every minute. We’ve argued about
the new baby; I haven’t done all I can to see what I have to do next.
There’s always next. I’m tired of trying to catch up. I just want to
be finished with decisions like these. I’ve stopped allowing the
geneticists and in vitro doctors into the NICU to talk to me. What
else can they say that I haven’t heard; that John doesn’t say every
ten minutes? Time is running out. What would any of them have me to
do? Take a test that proves the vitality of this baby. And if that
test is wrong, then who chooses what we do next? Dr. Shalit’s advice
is to take the test; my instinct is to let it rest. There are so many
things that could go wrong either way. My age and all the stress that
I’ve put my body through could decide its fate before I have to. It’s
the same thing I went through with Nicky: I am beholden to my own
fear. It is the most uncomfortable place I’ve ever been.

“Are you okay?” Rachel asks tapping me lightly on my shoulder. Her
first duty, as Nicholas’ nurse is to see that he is doing well, but
she’s also been a rather pleasant distraction for me. I selfishly
think that everyone else’s lives should stop and function only around
Nicholas’ illness. That thought is mainly about my children. Belle’s
usually cheerful face hasn’t graced my presence since we told them
about Nicky. It could be that this is too much for her; the prospect
of losing her baby brother probably frightens her sensibilities into a
paralyzing fear. Sadly, I can’t call and check on her. I have to focus
on the most serious problem, and that is Nicky. Sami and Eric, who
have distanced themselves at times from my new family and me with
John, haven’t been much support either. If I were any other mother,
I’d be hurt and yet I don’t have time for hurt. There is no room for
anything but gratefulness and even a little forgiveness. I appreciate
a girl like Rachel, who in some ways reminds me of Belle, being the
person who listens and talks to me.

I lie easily, “I’m fine, thank you.” Rachel regards me circumspectly.
I foolishly feel plain in her sight. For her, I know she sees us as
the beautiful ones who knew no hurt or pain. I almost want to grab her
and convince her that the illusion never existed. I’ve been wearing my
hair in a ponytail high in the center of my head. By now, it’s untidy
with tendrils falling around my face. Jeans and t-shirts have replaced
my usual wardrobe. “You’re face is a welcomed sight.”

I realize that she is a shy girl when she blushes at my compliment.
“Thank you. I saw your husband in the atrium. He’s very upset.” She
whispers conspiratorially. I find myself appreciating her discreet
nature. “Dr. Kaufman also just made a note in Nicky’s files about what
occurred.”

I wield a controlled exterior to ward off my embarrassment. “Oh, you
heard about that, well…”

“You don’t have to be embarrassed,” Rachel says eerily, as if she
reads the mask I’ve thrown up. “This has to be one of the worst
periods of your life.” She pulls her hair behind her ear. It’s the
first time I’ve seen her face fully exposed. There is an innocence
about her small diamond earrings and the dangling angel that hangs
just below her throat. “You might want to go check on Mr. Black. I’ll
stay with Nicholas.”

“I can’t.” I say simply. She doesn’t understand by the look on her
face. “I can’t worry about that right now. All of my energy has to be
for Nicholas. John is a grown up, he’ll be just fine. He has a temper;
he’ll settle and see how much of a Neanderthal he’s being….and how
unattractive that is.” My smile comes without bidding. It’s probably a
way to keep myself from crying. The truth is that I’m torn. Of course,
I want to go to him and make sure that he’s okay. Another truth: I’m
frightened. Physically, I’m safe from harm; emotionally all is game.
Maybe I’ve finally done something that John doesn’t think I can be
forgiven for. “When you find someone that you love,” I say, compelled
by my own experiences, “do everything in your power not to lose the
trust between you two.”

“Is that what’s going on between you and Mr. Black?”

I rub my face, “Yes, there is a little of that. Our history is such
that it can crumble when one tiny piece is removed. It’s a sad
indictment on love.” She nods. I wonder if we would be friends if
Nicky hadn’t been thrown into the devil’s playground. “All I can say
is that we’ll make it if not just for the sheer stubbornness that is a
part of both our natures.”
“I think I understand. He doesn’t like your doctor friend.”

I chuckle at her observation. “Oh that could be an understatement.
Another thing to remember: you pay the price for making one person
your entire world. We now pay for that by reacting jealously to new
people in our lives. “

“Does he feel that way about me?”

“No. You’re not a threat,” I reveal, hearing me voice what I haven’t
been wanting to truly see. “John is proprietary; that’s not his fault.
He’s lost too much in his life.”

“I’ve never seen anyone with that much anger and love, all wrapped up
in one. “ Rachel says, crossing her arms nervously behind her.

“Love and anger go hand in hand. There are times that I want to wrap
my arms around John, and then there are times when I feel an
overwhelming urge to hit him uncontrollably. It comes with the
territory. This is tough on him.”

“Isn’t it tough on you?”

I read the unspoken words. “The baby?”

“Everything. You have one child who is ill…and that is tough alone but
add to that your pregnancy. The entirety of that choice is
devastating.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you would make a great counselor?” I
ask, trying to lighten the moment.

“No, but it’s probably because I’ve spent so much time around you
lately. I just don’t know how you deal with it.”
I take a deep breath. The slow thumping of rain against the roof of
the hospital distracts me for a second. The only thing I’ve seen of
the outside has been through this window. When I was little, Samantha
and I believed that rain was a sign of God’s crying. The grey cast of
the sky matches exactly what I feel inside. Cloudy and unclear. “You
want to know the secret of that?” She nods slowly. “I don’t deal with
it. I hope that something or someone can decide for me, and usually
that person is John.”

“What would you like to do?”

“Wake up from this nightmare. Take my little boy back home and never
look back,” I answer quietly. Rachel looks worried. “But I know that
this is very real. Nicky’s life depends on me; it always has.”

“Chemotherapy could be the solution you need.”

“It doesn’t take any stress off my shoulders. I’m still pregnant…and
there are still decisions that have to be made.”

“I have to hope that everything works out.”

“I’m not so sure. Do you know what I fear? I think to myself: it’s too
much to hope that the baby can be a match for Nicky.” Self-defeating
prophecies are not helpful; I know this. I also know that Nicky and
this baby have some special purpose and I should be focusing on that,
instead of thinking that I’m cursed. “If the baby is not a match, I
don’t know what I’ll do.”

“You do realize that there are other ways. There are procedures where
we can use only cord blood to transplant cells, and they don’t have to
be blood relations. There are donor lists that you could look over. It
doesn’t have to be do or die with this baby.”

Squeezing my eyes tight, I rub the tension headache in my temple. “For
John it is.”

“Then maybe you should listen to your doctor. “ Rachel suggests
empathetically. “It’s a serious decision and I don’t think you can
base it only on medical evaluations. If there were anything that I
could do, I’d do it. I don’t want to see you and Nicholas go through
this. No one should have to.” She slips away from me to stand at the
foot of Nicky’s bed. “I chose medicine so that I could help families
in this position. I didn’t get to choose what happened with my
parents. I’m trying to make it up to them this way. It’s probably a
selfish reason for doing this job, but it’s helped me get by.”

She doesn’t see how enthralled I am by those words. She’s bending low
to read monitors while I’m watching over her. This could be the most
clarity I’ve been able to have in a long while. I gave up believing in
my body and what power it has. I thought, I’m too old to carry another
child—this was before I learned to revel in the grace that God
affords. What would I tell a patient? Be careful of rash choices.
Weigh all options and determine your place in those options.

Who governs the way that God punishes? Is that something that we as
humans are allowed to question? Are we being punished for our
disregard for immoral acts that we have yet to pay contrition? I wish
that my mind didn’t think in harsh reality, but the dark night
covering the outside and shadowing the NICU brings about these kinds
of thoughts. There are only so many ways to force yourself to focus on
the positive before negative energy takes hold.

“What are you thinking about?” In my stupor, I don’t immediately
recognize John’s voice. It comes like a force between my ears. For the
first time since this started, I don’t rush into his arms to find
comfort.

I shrug out of repentance. I don’t want to argue or make him feel sad.
“I just want to hold him. I need to put my arms around his body and
feel his arms around me.”

“I love you.” He declares simply.

“I know…”

“I don’t want to make this harder.”

“Then don’t….be with me. But don’t control me.” We’re separated by a
small distance. “We’re in this together.”

“I only have one response to that honey. Marry me?”

dmrp1968March 12, 2015, 6:08 pmIP: 24.38.138.147 · Post #39

Posts:655Group:Mod SquadMember#7Joined:November 8, 2014Chapter 34

“Tomorrow night is nothing but one long sleepless wrestle with
yesterday’s omissions and regrets.” –William Faulkner

We’re all destructive in meandering, pointless ways. We all say, do,
and think things that would be better left in the dark abyss from
which they sprout. We are all also dishonest, and untrustworthy. We
all bet our entire beings on the gamble that others will understand
the enormity of our worthiness. We all fall in love with fables or
fairytales, exploiting the mythological nature of romance. We all fall
down and worship the image of imagined gods with human faces and even
less mystical hearts. We binge and purge on the validity that one’s
opinion matters more than our own. And At the center of all these
things is love.

Love confuses me more than it ever did. Foolishly, my generation
believes that it gets easier as we get older. It doesn’t. No tools are
preparation enough; not medical school, or years of being together.
Because, when I think the journey is narrowing, John takes a turn that
is contrary to the path we’ve been travelling. If I sound as if I’m
unsure of marrying John again, I’m not. Ever since I remembered I had
married Alex, making every other marriage invalid, I’ve wanted to
legitimize our union. But then I became sick and then there was Nicky;
life kept getting in the way. Life is still getting in the way.

( )

I confess that I say things that I often times don’t understand. I
can’t stop myself from saying them. “Why would you ask me that?” I
edit myself after glancing at the immediate disdain on John’s face. “I
mean now, honey….why would you ask me that question now?” With my hand
on my stomach and my eyes lowered to Nicky, I realize how I must
sound. “I don’t…”

He puts his hand up, hushing me. The light beside Nicky’s bed catches
John’s eyes that have lowered into mere slits of dark blue. Something
rings very true in my mind watching him process what I’ve said: men
bends to the cruel will of rejection. Alex taught me that lesson many
times over. He also showed me that the duality of men is duplicitous.
A smiling face can hide the current of an angry man. A lover can ply
love from their paramour before violently plundering the treasure. All
of those qualities were Alex, not John. But Alex has changed John, or
I’ve changed John with my memories of Alex. Words that mean to be
neutral end up slicing heavily into his heart. For these reasons, I
feel self-conscious about speaking again; I stay quiet and watch John.
Why can’t I have just said yes? That’s what bothers me; I didn’t and I
don’t even know why.

“If you could hear the way that you sound…do I disgust you?” John asks
me sadly. He throws his hands languidly in front of him and turns his
wrist up. “What does it take for me to please you? Do I need to open
up my veins to show you I’m bleeding? Do I need to make a drastic show
of it all?”

Without a mirror, I know I look like a deer caught in headlights.

“What do you want from me?” He says walking closer. The space is
already too small for just one of us. We’re wedged in between the
aisle separating Nicholas’ bed from the one that John and I sleep in.
“I mean it Marlena. Tell me.”

My breath comes to me. I hadn’t realized I was holding it until John
seizes my face between his trembling hands. His skin is aflame,
bursting in cherry hues from his neck to the tops of his ears. I very
calmly and discreetly—a nurse enters to check on Nicky—pry my face
from his hands. I have nothing to say. My answers will seem outrageous
to someone so easily upset by my actions. What do I say to him if he
doesn’t already understand that I’m committed to him?

“Don’t walk away from me,” he grumbles with a commanding voice that
frightens me. I follow my feet in their pursuit of leaving. The grief
that rises is so palpable that my retreat isn’t plausible; instead, I
stumble into the nearest bathroom and lean into the sink. The water
cools my face and the hot tears burning the corners of my eyes. A
familiar current of nausea rumbles against my stomach. I turn when the
door slams open, catching John’s glare.

“I don’t know why you can’t just let things be,” I start rambling and
can’t stop myself from continuing. “You can’t just demand that we get
married. Not like this, and not now. My god, John…our son is in a
coma. I don’t know where you’re coming from anymore.”

“I never demanded anything.” He says chillingly unruffled. “I asked
the woman who I love more than anything in this world to finally
become my wife.”

I can hardly see though my tears. My words are unintelligible but I
manage. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t marry you but my son is the only
thing I want to think about John.” I choose to choose my words
carefully. “Lately, I’ve been feeling very pressured by you. You do
this when you feel uncertain. You did it when Roman came back and with
Alex. And now even Dr. Shalit.” The nausea encircling my stomach rises
and I cup my mouth. Walking into a stall as John follows me, I bend
over the porcelain and feel my throat being wrenched apart. “Don’t,” I
say pushing his hand from my hair. “I can’t handle all of this. I’ve
been telling you that since Nicky. You haven’t heard me,” I plead,
heaving helplessly between my words. “I’m not going anywhere. When are
you going to believe that? “

“Calm down,” He says squatting behind me.

“John…you’re still not certain of us,” I tell him leaning against the
cold metal wall beside the toilet. Regaining some semblance of my
equilibrium, I rely on my knees pointed into the cold floor. “And
you’re blaming me for it…Nicholas.” His name is like fire on my
tongue. “This isn’t about you or me. I’ve said it over and over again.
It’s about your son.”

He rubs gently up and down my back. “We have more problems than I realized.”

The comment offends me. I’ve openly admitted my problems. Feeling a
little sturdy, I use the wall to find my way back to full height. I
leave him standing in the stall and rinse my face again. “Nicky needs
two parents who are willing to put this minutia behind them, if not
only for his sake.”

He is less defensive. “We should get a new doctor. One who can really
help us communicate the way we used to. Dr. Shalit isn’t working.”

“You never gave him a chance to work John.”

“Why do you get so defensive when I mention him? I gave him a year.
You’re no closer to being the person you were before than you were a
year ago.”

“I don’t want to be that person anymore. “ I shout. “I don’t want to
be the person who let you dictate my life.”

“Where is this coming from?”

“It’s a reaction, maybe delayed. At times I feel this overwhelming
love from you, and it makes me secure and at peace. But then you turn
into someone I hardly recognize when you demand things that I can’t
give you. The only thing I want to be right now is Nicky’s mother and
I resent you for not letting me do that.”

“So what do you need?” He asks appearing less combative. “Tell me, I
don’t want to upset you.”

“Don’t patronize me. I know exactly what you’re doing?”

He narrows his eyes at me; he’s gauging my sudden display of anger. I
do feel out of control and I’m not sure I care to calm down. When he
steps to come closer to me, I move like an injured animal into a safe
corner. The way his eyes flinch breaks my heart but not my exterior
anger. Where is all the pain coming from? Why am I so mad at him?

“The baby….honey, I’m not patronizing you. I’m sorry to upset you.” He
says in a condescending-you’ve-been-crazy-once-before voice. “Come on,
let’s get you back to Nicky.”

“No, I’m not going anywhere with you.” I shout as I back into the
wall. “What are you trying to do to me?”

“Honey, you’re not making any sense.” He tells me gently.

My anger astounds me. When he reaches to touch my shoulder, I push
away and slide to the floor. Melting in a puddle of unnamed emotions,
I drop my head to my raised knees and start sobbing. My god. My child
is probably dying as we speak. If the cancer doesn’t kill him, an
infection can. He’s such a small child. He’s never been healthy. My
husband thinks I’m loosening my mind; he could be right. But he’s not
my husband and that’s not a problem with me. I’m fine with a
commitment, maybe a ceremony is being arrogant, and we’re mocking God.
I don’t want to mock God or our family. I don’t want to do that to our
love either. I don’t want Nicky to be sick; I don’t want the baby
inside of me to not be enough to save him. I don’t want to be the one
who has to make all of the choices. I just want my quiet life back. I
want my small piece of the world to be boxed in. I want the Pollyanna
existence with my children and husband to steady me. I don’t need
anything more than that.

“Honey?” He approaches me slowly. “Baby, look at me.”

I sob, unable to say a word. My heart is breaking and there is nothing
that I can do about it. I’ve realized how little control I have over
anything. My fear is a monster. Who can understand that? Not John, nor
Dr. Shalit. Because I’m the only one who has to live with the torment
of what-ifs. I think: what if everything that I’ve ever done wrong is
the tally Nicky pays for; that Sami was a miserable child because of
my willful lusting after John; that Belle’s inability to sustain good
relationships is a result of watching her daddy and I; that Eric and
Brady stay away to protect what little good feelings they have of our
family. If it’s true, then I’ve never paid for my mistakes. The only
ones who suffer are my children. The sins of a father are visited on a
child. How fair is that? What kind of God subscribes to such cruel and
unfair tenets?

“Marlena.” He squeezes my arms harshly and yanks me forward. “Look at
me. What’s going on?”

“Help me?” I mutter with my head still pressed firmly against my
knees. “Please.”

“Help you what? What can I do?”

“Make it stop,” I beg. “I can’t turn my brain off. I see him dead.
That’s not natural. I see Nicholas in a little baby casket, dead for
my sins.”

He shakes me roughly. “Don’t say that.”
“I can’t help it. It’s making me crazy, John. I can’t turn it off. Am
I sick again?”

“No,” he cries pulling me onto his lap. “You’re not sick. You’re
afraid. It’s okay to be afraid. I’m just as scared as you are, but
you’re not doing this alone.”

Our bodies fit together in a warm pretzel. My legs are crossed around
his back, my arms thrown tightly around his neck. His chin is
indenting my shoulder; his hair is nuzzling my cheek. Our connection
is like the force of a magnet. At times we fall helplessly together,
other times we are repelled a part. But I need this, and him to
whisper how much he loves me. “You’re a good mother, honey. You don’t
realize how much our children depend on you.” Absorbing his beliefs, I
cling tighter. “I depend,” he tells me dotting the corner of my mouth
with a kiss, “on you.”

“I don’t know if that’s true,” I admit squeezing him.

“Then hold me, until you believe it. I’m not going to lose you.” His
arms surround me tighter. “I’m not giving you up…for anyone, including
you. Come on.” He stands up with me wrapped around his waist. “Honey?”

“I don’t want to let you go,” I say lying down on his shoulder.
“You’re my strength and I don’t know why I have to push you away. It’s
not me John. I want you to be right here with me for everything. But
it’s all becoming too much. I’m spinning out of control.” I sound
weak, but I feel very strong. “Don’t let me fall, please don’t let me
fall.”

“I won’t.”

“Nicky has to be the ring bearer in our wedding,” I say, envisioning
him in a tuxedo. “And this baby will be there too. We’ll get
married…but I already feel like I’m married to you. I don’t need the
ring or ceremony.”

He sighs and runs his fingers up the back of my hair. “I know you
don’t. But I want you to be in my house, in my life, and in my bed
every day of your life.”

“I am already.”

He grins. “I want to know that you’re legally required to be there.”

“I don’t need the law…my heart is requirement enough.” I say breathing
a sigh of relief. I do so because it’s this easy to go from disbelief
and anger to loving. He’s my heart and I’ve always needed him to be
that; I can’t take it away from him. Try as I might, my strength comes
from that love and it does make me weak in a sense. I shouldn’t depend
so heavily on another person but I do and as long as it gets me
through this day, I can’t be ashamed.

( )

Three mornings later, my prayers are answered. Nicholas awakes to his
father’s worried eyes and my waiting arms. We have to let him come
completely out of the medicinal fog before we can actually hold him.
It’s enough for me to see his hazel eyes—my own—staring back. Rachel
and John are there. Dr. Kaufman and Mona, too. But for me, it’s only
Nicky. I smooth his hair from his eyes and smile widely when he parts
his lips to say something that resembles mama. The only proof I’ve
ever needed of God’s existence was in the face of my children. I knew
that without something greater than me, they couldn’t exist. I believe
that God whispers in babies’ ears before they are too old to
understand the world. I think that when Nicky’s eyes finally opened,
God whispered Mama and Nicky mimicked his voice. He has never said
Mama very clearly—dada being his word of choice.
Rachel hugs me from behind. She says that she and Mona have both been
tested to see if they could donate cells to Nicky. I tell them both
thank you. My thank you is felt further when they tell me that Nicky
can be moved to his own room again.
The first time I hold him, I don’t let him go until he’s asleep. In
his private room, only John and I are with him. Without all the wires,
Nicholas finally resembles a normal baby. His color is still uneven
and he is still lethargic but the smile that makes my heart full is in
full bloom. I’m not arrogant enough to believe that this is by any
means over. No, I’m not into the game of self-delusion. But holding
him while he covers my finger with his sallow hand, it’s hard not to
imagine a future without him. His father touches him softly.
Gracefully. Worshipfully. This is the moment that all of the tension
and anger has surmounted to. Paramount to Nicholas is our love for
him. His body drapes across my arms when I pass him to John. He brings
him immediately to his chest and covers the back of his head with his
hand. He’s safe for one more second; he is here with us for one more
minute, another day. And I’m appreciative.

( )

Nicky lies across the plane of my stomach—flattened but full of
expectancy. His warm head is comfortably pressing my breasts; his arms
are bunched beneath his body. To protect him in his slumber, I have a
hand holding him to my body. Clinging to an unrealistic dream to pull
him back into the sanctuary of my body, beside his new sibling, we
rest. He’s been taking his chemotherapy without incident. We’re
watching for signs of infection with such vigilance that I think it
won’t show up for fear of a showdown with the circle of Nicky’s
protectors. We’ll know how successful the first round of treatment was
after another round of tests, and only after, he’s completed his first
full session.

I’m trying to teach myself not to be afraid. It isn’t an easy feat.
Fear overrides me so much at times, that I can feel its spirit
eclipsing mine. And I have to remind myself that I’m the mother; I’m
the fountain that he gains his strength from; I am the person who has
to hold his hand through everything until he’s old enough to start
holding mine. What happens to me is that, I feel unworthy of such
love. My children give me love unselfishly, especially Nicky. Nothing
has ever been as easy as just opening myself to the experience of
being needed by them. Just as much as he needs me, I need him. I find
myself measuring the size of his thighs; they are smaller. I run my
fingers through his hair; it’s slightly thinning. Shutting my eyes
tightly, I remember what he looked like when he was healthy. He is a
beautiful manifestation of his father, and somewhat me. Me. Having a
child means breaking a part because pieces of you drift along in the
world with your child. It’s a feeling that only a mother can know.
Digesting the fact that you’ve held another human being inside of you,
and then given him to the world should make one powerful; instead, it
makes us weak. We are susceptible to heartbreak. We deliberately set
ourselves amongst a sea that is often raging and unsustainable. But I
know that mothers wouldn’t give anything for the journey; I am no
different. I know this; I feel this more when Nicholas opens his eyes
to find me. He shows his delight in the only way his tired body can
manage: his eyes. He has been communicating heavily with them ever
since he woke up. If he could speak, he’d tell me how much his throat
hurts from the invasive tubes that maintained his breathing. He’d say
that he was tired of lying around the hospital with no hint of the
life he used to live. That little boy who was growing steadily would
try to humbly explain what life means to him now. That’s a gift that I
hope God affords me. I want to teach Nicky how precious his life
really is once we’re over this hump.

“Sweet boy.” He gets up on his knees, poking into my belly as he
crawls up my body. “You know, when your brother and sister were born,
their grandpa Shawn spoke an Irish blessing over them.” Shawn and
Caroline held a virtual vigil for Eric when he had been born with
breathing ailments. When I could bare it no more having Eric away from
Sami, I’d broken down in Shawn’s arms. He took me to Eric and
whispered the words that I say to Nicky now, “May God grant you
always, a sunbeam to warm you, a moonbeam to charm you, a sheltering
angel, so that nothing can harm you.” I kiss his chin, cheeks, and
nose. Each place is warm and inviting. He likes to kiss and be kissed,
still. I find hope in little things like that. “Honey, you’re too
young to understand this now. I wonder if you will ever know what this
was like. I hope that you can forget it.” I slide my hand down his
back and he sits up. He points to the floor. “You won’t. I promise
you.” Nicky gestures to the ground again from my arms. We’ve moved
from the bed. “You want to get down?” I ask kissing Nicky’s forehead.
He smiles and points again. “You haven’t been able to crawl around
like little boys. You probably miss Pika and Daddy playing with you,
and rolling around on the floor.” He needs stimulation to continue
growing. I feel as closed in as he does. There is thankfully a very
sterile version of a playground on this floor where children are able
to play. I find a t-shirt and simple cotton pants to dress Nicky in
and buzz the nurse’s station.

I want to take my son to the playroom,” I inform the mechanical voice
on the line. “When my husband returns, will you please direct him to
us?” I hear a tepid agreement. I squint against the bright lights of
the playroom. They keep it cheerfully composed with a large jungle gym
on top of a carpet that is framed by the alphabet. Nicky, captivated
by the bursts of energetic colors bounces to get down. I settle him on
his feet and sit Indian style on the carpet in front of him. In this
environment, he looks happier than he has in weeks. He turns on his
heels and tumbles to the ground. My heart flutters and I fight not to
hover around him; I don’t want to treat him like a sick child. He gets
up slowly.

“Hey,” John calls out slipping into the room. He leans down, plops a
kiss on top of my hair and sits behind me. “What’s the little guy
doing?” We both watch, eyes glued to Nicky as he maneuvers around the
carpet, having fallen again. He looks at his father, smiling slightly
as he uses a wooden table as leverage to stand. He closes his eyes to
us, as if he needs to shield himself from our overpowering love to
find his own strength. The heavy lashes fall against his cheeks
dramatically. He holds his hands in front of him and straightens his
back. Nicholas takes a small step forward—his first sturdy step. He
moves his other foot forward and stops, looking up to see if we’ve
seen this. He’s learning his power and it’s giving him courage. He
takes another step and his other foot falls in line naturally. John
and I beam as Nicholas makes his way toward us slowly. The small
journey is just that—small but relevant. He moves with confidence
that only a son of John have. It’s as if the wind is at his back,
functioning as his wings. “Come to Mama baby boy,” I beckon with my
arms outstretched. Nicholas tumbles into my arms and I fold him into
my body as John covers us both with his arms. “I’m so proud of you
Nicky.” His first real steps are precious enough to bring tears.

dmrp1968March 12, 2015, 6:08 pmIP: 24.38.138.147 · Post #40

Posts:655Group:Mod SquadMember#7Joined:November 8, 2014Chapter 35 (NC-17)

“Sometimes I get up early and even my soul is wet.
Far away the sea sounds and resounds.
This is a port.
Here I love you.
Here I love you and the horizon hides you in vain.
I love you still among these cold things.”
“Here I Love You”
–Pablo Neruda

Thank God for Mama and her inability to stay away. She shooed us from
the hospital. I didn’t protest; I enclosed my hand in John’s and
followed him from the hospital dutifully. I have to shield my eyes
from the sun. It’s been so long since I’ve felt the sunshine on my
face that it feels peculiar. The air is also refreshing; I keep the
window rolled down as we drive. Counting the number of days we’ve been
in seclusion is near twenty. Almost a month of nothing except
University hospital, the lackluster walls, white uniformed nurses; the
monotonous drone of breathing machines, pacing parents, and worse sick
children. Anyone would understand my need to get out, if just for one
day—but I’m not seeking anybody’s approval. I wouldn’t have left
Nicholas without getting the full update on his progress. All the
doctors say that he is doing well. One day away won’t hinder that
progress. I believe them in good faith. Rachel, Mona, and Mama will be
there. I need time to unwind and relax before the next steps in
Nicky’s treatment.

“Where are we going?” I ask John after he turns off the exit before
our normal route. “I want a bath and sleep…in your arms.”

“We’ll do just that,” he promises, bringing my hand to his mouth. “I
want to show you something.” His contagious smile is a dead giveaway.
He’s up to something. “How do you feel?”

I shrug. “Tired. I’m always tired in my first trimester.” Another
thing that I’m trying to take a vacation from. I have an appointment
for an ultrasound with Dr. West tomorrow. “You promised my Mama to
take me straight home. You are usually a man of your word.” I say
feeling light.

“Yeah yeah,” he tells me playfully. “Be beautiful honey, and hush.”

I pretend to be offended. “Hush?”

“Yes,” he says looking me over. “You do look tired. Maybe this will
have to wait. I’ll take you home.”

Intrigued, I tap his thigh. “No sir you won’t.” My purse starts
vibrating beside me. It makes my heart pound. “My phone.” I search
through the deep pockets and fish it out. “It’s not the hospital. It’s
Dr. Shalit.”

John frowns. “Don’t answer it.”

“John?” He doesn’t sound serious. In fact, his voice is still light
and playful. “I have to.”

“No, you don’t.” He tells me taking the phone to press the ignore
button. “He’ll leave a message and you can return the call later.”

“You win, this time,” I say taking my phone back and depositing it
back into my purse. “Now what exactly are you up to?”

“I want to celebrate.” He declares breaking into a ripple of laughter
unexpectedly. “I don’t know why our lives happen so chaotically but I
wouldn’t trade it for the world.” His sudden philosophical pondering
changes the feel of the conversation. “I also want to make love to you
without interruption.”

The blush heating my cheek surprises us both. I’ve never been
embarrassed about John’s desire for me. I don’t know why I feel
embarrassed suddenly. He touches my cheek when my silence becomes
awkward. My head fits the curve of his shoulder and I stay there until
the car stops moving. We’ve pulled beneath the canopy of John’s
favorite hotel—The Imperial.

( )

The water is warm and soapy and my body feels weightless underneath
it. John lined the counter and wall around the tub with candles. They
rise and flicker, dancing warm flames in the dark room. It reminds me
of the time when we finally reunited after all the years of holding
back feelings for the sake of others. When bravery slipped into me and
boasted of the love I’d always felt for John and been trying to hide.
And now, years later, I’m sitting in a tub waiting for him to join me.
He walks in, stopping just short of the tub. A towel is tied snugly at
his waist. He’s showered and clean-shaven again. For a moment, I turn
to admire the beauty of his body. I don’t get to do that much. Usually
in our more intimate moments, we’re drawn together and that takes a
life of its own. He has always been the one to touch and skim my body
with his hands before and during our lovemaking—examining each region
as if he’s relearning me every time. The edge from earlier has worn
off. I’m comfortable staring at him as the water beads from his shower
create maps across his glowing skin. Beckoning him with a stiff
finger, he comes to stand by the edge of the tub. I lean up and untie
the knot at his waist, watching as the towel falls. John bends to my
mouth, stealing my breath with a slow kiss that builds into an intense
sparring between our tongues. I wrap my arms around his neck to pull
him into the bathtub with me. The water shifts around us when he sits
in front of me. Beneath the water, he grips my thighs to move me
closer to him; our legs meet, mine drape across his thighs and connect
behind his back. “How do you feel?” He asks me.

“Relaxed,” I answer lowering my mouth to his chest. Skimming my tongue
in slow rhythms, it dances across his skin. “I feel ten times better.”
He falls back with his mouth open. In the water, I shape my hand along
him and start a slow decent to pleasure. Working in sync, my mouth
circles his nipples one by one, while my hand circles his shaft. “I’m
glad you brought me here. Thank you,” I purr against his neck, where
I’ve started jutting my tongue against the protruding veins.

“I’m always conscious of how we make love when you’re pregnant.” He
whispers. “I don’t want to hurt the baby…but God knows I want you.
It’s the sexiest thing that you can do—being pregnant with my baby.”

I tease him. “I don’t know if it’s the sexiest thing I can do.”

“Baby, are you comfortable? Do you want to get out of the water?” He
asks taking my hands from him and wrapping them around my back.

“No. Love without interruptions,” I remind him as I move closer to
him. He’s slightly poking my thigh when he draws me toward him and
starts to caress my breasts with his mouth. “I’m fine. The baby…” I
say moaning because of his wonderful attention to my body. “The baby
is safe; Nicky is doing well. We’re going to be okay.” I promise us
both, believing that my words can bring about the prophecy. He slips
so suddenly into me that I hardly feel the usual constriction of my
skin. The heat between my thighs matches the warmth of his hardness
sheathed in my body. Like a force, I push him back and prop myself on
my knees between his legs. The urgency strikes us both and we move
against each other until he cries out my name. He jerks, causing water
to rise and splash on the floor. “I love you,” I say kissing his mouth
hard.

I awake to the sound of my cell phone’s ring; it’s Bach’s concerto.
John is spooned behind me with his arms draped over my hip. We’ve only
slept an hour but when we’re together like this, it seems like more. I
flip open the phone without checking the caller id. Dr. Shalit’s
frantic voice blasts upon my ear, forcing my half-sleepy eyes fully
open.

“Marlena, honey…I’m worried about you.” I switch the phone to the
opposite ear so that John’s not disturbed. “I’ve called the hospital
and spoken to the doctor. No one knows where you’ve gone. Has John
taken you away?”

My voice is just above a whisper. “I’m fine.” The frantic tone of his
voice is making me nervous. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

“I’m worried about you,” he shouts and then finds some control. “I’m
sorry. It’s just that the last time I spoke with you, I voiced an
opinion about your husband. I still feel that. How did he manage to
convince you to leave Nicholas? You wouldn’t do that on your own.”

“Nicholas is fine,” I assure him. “My mother is with him now. We’ll be
back tomorrow. Don’t worry,” I’m careful not to say his name because
John is moving, coming out of his sleep.

He stretches against me before asking, “Who is that honey? About
Nicky?” His eyes are barely open when I shake my head no.

I’m sorry to put you in this predicament,” Dr. Shalit says lowering
his voice. “It’s just we had scheduled time to talk again. When you
just disappear like that…”

I cut him off, “I didn’t disappear. I didn’t know that we were
coming.” I cover the bottom of the phone when John leans over my
shoulder. “Hold on,” I tell Dr. Shalit. I look John in the eyes and
mouth whom I’m talking to. The disgust is apparent instantly. Turning
me over, he tries to take the phone. “John, let me handle this.” He
mutters something about how inappropriate it is for him to be calling.
I turn and tilt my neck toward him. Shooting him a not-now look, I
turn my attention back to Dr. Shalit. He has every reason to be
concerned. I haven’t kept up my end of the bargain. I explain as best
I can with John lingering on my every word. Dr. Shalit is accepting of
my apology, though it doesn’t sound like one at all. I’m playing it
safe for John’s sake, and Dr. Shalit is telling me how he understands.

“This is our time,” John whispers into my ear, wetting the inner rim
of my ear with his tongue. He climbs over me and pulls deliberately on
the blanket that is covering my naked body. Without another word, he
kisses me in places that make me squirm; he luxuriates on the area
just below my belly button; his tongue draws wet lines down into the
folds of my pelvis. I try to hold an intelligent conversation that is
peppered with uh-huh and yes. John looks up from the place on my inner
thigh where he’s kissing and smiles mischievously. He moves toward the
center and uses his hands to spread my legs. I feel my own juices
saturating me as John’s tongue dives carelessly into the folds.

Dr. Shalit’s voice becomes distant when John’s continuous lapping and
sucking finally sends me over the edge. I call out his name, dropping
the phone when I twist my fingers through his hair. “Oh, did you lose
your call?” He asks getting up on his knees and crawling up my
trembling body.

“Sometimes, you can be a real asshole,” I say trying to catch my
breath. He kisses me hard, leaving my taste on my lips. “John.”

“Uh uh,” he says with his erection in his hand. “Shh.” He lifts my
hips slightly from the bed and using my moistened middle, he slides
easily into me. The wave hits me almost too quickly and I’m squirming
and touching my own face in spent pleasure. Exploding again when he
angles himself differently inside, I cry out again. A series of
intense orgasms flow through my body as I hold onto John. He laughs
against my cheek when they have subsided and I’m breathing naturally
again. “Don’t you ever talk to another man when I’m in bed beside
you,” he says kindly. I know that wasn’t the intent. I turn over and
fall exhausted against the pillow beneath my head. My phone is on the
floor with Dr. Shalit’s call still in process. Embarrassed, I quietly
lift the phone and close it securely.

“I’m upset with you,” I say when he emerges from a shower dressed in a
crisp polo shirt and khaki shorts. We’re supposed to have dinner on
the balcony but I’m not in the mood. I’m still sitting in the chair I
was sitting in when he left to shower. A sheet is draped around me.
Goosebumps have settled on my skin from the open balcony door. It’s
still very cool outside.

“Well, it won’t last long.” He says confidently. “You hungry?”

“No.” I am not ready to be dismissed. “It was childish John. And
vindictive….why did you feel the need to do that?”

He leans pressing his palms against the armrest of my chair. “You’re
body wasn’t complaining,” he says planting a kiss in the corner of my
mouth.

“You know that’s not the point. I’m very embarrassed by your
behavior,” I say pointedly tipping my chin down while looking up.
“It’s unacceptable.”

“No.” He tells me simply. “You aren’t going to talk to me about
unacceptable sweetheart. Go shower; get dressed and come have dinner.”

“No. I want to talk.”

“You want to talk about something I don’t want to discuss. Now shower,
I’ll have dinner ready when you’re finished.”

I shake my head defiantly. “I’m not eating with you until you explain
why you felt the need to embarrass me in that way. I don’t think I’ll
be able to face him again.”

“That’s a bad thing?” He asks sarcastically. “Doc…please don’t ruin this.”

“I’m not trying to intentionally.” I say pulling back my anger. “Do
you understand how embarrassed I am? He’ll never look at me the same.”

“He shouldn’t look at you in any way.” His jaw tightens beneath his
skin. “If you notice, the only time we have a problem is when your Dr.
Shalit is the topic of discussion.”

“You’re so jealous of him that you can’t see straight,” I accuse
calmly. “You embarrassed me because of some schoolboy jealousy.”

“Damnit Marlena, look at me. Focus on me. He’s not here. You have to
deal with me.”

“No, I don’t.”

He looks stunned. “Don’t you?”

“If you’re taking score, I’ve only slept with one man when we were
together…and he was my husband.” I blast with the intention to hurt.
To get him right at the core of where he hurt me. “I’m not you. You
don’t have to worry.”

His hand is like fire around my arm. No pressure or squeezing, just
warmth assuring me of his presence. My mouth falls open while we stand
and stare at each other in silence. My free hand clings to the sheet
that protects my nakedness. Something in his eyes falls away and he
seems troubled by our closeness. It doesn’t stop him from continuing
to hold me tightly in place. This is the closest that he’s been to
wanting to hurt me—I can see it in his face. If he were Alex, he’d
have slapped me hard, sending me across the room sailing into the
furniture. Because he’s not, he lets the silence build us up again;
and then when it’s enough he takes my chin and jerks me to look at
him. He kisses me softly, without the intensity that his eyes hold. “I
told you that I’m not giving up on you. No matter how hard you try to
keep on fighting me.”

“I just don’t understand why.” I ask softly, pulling away from him.
“We’re both doing and saying things that we shouldn’t. Why would you
do that to me?”

He hesitates, pondering my sincere question. He releases my arms and
backs away. “I did that because I love you. I do everything because of
my love for you. The sooner you understand that, the sooner you’ll
stop fighting me. I don’t want to hurt you; I just want to love you. I
want to make love to you. That’s it.” He doesn’t wait for an answer.
He simply walks off as I watch in a daze.
Chapter 36

“For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you.”
“The Prophet”
–Kalil Gibran

With John, there is no fence to straddle. He is certain; he feels the
world should be this way. There are no two ways to feel about anything
in John’s opinion. What is will eventually show itself to be true
regardless of the lies we tell ourselves. This is his creed. For the
past two years, I’ve been running into the brick wall of his
self-assuredness and one-sided belief system. I-love-you is supposed
to quench any feeling that is adverse; it is also supposed to cover
the multitude of our many sins.

I hear the pain in my voice; I have to wonder if he is ignoring it.
I’ve layered myself in the gifts that he presented: a soft mauve
designer dress that hangs seductively on my skin; a diamond bracelet
with the birthstones of our children; and a new engagement ring—to add
to the building collection. Am I angry still about being grotesquely
unprofessional with Dr. Shalit? The moaning and crying out have
haunted me ever since I realized that he’d heard it all. But I’ve
tabled it for John’s sake—for the sake of our sanity. I can be
wonderful Marlena again. Not Dr. Evans, the buttoned up professional
know-it-all; nor the mother of a growing brood of children; and not
the woman-child daughter of my overprotective parents. No, I’m being
Marlena. Smiling, dazzling wife of John Black. Well, wife in every way
that matters. But I can’t keep the pain from crawling into my voice.

We’re sitting on the balcony, as we’d planned before my outburst. It
is uncannily cold but John has set up heat lamps around us. The
Imperial is in such a secluded part of town that the only landscaping
are the hotel grounds. Below us—we’re on the twelfth floor—is the
dinner and dancing club on the level floor of the hotel. Swirling
couples with wine flutes circle each other happily. We’re too high to
hear what is being said but I imagine there are many couples who plan
to make love tonight. I remember that once John and I had been just
like those couples. We used to be normal with normal activities and
friends. I loved being that couple. But sitting across from John as he
stares me down makes me wonder if we were truly those people. If we
were really ever that carefree? Now, it seems impossible that we
could’ve been. I’ve called the hospital twice before dinner arrived.
Nicky was asleep both times. I look out and sigh to myself, knowing
that we’ll never be that carefree again. Too many things have happened
to change us.

I’ve been thinking about why John is so threatened by Dr. Shalit. I
mean a thorough analyzing of what happened today. His sexual prowess
drew me to him in the beginning. It’s also what keeps me coming back
to him. Of course, I love him. I also love to be made love to by him,
and to make love to him. What woman wouldn’t crave the freedom that is
unleashed when our bodies are entwined? Through my interactions with
John, I’ve learned that men are proprietary by nature. The entire
culture of men thrives on designating a mate and keeping that mate
securely connected to them. Before there was ever a Dr. Shalit, there
had been Roman. What John won’t admit without trying to add humor is
that he felt as if he won me from Roman. He’d taken the love of
another man’s life, and then tried to create a legitimate life with
me. That was the hard part. He wanted me and he made sure that I
wanted him. That was the easy part. But then we had to deal with what
we’d done. We never truly did. I think we buried it until we had to
confront that pain, which was not our own. Now we both wait for the
death bell to ring and take our love under with its toll.

John’s problem with any man who is in my line of vision is simple: he
took me from another, that could very well happen again. It’s deeper
than just a gnawing jealousy and I should have realized that. His
feelings are a vortex of anger, deceit, pain, and love. I could say
how much I love John for every day that I have left on Earth and it
wouldn’t change the fact that I once said the same thing about another
man. I am truly connected to John in a way that I’ll never be
connected to anyone else. It’s not enough for him. He needs that
certainty that he lives for. With my not agreeing to marry quickly, or
my disregard for his discontent with Dr. Shalit makes him doubt me.

The beautiful scenery and perquisites around us don’t change the fact
that we’re watching each other, wondering what happened to the person
we’ve been in love with for nearly 30 years. He forks a piece of
lemon-peppered fish into his mouth and turns away sharply. When he is
relaxed, he’s my gorgeous husband. I like when his jaw is unclenched
and his eyes are softened. He favors Nicky when his eyes aren’t wild
with accusations or anger. The smell of fish is doing nothing for my
queasy stomach. It’s about the time when my nausea creeps up. Funnily
enough, morning sickness hits right about lunch and dinnertime. I’ve
learned a trick. Peppermint. It helps to sniff or even have the taste
on my tongue. Rubbing my belly, I put a mint on my tongue and suck
down hard. Tomorrow, when we leave this oasis I’m scheduled for a
complete battery of tests. I’m anxious—in a positive way—to know
what’s going on with the baby. John catches me rubbing my stomach and
he smiles.

“The food is delicious.” I’ve taken three bites. “It’s just not
agreeing with my stomach right now.”

He nods understandingly. “That’s fine. Don’t force yourself.” He says
sipping his glass of scotch. The brown liquid swishes around the ice
cubes before going down his throat smoothly. When he swallows, the
ball in his throat bulges causing his neck to tighten. The moon is
full above us. It’s by its light that I see a small purple bruise just
below his jaw line—a love mark that I must’ve tattooed with my mouth.
“Otherwise are you feeling alright?”

I rest my cheek in my upturned palm on the table. “I am.” I say
averting my eyes to a couple below. It’s hard not to be caught up in
them. They’re dancing closely, hardly even moving. I think back to
when I’d last danced with John like that. “We probably should get to
sleep early.” I can’t remember the last time.

“Are you still upset with me?” He asks quite abruptly.

Deciding to let it all wash, I shake my head slowly.

“You’re certain?”

I push my chair back and put my hands down in on the tabletop. My new
engagement ring catches my attention. After our argument, he didn’t
even get on one knee. He put the box on the table in front of me.
“When you look at me,” I say surprising myself that I’m going to say
this, even if it hurts, “You see a put together woman.”

John cuts in, “that’s not what I see at all.”

“No?”

He takes another sip from the glass. “No. You’re perfect. Put together
implies that there is something false in you.”

“You thought I was fake once,” I reminded him.

“I was pissed at you. I say stupid things when I’m upset.” John puts
the glass on the table. He pushes away from the table and turns around
to lean across the balcony.
“They don’t even know, do they?”

“Know what?” I say trying to angle my neck to see what he’s looking at
specifically.

“That love makes you do crazy things. If you want me to apologize for
what I did, I will. I am apologizing. I’m sorry that I embarrassed
you.” He seemed sincere but he didn’t turn around. “I don’t know what
it is about that man. He infuriates me…and you don’t see that.”

I decide to take a big leap. “I see the man who has put me back
together. And that’s not sinister John, it’s compassion. I’m the same
kind of doctor. We function on the same level. We get too involved and
put too much of ourselves into the solution.”

He listens as if I’m going to continue even after I’ve stopped.
“Honey, he’s not doing you any favors.”

The space is good. I couldn’t say what I’m about to looking John in
his face. “When I wanted to die he held me up and told me that there
was a reason to fight. Now, I remember you being there but you were as
lost as I was.” I try to give John credit because it’s hurting him to
hear Dr. Shalit’s hero role. “We didn’t know what it was. He’s shown
me so many things about myself that were hidden to me. Do you know
what I did before him…I lived in terrible pain while I was smiling as
if I weren’t.”

“If you were unhappy before, I never knew. We’ve been happy from day
one. You only started to experience these feelings when you were under
Dr. Shalit’s care.” He says trying to build a bridge for me to see.
“The pre-partum depression and suicide. It wasn’t there until he
opened you up to that pain.”

“Isn’t that what doctors are for?”

“Do you recommend doing that?”

He has a point. “Not with my fragile clients. But my suicidal urges
didn’t come from Dr. Shalit. Those were pathological notions. And I
was depressed far beyond anything that I’d ever dealt with.”

“I could have loved you through it,” John says turning around. “I
wanted to love you through all of that.”

“You did, in your own way. But honey, I felt so ugly inside that love
didn’t have a chance to break through. And I don’t want to ever feel
that way again.”

“You won’t.” John demands. “I want you to stop seeing him.”

I avert my eyes away. I can’t say no while looking at him. He’s so
vulnerable; alcohol makes him that way. “I can’t for both our sakes.”

“You won’t,” he corrects me. “I have to know this. What does he mean to you?”

I run my fingers through my hair. The couples are still moving
together. “What does he mean to me?”

“Yes, what does Dr. Shalit mean to you?”

I pause, even though I know what I’m going to say. I look up,
adjusting my eyes directly at him. He’ll either be very upset or
finally get it. “Sanity.” I whisper. “Dr. Shalit maintains my sanity.”

John comes back to the table and takes his seat again. “Do you love him?”

“Are you out of your mind?” I retort. “What are you asking me?”

“Would you even know if you were falling in love with him?”

I decide to maintain my calmness. “I would know that John. But I’m not
falling in love with him.”

“So it’s normal for you to take phone calls from another man while
you’re in bed with me?”
“We were sleeping,” I remind him. “I wouldn’t have answered otherwise.”

“I know what it means when a man looks at a woman the way that he
looks at you.” John says pointedly stabbing the air. “I’m not going to
sit by and watch him try to undermine me and our relationship.”

“So, you plan on leaving me then?”

He pounds the table furiously. “Oh those are the options. Leave or
fall in line? Do you really believe–knowing me–that I could let you
go; that I would allow you to raise my children without me being
there?”

It comes naturally. “You’ve done it before.” It stings him enough to
stop speaking so loudly. He mumbles that if it were up to him we
would’ve been together right after we conceived Belle. “I’m not going
to get angry. I’m trying to talk to you. John, I don’t feel well
enough to not have him in my life. If you love me, you’ll let this
go.”

The jaw clenches. “My love isn’t a bargaining tool Marlena. I want to
protect you.”

“I don’t need your protection; I need you to respect me.”

“I do. I respect and love you.” He says sincerely. “I am beginning to
worry about your attachment to him. “

Because I decided very early in the conversation not to get upset, I
can look past the hurtful exchange. I’m too tired to spend myself with
arguments. I look up and ask him for a kiss before I turn in for the
night. He begrudgingly presses my lips with his mouth. I thank him and
go back into the room where the maid has picked up the room. I climb
into bed after ridding myself of clothing and get comfortable. John
comes to bed later. He kisses me goodnight and I taste scotch on my
lips. He curls his body against mine from behind and falls asleep in
the curve of my neck. I wake up to relieve my bladder a couple of
hours later. When I climb back into bed John is waiting and he makes
love to me very tenderly. It’s my last gift before we have to go back
to Nicky. Allow taps my mind as we cuddle into each other. I tell him
that I don’t need his permission to do anything, very sweetly. He says
so calmly that it seems a dream: you don’t know it but you do.

( )

I hate cold rooms where doctors examine. They are always so
impersonal. Whitewashed walls with PSA messages assaulting your mind.
John is thankfully holding my hand as I get a pelvic exam. I’ve
already gotten the blood test. Another test that determines how well
matched the baby is to Nicky was done before this. The next part will
be the sonogram. Because of the high complication of Nicky needing the
baby to be a match, Karen Bader isn’t my doctor. Instead, there is a
new doctor on our burgeoning team of doctors that we’ve acquired since
Nicky became sick.
“I hate this,” John says leaning next to my ear. He rubs my earlobe
between the pads of his thumbs. “I don’t think it was a good idea for
me to see another man down there.” He’s joking and it lightens my
nervousness.

“Oh, you’re telling me.” I laugh, snaking my arm around his neck.
“It’ll be over in a minute.”

John glances at the doctor again. “What’s it feel like?” He asks close
to my ear.

“Not you,” I say honestly.

“Good to know. It’s probably not a great idea that I just made love to
you hours ago.” He says watching the doctor pull away from my lower
half.

I stifle my laugh, releasing him from my grasp.

“All set.” Dr. Greenway says pulling off the latex gloves and tossing
them in the trash bin. “Everything looks good as far as I can tell.”

“Good.” I say bringing my knees back together.

Dr. Greenway rolls his chair to the counter where his supplies are. He
pulls out a tube and comes to apply it on my stomach. Still flat, I’m
anxious to know how far along I am. The questions that I had to answer
this morning about my period frustrated everyone involved. I’ve
stopped managing when and if I have a period. Stress reduces or stops
my menstrual cycle. Sometimes having sex with John too much also stops
my period for a month or even shortens it to a day or two less. But as
he affixes the tool to my stomach, I remember all the times that John
could have impregnated me. It could be as far as 8 or 12 weeks. I turn
to the monitor and tear up immediately. Dr. Greenway has already found
the baby. Though it’s small, no more than full centimeter, I reach and
touch the screen. Dr. Greenway estimates that our baby is probably 11
weeks. He starts pinpointing the images that are not distinct to John
or me. John’s not looking anyway; his eyes are seared into me. His
hands are absentmindedly stroking my hair and neck. Dr. Greenway’s
voice fades out and I hear John’s emotionally charged voice saying
repeating the phrase our baby. He kisses me flush on the mouth.

“Would you like to hear a heartbeat?”

“Can we?” I ask widening my eyes.

“I think we can,” Dr. Greenway says switching tools. He presses the
cool metal around the surface of my stomach until there is a small,
even thumping filling the room. It sounds like a tribe of galloping
horses.

John buries his face against my neck. I kiss his forehead repeatedly.
He’s crying softly into my skin. From the way we’re responding, you’d
think we never had a child but with Nicky, I didn’t allow him this
kind of joy. I’m determined to give it to him now. Dr. Greenway cleans
me up and tells us that we’re finished. He congratulates me. We sit in
silence for a couple of minutes before I get dressed again. He holds
me and tells me how proud he is of me.

( )

Mama and Nicky are playing in the playroom when we get back to his
floor. Nicky doesn’t see us watching him from behind the glass. He’s
walking for his grandmother; he likes the look on our faces when he
stumbles across the carpet. His steps are getting surer. He’ll
probably be walking before the end of the month.

tip my head into the room to surprise Nicky. He manages to jump up
from the carpet when he sees me creeping in. Finagled, he starts
saying Mama and half crawls, half walks to me. “Hi baby boy. Did you
miss me?” I say lifting him and whirling him around. “I missed you
terribly. Don’t tell Daddy,” I say littering his face with kisses. I
kiss the top of Mama’s head and help her stand. “How was he last
night?”

“He was with his grandma. Good as gold.” Mama tells me, stretching. I
know how uncomfortable the hospital beds are. I hug her again for
being just what I needed to get away for the day. “Are you feeling
better? Less anxious?”

“At the moment I am. “ It is short lived. Seeing John through the
glass windows, I also see Dr. Shalit approaching. I hand Nicky to Mama
and rush to John’s side. He’s standing with clenched fist. “Honey?”

He moves me to the side and starts walking toward Dr. Shalit. It’s as
if I’m watching it in slow motion. Dr. Shalit sees the challenge and
doesn’t back away. He keeps coming, with a closed pinched face. I
don’t know what John’s face looks like. I see only his back and the
powerful strides he’s taking toward Dr. Shalit. Deciding that it’s
best to not allow whatever pissing contest is about to ensue, I start
following John.

“John.”

“Marlena, are you ready to talk?” Dr. Shalit says when we’re all
finally standing close. I’m right between the two of them. My
shoulders are pressing against both of their chests.

“Don’t talk to my wife,” John instructs him thought tight lips.

“Dr. Shalit, John.” I look from one to the other but I’m not really
vital to their interaction. I push them back from the tightness of our
contact. I go to John and look into his eyes. “What are you doing?”

“Marlena?” Dr. Shalit says touching my shoulder to gain my attention.

John’s eyes flash wide before narrowing. “I told you not to talk to my
wife,” John says leering at Dr. Shalit. “Don’t put your hands on her
either.”

“I have nothing to say to you,” Dr. Shalit makes clear. He reaches up
to touch me again but John’s fist stops him. He falls heavily to the
floor, his glasses fall away from his face. I shut my eyes and pray
that I’m dreaming. Hearing the doctors and nurses crowding around
brings me back to reality. John snatches my hand and drags my down the
hallway.

Chapter 37

“I show you doubt to prove that faith exists.”
-Robert Browning

When chaos ensues, the best hope is to muddle through it
unscathed—emotionally and otherwise. There is a force that exists
between lovers that crowds the rest of the world out. Turmoil between
those same lovers doesn’t extinguish the unnameable force. We still
hold tightly to the idea that love conquers all.

John has a death-grip on my hand, with our fingers locked. We are
sitting inside the stairwell leading to the roof. It’s the first place
he found after striking Dr. Shalit and dragging me away. I decided not
to protest in his current state of mind. The rage of the incident
caused me worry that I feel has been coming slowly to fruition. For
the first time, I am actually frightened of not being able to control
John. So we sit in this quiet, hollow space while I pray that Dr.
Shalit is not seriously injured. John’s knuckles are slightly swollen,
which reveals the force of his single blow. Leaning across his legs, I
lift his hand and bring it to my lap. Touching the grooves and ridges
of his knuckles, my eyes travel slowly from his hand up to his face.

His face is blank. Devoid of any emotion. He breathes harshly,
spurting out ragged breaths of anger. He isn’t remorseful. Yanking his
hand away, he looks as if my fingertips are iron coals branding his
skin. He lets my hand drop to my side as he runs his fingers roughly
through his hair. When his head lowers into the fan of his opened
palms, I rub the back of his neck softly. An old version of myself
wishes that it had been me instead of Dr. Shalit who felt the brunt of
John’s pain. I’m grateful that I am no longer that woman. Living
through what I did with Alex is what makes me detest rage and
unnecessary anger. I’m afraid of people who act irrationally in the
face of confrontation. As a trained doctor, I’ve learned to do
something else with my pain. Even with Alex, I learned to hold in the
unspeakable abuse because I thought I could help him. I’ve always been
a nurturer. These feelings and memories are new to me. Feelings that
are bursting out as I play nurturing, consoling wife to my tortured
husband. I was always good at knowing when Alex was going to explode.
I could sense it from the way he ate his breakfast—bridling over the
way the food was cooked; it was in the way his eyes showed no emotion;
he would talk to me, looking right through me. I tremble just
remembering the emotional battle it was to keep myself occupied, while
I waited for the explosion. And when it came, I was thinking, finally.
Finally I could stop walking on eggshells and being small and quiet so
as not to disturb him. The routine was yelling, hitting, make love,
and start over again. But somehow, I managed to live with that life.
I’m not proud of it, and I don’t know how I survived it.

I can’t compare John and Alex. It is an unequal comparison. But when
John is like this, the part of me that was abused by Alex makes me
want to crawl away into a corner. To hide from these feelings until
we’re better again. I look down at my shaky hands and curse Alex for
turning me into the kind of woman who fears her husband. I also blame
Dimera and his obsession for turning John into the kind of man who
uses violence as a weapon. Secretly, I also blame myself for
unknowingly pitting John and my doctor against each other. There will
be no victorious party when this ends.

Twenty minutes have passed. I’m not sure if we’re hiding or trying to
regain our composure before we face the crowds and what happened. I
rub John’s cheek, forcing him to look at me. “John?”

He lowers his face from my hand. “Not now.” I jump when he pounds his
fists into the ground.

“Honey, I’m sorry.” I say honestly. It’s the only thing I can offer
him. I know that he hates to lose control; it’s not the kind of person
he wants to be. “This is my fault for not seeing the level that this
has reached.”

John lifts his eyes up to my face. “Marlena, don’t blame yourself.” He
covers me with his arms, curling me into his body forcefully. My face
is burrowed close to his chest. His heartbeat is erratic.

“John, I’m so frightened.” I say swallowing the thickness from my
throat. My heartbeat accelerates. I feel the sadness and fear
constricting in my veins, intermingling with the blood and oxygen that
steers into the umbilical cord nurturing the baby. I take deep breaths
to stop my building anxiety. When my mind and heart are going a
thousand mile a minute, controlling either is impossible. I swallow
again but the fear has the edge; it takes my breath completely away.
All at once, my body and mind realizes that I’m not in control of
anyone, including myself. I look up, blinding myself with the harsh
light above. Dizzy and suddenly nauseous, I squeeze John’s wrist. I
can name it. “I can’t breathe. It’s another panic attack.” The only
aid for the terror drowning my body is to try to calm my mind and
heart. The corners of my eyes darken, and a hazy picture of John is
the only thing I can see. My ears feel as if they’ve been filled with
sand. I dip my head between my knees and count to ten slowly and then
back down from ten. I know John’s speaking but I can’t fully hear him.
I can feel his hand on my back, neck, and chest. They are all over me.
He pulls me up, taking my face into his hands. He’s calling my name
but I’m trying too hard to find my breath to speak. A point of focus.
The baby. Focusing on something other than my inability to silence the
anxiety is a method that I’ve used in therapy on others. I close my
eyes, picturing the baby. Nicky also emerges in my vision. He’s
walking and smiling. Calling my name. And the baby is helpless. John
calls out, shaking me gently. I open my eyes again.

“Honey?” He touches me frantically.

I raise a hand to calm him. Counting slowly evens my breathing again.

“Do you need a doctor?”

“No,” I strangle through the slow breathing. “No. Calm down.”

He eyes me strangely. This is the second time that he’s witnessed me
having a panic attack. The concern lining his face causes me to crush
into him and wrap his arms around me. “John,” I manage shakily, “I
can’t live with the rage and anger. It reminds me too much of Alex.” I
hold on tighter. “I won’t live with Alex.” I feel him nodding and
rubbing my back, frightened. “John?”

“Honey, I’m not Alex. I would never hurt you.”

“I know.” I look up. His eyes are brimming with tears. “I don’t want
you to hurt yourself either. When you’re in pain, I can feel it so
deeply that I can feel myself breaking apart. We have to slow down.
With Nicky being sick and the new baby, we have to settle ourselves
and focus….” Before I can finish, I hear the heavy door behind us
swing open. From John’s arms, I see Rachel and Mama.

“Honey?” Mama’s voice is strained. “I think you’d better come.”

I lean up from John’s chest, standing up to face them. “What’s wrong?”

Rachel eyes John as she speaks to me. “The police…Dr. Shalit wants to
have John arrested.”

“What?” My heart jumps again. John stands beside me and strokes my
cheek. “John?”

“Don’t worry. Martha will you tell them that I’ll be right there.”
John says turning away from Mama and Rachel’s faces. He leans closer.
“Promise me that you’re going to be calm. I don’t want you to have
another attack.”

“John what if…”

“Baby,” his fingers grip my chin, “no worries. If I’m arrested I’ll be
back before you notice that I’m missing.”

I speak against his lips. “I’m sorry.”

He keeps his mouth pressed against mine. “It’s not your fault. I love
you and I’ll do anything to protect you. Now stay here. I don’t want
you to see them taking me away.” He kisses me when I try to protest.
“Stay?”

Rachel speaks up,” I’ll stay with her.”

“Good. Rachel will stay with you. When I’m gone, I want you to go into
our boy’s room and hold onto him until I’m back. Okay?”

I shake my head. “I can’t just watch…”

He lets my face go. “You have to.” He kisses me again and walks to the
door. Without turning around, he tells me to be brave and thanks
Rachel.

Rachel comes to my side and for her sake, I stand taller, brush my
tears away and take her offered hand. She presses her hand firmly into
mine and snakes her arm around my waist. “You’re going to be fine.”

I tip my head up and straighten my shoulders. “I can do this. Was Nicky upset?”

“I don’t think he saw anything. He’s still in the playroom. I heard
the call; Mona and I rushed to see what was happening.

“Dr. Shalit?”

“He is up and walking but he is livid.”

“I guess I’d better face this.”

“I think we’d better wait until they’ve taken your husband.”

I look appreciatively at the young girl at my side. “My life didn’t
use to be this intense. I’m afraid that when you add love to any life,
intensity will creep into the equation.”

“I guess so.” Rachel releases my hand. She looks through the window.
“They’re taking him now.”

I rush to her and open the door just as John is being led by two
officers in uniform. His hands are cuffed behind his back. Avoiding my
eyes at all cost, he walks with his back unbent, unyielding with the
officers.

“He’ll handle this,” Rachel says standing behind me.

Nicky and Mama are in the playroom when I go and do exactly what
John’s told me to. I scoop Nicky up and crush him to my body. He’s
soft against my cheek. “Mama loves you very much sweet boy.” A little
boy’s love is about as powerful as anything in the world is. He looks
me square in the eye and smiles like his daddy. Through the veil of
his sickness, I find traces of what we all need. Even with his hair
less thick than a day or two before, he is the elixir that I need. I
carry him from the playroom back to his own. Mama and Rachel stay
behind while Nicholas and I lie down to await his father’s promised
return.

( )

I open the door to his office with a shaky hand. He’s been avoiding
what happened and me. I can’t accept that. He’s sitting behind his
desk when I barge in unkindly. The bruise beneath his eye is round in
shape, deep purple that fades into yellow at the edges. Our eyes meet
tentatively before I take the seat that I first took on our first
meeting. I think we’re at that threshold again. Stranger and doctor—it
rings true. I realize that I don’t know this man who I’ve given my
entire life to. I don’t know the things that friends know, and these
are things that he knows about me. I know about his mother and his own
battle with mental illness; I’m not sure if I should know that. What
concerns me more than the antagonizing battle between John and Dr.
Shalit is why I feel torn in the middle. I feel that my loyalties are
up for grabs.

“You’re looking well.” Dr. Shalit tells me, as he lowers his glasses
from his face.

“Considering?”

He is ready with an insult. “The fact that you’re engaged to an
overbearing, violent disgusting man.” I cover the ring on finger with
my hand. “I’m not dropping the charges Marlena. He assaulted me.”

“I’m not asking you to.” In fact, I’m not sure why I’m here. John is
capable of handling Dr. Shalit. He was released that night and back
with Nicky and me before we could miss him. There are high-minded
lawyers working on the case. I’m not here for John’s sake. “I have to
ask you a question.”

“You can ask me anything. I’m not sure you’ll like the answer.” He
weighs his conscience. “I’m not sure why I want to tell you it
either.”

“You kissed me a long time ago. And I told myself and John that I it
was nothing. I really believed that then.”

“But you don’t anymore?”

“You provoked my husband.”

Dr. Shalit strokes his chin slowly. “And he doesn’t provoke me every
chance he gets? He’s disgusting,” He says twisting his face. “His
respect for you is so low. I would never do….”

“You don’t know that because you won’t have a chance. It’s easy to
stand there and be judgmental about my life. To judge my husband’s
actions. I’ve given you the tools to do so.”

“He’s finally gotten you to stop trusting me.”

“Dr. Shalit, my trust for you is the reason I’ve continued seeing you
knowing what it was doing to John. I can’t risk that anymore. This
isn’t about John or you. I don’t think you all realize that I’m the
one who needed help and support. I’m well now and from now on, my
children are my only concern. I have to stop seeing you.”

He stands up, walking to the window. “I still want to help you.”

“You’re in love with me.” I am finally able to admit to the both of
us. “I have a family. It’s too risky to continue this.”

“When you were on the phone calling out his name,” his shoulders
quake, “I must admit that I wished it was me. I’m not denying that I
have feelings for you Marlena. Very strong feelings for you. But what
I feel most strongly about is that John’s not right for you. He
doesn’t deserve you. That was a disgusting thing that he did.” He
pauses and brushes the back of his head. “I know it wasn’t you. You’re
not able to be that cruel.”

“This is all getting too complicated. With you, I edit myself when I’m
talking about John. I nearly stop myself from calling him my husband
because I must feel like you wouldn’t approve.” I’m speaking too much.
“You can’t feel anything for me. I appreciate you. Please take that as
the only thing that I can give you.”

“Marlena.” I stop at the door. “If you ever need me, you can always
call me.” I nod silently and continue out of the door.

Again, meant to be short. The chapters are coming so quickly that I
have to write what comes and stop when I think it’s too much. I always
forget how much writing keeps me sane. Thanks for all the feedback and
love for my stories.

Chapter 38 (NC-17)

“Why are we so full of restraint? Why do we not give in all
directions? Is it fear of losing ourselves? Until we do lose ourselves
there is no hope of finding ourselves.”
Henry Miller

In his sleep, I wonder what occupies his mind. Awake, I know what the
answer is: me. He’s enthralled by the idea of me being fully his
possession. I again am conflicted by that, but I chose him over Dr.
Shalit. It’s a small victory in his favor. For me, I worry that I’ve
done the right thing for the wrong reason. I suspect that I’m guilty—I
know it but it’s hard to admit. How to reconcile the separate parts of
myself is my dilemma. This is the reason I need to have Dr. Shalit.
What I feel is conflicted in so many ways. My babies. I’ve given
little thought to the life that is growing inside me. I’ve been afraid
to hope for the miracle of an uncomplicated pregnancy. The fear of
relapsing into the mental condition I was in during my pregnancy with
Nicky. But there must be some kind of hope in another surprise
pregnancy. There has to be meaning in me being the age that I am and
being able to conceive a baby without much trouble. It’s as if time
has stood still and decided to repay John and me with the life that we
should have had from our start. There are bumps of course. Nicky’s
sickness is a trial that I’d rather not deal with but we’re slowly
learning to deal with it. I’ve stopped thinking that death is
imminent. There’s hope. Nicky has vital hope in tomorrow through the
new baby. I feel in my heart that this child is the one who we have
waited for. Even without the test results, I know that my being,
through my child will resurrect healthy cells and Nicky will be all
right. I know that. I hold on to that.

I also hold onto to John. The light of morning is breaking through the
panels of the hospital room that we’ve spent way too much time in. The
birds are singing their praise. I think it’s in appreciation for the
understated beauty of dawn’s incipient sunrises. I’ve watched many
sunrises from this bed. I’m a creature of habit. I like to wake up in
John’s arms, even when we’re angry at each other. It’s energy.
Yesterday I let one man go to cling to another. Like I said, I’m a
creature of habit. As long as I had Dr. Shalit, I didn’t have to cling
so hard to John. Now, he’s my lifeline again. It’s selfish and people
would be surprised to know that I have selfish thoughts. Even though
the world is breaking open to another day, I want to say in my cocoon
where I’m safe. It’s always about being safe. Nicky’s safe. The baby
is safe. John is lying next to me safe. These are the connecting
points that I’ve decided to thrive on instead of being depressed about
severing ties with Dr. Shalit.

My main connection is John and the warmth that radiates from his body
to mine. It’s unusual but John’s turned away from me and it is me that
holds his body close from behind. My arms are numb from the weight of
his body; I must’ve held him all night. Closing my eyes, I breathe him
in, pressing my nose to his back. It’s a smell I’ve come to savor. I
skim my hand across his back, sliding downward to his hipbone. His
skin is still warmer when I slip my hand into his waistband. Still not
stirring, I skim upward to caress his chest and pull his body flush
against mine. The sensation of feeling his warmth heating my chest
through the cotton of his shirt sets a fire in my breast. Heaving from
the contact, I lean up and kiss his neck until his eyes flutter open,
his dark lashes open and close quickly. He moans and turns around.
Heat brushes my skin as his mouth covers my neck with nips and bites.
In my flustered state, an odd thought comes to me. Before I ever made
love to any man, I wondered what it would be like to be so connected
to a human being that I could open myself up for him to climb into.
Not in the physical sense, but the emotional spiritual ritual that
occurs during sex. I realized early that I couldn’t love a man who
wasn’t sensitive to my timid nature. That’s before I knew John. I’ve
never had the level of intimacy that we have with anyone else. My body
calls out for him and in return, his body answers. It’s always been
so. That’s why my hands are running up and down his arms and back;
they’re grabbing his neck to bring him nearer and stroking his legs
and backside. We’re answering the call. John sniffs the edge of my
chin and continues up until he stops to kiss my forehead. In our
intimacy, we try very hard to please one another. Every part of our
bodies deserves to be loved and touched. John caresses me with a
sculptor’s hands. Molding against my skin to try to find some sort of
perfection beneath his palms. He slowly unbuttons my pajama top,
opening one side to dip his face into my heaving chest. He licks from
the base of my neck to the valley of my breasts, stopping to close his
mouth over one of my aching breast. Working down into my pajama
bottoms is his hand. I wish we could undress and press our nakedness
against each other; the feeling makes our love even more intense. But
we’re in a hospital room where nurses could walk in at any moment. But
that doesn’t occur to me; or rather, it doesn’t bother me. At the
moment, I can only writhe against John’s hand circling slowly across
my throbbing button of nerves. His name is whispered into his hair as
I arch forward. He looks and catches my eyes. I can barely keep them
open but he wills that when he presses his forehead to mine and drags
my bottom lip into his mouth. I draw away to kiss him more fervently
by pulling on his bottom and then top lip. He nudges my legs open
undemandingly with his hands still between our bodies because he’s
climbed fully on top of me. He pulls the sheet up over us and gets up
on his knees. A rush of heat and spastic movements overwhelm my body
as he works the magic of his fingers to slip into my middle unrushed.
Because he’s taking his time, the pressure is building intensely in
between my legs, within the walls inside me and up my thighs. I open
my legs wider to accommodate another finger as he slides them in and
out of me faster than before. My hand sails to my face as the dams
burst and my body responds finally to all of John’s hard work. He
kisses me through the intensity of the orgasm, whispering against my
lips how beautiful I am when I come for him. I swallow hard. I know
what’s next. I anticipate having him inside of me. This is the same
rigid tool that brought forth my little boy and helped fertilize
another piece of us. I welcome that gladly as it’s offered. I
accommodate him with all the juices that he’s made pour from my body.
He thrusts only three strong strokes as I lift my hips to meet his.
His third stroke causes him to come quickly, collapsing at my side
after coming down from the high of sexual pleasure. With our bodies
damp with sweat, and ripe with pleasure I cradle myself to his chest
again.

“You haven’t wakened me up like that in awhile.” He says gliding his
hands up my spine. I smile against his chest and run my hand across
his skin. “I liked it.”

“Good.” Sex makes me very emotional. The heightened sense of being so
fulfilled sexually causes me to fit tightly to John.

“We’re going to have to stop making love soon.” John says with too
much seriousness crowding his tone.

I lean up and ask incredulously, “Says who?”

“Me? Remember Nicky.”

I turn away because it hurts to be reminded. “That was different.
There’s no previa to worry about. I talked to the doctor about that.”
I face him again. His face matches the seriousness of his voice. “I
wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize this pregnancy. “

“I know. And I’d love to continue this awesome connection but I had to
admit it worries me.”

“Because I used you to hurt Nicholas?”

“Because I allowed myself to be used.” He holds me firmer. It’s his
way of making sure I know he doesn’t blame me without having to say
so. “Besides, you’ll get tired of me trying to climb on top of you in
a couple of months.”

“I’ll never get tired of you.” I remark jovially. “If you can’t tell,
I’m insatiable when it comes to you.”

“Not a problem honey. I’ll give you what you want until I feel uncomfortable.”

I scrunch my face in mock disgust. “Give me what I want? That’s so
chauvinistic.”

“Call it what you will, sweetheart,” he says touching the bridge of my
nose. “I call it love.”

I fall silent but not in exhaustion the way I usually feel after
making love. I haven’t said anything about visiting Dr. Shalit. Or
about my decision to end our relationship. I guess this is as good
time as any.

“What are you thinking about?” John inquires when I’ve thought too long.

“I’m thinking about…Dr. Shalit,” I tell him, waiting to feel his body
tense beneath me. It does as quickly as he takes his next breath.
“It’s not what you think.” I find the injured hand along my body and
pull it to my lips. “Does it still hurt?” He doesn’t answer vocally.
He shakes his head instead.

“Well?” He asks as if he’s preparing for me to tell him that I’m going
to run off with him.

“What are you thinking?” I wonder.

“Just tell me.”

I kiss his chin. “Don’t get tense honey.”

“Just tell me.”

Taking a deep breath, I ramble, “I told Dr. Shalit that I couldn’t see
him anymore.”

“You did what?”

I nod, looking up to catch his widened eyes. “I didn’t think about it.
I was in his office and I just said it.”

He stumbles on the office part. “What were you doing in his office?”

“That’s not the important part John. I’ve ended things with him.”

“Because I hit him?”

“No, not entirely.” I rationalize to myself. It’s not something I
thought of is the truth as I’ve told John. He proved what I was afraid
of seeing by admitting his feelings for me. “The situation was…is out
of control between the two of you. The animosity is so thick. I
couldn’t very well continue seeing him while you and he disagreed so
brutally.”

“So you decided this because of me.”

“Yes. I love you,” I say firmly. “I don’t ever want you to think that
I’m siding with anyone except you. It was cloudy for me because I
depend on him so much.” I lower my eyes. “It’ll be hard to resolve his
absence but I’m sure I’ll muddle through.”

“I have faith that you will.”

“I know you do and I’m going to count on that to sustain me through
this pregnancy and this situation with Nicky. I’m going to need you
more than I’ve ever needed you before. I have to hold onto to you
until I can stand on my own.” I admit weaknesses boldly. I’ve come to
accept that I am weak when I should be strong and hard when I should
be yielding.

“Baby, I’ll get you through this. We’ll get through this together.”

I tuck his hand to lie across my heart. “I know you will. And I love
you so much for that.”

Chapter 39 (NC-17)

“God never ends anything on a negative; God always ends on a positive.”
Edwin Louis Cole

You don’t get to choose the moment that your life slips out of your
hands. You don’t even know how it happens. It’s as if an ax hammers
into the glass shield around you and shards of glass come down like
rain. There is danger in that. There will be pain from those shards
and we bleed; it’s what makes us human.

God help me.

“I know you’re disappointed but we’re not giving up.” He tells me. His
fingertips trail down my hair tenderly, delicately tracing the keys of
an imagined piano; my eyelids droop from his strumming. “Honey?” His
voice sounds strained. I’m trying to melt into myself. It’s not your
fault. It’s not any of our faults; it’s just what is. I’m able. We’re
still able. “Baby?”

“I’m sorry John,” I say raising my hand to the nape of his neck. “I’m
sorry. I’m all right. I just…”

He crushes me against him.

“I hoped and I thought that that would be enough.” He pats my back
lovingly as if I’m Nicky needing a strong parental presence. “I don’t
feel like a failure John. I’m all right. I’m just disappointed.” I cry
tears that need release. I feel pain so tangible that my arms and neck
begin to ache in spurts. The sparks of pain shoot through my veins and
pulsate hard against my skin. I shake from crying and sobbing too
much. How can this be the answer that I prayed for? This isn’t His
will. If it is and I’m supposed to learn a great lesson about
persistence and faith, I don’t want to be the student. I’ve learned
and done all I can to survive the moments like these. But how many
more am I expected to surpass without feelings as if there aren’t many
left. I cry until my eyes burn, until they hurt from the exertion of
wrenching. I cry until the pain isn’t so viable, until I’m not hollow
inside. I cry until the numbness dissipates, until the anxiety wears
thin. I cry because I believed that our miracle baby would save
Nicky—and the baby can’t because its not a donor match.

“Baby don’t give up. You have to fight with me.”

Looking up, I wipe away my tears to see him more clearly. I’m not
giving up but I can’t help but feel that the floor has dropped from
beneath me and I’m freefalling into something that I don’t understand.
I know that it’s okay to hope. I still believe that my hope is what
will sustain Nicky. Even without the baby matching or never finding a
donor, Nicky remission is not an illusion. I feel it coming to
fruition. Whether it is through chemotherapy or radiation, we’re not
giving up. “I’ll never give up,” I mutter incoherently.

The next step is the process is to find a suitable match for Nicky. We
can’t wait for the chemotherapy to be over. The waiting game is out of
the question—at John’s demand. He starts immediately ordering a ground
zero of specialists to scour the world for donors that can match
Nicky. I research the cord blood transplant exhaustively. I talk to
doctors who I’ve known for years. We’re proactive because time isn’t
on our side anymore.

“You have options.” Dr. Kingston says cryptically. We’re sitting
across from her in her office. John spreads his fingers across my leg
to squeeze reassuringly, to remind me that he’s still here.

“Outside of the international search of the donor list and the
controversy of the cord blood argument, what else is there?”

Dr. Kingstown leans back leather chair holding her. “You could have an
abortion and start over with a child through selective implantation.”

I turn my neck so quickly toward John that I hear my bones snap
against themselves. He glances at me with the same incredulous look.
“Abort my child? That’s the option.”

“I’m sorry to be so blunt.” Dr. Kingston shrugs. “I try to give
patients every option available. That’s just one of many. I know you
haven’t considered that at all. No parent wants to. But there cases
where they have no choice. “
I cover my stomach as if I can protect the baby from hearing what’s
being said; that I can keep the suggestions about ending its life
away. Of course, I know that this was something that would be
discussed. There are times that I have great moments of clarity—it’s
when I’m tapped into the doctor inside of me. I’ve counseled women who
have had to do this: pity themselves while making the ugliest decision
a mother has to face. I considered that the baby could not be a
match—no, it’s a lie. I didn’t consider that fact. I told myself that
I had, and I felt that I could handle that type of rejection. I
believed so hardily that no other consideration entered my mind. The
illogical mother in me wants to protect my son. I always knew there
was this chance. Dr. Kingston didn’t have to say so. She’s only
reminded me.

“There are several cases are known where babies were created
specifically to serve as a bone marrow donor and where parents were
prepared to abort if the fetus was not a match.” She doesn’t bat an
eyelash when saying this.

John leans forward. His mouth is slack. “This child wasn’t created to
serve anything.”

“I know. It’s not a pretty scenario but my job is to tell you all I
have to offer. You have the awful job of choosing.”

“What kind of choice is that?” John asks. He’s never considered the
possibility that we’d have to kill our child to save another.

“We can shoot for an umbilical cord blood transplant and hope for the
best. Mismatched cord blood proved to be as effective as matched bone
marrow. There is a low percentage of rejection. However, it’s not a
guarantee. No procedure is.”

“So we could do this procedure and Nicky could get better?”

“Mr. Black, there is a chance. Studies have shown that children under
16 have a 5-year survival rate from this type of transplant. Again, no
guarantee. Every case is different.”

I listen and digest the battle for knowledge that John is waging. Dr.
Kingston is a formidable doctor and I trust her knowledge. I’ve heard
the stories. I know what that entails. The wait and see. The hope that
the stem cells that have been infused into a child will keep that
child healthy, is only that, hope.

“Mismatched cord blood proved to be as effective as matched bone
marrow, which is what we’d be looking at with a sibling. The options
with a sibling are greater because the child is used instrumentally to
share healthy blood marrow as needed. We all hope that chemotherapy
works, and the cord blood but these could at best be described as
holding the dam at bay. We have to exercise all options.”

All options. Abortion. “I’m not going to consider harming this baby.”
My hand hasn’t left the place where my baby dwells. “That’s not an
option. I understand what you are saying from a medical standpoint but
I’m thinking with my heart.” I’ve lost too many children that I’ve
wanted to keep. I’m not willing to give anymore away. “I can live with
anything except choosing to end this child’s life.”

John settles his hand along my back. “Honey, it’s….”

“It’s not an option,” I say looking directly at Dr. Kingston. “I won’t
consider it. Tell me anything else. We’ll do anything else but that.”
I realize that I’m maybe only speaking for myself when John’s hand
stops moving along my back. “I won’t do anything else. There are a
thousand other ways to look at this. This is not one that I’m going to
visit.”

“I understand.” Dr. Kingston says slowly, her eyes never leaving my face.

“Good.”

( )

There is so much courage in the act of sex. I believe that’s why John
and I can’t get enough of each other lately. I need to feel him inside
of me, filling me with his love and strength, while I clutch to his
warm flesh trying to find peace and satisfaction.

His lithe fingers straddle the crown of my head, guiding me along the
length of his stiffened manhood. The taste is salty—it’s also sweaty
and thin. With every upward motion of my mouth, jaws tightened, he
groans louder. Beads of sweat puddle along his inner thighs, making my
hands slide with ease up and down the muscled skin. I’m kneeling
between the v-shape of his flattened legs. My hair droops across my
shoulders, in wet curls from the shower where we started this
particular act of courage. He’s propped against the shower door with
his head thrown back.

We’re finally home. Finally in the sanctuary of our quiet place. Nicky
is in his room, sleeping. And I’m trying to bring his father some of
the pleasure that he’s always brought me. Those are the logistics of
now. Our baby is cradled within the confines of my body, finding
nourishment and shelter. Those are the finite instances of now.

Digging his fingers into my scalp, he moans my name as a way of
begging for more. I clench my mouth tighter against him and sweep up
and down his shaft slowly, eyeing him along the way. My eyes widen
when he drops his hands to his sides and pounds the floor. Mama’s down
the hall; we’re supposed to be quiet. I speed up the friction between
my mouth and his hard shaft, waiting for the explosion. Waiting to
swallow the contents of John deep into mouth, coating my throat, I
close my eyes and brace for the force. It comes with vigorous energy
that has been building for weeks. That was the last time he touched me
and filled me with his juices.

John mouths my name in a raspy whisper—my nickname. When his legs have
stopped twitching beneath my hands, he catches my wrists and pulls me
into his lap. He wipes my face and mouth with his and kisses me,
whispering, “I love you.” I press my head against his shoulder.

“I love you too.” I assure him as my hands rest against his chest. The
heat radiating from his body is like a fever against mine. We’re both
naked. We had good intentions on waking up, showering, and spending
the day with our family, before the kissing and fondling of our mutual
shower led to a sexual culmination. “Do you think we’ll ever get tired
of making love? I mean, with the new baby and Nicky?” I can picture
us, older with Nicholas and the new baby, trying to find time to
devote our bodies to exploration and explosion.

“I hope not.” He says, clutching the swell of my right breast. “These
are getting bigger.” He examines me studiously, grinning the whole
while. “Aren’t they?” He asks massaging it tenderly. His hand shapes
naturally over my nipple where he starts circling. The idea of a
pregnant woman must appeal to him in ways that pregnant woman don’t
understand. I’ve put on a couple of pounds since we found out that I
was pregnant. I’m too self-conscious to measure it; I just know that I
have. There is slope to my belly where there wasn’t one before, where
the muscles have softened and telltale signs of life exist. “I love
your body pregnant.” The high cadence rising in his voice shows his
excitement. We’ve never been here—pregnant without worry over the
baby. We can be excited because this child has given us a second and
perhaps third chance. John wraps his fingers around my neck to dip me
over his arm, bending me backwards. He drops a line of kisses along my
neck. “Do you know how sexy you are right now?”

I shrug. Not in disbelief, I can see how genuine his adoration is.
It’s more because I’m just about in that place of feeling pregnant.
When the baby’s presence is without question; a slight quickening in
the bowels of my belly; the need to rest out of sheer exhaustion;
being out of breath because my heart is working harder. 15 weeks; my
second trimester. “I don’t know about sexy, but I am tired.” I say
shyly.

“Oh, I can help with that. My poor baby.” John scoops me beneath my
knees and lifts me against his chest. He kisses my forehead as he
walks and sets me on the unmade bed. I slide beneath the sheet to warm
my chilled body. John sits on the edge of the bed, beside me, running
his fingers through my hair. “Is that better?”

“Much.” It’s barely sunlight out. We’ve had this uncanny knack of
waking up out of our sleep at 4 a.m. since we’ve been back home. I
attribute it to sleeping in the hospital and adapting to all the
sounds. Now that we’re home, the silence must be troubling us. John
rubs my arm, watching me closely as he does. “What?”

“I think you’re glowing.” He presses a finger to my cheek and turns my
face this from side to side.

“You’re delirious…the sign of a great orgasm.” I tell him cupping his
cheek. In the darkness, I see the portions of John that are
expressively Nicky’s gifts. He hasn’t changed in the years that we’ve
been together, not physically. Wholly, I feel as if he’s grown beyond
himself and opened up to accommodate our children and me. But the same
hungry, passionate look that I first saw all those years ago still
shines in the blue eyes that I adore.

“Is that what it is?” He pulls me forward to hug me snugly. His
breaths heat my hair. “Whatever it is, I love it. If I touch you
profusely, I’m begging your forgiveness now. I won’t be able to help
myself.”

“Let’s sleep for a bit longer.” I suggest, pulling him with me as I
fall against the pillow. He climbs over me and slides under the sheet.
“I’ll make Nicky breakfast after a nap,” I yawn, relaxing my body to
spoon with his. He dips his chin across my shoulder, his arm drapes
across my hip.

“You’ll do what?” He asks snickering.

“What? I can make Nicky breakfast. It’s about the only thing I can
make him.” I defend. “Or we can just let the pro handle it.”

“Martha.”

“Yes, smartass.” I tap his arm lightly and shape my head into the
pillow. “Don’t let me oversleep. I have things I must get finished
today.”

“Plans?”

“Yes,” I whisper to match the mood. The weight of sleep hits me
without apology. “I love you.”

He mumbles incoherently in my ear. It becomes clearer when his hand
starts sliding down my hip toward my inner thigh. “Baby?” I’m barely
asleep but I don’t answer. “Baby? I need you. Can you hear me?” In my
slumber, I hear and feel his hand groping towards my inner thigh.
Fingertips graze along the apex of my thighs. I hear myself moan but
my eyes don’t open. “Can you feel me?” He grinds into my rear. The
makings of his erection protrude into my lower back. “Baby?”

“Hmm?” I grumble, lifting my head slightly from the pillow. He leans
across my shoulder and steals a kiss. “John. I thought we were
sleeping.”

“We can’t. Not yet.” John shifts to straddle my thighs. He pushes my
shoulders until my back is firm against the mattress. “Are you
comfortable?”

When I nod, John leans forward quickly and starts kissing me with his
tongue pressing forcefully into my mouth. I trap his bottom lip
between my teeth and tug it into the wetness of my mouth. “I hope
Mama….” I begin only to be silenced by John’s mouth.

“Don’t talk about your mama right now. Just kiss me…and touch me.” He
begs, bearing his knees into the bed. His breath is hot and lingers on
my neck, right below my ear where he starts circling with his tongue.
It’s the spot that sets my nerve ends aflame. “Is this okay?” He asks
without stopping. I nod eagerly against his shoulder, thrusting upward
to feel some contact between our burning centers. “You were very good
this morning. I appreciated it. I owe you one.” He promises, stilling
my grinding hips with his warm palms. “Open them for me,” is his
gentle demand as he widens the gap between my thighs and resettles
himself there.

Now that we’re here, at the point where he’ll finally be submerged in
my depths, I remember that it has been a long time. I feel it when my
hands grip his back, leading him to my throbbing middle. He stops me
from guiding him into me. He lowers his head to my neck and starts
kissing in a straight line downward, stopping at the swell of my belly
he kisses and cups it with his gentle hands. His adoring gaze makes my
eyes well with tears. After kissing every exposed portion of my belly,
he continues to the meeting between my thighs. When he starts with
gentle swipes of his tongue, my thighs expand and contract
involuntarily. I clench the sheet between my fingers and bring my body
up off the mattress. With my body’s juices, he slides a finger into
the grooves of my inner walls. I shift, bringing my feet to rest flat
against the bed. I can’t stop myself from moaning and thrashing
around. John stops just before my nerves shatter, never having touched
the bundle that is the most affected. I nearly drag him, my nails
scraping his shoulders, to pull him back up over my body. He hovers
and uses my secretions to glide easily into me. There is a slight
resistance that makes him pull out and me moan. I pull my hand over
his and we both try again to join ourselves together.

I cry out. The searing in my lower regions overwhelming enough for me
to open my eyes. John feels like a foreign object impaled in my sex.
He tries again to pull out and remerge our bodies. This time it’s less
harsh but still painful. He grunts heavily when he starts thrusting
slowly, in and out of my body. My hands release the sheets, the
building orgasm of the moments before is slipping away. I still
welcome every thrust, painful as it is, hoping to find some solace in
time.

He mistakes the unfurled groan that barrels from the depths of my
belly as a sign of pleasure. His back slides against my flattened
hands with the force of his thrusting while I readjust my body
underneath his. The weight of his knees on both sides of my legs
indents the mattress around me. I slide my hands up his back to the
back of his head, resting in damp hair that curls easily around my
fingers. My body starts resisting without my permission. A tiny shot
of pain here, a trickle of aching there. Burning builds where John and
I are intimately joined.

“Baby?” He says, lifting his face from the depths of my shoulder. The
sudden clenching of my thighs around him clues him in to my
discomfort. “Are you…”

I shake my head from shoulder to shoulder. “It hurts. I’m sorry…can
we….” He pulls himself from my body to lie beside me. Our bodies face
each other in awkward positions. John’s stiffened manhood is shielded
by his thigh; I’m curled into a semi ball, my legs tucked.

“Did I hurt you?” Worry overtakes his voice. He searches my face. “I’m sorry.”

“John, it’s fine.” His cheeks are still warm when I caress them. The
worry in his face is enough to bring tears to my eyes. I’ve been an
overemotional nutcase for the last couple of weeks. I really wanted to
reward him for being patient and being steadfast. As hormones are apt
to do, I’ve been a blithering mess of sadness and tears. The baby is
one part of the equation; the other is Nicky’s recovery. In the haze
of sex, I guess, I stopped thinking about it.

3 weeks and counting since Nicky completed first session; 2 weeks
since he lost the last of his thinning hair; 3 days since the last
time I held him while he threw up what little food he eats. All of
this taking place while I deal with being 15 weeks pregnant. And add
to that John, my saint, whose been holding my hand through it all.

We settle into an awkward silence. Guilt often festers in awkward
silences, mine is no different. I hate denying John the experience of
connecting on a deeper level. In the hospital, when Nicky was first
diagnosed we were recklessly sexual. We made love in more places than
I’d like to admit. I know what that was about. We both know why he
could just touch my shoulder and look in my eyes, and I’d be gone.
That was about needing to dispel sadness and loneliness. But this is
all together different. It’s hard not to be able to be with John on
this level.

We came home from the hospital with one goal in mind, and that goal
was Nicky. We wanted him to be surrounded again by the familiar haunts
of his life. After the disappointing conversation with Dr. Kingston, I
decided that I couldn’t live on anything but absolutes. We still have
Nicky; I’m still carrying our baby and everything else is unessential.

It’s an uneasy balance. Nicky and the new baby. Safely in my second
trimester, I’ve felt all the changes that normal woman go through with
pregnancies. I say normal because I’ve never been granted that simple
notion. Nicky’s blood tests have revealed no leukemia cells in the
weeks since his chemotherapy. That’s how I live: Nicky’s progress
along with mine. I revel in this pregnancy and Nicky’s progress as
I’ve never reveled in anything. I gave up this gift when I was sick
with Nicky. I didn’t allow myself to experience any of the joy that
holding a new life in your body brings you. I gave away the happiness
that I now horde. I’m not going to allow any opportunity to revel in
my children slip away again.

I think of another way to connect with John since our physical one
isn’t panning out. “You know what it’s like,” I say pulling John’s
hand to the lower portion of my belly. It’s only marginally changed
shape in the last couple of weeks. “I feel like I’m walking around a
cloud most of the time. I’ve only started to allow myself to feel that
way.”

John curls my body into his as he readjusts us. I need to see his face
while we’re talking because I can’t find any other way to be with him
on a deeper level. “Go on…I want to hear this.”

Smiling, I cover his hand with mine on my stomach. “I don’t think me
describing it will do it justice. It’s impossible, miraculous, and
powerful. I mean, I’m housing a baby in here.” He touches my chin with
his lips. “I can’t remember ever feeling so enthralled by anything.”

“Not with Nicholas?” He says cautiously. “I know you weren’t yourself
then, but was it there slightly?”

“At first,” I confess, biting my lip, “I was very happy to be
pregnant. Remember, I told you on Valentine’s day? I’d been missing
you so badly.” I close my eyes to remember that time. It seems so long
ago. “I couldn’t wait to see your face. I wanted to kiss you and have
you make love to me. I know how you feel about our babies; I wanted
you to make it okay for me to be that happy about the pregnancy.”

John tips my face upward. “You just told me you were happy.”

“I was also very unsure. We’d just gotten back together. I wanted you
to be happy.” I shrug. “I knew that you would be. I guess there is
just a part of me that is always going to be afraid of us.”

“I wish you wouldn’t be. I’m not going anywhere.”

I refuse my own fear and nod in agreement. I see our son’s smiling
face in my mind. “Nicky was our miracle baby.”

“He still is our miracle, Doc.” John confirms. I can’t disagree with
that. His prognosis is less dim and we are optimistically hopeful. A
part of me won’t accept anything less than Nicky’s complete healing.
Once upon a time, my little boy saved me. When I wanted to give up
everything in my life, including him, he smiled at me, took my hand,
and made me believe I was better than I knew myself to be. “He’s going
to be a healthy little boy. A big brother to his new sibling.” I smile
because I admire John’s faith.

“Did I ever tell you the story about the little boy and his new
sister?” I say tweaking John’s chest hairs beneath my grazing fingers.
I continue when he shakes his head, “a little boy was excited about
seeing his new sister when their parents brought her home. He asked
his mother if he could spend some time with her. Of course, they were
wondering what he could possibly have to say to her. So they granted
his wish, they put her in the crib and let her brother stand beside
the bed. They stood outside the bedroom and listened to the
conversation.” Tears puddle and stream down my cheeks. The weight of
my emotions is as much as the pounds that I’ve put on since the
pregnancy. I swallow hard and finish, “he stood beside her crib and
said will you tell me please, I’ve almost forgotten what God is like?”
I pause to steel myself against my strong emotions. When I’m able to
speak again, I wrap my arms around John and whisper, “That’s why I
know Nicky will be okay. God gave him to us and he’s saved us both
many times. I know he’s not going to take that away from us.”

John kisses me gently. It’s innocent enough for me to fall on my back
and pull him with me. I need his warm touch. The breath on my skin and
all of the benefits of him massaging my body beneath his gentle hands.
I pray that my body gives way to his this time, without shutting down
before we’re both heaving in satisfaction. Only John could know that I
need foreplay to keep from closing off sexually.

The intense connection that starts with a kiss widens with John’s
sliding hands and warm kisses. He climbs over me again, taking kisses
while he unbuttons the rest of my shirt. I lean forward and grasp when
he pulls the sheet away from my body. “Baby, you don’t have to do
this,” he tells me after climbing between my spreading thighs. “I’m
happy just to make you happy.” He grins before trailing kisses across
my face, stopping at the slopes of my breast. They’ve been tender and
I grimace when John’s mouth envelops one. “It hurts.” He asks looking
up from my heaving chest. “What can I do to make you feel good?”

“I don’t know.” I cry trying not to feel useless and unattractive.
Tears are streaming before I can say another word. “I can’t help it.
I’m a mess.” I admit cupping John’s face between my hands. “I’m sorry
honey.” He leans forward and kisses me until my tears stop falling. I
wrap myself against him. The connection between our bodies is enough
for the moment. The feeling of his erection unmistakingly poking my
thigh doesn’t heighten my need for him. “I can’t.” My confession is
pitiful. He nods but I know it’s painful. I shape my hand to his
erection and pump, kissing him hard, until his shaft is slack in my
hand.
Epilogue

What does the collapse of a life feel like?

I’ll tell you. It’s sudden and complex, convoluted but it’s also
quiet. The way that children can wake up with cancer or die in the
womb. That’s the feeling. You can’t name that. There is no tidy word
that will make it fit into any package. That’s it—it’s that feeling
that stays behind. You don’t expect that.

What do we expect from life? The typical things—that’s what I
expected. Love to the fullest measure; my children to fill and envelop
me; and a man as good and loving as John. We also expect—I
expected—because others have said, for life to be hard. We expect
twists and turns, but what I don’t understand is how we’re expected to
make it through.

Something has to fall away, not everything can survive.

We didn’t survive. It’s the price that I’ve been waiting to pay since
I started my descent into purgatory on Earth.

There is always a beginning to the end, but it’s not what you, reader,
think. It wasn’t the sickness—Nicky’s or my own—it wasn’t losing John
or having any of my children. It was far long before any of those
things occurred. It’s amazing how the residue of one life drips
unapologetically into the other. I know you’re confused about the
place I am in now, but I’m trying to tell the story—my life as it
were—as introspectively as I know how to do.

As I said, things fall away.

The beginning. That’s what started the fall. Alex. His name at one
time made my blood run cold; made my palms clammy; and propelled my
body into an involuntary fugue state. I don’t believe in ghosts but
the day that his name was uttered, I learned that I could still be
haunted.

She came so innocently into our lives. It was a godsend, that’s what I
called her; it’s what I saw her as. Rachel. The sweet, genial nurse
who made my son’s illness a little less traumatic. The girl who saw
the facets of my marriage that others had only guessed about. It was
her face that I saw before the beginning of the end. It was her voice
saying, “I think you’re my mother.” It was her hand I was holding
after it was all said and done.

This happened weeks after we got news that we’d found a donor for
Nicky. A perfect match, Dr. Kingston proclaimed. She said it was
uncanny how great the match was. I didn’t care then where it came
from. What was important was that Nicky’s postremission therapy would
receive an allogeneic stem cell transplantation.

“I think you’re my mother.” As simple as that, and my life tumbled.

Rachel, who dug through records after being so perfectly matched to
Nicky, that she began to question how it was possible. She dug through
the minutia of matching genes. And then she dug into her own
background. That was the way she explained it to me that day in my
bedroom. She came with no intentions, only what she thought of as the
truth—her truth. She had pictures and names. She had Alex’s DNA but
that didn’t stop her from matching perfectly with my son. That piece
of her didn’t overwhelm the parts that helped Nicky. From the story
that she’d been told, and the story that she had lived through, she’d
figured it out. The older couple who she’d called Mommy and Daddy was
really grandpa and grandma. Alex’s mother and father who raised the
girl who would finally be the savior that Nicky needed.

“I think you’re my mother.”

My body locked up tight and I forced myself not to hide away from what
she was saying. I beckoned that dear girl to my arms and tried to tell
her that it wasn’t possible. That I didn’t have a child with Alex
North. How could I have? I would remember giving birth to her. I
couldn’t possibly have mothered a child and completely forgotten
her—no matter how traumatic my life with Alex was.

And that’s what led me to him. The piece of the equation that I’ve
never been able to settle. Dr. Shalit, who promised that whenever I
needed him, he would never turn me away. And I needed him. I needed to
have someone reason with me; to tell me that all the things in my life
had essentially been a lie; to help me face the madness that is my
life. All of those things and more are why I went there. I also went
to find peace. I went to have him speak the affirmation over my life
that I wasn’t crazy, that I wasn’t a target for bad luck.

Where was John? I think I stopped paying attention once Rachel came to
me with her confession. She didn’t want to hurt us, that wasn’t her
intention. She said so; I believe so. She wanted to spare John any
more pain. What about my pain? What about hers? If what she was saying
was true, then we both deserved to find peace at last. This was my
rational. This is how I ended up at Dr. Shalit’s door.
The pieces of my life were incongruent. Children and sick babies, and
pregnancy. A common law marriage that hadn’t been legalized; an uneasy
alliance with my therapist; these things were enough to bring me to my
knees. For the sake of the baby—the one who I’d to that point taken
great care of—I sought help in the only place that I was comfortable
seeking it.

The storm came so suddenly—Rachel, Nicky, new baby—that I didn’t have
the wherewithal to withstand it. They sound like excuses now.

I went to his house. That was of course the first step in the mounting
collapse. He offered to meet me at the office but I swore that the
walls of that room would close in and swallow me whole. At that time,
I was feeling bound by pregnancy. Not in the way that I had with
Nicky, not in the least. I loved carrying that baby. I wanted very
much for the baby to have a safe journey from my womb into the world.
I had already bypassed the mark of Nicky’s premature birth. I was no
bigger than I had been with Nicky though. This time around, pregnancy
didn’t swell noticeably big. Only those close to us knew that I was
actually carrying a baby. That had a lot to do with John’s insistence
on taking care of myself and the baby; it kept me home with he and
Nicky. The actions are so murky that I don’t remember if we knew then
that our baby was going to be a little girl. The very little girl that
I’d dreamed of when we found out about Nicky’s leukemia. But that
could have been before I went to Dr. Shalit’s house. It’s the before
and after affect again.

Open and inviting—he was both of those things and more. On my shoulder
stood these towers of misconceptions and fear but he put his hands
there and led me inside. I remember being shocked that he had such
normal living quarters. I assumed that a doctor as precise as he was
would live in this mansion. That perception came only because of the
single life and ego. But he wasn’t really any of those things that I’d
imagined. I guess I learned that he was mostly like me. We both were
trying our best to show the perfection of our nature while falling
short. He welcomed me into the normalcy of his life.

I sat on a leather chair. I’ll never forget the smell or feel of it.
He propped my foot up on the ottoman and sat on the arm.

I unleashed the reasons that I was there in a quick rambling. I told
him of Rachel’s words and how she’d saved Nicky; of how much I really
didn’t want it to be true; that I wasn’t really that girl’s mother.
All of the things that I’m not allowed to say aloud for fear of
alienation and pain infliction. With my face buried in my hands, I
muffled through the hardest parts and toughened up for the saddest.

You don’t go away from your life willingly. He told me so gently. He
said that all trauma isn’t bad, sometimes it makes you remember that
you’re still alive and able to shift the perspective. I didn’t think
twice then about his hand stroking the back of my head. I felt so
natural that I leaned into it and closed my eyes. He also said that
with everything that happened in my life, the reasons have far
exhausted themselves. Maybe, he told me, maybe you’re not meant to
question. I heard the conviction when he apologized about what
happened with John. And I believed when he said that he was trying to
get over me. I genuinely believed him.

So when he pulled me into his arms to hold my shivering body, I went
willingly. I fell into his chest and sobbed until my breaths were
ragged. Until I was spent both emotionally and physically. When I
looked up into his eyes, I saw a very compassionate man fighting with
himself not to take advantage of me. He told then that he would take
me only if I came willingly and never in spite of John or out of
sadness. That didn’t stop his lips from collapsing on mine or me from
wrapping my arms around his neck and turning our bodies to rest on top
on each other in that leather chair.

What goes through your mind when you’re about to commit infidelity? My
mind was clear. Eerily clear. Of John. Of Rachel and Nicky. And even
of the baby who was resting in my body. The same body that had been
denied to John. I willingly—that word keeps creeping up—took a breath
and kissed him back. As I said, I wasn’t thinking about cheating on
John. I was looking for something beyond sexual gratification. It
wasn’t about his hands roaming the outlines of my body. In fact, I
don’t remember his hands moving at all. I just remember the sound of
the door slamming open.

Of course, it was John. In the law of nature, it would have to be the
person who would be most hurt by seeing me on top of my doctor,
kissing him. What I remember is that I closed my eyes and prayed for
the explosion to happen quickly. But when I opened them, he wasn’t
exploding. He was standing there with his hands tucked neatly into his
pocket. And I couldn’t, didn’t move. Even though I knew that the scene
before him—the man he hated most probably—underneath me, in contact
with his baby, I didn’t move. It was as if he had caught us in a
complete act of sex. From the way he watched me, I knew it would never
be the same.

The resentment that had been building for three years had finally come
full circle. I’d finally given him something that he couldn’t forgive
me for.

It took me lifting up from Dr. Shalit to shift our bodies. I think he
was using me as a shield against John. I wouldn’t have let him go
after Dr. Shalit anyway. I’ll never know, but in my heart, I feel as
though I would have never gone through anything sexual with Dr.
Shalit. We’d always connected in ways that John never understood. It
was never sexual. There is a kinship with people who have been to the
brink of madness, and who do everything in their power to save others
from that. It’s powerful for anybody but most especially for the two
of us.

Breaking away from Dr. Shalit, fixing my clothes and hair, all as John
stood silently to watch. He didn’t make eye contact with Dr. Shalit,
only with me. And I didn’t hide from it; I lifted my head to take his
judgment. He walked calmly toward me. I watched Dr. Shalit flinch in
the chair that I’d left him in. John grabbed my arm, not gently but
firmly, and walked me out of Dr. Shalit’s home. He put me in my car
and put my seatbelt on. He closed the door and stood in the street.

We watched each other for some time. Me? I was afraid of what I had
done to him, to us. I knew when he turned and walked away from me that
I had changed him. I had done the one thing that had always hurt him:
I gave myself to someone else. Even if Dr. Shalit and I never touched
intimately, emotionally I betrayed him. In his mind, that was
unforgiveable. Baby or no baby. Nicky sick or well. I sealed our fate.
Resentment flooded our gates and with no way around it, I drowned.

I started my car and drove home knowing that he wouldn’t be there when
I got there. That he wouldn’t be there again. Rachel was. So was
Nicky. And me.

( )

The things that fell away have yet to return but I wait, I’ll always
be hopeful. The truth is that I’m stronger having lost him. But there
are bridges that keep us connected. My hope is that we’ll walk across
and meet each other half way.

With Nicholas, and now his sister Juliana Nicole Evans-Black, we are
still a part of each other’s lives. The only thing that fell away was
the us. And I still miss the us.