Resentment Part 3 – Ordinary People – By Coley

“In the arithmetic of love, one plus one equals everything, and two

minus one equals nothing.”

–Mignon McLaughlin

It still feels strange waking up in my own house, even one year later.

Thankfully, I don’t wake up alone because there are two toddlers in

the house who love to climb into my bed after I’ve fallen asleep.

Wedged against my torso is a ball of limbs and raven curls that belong

to Juliana. As usual, she is sandwiched in between Nicky and I with

her thumb wedged in her mouth. Nicky’s lean body is further away

occupying the space that his father once did when we were still

sharing a home and bed.

As prickly as having four tiny feet pressing firmly against my side in

my sleep is, I adore waking up to my babies beside me. I lie still and

watch them sleep. If I move an inch to get ready for a shower, they

can sense it. I usually can manage about three steps outside of bed

before Nicky’s eyes pop open. He’ll reach for Juliana, who he calls

Joy in the garbled language of a two-year-old, and she’ll pop up next,

ready for the world.

The peaceful mornings before the chaos of the life are my favorite

time of day. It has been since the separation and subsequent custody

agreements invaded our lives. I have ten solid minutes of stillness

where chaos is concerned, where I say prayers for Nicky and Juliana’s

lives. I also pray that the anger that their father has toward me will

lessen. I don’t dwell on it, but for their sakes, I wish it could be

different.

It was John’s idea that we have separate homes. He also arranged for a

custody agreement that we could both be happy with. Instead of falling

on my knees and breaking down, I set about the business of moving on

with my life for all of our sakes. It wasn’t easy; and it didn’t start

with me being strong but eventually I got it. I took the

responsibility for my actions with Dr. Shalit. It wasn’t as easy as

saying how sorry I was. In the beginning, I was apologetic whenever I

had the chance to be. I told John repeatedly that my love was his.

His. I wanted that idea to be in his mind more than the vision of me

with Dr. Shalit. I tried everything to get him to forgive me. It

didn’t work.

We celebrated Nicky’s first birthday and remission as a separated

couple. He had moved into a condominium across town. For me, it was

the final nail. I never thought he could leave while I was still

pregnant with Juliana until I sat in the living room while movers were

packing his clothes away. I didn’t know then how I would get through

the next moment. And slowly, I started to take it one second at a

time.

I decided to find a place, of my own choosing. John expressed his

desire for me to keep the penthouse. I considered it. It had been my

home for so long and I’d had so many memories there. But those

memories were with John, and he made a decision no longer to share his

life with me. So I put the penthouse on the market and found our new

home a couple of weeks before Juliana’s birth.

It is the first place I’ve ever purchased on my own. I didn’t accept

any help from my parents or John. I wanted it to be 100 percent my

house. In the penthouse, even with the separation, John would come by

daily to check on Nicky and my pregnancy progress. I had to gain some

control of the situation, and essentially take back the control over

my life.

I found a house outside the city. It’s the kind of place that I’ve

always wanted to live in. On my first visit, the neighborhood

immediately reminded me of my own childhood with close neighbors and

lawns. There were children playing on sidewalks, riding their

bicycles. I pictured Nicky growing up alongside those children and it

was for Nicky that I signed the paperwork that very day.

In my house, I made all the decisions. I chose the color schemes for

each room. I picked out the furniture and art pieces. The harder part

was choosing décor for the baby’s room. Thumbing through the

catalogues of baby furniture, I realized that John had always done

these things as a surprise for me. But for Juliana’s room, I chose

pale, downy colors that could be changed as she grew. Nicky’s room is

a motif of his favorite animated movie. And though, they don’t spend

much time in their beds, I’m proud of my accomplishments.

I’ve gotten into my practice more fully, taking on more patients. I’ve

also rented space outside of the hospital. The change of scenery has

been wonderful. I’m trying to walk in this new life without

complaining. I don’t have much to complain about. I have my children,

a nice home, and we’re all healthy. Our lives are so ordinary but I

wouldn’t have it any other way.

I keep reminding myself of that when I finally sit up in the bed. It’s

half-past 8. John and I have an informal custody meeting. Initially,

after Juliana was born, John and I split our time as best as we could

with the children. I spent more time with the baby because I chose to

breastfeed her. John would take Nicky for overnights while Juliana

stayed with me. Two or three days out of the week, John would visit

with Juliana at his condo. She started staying overnights when she

turned six months. The strain of routine loss meant that I would deal

with a cranky, confused baby when she returned home. So I suggested we

revisit the agreement after she turned a year old. She is 13 months;

Nicky is 26 months.

To the world, they could be twins. The dark hair and brown eyes is one

facet that causes strangers to ask if they are in fact twins. Even

though Nicky is taller, he has a small frame from the remnants of his

sickness. Juliana is only a head smaller than Nicky but solid in

weight. The doctors assure me that she’ll be a basketball star with

her long legs. She was a large baby when she was born. 9 pounds

barreled through the birth canal. She hasn’t stopped growing yet.

Nicky’s eyes open on cue when my weight shifts the mattress. He sits

up and rubs his face the way that John does in the morning. He looks

at me fully and a wide smile pierces his mouth. Putting his finger to

his lips, he bends over Juliana and starts to tickle her neck. She

squeals without opening her eyes. Dropping her thumb from her mouth,

she calls Nicky brother—her pet name for him. Rolling over onto her

back, Juliana opens her eyes and searches for our faces.

“Good morning Noodle.” I kiss the side of her face and lift her from

the bed. Nicky crawls toward us and starts tickling his sister again.

“Did you sleep well honey?” I ask Nicky, after putting his squirming

sister over my shoulder.

He moves his head forward. I find myself staring at him a lot. I can’t

see traces of the little boy who was sick anymore except in his

weight. This little boy is full of life. I hope for a clean bill of

health every checkup. We have to do so every 3-4 months just to make

sure that his body is still free of leukemia. On those days, he and

Rachel have breakfast in the cafeteria of the hospital while I wait

patiently for the results. We’re still tentative about our

relationship but she and Nicky have a bond that can’t be severed.

The ringing telephone on my nightstand sends Nicky into frenzy. He

stands up to leap from the bed in order to retrieve it before I have a

chance. The acrobatic leap results in his tumbling head first into the

carpet. “Nicky.” I say frantic. Juliana grips my neck when I turn to

put her down. “Honey, I have to get your brother.” She shakes her head

before saying a forceful no.

Nicky shakes off his fall quickly. He stands up to answer the phone.

“Daddy.” He says knowingly. John calls him every morning before work.

It started on the first day he moved out of the penthouse. He also

calls every night before bedtime. Seeing me observe the conversation,

Nicky cradles the phone on his shoulder and walks out of the room to

talk in private. It tickles me that he thinks he needs privacy or that

he even knows what it is. I allow him his freedom while I attend to

Juliana.

The chaotic mornings are times I really wish I wasn’t a single mother.

Imagine that: a professional working middle-aged woman reliving her

misspent youth. It’s a struggle to micromanage two toddlers, my job,

and a number of other things. I’ve managed to get a morning routine

that gets us out of the house in less than an hour. Before Nicky and

Juliana, I took two hours each morning just for myself. Now it’s

luxury if I have ten minutes to myself.

In the thirty minutes it’ll take Nicky to talk to John, I can shower

with Juliana, wash her hair and mine, and clothe her. Seeing her slick

skin under the water, I always remember the day that she was born.

There’s something about the shine of her raven hair being slicked back

that reminds me of birth. Even then, she was all limbs. The longest

baby that I’ve ever had, she came into the world with her hands wide

open. It’s indicative of her personality. She is unafraid. No fear of

the unknown, just plain heart and soul. She’s uncomplicated and

untainted, I often say. She wasn’t born into the best of circumstances

but of all the other children, she was probably the most normal birth

I’ve had. She clings to me now the way she did on that first day.

I went into labor at midnight. Juliana was born at 1:01 a.m. May 26;

she’s my only Gemini baby. Mama drove me to the hospital and called

John. I imagined the scenario of how we would bring our new daughter

into the world before that day. Because the duality of our

relationship—parents and lovers—had been cut in half, I knew it

wouldn’t be easy for him to help me through labor. Thankfully, our

daughter, a born peacemaker, slid from my body easily ten minutes

after her father walked in the door. It was Mama, not John, who held

my hand during the rapid labor. She held my hair back and gave me

encouragement while John stood at the foot of the bed to see his

daughter come into the world. My part in the birth was of no

consequence to him. He made it clear that he was there for the baby

without ever having to say a word.

When it was over, I collapsed in Mama’s arms out of exhaustion and

joy. I was elated after her birth. I couldn’t wait to get her near me;

I wanted to hold my little girl very close. Sadly, it was more to do

with losing John then it was about becoming a mother again. In the

back of my mind, I think I hoped that seeing her would make him

realize how much he wanted to be a fully functioning family again. But

I bonded with her alone for an hour. I didn’t know that John had

actually left the hospital until he reappeared with Nicky in tow. I

wanted to chastise him for bringing him out so late but I let it go to

keep the peace. Instead, I handed him our daughter and watched his

tears well up. She was the spitting image of Nicky as a baby and as a

one-year-old. In full possession of her father’s dark hair and olive

skin, she squirmed and bunched her way in her father’s arms. He

noticed that, like Nicky, she also had my eye color. Her name came

from the dream I’d had about Nicky and a little girl named Jules. I

also liked the idea of having our daughter’s initials be in accord

with her father’s. We chose Juliana over Juliet. And I added Nicole

for a linkage to Nicky. Up to that point, we were doing fine until I

suggested a hyphenated last name for her. I pointed out the fact that

we weren’t married and she would be with both of us. Maybe I was doing

it for argument sake. Whatever the reason, he conceded and I filled

out the paperwork for her birth certificate with Juliana Nicole

Evans-Black as her name.

After we are both dressed, I watch her sprint out of the room. She is

no doubt looking for her missing brother. Having them so close

together, I think, has made them unusually close. There haven’t been

many bickering days between them. Juliana adores Nicky and he feels

the same for her. Rounding the corner after Juliana to Nicky’s

bedroom, I discover that he’s still talking his father’s head off

while watching cartoons.

“Nicky, is it polite to watch TV while you’re talking to daddy?” I ask

bending down to pick up action figures from the floor. His big boy bed

is made. His clothes are neatly put on shelves in the closet. He’s a

happy camper. “Nicky.”

“Mommy. We’re watching.” He tells me pointing to the phone. “Right daddy?”

I hate to intrude on their time but they’ll see each other in a couple

of hours. It’s our exchange day. Fridays are John’s days to have them

for the weekend. There’s not much fuss when they go because they

essentially live out of two houses. I don’t pack bags when they visit

John. Everything that they need is there. Tossing the men in the toy

chest, I switch the television off.

Nicky stands up quickly, with his fists bunched at his side. “Mommy.”

He grunts angrily.

“It’s time to hang up honey.” I tell him, checking my wrist. “You’ll

see daddy today. I have to get you dressed. I want to get something to

eat in your body before we have to go. Tell daddy goodbye.”

Goodbyes are harder for Nicholas than Juliana. He’s had more of John

than she does. She only knows of a daddy that she sees every few days.

Nicky remembers a daddy that was always around. He strides past me and

Juliana, knocking her to the ground in his path. He stops instantly,

turning around to see why she’s crying. I reach for the phone,

cautiously putting it to my ear while attending to the baby.

“Hi John.”

He answers in the same, unexcited voice he uses with me now. “Hello

Marlena. What’s going on?”

Watching Nicky console Juliana makes me quickly forget my anger at his

temper tantrum. “Nicky walked by her too briskly and she fell. She’s

okay. They’re making up as we speak.” I smile at my son kissing his

sister. “So, our appointment is at your office. Then we’ll exchange

at….”

“Noodles?” he says. It’s his choice this week. “I’ll see you in a

little bit. Kiss the kids for me.”

“I’ll talk to you then.” My mouth moves automatically to say I love

you. Even after all this time. It’s just such a natural thing to say.

It feels wrong not to. But I hear the dial tone and hang up the phone

instead.

My life feels so ordinary without him. I’m still getting acquainted

with the feeling of being Marlena without John; or Mommy without

Daddy. Now we’re one of the many couples who tried their best to

succeed only to give up.

Juliana and Nicky are the only things that hold us together now. And

we’re in a non-combative tussle to see who gets to spend what precious

time and wear.

“Mommy.”

I turn to Nicky’s voice. “I’m sorry. I kiss Joy. “ I kneel and pull

both of them into my embrace. I tell myself that I’m making it work

because of them. They are my strength. I pull back to see their faces.

My heart physically hurts to see how much they look like John. “I love

you two so much.” I say squeezing them together. “Do you know that?”

Juliana squeals while Nicky tells me, “Mommy too tight.”

“I know but I can’t stop loving you,” I say loosening my arms. “So you

have to let Mommy squeeze you until it makes you squeal. And then you

have to always say I love you Mommy. Got that Noodle? Nicky?”

They both shake their heads affirmatively. “I love you Mommy.” Nicky

tells me with his arms circling my neck.

“Brother. Me me.” Juliana wraps her arms around Nicky from behind. She

wants his attention. I know the feeling except it’s not this Black

that I want attention from. Nicky lets me go and turns around in my

arms to hug his little sister. Seeing the love between them is proof

that our love wasn’t in vain. Even if it’s over now, our love was

real. I look at my children everyday to see that.

Chapter 2

“If you bungle raising your children, I don’t think whatever else you

do matters very much.”

–Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis

[John]

She can still walk into a room, unaware of how she owns it. She can,

after a hectic morning with my children still pull herself together so

that all eyes are on her. I used to find the way she didn’t know that,

endearing; it only pisses me off now.

Marlena doesn’t realize that the mediator sitting in the conference

room of my office building isn’t watching her to observe her. He’s

watching the beautiful creature who stepped out of the elevator with

dark glasses propped in curly hair. Men look for any hint of intimate

knowledge in a well-put together woman. She has on a light sleeveless

dress that moves up with each step she takes. She’s tan. She’s smiling

when she turns into the conference room unaware that we’ve both been

watching her.

I look out of habit.

When we started this custody conversation a year ago, she didn’t bring

the confident attitude that she has today. She was sadder, and

confused. We’ve never had to arrange for time with our kids. We’ve

always just been together. Since she desecrates my trust in her, this

is the way it has to be.

I never wanted this to make her anxious. That’s why I like the

informal agreement we have in place. We don’t need lawyers to mediate

what we did well enough with Brady and Belle. I don’t have a list of

demands. I just want to see my kids. I want to be a part of their

lives. I made the mistake before of letting Marlena handle the major

responsibilities of parenting with Belle and Brady. I liked being the

fun parent who let them get away with things she didn’t approve of. I

liked being the one who read bedtime stories at night while she dealt

with them during the day. I was lack in my fatherhood duties. Having

Nicky changed the way I saw parenting. Having it forced on me the way

it was with her sickness, I learned very quickly that I could do it.

And I want to continue to do it with him and my new baby girl.

She waves hello before taking the seat furthest away from me around

the oval conference table. I wonder if I’ll ever stop being attracted

to her. I can make my body not react so obviously but I still think

she is the most beautiful woman in the world. Being separated doesn’t

change that fact. She’s gorgeous. And she doesn’t act like she knows

it.

She reaches across the table to shake Kenley Waters’s hand. Leaning

forward shifts her ample cleavage into a more prominent position. I

inhale out of frustration. I’m not allowed to tell her what to wear or

how to behave. The clueless factor is one of the reasons that we’re

sitting here. She doesn’t realize the power that she has over men, and

how she allows them to cross boundaries that are inappropriate. We’re

sitting here today because she crossed the line going a hundred miles

an hour. One stipulation of our custody agreement is that she not see

Dr. Shalit or allow my kids to see him. At the time, she was so hurt

by my leaving that she would have agreed to anything.

“Good morning Dr. Evans.” Kenley says to her with his eyes raised from

her chest.

“Hi Ken.” She finally leans away from the table. “John.”

“Are the kids squared away?”

“They are.” She says very simply. I notice that she never gives more

than I ask. The details are succinct, to the point. The minute details

of her life don’t belong to me. “I brought the schedule of

appointments. Nicky and Juliana’s. I try to schedule them around the

same time so that it’s less of a hassle for us.” She is talking to

Ken. It’s awkward. The meetings are informal but there is still

awkwardness. She pulls out a schedule agenda and opens it to the June.

“Here are the dates.” We do this every month, usually Ken is nowhere

around. It’s usually on the exchange day. When she hands Ken the

agenda, I take it from him. I want some things to remain just ours. He

doesn’t get to choose who takes my kids to the doctor. Usually it’s

whichever parent has them for the day, but we’re here to discuss that

schedule as well.

It wasn’t my idea to change the agreement that we have in place. For

two or three nights each week, usually at the end of the week, I have

them at my condominium. It’s worked well so far. There are still

nights when the only person either of them wants is Marlena to put

them to sleep. When that happens, I call her for them and let her talk

them down. I put the phone on speaker because I want to hear her

calming techniques. One day I won’t need to call her so much.

“From the looks of it, you have a pretty informal agreement here. No

locked in nights. The kids have you both at their leisure.” He says as

he looks over the piece of paper that dictates that we will share

custody of Nicky and Juliana. “Dr. Evans, it was at your suggestion

that changes be made?”

She nods. Her eyes meet mine for the first time since she came in the

door. “Things are different. This was made before our youngest

daughter was a month old. My work schedule has also changed. I wanted

to discuss a complete shift in the schedule.” She looks apologetic

about making such a hassle.

“That’s fine.” I know that her practice is back at full level. She’s

rented office space not far from her new house. She established a

women’s group for every third Wednesday of the month; I take the kids

four nights during that week. My schedule is almost as busy except, as

CEO I delegate more than I have to work. On the days when Nicky and

Juliana are with me, I do as much business from my home office as I

can. It’s rare that I have to leave the house during their visits.

Unlike her schedule where she is on-call 24 hours a day. She never

knows when or if she’ll be needed. On the rare occurrence of an

emergency, we employ a woman named Danielle, who is familiar with both

of our houses. She is an unofficial nanny who helps a lot.

“I’ve written out a tentative schedule,” Ken says pulling a piece of

paper from his briefcase. “The best solution that gives you both equal

time is a weeklong visit with each parent. The exchange day would fall

on Sunday, either afternoon or morning. It can be at your discretion.

Dr. Evans, that addresses your concern of establishing a routine for

them. They’ll know what day ahead of time, as will you.”

She looks at the paper blankly. “An entire week?” Squinting her eyes

is a habit-her thinking face. She rests two fingers underneath her

chin and props her elbow on the table. Her fingers are bare; no

jewelry or sign that she belongs to anyone. The bracelet dangling from

her arm is lined with charms for each of our children. It’s not the

charm bracelet I once gave her. “I don’t know how I’ll feel being away

from them for so long. As it is, the three nights away are tough.”

I feel bad, for a second. It was my decision to break up our union. It

was also my decision to challenge the status quo of our parenting

arrangement. She looks conflicted; biting the inside of right cheek

draws her mouth together. She touches the paper, running her fingers

over the color coded blocks that partition our children’s lives. When

her cell phone rings, she looks grateful for the distraction. She

checks the caller ID and excuses herself from the room. She doesn’t go

far, only a couple of feet down into the hall. The glass windows of

the room give me a full view of her. A part of me wonders who it is,

who is making the conflict that washed over her face disappear. The

other part of me sits with my arms folded on the table, looking away

from her animated conversation. I still care but I care for all the

wrong reasons. Jealousy has a lot to do with it. One of the reasons

that I walked away is because of my jealousy. I won’t ever be able to

trust her again. And that’s something that I need to have. There isn’t

a day that goes by that I don’t see the image of her with him. We’ve

never even discussed what happened. I don’t want to know. I’m afraid

for her and him if it’s what I think it is. My imagination is the only

punishment I need.

I know that she’s not dating. I know her. She’s still hoping that I’ll

change my mind and realize how hard it is to be single. I do miss

sharing my life with her. I’d be lying if I said that some days I

don’t want to still be the one who wakes up next to her. If it’s not

me, I’m glad that it is my children instead. They do the same with me.

It keeps the question of dating off the table.

There are also days like this. When I see her-it’s easier not to have

to-and I remember all the good things about her and our life together.

Even watching her now, throwing her head back to laugh, I remember, I

used to make her do that. The smile plastered across her lips would

start in the mornings when we woke up pressed against each other. I’d

be holding her from behind; her arm would be thrown behind me. She’d

usually stretch awake and turn around in my arms to sleep a couple

more minutes lying against my chest. Her image would stay with me all

day. Everything about her. The smell of her hair, the curves of her

hips and breasts; the rewarding look on her face after I’d orally

stimulated her, or the way her body jerked around me when her orgasm

crested. By the time we climbed back into bed at night, I was always

ready to push my love inside of her again.

I could never hide my sexual attraction to her. I didn’t try to. She

once said that we craved each other. What I craved was being buried

inside her. What’s sexier than kneeling above the woman you love to

give her pleasure? Nothing. There is nothing to compare to the feel of

our skin pressing anxiously together. I still have dreams about her. I

wake up now and have to manually relieve the tension because there is

no other way. I wonder what she does now to

get her release.

“I’m sorry.” She says slipping back into her seat.

“It’s fine,” Ken answers.

“Was it about the kids?”

She looks perplexed by my question. “No.” She lifts the paper in front

of her. “I don’t know if I can agree with this. A week is entirely too

long. They’re both still a little dependent on me. I realize that my

role is no more important than John’s but I can’t relinquish them for

a week.” She places the paper back on the table and looks at me.

“Don’t you have any qualms about this?”

“We can’t have the best of both worlds anymore Marlena. We have to

deal with what is.”

“John, think about it. Nicky will start to worry that I’ve abandoned

him, or that you have. And the Noodle…she’s only one. She doesn’t

understand that she has to be away from us. We can’t expect her to.”

Ken interjects. “You have to come up with a solution that not only

fits the children. You’re the parents.”

She lifts her eyes to Ken. She is visibly agitated by his perspective.

“No offense Ken, but these meetings as I’ve understood them in my own

practice are about the children,” her voice is set in determination

reserved for these kinds of hard spots. I admire how much she wants to

make this transition easier on the kids. “The best interest of the

children. We do, as their parents, know what’s best for them.”

Ken looks undaunted. “I hear that all the time. But is it healthy to

cater to their insecurities now? Or is it healthier to make them aware

of the need for adapting? I’m not a psychiatrist but I also have some

experience in this field.”

“These are my children, not my patients.”

“You do want what’s best for them. Both your patients and your children?”

She shifts uneasily in her seat. I get some joy out of her being

thrown for a loop. Kenley Waters is a sonofabitch but he’s also fair.

“One thing has nothing to do with the other. As a doctor, we are

discouraged from treating family members.”

“Marlena.” She looks from Ken to me. “What other options are there?”

Her hesitation is met with my captive attention. She falters for a

second. It’s always been a job for her to not show emotions. I know

that Ken doesn’t read her face the way that I do. He sees the tightly

drawn features as irritation but it’s her trying to hold herself

together.

“Monday through Thursday with me. Thurs through Sunday with you. Its

worked fine for me. They are already used to that schedule. If that’s

the only way to keep them from spending a week away from both of us,

then I’m fine with it. I can shift my workload around.”

“You’re certain?” Ken inquires, looking at me instead of her. “I

thought you had a problem with the schedule, Dr. Evans.”

“I have a bigger problem not seeing Nicholas and Juliana. It’s fine. John?”

“It’s fair.” I don’t have a problem with any schedule that allows me

to have them. I do see the reason for Marlena’s hesitation. A week

away from them wouldn’t be fair to any of us.

“Should we discuss holidays and birthdays then?”

I answer Ken for both of us. “We celebrate birthdays together. And we

can keep the calendar open for holidays.”

“Okay. Well if I can get you to fill out this paperwork, I’ll get this

notarized.”

By a single piece of paper, my kids’ lives are again split into

halves. I write each of their names in the blank lines apportioned for

them. Nicholas Ethan Black. Juliana Nicole Evans-Black. Dates of

birth. 4/18/06. 5/26/07. It hurts me that their lives are divided; it

hurts their mother too. I write my signature quickly at the end of the

document without reading further. I get emotional about my kids. I try

discreetly to brush the tear hiding in the corner of my eye.

After Ken leaves the conference room, Marlena hesitates before

leaving. She stands up, turns to go but stops, and turns back around.

“We’re doing the right thing, aren’t we? I know that we’re

finished…but, for them, I hope that we’re doing the right thing for

them.”

She doesn’t wait for my answer. She pulls her sunglasses from her hair

over her eyes and walks out.

There is no right thing in this situation. I catch myself looking to

see if she’s gone yet. I find plenty reasons to be upset with her, but

a part of me wants her to be okay. I still hate to see her cry.

[Marlena]

One of the hardest things about the dissolution of my relationship

with John is not being able to share things with him. I can’t call him

up anymore and say guess what your son did today. Or look at him to

find Juliana in his face. That’s exactly what I wanted to do when I

pick them up from the park with Danielle.

Nicky pleads to stay until I can see him climb the jungle gym. He

hands me the beige ball cap that wouldn’t stay on top of his head, and

makes Juliana promise to hold my hand until he comes back from his

challenge with the jungle gym. He’s been trying to conquer the medium

structure since his first time at the park.

I stay at an appropriate distance; one that Nicky won’t think is too

close. He wants to succeed in getting to the top. Danielle stands

right below him. He climbs a rail, then two before looking over his

shoulder to make sure that I’m still looking. I am. I sit on the bench

with Juliana in my lap. After the third and fourth rails, he didn’t

look back anymore but I glimpsed his face from the side. He bites into

his bottom lip with every move upward. His little legs bend and climb,

matching the efforts with his arms until he’s on top. It’s something

that I’m sure John could find pride in. The only thing I can do is

clap my hands and open my arms when he dismounts the jungle gym. He

collides with Juliana gently and envelops us both in his tiny arms.

“I was good Mommy.” He tells me cupping my face the way that I often do his.

“You were excellent my boy. I’m proud of you.”

“I wasn’t fraid.” Nicky conveys proudly. He pats his sister’s head. “I

teach you.”

I shake my head. “Mommy’s not ready for your little sister to climb

jungle gyms Nicky. We have to go. You’re going to Daddy’s tonight.” I

expect the arsenal of questions from Nicky when we walk back home from

the park. It’s only a block away. And by the time we reach the corner,

he’s gotten to his favorite question. Is daddy coming home? I always

know it’s coming but I’m still not sure how to answer it. We’ve tried

to establish the concept of two homes for Nicky. But at two, he only

remembers that he has two toothbrushes. A green one at daddy’s and a

Sponge Bob at our house.

Juliana is a little less concerned with going to her father’s. She is

happy just to have Danielle pushing her along in her stroller. She is

attached to Danielle. Unlike Belle’s nanny, Danielle is a young

student at the university. She’s studying to be a teacher. I was lucky

to find her, and even luckier to incorporate her into the two

households that my children reside in. She stays at my house when

necessary and with John when necessary. When we reach the end of the

driveway, I ask Danielle to take Juliana upstairs for a bath so that I

can talk to Nicky.

“Joy is funny Mommy.” He says watching her dangle her feet from the

holes in her stroller as she disappears up the drive.

“Very funny.” She does have a wicked sense of humor. She laughs more

than she does anything else. I suspect she finds Nicky even more

amusing than he finds her. “Come and sit with Mommy for a minute.”

He rolls his eyes and starts to sprint up the driveway. “Nicholas,

where are you going?”

“No talk Mommy.” He says with his arms folded over his chest. I brush

his hair from his forehead after I catch up to him. He doesn’t resist

when I grab his hand and lead him to the front stairs. He plops down

and I kneel on the step in front of his, eye level to him.

“What’s with this no talk to Mommy? Are you angry with Mommy?”

He shakes his head.

“Well?” I encourage. He has a beautiful command of language. He is

also far ahead of children his age when it comes to words. But he can

also be very quiet when he wants to be. Determined and stubborn, which

I attribute to his father. “You asked me about daddy coming home. Do

you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

It’s tough for kids of psychiatrists. I’ll admit that, but closing off

has never been an option I give my children. “It’s Friday. You go to

daddy’s house on Friday. And then you’re going to stay with him for

three days.” I hold up three fingers for him to count. “Daddy has his

own house. This is our house. Right?”

“I want Pika.” He said fumbling with his untied shoelace.

“You’ll see Pika at daddy’s tonight.” I explain, reaching down to

retie his shoe. “You and your sister have your own rooms there. And

you have all of your favorite toys there. And Mommy will pick you up

on Sunday.” The repetition of his schedule is lost on him. He doesn’t

care about things. I know what he wants is his daddy to live with us

but I can’t give him that. I’ve done all the things that aide them in

transitioning from one home to another. Pictures of John in our home.

Clothes at both houses, minimizing the need for suitcases so that they

don’t feel like guests in their homes. A routine. All of that feels

like failure when Nicky climbs into my lap and says he wants me to

come to his father’s with him.

“I can’t baby. I have so much to do here.” I’m not supposed to make

him feel as if his request isn’t important. “Daddy has a lot of fun

things planned for you sweetie. Okay?” He nods sadly. We go through

this nearly every time. One day, he’ll stop wishing for something that

isn’t. But I don’t expect him to not want that, he’s a little boy. So

I’ll patiently entertain any of his questions or concerns. That’s what

I can do to make this less confusing for him. “Let’s get you cleaned

up.”

Nicky hops down from my lap. “I’ll ask daddy to come home.” He says

running up the remaining stairs. The conversation we’ve had completely

out of his mind. He reaches on his tippy toes and opens the screen

door, disappearing inside.

Noodles is a treat for Nicky, not so much for Juliana. It’s a

fast-paced, kid-friendly restaurant with arcades and miniature rides

in a game room behind the dining area. I purposely didn’t tell Nicky

that we were meeting his daddy here. I wanted to surprise him.

“Noodles Mommy.” He howls, unlatching his booster seat.

“Honey, haven’t I told you not to do that. The car is still moving.” I

say gently. He’s been taking his seat belt off and lifting the arm of

his booster seat. “Nicholas.” He’s ignored my warning and pressed his

nose against the window. Juliana starts calling my name to be free.

Her excitement is purely based on Nicky’s. She could care less about

anything less than the French fries that John will have ordered for

her. “Nicky, you can’t undo your seat belt. Do you want to get hurt?”

He says no without looking over his shoulder. “Daddy. Daddy.” He

starts saying, banging on the window. “Daddy. It’s me. Nicky.”

“Honey, calm down. Sit in your seat until I park the car.” I say

sternly. “Nicholas.” I call out when he doesn’t oblige. “If I don’t

park, you don’t get out. If you don’t sit, I don’t park.”

“Mommy.” He says exasperated.

“Then sit honey. Daddy will get you as soon as I park.” When he sits

back into the seat, huffily, I glide the SUV into an empty spot near

the front door. I hear Nicky jimmying with the door and I thank God

that I engaged the child locks. “Don’t be anxious honey.”

I’m not sure if I should climb out. It gives the kids the impression

that I’m staying. “Hi John. You have a live wire here.” I tell him

when he opens Nicky’s door.

“Hi kid. How’s my big boy?” John folds him into his arms until Nicky

pulls back. “And my princess. How’s my little princess?” John says to

our daughter when he walks and opens her door up. With Nicky hanging

on his neck, he unlatches Juliana from her chair and scoops her up.

“Daddy strong.” I hear Nicky say. I’m still behind the wheel of my

car, waiting for John to close Juliana’s door. He’s kissing her face

and hair. She loves her daddy’s lips. And she tilts her head to touch

them.

“Good kisses.” He tells her, as he shifts her to chest. Nicky is

hanging from his back. “I’m so happy to see you guys.” I allow them a

minute. He hasn’t seen them in three days. It always takes Juliana a

minute to warm up enough to go with him without tears. If I try to

creep away while they’re still unsure, then tears ensue and we’re

stuck. “We’re going to have French fries for my favorite girl. And

chicken tenders for the boy. How does that sound guys?”

From the driver’s side mirror, I see Nicky shaking his head happily.

Juliana is somewhat excited. The mention of French fries is always a

deal breaker. She is in a stage where she only eats French fries.

Nothing else. “Make sure they bake the chicken tenders. He won’t eat

them otherwise. No ketchup on the plate. She likes the dipping cup.” I

remind John when he steps up closer to the my door. They make a great

picture: John with our son hovering on his back and our daughter

clutching his neck, his strong arm propped beneath her rear. I don’t

say goodbye. I only ask for a kiss.

Juliana leans forward to press her mouth against mine through the

opened window. “I love you Noodle.”

“Me next, Mommy.” Nicky says. John leans down further, twisting his

back so that Nicky’s face is level with mine.

“Be good little boy. I love you.” I purposely avoid saying how much

I’ll miss them. I don’t want to make them feel guilty for leaving. But

my son is ahead of that game.

“You miss us?” He asks, raising his eyebrows.

I smile slightly. “Of course, now go have fun with daddy.” I mouth

that I’ll call them tonight before John turns away.

“No.” Nicky protests when they are away from the car. I’ve turned the

key over but am still in park. “No. I want Mommy too.”

I cover my hand with my mouth. This is what I was afraid of. It’s

getting harder to avoid scenes like this. From the rearview mirror, I

see Nicky struggling to get down from John’s neck. The panic on John’s

face when Nicky gets free and darts across the parking lot back toward

the car makes me hop out of the truck. “Nicholas, don’t ever do that

again.” I say snatching him up into my arms. “Do you see these cars?

Do you? It’s dangerous.” I say raising my voice. “That’s a very bad

thing.”

John puts his hand on my shoulder. I put Nicky back on the ground.

“It’s okay. He’s fine.” He kneels down and checks Nicky over. “Are you

okay?” Our son nods. “And you?” He asks me, looking up from his

position in front of Nicky.

“I’m fine.”

“I want you too.” Nicky says unhindered by my outburst.

Juliana takes her turn. “Mommy.” She reaches across her father’s arms

toward me. “Mommy.”

“Noodle,” I sigh, taking her from John. “Mommy needs to go.”

Juliana and Nicky dismiss the idea. “Please Mommy.” Nicky pleads.

“Daddy I want Mommy.”

“Honey, she has to go home,” is his halfhearted attempt.

There isn’t a book written that tells a mother how to graciously turn

her child down without scarring them. I know that John doesn’t want to

give in. I don’t want to either but I also hate making Nicky and

Juliana upset. Blackmailed by guilt, John offers me lunch and I

accept.

Lunch is tenuous. Forced conversations with the person you’d rather

not talk to has never been a comfortable situation. Luckily, Nicky is

also feeling chatty. He engages John with stories of action figures

and Juliana adventures, the two staples in his life. I hope, while I

listen, that he doesn’t bring up the question that he asked me while

we’re all sitting here. I don’t think I could stand to hear John’s

answer. While Nicky chatters, I help Juliana polish off her French

fries. She smiles every time she dips a fry into her dipping cup

filled with ketchup.

It was never this hard to be in John’s presence. It’s probably because

of the meeting we had this morning. I was a little frazzled with the

mediator. I gave birth to these two. I’m uncomfortable with anyone

other than John or me deciding their lives. It reminded me that John

had made it so that we couldn’t just talk things out.

“Belle called today.” John shares with me when Nicky takes a break to

pop a chicken tender in his mouth. I avert my eyes around the room

when I shake my head as a response. Belle is a tough subject between

us. She and Shawn left on an unplanned tour of the world, one with no

end. I still think it’s because John told her about Dr. Shalit. I was

upset with her choice to abandon her life here, and she was upset that

I’d betrayed her daddy again. She doesn’t call me. “I think they’re

headed to Greece in a couple of days. She says that Claire is having a

wonderful time.”

“I’m glad for her.” I manage to say without pain hardening my voice.

“Do you want Mommy to cut that for you?” I ask Nicky when he lifts a

plastic knife to divide a chicken tender in half. He hands me the

knife and I slice into the chicken. He smiles and pops one end in his

mouth.

“I think it’s probably time to go.” I tell them looking at my watch.

“Home?” Nicky asks, looking at both of us.

“Yes,” I answer quickly. “Daddy’s home. I’ll be at our house.”

“But I want you.” Nicky whines.

I think of a quick solution. “Don’t you want to see Pika?”

“Yes.”

Juliana can only manage one syllable of the dog’s name. “Pi?”

“Yes, Pika sweetheart.” I tell her, wiping her mouth clean of ketchup.

“Pika’s at Daddy’s with all of your things.” She accepts that. She

lifts her hands above her head to be free of the high chair. “Then you

can watch your videos Noodle. And Nicky can play his games with

Daddy.” My voice is an octave higher than normal. I’m trying to get

them excited about leaving me.

“You can play games?” Nicky suggeste. “We beat Daddy.”

I look away from John’s wounded look. He’s thinking that we don’t

entice the pot so that they’ll want to go. We don’t barter with the

kids. But if I don’t, then we’ll be in Noodles all night trying to

convince them to go. It’s hard to know when they’ll react this way.

Sometimes, they both willingly go with him and I’m the one who’s left

feeling wounded. But usually this has been the scene.

“Mommy has to go,” John tells Nicky who is in mid-question. “You’re

staying with me.”

I close my mouth. There are words begging to come forward. I think

he’s being too hard on him.

“But Daddy.”

“No.”

“But..”

“Nicholas…look at Daddy,” he tilts Nicky’s chin up, “no. Now tell

Mommy goodbye.”

When Nicholas climbs from his seat next to John in the booth to hug

me, I know he realizes that he’s lost. I lift him up and pull him

beneath my chin. “I love you honey. Mommy loves you very much.” I

whisper how sorry I am, but it stops silent in the crown of his hair.

“I’ll call you tonight.”

Nicky moves his head against my chest. John calls his name and he

climbs from my arms. I lean over to Juliana and kiss her several

times. Just enough that she’ll remember my face when she closes her

eyes tonight. Sweeping my hand over her dark hair, I stop at the curly

ends with my fingers. “Be good baby girl. Mommy loves her Noodle.” I

get up and walk out before either of them can protest again. I hurry

to the SUV and climb in. It feels so big with them not in the back

seat.

My phone vibrates in my purse after I turn the key. Scrolling through

my blackberry I see a message from John. We need to come up with a

better plan. This is too hard for them. A mediator for the exchange?

Danielle?

I close the message with responding and drive home to my empty house.

Chapter 3

“The greatest healing therapy is friendship and love.”

— Hubert H. Humphrey

I became a psychiatrist for purely selfish reasons. A teacher once

told me, if you want to make a difference in the world, change another

person’s life. I took that idea to college and chose to become a

conduit for others to change their lives.

I’ve also learned that the only thing that you can do with your pain

is help someone else find a way out of their pain. All pain is the

same. My separation from John is painful. I’m trying to take that and

turn it into positive energy.

It hasn’t been easy. After the heartbreaking goodbye with Nicky and

Juliana, I went home and spent time in each of their bedrooms. I hate

feeling sorry for myself. I also hated the empty beds. I hated saying

goodnight by a phone, especially with my baby wailing in the

background. She refused to take the phone. When things are hard for

Nicky and Juliana over the breakup, I am angry with John. I refused to

speak with him after I told Nicky how much I loved him. That was only

day one of their day away from me.

I purposely scheduled the workshop with a colleague on Saturday

morning because I knew John would have the children. My attempt at

channeling the negative energy into positive. If I don’t occupy my

mind with something other than waiting for them to come home, I’ll go

quietly insane.

Dr. Cory Lake and I have sat on panels together. She’s a gorgeous

African-American psychologist whose heart remains in building up her

community. When she asked me to help coordinate an unwed first-time

mothers’ workshop for inner-city youth, I was happy to oblige.

Entering the room, my problems fell from my shoulders and remained

outside of the door. There are far more pressing issues than me and my

separation. I’m trained to turn myself inward in order to affect

people outward.

From a quick look around the room, I first notice how young the

participants are. How innocent they look, even with their swollen

bellies poking out. There are six girls in total. Three

African-American, two Latinos, and one Caucasian girl. The myth that

teenage pregnancy is an African-American problem is one that Cory

confronts with these workshops. If we leave one group out of the

conversation, then they fall by the wayside. It is one of her

strongest convictions as a counselor. She works in school systems to

combat the pregnancy problem.

“Marlena, I’m glad you’re here.” Cory greets me with a hug when she

turns around to see me. She is standing with two girls who are

watching me closely. “These are two of my girls. Diondra and Keema.”

The girls timidly extend their hands. I know from our conversations

that these girls are only six of the nearly fifty pregnant teens who

attend school in Cory’s district.

Keema narrows her eyes, sizing me up circumspectly.

“I’m Marlena.” I throw my arm around Keema’s shoulders cautiously. I’m

not sure if me making contact is a good thing. But I’ve learned over

time that sometimes people who exhibit a hard exterior only need to be

broken by compassion. “This isn’t exactly how you wanted to spend your

Saturday is it?” She shrugs. “I promise you that it’ll be fun. No

boring lectures. No stories about the ancient days of my and Dr.

Lake’s youth. Only straight talk.”

A forced smile changes the delicate features of her face. She has

hazel almond shaped eyes and smooth pecan colored skin. She looks so

young.

Throughout the introductions, I learn the other girl’s names: Lena, a

tall blonde with an athlete’s build; Jamie, the youngest girl at

fourteen who has raven curly hair; Tory, Keema’s best friend, and

Marcia, the quietest of the group.

Each girl’s story is different. We listen to them as they intersect

their stories with each other. Marcia and Jamie are both six months

pregnant. They made a pregnancy pact with ten other girls in the

school. Looking at their faces, I see the regret. I hear the fear in

their shaky voices.

“I told him I wanted a baby. I didn’t think it would happen the first

time.” Jamie recounts to the group. We are sitting in an intimate

circle. “We all thought it was going to be fun. Babies are cute. I

wanted what the other girls in my family had, so I made the pact.”

It’s almost hard to remember that this is a child speaking so

carelessly about the process of creating life. She’s fourteen. It’s

complicated for me, and I have a wealth of knowledge and experience.

Tory shows us the stretch marks coursing up the center of her belly.

“I’m only 7 months. I don’t know how much longer I can stand it.”

She’s edgy. Her speech is peppered in phrases that Cory translates for

me. There was no pact. She became pregnant by mistake. “My mama

doesn’t want a grandbaby. Neither does his Mama. We’re going to move

in together when she’s born and take care of her.”

“How?” is the question that slips from Keema’s turned down pout; she

has been sitting back letting everyone else tell their stories without

her input. “You keep talking about these plans but you never say how.

I know he doesn’t work. And you have to finish school.”

Tory rolls her eyes. She sits stiff against the chair. “No, how are

you gonna do it? You aint got no baby’s daddy.” I’m surprised by how

quickly Tory turns on Keema.

Cory interjects. “Ladies, we need to respect each other. We aren’t

here to tear each other down.”

I ask Keema the question running through my mind. “What happened to

you baby’s father?”

She scrunches down, changing her posture completely. Hidden under

layers of long t-shirts is her protruding belly. The quiet resignation

in her situation is all throughout her petite body.

“Keema?”

She turns and holds my gaze in alignment with hers. She could be

anyone’s little girl. Sixteen years old. She is somebody’s little

girl. Instincts tell me to go and throw my arms around her to give her

some of the confidence that she is apparently lacking. But she’s also

angry. “Why do you care? What do you know about my life?” She

challenges me.

“Your life,” I shrug, “I don’t know anything about your life. I’m

asking because I want to know.”

“Why? So you can feel sorry for me?” She charges angrily. Her delicate

features are less welcoming. Her body language turns combative with

folded arms across her chest.

“Do you think because I’m not African-American that I won’t

understand? Or that I’ll judge you or the other girls here?”

“I don’t.” Lena speaks up and her brown eyes brighten a little. “I

appreciate you taking the time to come.”

“You would,” Keema says sarcastically, rolling her eyes. “You’re not

even supposed to be here.” She uncrosses her arms and points at Lena.

“Look at you. You have two parents. You have a car. A scholarship. Why

are you here?”

Lena looks up from twisting her fingers in her lap. “For the same

reason you are. Keema, why are you so angry? What have I ever done to

you? You’re one of the prettiest girls in our school. You’re also very

smart.”

“I’m pregnant with no way to support my baby. That’s not smart. It’s

dumb. I got caught up in lies.” I wait for some sign of emotion,

besides her anger. But her tough exterior doesn’t crack. She looks

wounded, like a girl whose only ever known pain in her life.

Keema’s comments about Lena’s considerable attributes show me that she

suffers from low self-esteem. Pointing the things that she wishes she

had in her own life. I decide to challenge her again. “So your baby’s

father is gone?”

“He’s in jail,” Tory reveals. “He murdered someone.”

“And your parents?” I ask, trying to gauge where this little girl’s

support system lies.

“I don’t have parents.”

“Maybe not the parents you want, but I’m sure you have someone. Your

grandmother? An aunt?”

“Where are your parents?” She shoots back defensively. “Do they know

you’re in the hood trying to fix poor black girls?”

“No, they don’t.” I answer looking straight ahead at her. “They live

in Colorado. I live with my two youngest children here.” She only

wants to test my limits, trying to see if I’ll back down. “And I’m not

here trying to fix you. There is nothing wrong with you Keema.”

“You don’t have a husband?”

Rather than go into a long explanation, I lift my bare wedding finger

for her to see.

“How old are your kids?”

“I have six children but my youngest two are 13 months and 26 months.”

All of their eyes shift to me. “I also have grandchildren.”

Keema looks surprised. “How old are you?”

I laugh and shake my head. “We are not going there.”

“So where’s your babies daddy?” Tory questions.

That’s the first time I’ve ever heard of John referred to as my

“baby’s daddy.” Cory tries to intervene. “Girls, Marlena is here to

help, not talk about her life.”

“No, it’s fine. I’m not uncomfortable. My ex-husband is in their

lives. We’re just not together.” I share, hoping to weave a common

thread with these girls. “We had alot challenges in our relationship

and we didn’t overcome them. But we’re parenting our children

together. That’s what is important. They need structure, two people

who love them.”

“What if there aren’t two people?” Keema asks quietly. “What if my

baby is all I have and I’m all he has?”

“Then your one-step ahead of the game. Keema, life isn’t based on

where you come from,” Cory says leaning across her lap. “I came from

the same housing development that you live in now. You have to make

the decision right now that your life isn’t going to be like those

who’ve gone before you.”

I accept that coming from Cory, maybe this kind of wisdom is better

packaged. These girls probably look at me and see the enemy. With

Movado watch, designer bag, and all the luxuries that escape the lower

class are points of division between us. Corey has moved into the

upper class but she’s still a part of their group, if not just because

they share the same color skin. I represent the population that has

forgotten them. I live in a million dollar home in a neighborhood

where the homicide rate is less than one. I go to sleep without fear

of bullets sailing through my window at night. I drive a fifty

thousand dollar luxury SUV. And these girls are simply trying to

survive high school.

I wish I could say something and not seem above reproach. They’re too

young, and in too much pain to realize that all pain is the same pain.

I see the destructive ways that they deal with theirs; I do something

different with mine. I used to run away from it. Or hide it through

working and mothering; but the best way to get through it, I’ve

learned, is to face it. And that’s all I want to say to Keema, hoping

she’ll receive it in the spirit that I mean it to be in.

“Sometimes you can have everything and still have nothing.” I press

upon them with no real rights to. I feel like I have to justify myself

to them. I can’t reach them if they think I’m not like them in basic

ways. “I didn’t know what my life was going to be like at sixteen. I

just knew I needed to have a plan, a way of action. Foregoing major

details, I married a guy in college who turned out to be the frog

instead of the prince. But I had to learn from that experience. We are

cumulative of our experiences.” I look into each of their faces. “You

know what I mean, we learn as we grow.”

“Marlena?” Jamie pulls her hair back from her face, revealing a pair

of beautiful silver eyes. “What if I don’t want to keep it?” She

lowers her head so that the curls curtain her face. “I don’t. My

abuelita is making me.”

Cory intercedes. “We can have that discussion in private, Jamie. This

session is over.”

One by one, the girls come over to talk to me. I’ve apparently broken

through to some of them. Although, the one I really want to talk to

stands back to watch her contemporaries converse. I offer each girl a

genuine hug and ask her to keep in touch with me. I really want to see

them all do good.

Instead of waiting for Keema to approach me, I head over to her. She

is holding up a wall, with her legs crossed in front of her,

absentmindedly pulling at the hem of her shirts, avoiding my gaze

fiercely.

“I don’t want you to care about me.” She says dismissively when I

stand in front of her. “You seem nice but you have your own life. You

don’t need to be tangled up with girls like us.”

I simply smile and say, “Maybe I want to be.” She’s afraid to hope

that I really care.

“Well I don’t want you.” She brushes past me, dropping her head as she

waddles away.

“Keema, I don’t want you to be my charity case. I just want to be a friend.”

“I have enough friends.” She says before walking away. I let her go

and feel all the pain that she’s holding inside.

Cory squeezes my shoulder from behind. “We’ll get her.”

I nod but I’m not so sure. I have a feeling that she’s already slipped

through society’s cracks. The feeling of helplessness, hers and mine,

makes me want to hold my own children close, all of them.

[John]

“You’re splashing daddy princess.” I inform my slick daughter whose

been swishing water all over me and the bathroom floor for twenty

minutes. Her hair is filled with suds from her baby shampoo. I keep a

cup in the basket filled with all Juliana’s bath toys. The green cup,

her favorite color, is for rinsing the suds, a trick I learned from

her mother. “I think you need to get out before you turn into a

wrinkly little prune.” I rinse the suds without causing a national

crisis. She hates water in her face; I learned that the hard way

through trial and error. I grab her towel, a green beach towel with

flower petals—the only one she will let herself be dried with—and open

it wide.

“Out Daddy.” She demands flailing her arms in the air at me. We have

fifteen minutes before her bedtime. I can have her dried and dressed

in ten but we have to play the Who’s That? game once I wrap her in a

towel and head down the hallway. There are dozens of pictures on the

wall of all of my children. When Nicky and Juliana are not here, they

bring me a lot of comfort. There are so many shots of them making

silly faces, or doing sneaky things. There are also pictures of them

sleeping or eating. The Who’s That? game is me pointing to these

pictures while she tells me who is in them.

We stop in front of her favorite picture. A black and white shot of me

holding her as a newborn. I don’t remember when it was taken. All I

know is that I was smitten with the little girl in my arms. She was

maybe a week or a day old. We were in the hospital, I think but she

didn’t stay in the hospital for more than three days. So she must be a

day old there. Her mother’s arm is partially in the shot because she

had handed her to me. “Who is that?”

She pretends as if she doesn’t know. “Daddy.” She tells me after

imitating the way I rub my chin.

“Who else?” I prod tweaking her nose.

“Baby.” She sputters, her attention quickly moving to another picture.

She touches a frame of her and Nicky at their mother’s house.

Marlena’s sitting with Nicky propped between her legs with Juliana

cradled in her arms. Juliana is two months old. The engraved frame,

given to me by Marlena, reads the date.

“Who is this?”

“Mommy.” She claps unexpectedly. It’s a first in our game. She then

points to and says, “Nicky.”

“That’s right. Now would you like to get ready for bed?” I ask pulling

her away from the wall. The condo has nice space for the three of us.

I was looking for a place where they would be comfortable and have

room to run around. It’s not a bachelor’s pad. It’s far from that.

Even when they’re at Marlena’s their toys are in obscure places that

they’ve put them in. Juliana’s princess posters are not only in her

bedroom but also on the refrigerator. Nicky’s Hulk action figures are

scattered somewhere along the stairs and counter space in the kitchen.

I like having their things around. It makes their absences seem

temporary.

There are two levels in the condo. When the kids are here, they take

over both floors. Nicky’s room is diagonal to my bedroom. We picked

green walls, because he’s into the Hulk phase. He has a big boy bed

complete with Hulk bedding. It’s hard to drag him out of there at

times. Juliana’s room is across from my bedroom. It’s girly. Pink

walls. Disney characters all over the place. Her crib will turn into a

toddler bed as soon as Marlena and I decide it’s time for that. The

only time she’s in the bed is when she’s being changed or having a

time-out session. Juliana would rather sit underneath the desk in my

office on the first floor than be in her bedroom. So it’s a challenge

whenever we walk through her door. She knows immediately that it’s not

for play.

Unfolding the towel, she looks up at me like I’m new at changing her.

I chuckle at her because she darts her eyes from one side of the room

to the other. Plotting escape, no doubt. The only way to keep her

still is with a picture of her mother. There are many of them in the

kid’s bedrooms. I hand Juliana the picture of Marlena at the baby

shower that Hope organized for her. Juliana points to the swollen

bulge. “That’s you Princess.” I say, folding the tabs over her diaper.

I’ve come a long way since learning how to put diapers on. They are

woman-friendly but daddy-friendly must have slipped Pampers minds.

“Pretty princess or Dora?” I offer, lifting both nightgowns for her to

pick from. She chooses princesses and I pull the light cotton material

over her head.

Seven minutes. I have three emails to return before tomorrow. I don’t

want work to interfere with any of our time together, but they are

crucial. I don’t know Marlena does everything she needs to do while

being a full time parent to Nicky and Juliana. She has a full plate

but our kids never suffer from her work.

I need to get Nicky from in front of the television and into bed

before anything else is done. I want them settled before Marlena

calls, which she will do. She never plans to but she can’t go to sleep

unless she can say goodnight and I love you.

I carry Juliana into Nicky’s room. He’s lying on his belly in front of

the tv playing with Pika’s ears. He’s bathed and in pajamas. “Hey

kiddo, it’s time for bed.”

“I can’t.” He tells me still glued to the set. “More time.”

“Nicholas, look at me.” I say sternly. “Its bedtime, turn the tv off.”

Nicky gets up and switches the show off. His sister kicks her legs so

that she can get down. Nicky touches her hair. Their connection is

tight. Nicky looks out for his sister and she counts on him. Whenever

he feels hungry, he makes sure that she’s hungry too. When he wants to

buy a new toy, he remembers that she might like a new doll too.

“Okay, bedtime train is leaving in two seconds. Who wants a ride?” I

say getting on the floor on all fours.

“Me!” my daughter says jumping up and down. She positions herself to

hop up on my back. Nicky helps her up, climbing up behind her.

“The train is backing out of the station.” I crawl from Nicky’s room

into the hall. Along the path, I remember why it is that I’m so tired

after they leave. I’m an old parent. My knees ache and my back is

strained from the weight of my babies. But I continue onto my bedroom.

I could put them to sleep in their own beds but they’ll end up in mine

anyway. With Nicky’s potty training in full swing, it’s safer to have

him wake me up at night to take him to the bathroom if he’s already in

my bed.

“Up.” I say lifting them up and dumping them onto the bed from my

back. They tumble over, laughing as they fall. Juliana’s laugh is so

infectious, like Marlena’s, that I find myself laughing at her. “Slide

in.” I pull the cover back and they climb under the street.

“Pika?”

“No Pika son, he has his own bed.” I point to the doggie bed that Pika

sleeps in when they’re not here. “He’ll have more room. As it is,

Daddy’s going to be falling on the floor.”

The telephone rings. “Mommy.” Nicky jumps from under the cover.

Juliana springs up beside him. It is Marlena, I notice when I check

the ID. Nicky reaches over me sitting on the edge of the bed to tap

the speakerphone button. “Mommy?”

“Yes, this is your Mommy. How are my Noodle bugs?” her voice is

strained. She sounds tired.

“I’m not your Noodle Mommy. I’m Nicky.” Our boy says shaking his head.

He loves to assert himself. He’s getting more independent, even if

Marlena doesn’t believe it. He moves closer to the phone. “What you

doing Mommy?”

“Well I’m sitting here missing you silly boy. What are you doing?”

Juliana hops into my lap. She dangles her feet anxiously over my

thighs because she’s losing her patience. “Mommy. Me.”

“I’m sorry baby. Mommy misses me too.”

Juliana’s head rolls back. “Silly Mommy.” She looks backwards, titling

her head against my chest. She looks at me with mother’s eyes and I

snake my arm around her to press her closer.

“Say hi to Daddy,” Nicky tells his mother.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know daddy was there. Hi John.”

“Marlena.” I drop my chin in Juliana’s wet hair. She squirms to around

and stands up on my lap. Her little legs shake until she’s steady with

both feet planted on my thigh.

“We all hear.” Nicky tells her smiling at Juliana’s acrobatic pose. “I

want to hear the moon.”

“Are you in bed?”

Juliana answers her loudly. “No.”

“Well let Daddy tuck you in,” she instructs them. They respond

dutifully. Juliana jumps back into the bed beside Nicky. She pushes

the pillow from her head. She likes sleeping level against the

mattress. When they settle, Nicky grabs her hand; she jams the other

in her mouth. Marlena’s voice chimes in, “tucked in?”

Juliana nods. I stroke her warm cheek. Beneath the bangs that hide her

forehead and cover tickle her lashes, she looks up at me. “That’s a

yes.” I tell Marlena. The last time we talked, she was upset about

Juliana’s temper tantrum and the fact I couldn’t get her to take the

phone to say goodnight last night. These little squabbles are just

things that now come with the territory of our separate lives.

She starts Nicky’s favorite bedtime rhyme. I could run and finish the

three emails because they’ll be half-asleep when she finishes. But I

don’t. I’ll get to them in a minute. I climb next to Juliana and

listen to her voice.

“I see the moon. The moon sees me; the moon sees somebody I want to

be. God bless the moon, and God bless me. God bless the somebody I

want to be.”

Nicky’s eyes are barely open when Marlena stops talking. Juliana is

tugging on her ear, a sure sign of sleepiness. “Good night my babies.

I love you all so very much. Here’s a kiss from Mommy.” I wait until I

hear her click off the line before moving. Even then, I only change

into a t-shirt and pair of boxers before lying next to the kids again.

In the morning, we’ll have a big breakfast that I’ll make a big deal

because our time is over. Tomorrow, they’ll go home-their other home.

Chapter 4 (NC-17)

…the man

inside of woman

ties a knot

so that they will

never again be separate

–Anne Sexton “When Man Enters Woman”

Being alone isn’t really bad. It’s the realization that you are

existing without a partner that makes alone bad. When I’m with the

kids I’m without a partner, but not alone, but without them, I realize

how lonely I am.

I have friends. Maggie and Hope. Although I must admit that it’s hard

to be around them. They are a part of the picture that doesn’t exist

anymore. They were pieces in my ideal life. I’ve tried not to cut them

out of my circle. I still confide in Maggie because I trust her

immensely; Hope and I are still in communication. I just avoid seeing

them.

Out here, in a place only twenty minutes from Salem, I’m building new

friendships. The neighbors are friendly, especially those with

children Nicky’s age. I have to trust people enough to allow my son to

abide in their presence. So I’ve started a line of communication with

our next-door neighbors. Andi and James. Their son Colton is one of

Nicky’s favorite playmates. They have also an older daughter who is

away at college. When we exchanged knowing glances about the age gap

between our children, I knew they would be a nice family to know.

On Sunday, hours before the kids are scheduled to come home, Andi

called. I was doing what I do every Sunday without them. Laundry with

wine and the newspaper. It’s a new hobby that gives me a weird sense

of accomplishment. Getting grass stains out of Nicky’s shorts is

equivalent to writing a thesis, especially because I was never the

domestic diva that Mama was. So when Andi invited me to an impromptu

gathering of neighbors, I faltered for a second before agreeing to

meet her at her back gate.

Socializing, as a single woman is drastically different from the way

it was when I was John’s wife. I view the entire men women

relationship differently. I also feel differently about how to behave

in those relationships. It’s too soon to think about another man in

any way other than platonically. I don’t hold any stock in finding

someone that could make me feel the way I felt with John. I feel out

of place. I’ve done social gatherings without John, but this one makes

me feel self-conscious. I’m one of two single people on Andi and

Jame’s back deck. There are glasses of wine being poured and handed

back and forth. The other single person is a man whose name I haven’t

taken the time to remember. James and one other husband ask me

questions about my work and my opinions of the single guy across the

deck.

Sipping my wine, I can’t help thinking that if John were here as my

husband, I wouldn’t be a target for any of the men to strike at. James

is flirty. He does and says off wall comments to everyone. I’m the

only who finds them slightly inappropriate. And he only does so when

Andi is out of ear range.

No matter where I am, if there are married couples I can’t help but

observe them through my colored lens. I look for ways that the

husbands are not like John; for ways that the wives aren’t seemingly

wildly happy like I was with John. Of course, I neglect the memories

that ended with my tears or John’s anger. I can dwell a little because

I’m still in the grieving process of the separation. I’m grateful that

there is no marriage to actually dissolve. Walking away was hard, but

less complicated than divorce.

Andi asks for my help in the kitchen. I’m happy to get away from the

uncomfortable lulls in conversation between me and Karen, the

neighborhood stay-at-home mom. She asks questions that sound remotely

like she’s asking for my professional opinion.

“She’s a sweet girl,” Andi says handing me a knife. “They like them

sliced thin.” She puts an onion on the cutting board sitting in front

of me on the island that we’re standing against. “She’s just

overwhelmed. Four kids in three and a half years. She was in med

school.”

I never know if I should add my input to Andi’s informed opinions of

our neighbors. She’s known them longer. I hate to be snarky about

strangers. I start slicing into the wet onion instead. “I never told

you about me not being a cook, did I?” I say grinning.

She picks up the layers that I’ve cut away. “You’re doing fine. I

don’t expect psychiatrists to be domestic. You all are too anal for

small tasks like that.”

I don’t know if she’s she kidding but I take it as such and laugh

politely. “My ex-husband did a lot of the cooking.” I regret it as

quickly as it’s slipped out. I have tried to keep John’s name out of

the neighborhood gossip. Andi has never seen him except in pictures in

the house.

“You don’t talk about him much.”

“Nothing much to say.”

She stops chopping the cucumber in front of her. She flips her long

brown hair out of her eye. “That’s strange…a psychiatrist who

doesn’t talk about her ex husband.”

“I get paid to listen, not talk. And besides, he’s a wonderful father

to our children. Beyond that, there’s nothing else to really say.” I

put the knife down and go to the sink to rinse my hands. Andi’s a

lawyer. Her manner of conversation is forceful; I try not to take

offense to her bull in a china shop manner.

“The mysterious he. Was it a back breakup?”

No one has asked me that. Every one that knows us knows that something

painful must’ve happened between us, but they’ve never asked what. I

don’t know how to tell them that it was my doing that finally

collapsed the deck.

“It wasn’t bad,” I admit, drying my hands and picking up my glass of

wine. “It was sudden.”

“James and I separated once; it was sudden. Those kinds of breakups

are always revisited. Trust me, half my clients end up scrapping the

divorce in sudden breakups.”

Shocked by her moment of indiscretion, I slap my forehead. “There may

have been too many drops of information in that confession.” I thought

she was a corporate lawyer. But more importantly, I wonder if her

sudden breakup had anything to do with James’ wondering eye.

“What? We’re not cynical about love around here, but I’ve seen it all

in my field.”

“I believe that.” I take a chance. “There wasn’t a divorce. We were on

the verge of remarrying-a long story” I say when her eyes widen, “when

the trust was broken.”

“Yours or his?” she asks without flinching.

Not expecting it, I take a minute to decide. He would say his trust.

But my kissing Dr. Shalit had more to do with just me. “Both…but his

summation is prejudiced. It’s complicated.”

She picks up a bottle of wine from a rack behind me and refills my

glass. I’m starting to like the lose interaction, and that has a lot

to do with the wine.

“I wasn’t happy when you moved into that house,” Andi confesses

suddenly and I turn quickly to catch her retreating eyes. She lets the

confession go unexplained as she drags me down the stairs to the

basement off the kitchen. “Don’t fault me. You’re a beautiful capable

woman. James loves capable, beautiful woman.” Andi directs me to sit

on the bottom step next to her. “I invited you over so that I could

set you up with Will. I was hatching a plan to keep you away from

James.” She swallows a hard sip of wine. Her smile is wry when she

lowers her head. “He cheated with the last woman who lived with her

children in your house.”

“I’m not her.” I say sympathetically. “I haven’t gotten over my

husband.” It’s made truer by the wine. And I’m made sadder by Andi’s

loss of confidence. Infidelity is traumatic enough on the relationship

but it shatters self-esteem. “Andi, I’m going to go. I’m going to have

to pick up the children soon.” Feeling lightheaded when I stand, I

know that I’m going to need Danielle to pick them up from one of our

usual exchange places. John usually calls to tell me where the most

convenient place is. “We should get together for lunch soon.” I offer

before ascending the stairs. I contemplate asking her to join my

empowerment group before heading out of the front door to avoid James,

but decide to call her with the offer.

A shower seems like the best way to clear my head up. It’s hard to see

strong women crack. Andi and Karen seem to have what I yearn for

without John-a nuclear family unit. Yet, they aren’t happy. At least

when I was with John, I knew what true happiness was.

I rush from the shower to get dressed. Our exchange time is six

o’clock. Juliana will want French fries. I can fix Nicky pasta with a

light sauce before they get home.

Danielle. I remember that I need to call her when I can’t find my

blackberry to retrieve her number. In the kitchen, next to the

newspaper, it’s vibrating from the full missed call list.

John. My first thought is of the children until I scroll through a

couple text messages. I’m dropping the kids off. I need to talk to

you. The last message sent two minutes ago.

It was irresponsible of me to leave my phone when I went next door.

Anything can happen with kids. I’d be upset if I couldn’t get in touch

with John. But it doesn’t warrant him coming here. He’s never been

here and it’s not time for him to. I’m not ready to have him. And I

don’t want to be chastised.

My fingers shake when I dial his cell phone. He answers on the second

ring. “John?”

“I’ll talk to you in ten minutes.” He says evenly. I hear Nicky

singing in the background.

“Why? I don’t…” The dead silence makes me pull the phone away from

my ear. Call ended.

I blame the wine for my nervousness. I’m a fully-grown,

well-functioning woman but waiting for John to pull into my driveway,

I don’t feel any of those things. I search for things to do with my

hands. The kids’ dinner. I put fries in the oven on a cooking sheet

after putting water into a pan on the range.

The way my heart stops when John’s black SUV pulls up, makes me clutch

the counter. He’s absolutely upset. The jaw clenched is the only

indicator I need. I peer through the curtains and try to gain my

equilibrium before stepping outside. Not even seeing my babies after

three days makes me rush out into the storm of John’s anger.

He’s looking around the neighborhood as he opens his door. “Home.” He

announces to Juliana as he takes her from her car seat. Nicky, already

in motion, climbs out of Juliana’s door as I watch from the porch

cautiously.

Nicky sprints toward me when I walk off the porch toward him. “Hi

baby.” I scoop him up and kiss him repeatedly. I’ve missed his little

boy smell, an intermingling of sweat and Pika. “Have you grown up in

three days?” Setting him down, I measure with my handd in front of his

head. “See? Last time you were here,” I lower my hand to the bottom of

his nose, “and now, this high.” I return my hand.

“I’m a big boy.” He announces proudly as he circles his arms around

the backs of my knees.

“That you are. And my Noodle. Come here baby.” John moves closer to me

with Juliana. He puts her into my outstretched arms.

“Nicky, don’t do that. You can make your mother fall with your

sister.” He chides our son, leaning down to lift him up.

I stare at him. He’s seething and I don’t know why. “He’s alright.”

Juliana hugs my neck, turning my face away from John. “Oh, you missed

Mommy. I missed you too. I missed both of you.”

“Daddy came home,” Nicky says excitedly. The first sign that John’s

being here is a setback.

“No son, I have to talk to your Mommy. Then I’m going back to my

house.” He explains to our confused looking son. “Do you understand?”

He shakes his head and squirms to be lowered to the ground.

“Can we talk inside? Or do we have to do this on the front lawn?” he

asks, looking over my shoulder toward the house.

“Come on Daddy.” Nicky pulls his father past me up the stairs into the house.

“Oh sweet girl.” Burying my nose in Juliana’s hair, I squeeze her

again. We head into the house. John is standing in the foyer when I

step inside. Nicky is headed upstairs in pursuit of something he

promises to show his father. I hear him call over his shoulder that

he’ll be back.

Leaving John, I rush to the kitchen to retrieve Juliana’s fries.

“Where were you?” he asks facing my back.

I turn around sharply. “I think you might want to change your tone.” I

advise him gliding my eyes over our daughter in my arms. “I was next

door. I left my phone here by mistake.”

“With your children away? I need to be able to contact you at any time

of the day when they’re with me.” He counters, his voice at an even

tone.

“A mistake John.” I say putting Juliana into her high chair. She’s

oblivious to the tension between us. “Is that why you’re upset? I’m

sorry. It was irresponsible.” I tell him sincerely. “I was talking and

time just got away from me.”

“Wine?” he asks lifting the half-finished glass.

“John, why are you here? I don’t think it’s a good idea. Nicky is

still adjusting.” He pulls an envelope from his pocket and tosses it

across the island at me. I avoid it to get a cup for Juliana and a

little dish for her ketchup. “What is it?” I ask, setting her plate of

fries on her tray.

“The clutter of your life that keeps finding its way into mine.” He

tells me, leaning against the island.

The envelope is plain. I open it and pull an invoice out. Dr. Shalit.

It’s written to John. I look up confused. “And?”

“We made a deal.”

“A deal?” I say dropping the invoice.

“You agreed not to see him. You signed a legally binding document

saying that you wouldn’t. Would you like a copy?”

“No.” I’m trying to remain calm for all of our sakes. “I’d like you to

leave my house.” I turn away and busy my hands at pouring pasta into

the boiling water on the range. My hands are shaking. My breaths are

accelerated. And my little girl is watching all of this. I’m mindful

that she’ll take cues about relationships from me and her father.

“We had a deal. This isn’t about you and him. I’m protecting my kids.”

Ready to explode, I face him again. It’s only Juliana’s presence that

makes me keep my voice lowered. “I haven’t seen him since the day you

walked out of my life.”

“Sessions…they’re…”

“John, I’ll take care of them. They’re old. I’ll handle it. Now please, go.”

He turns to Juliana whose dipping fries in complete bliss. “How?”

“How what?”

“How are you going to handle it?”

“The way I’ve handled everything since we split up. I really want you

to leave. Tell the kids goodnight, please.” I call Nicky downstairs to

say goodbye. He’s disagreeable until he sees the serious look on my

face. He hugs John and steps back while Juliana and John say goodbye.

When he leaves, my back is turned but I hear the door signal his departure.

Nicky notices my distraction. He tries to engage me with stories of

his weekend as he eats his supper. I listen half-heartedly, replying

with wows and yes or no. The spirit has been knocked completely out of

me. My excitement at having them back home is dampened and I can’t get

it back. I tell myself that tomorrow is a new day. I bathe and put

them to bed in their own rooms.

I feel like sulking. The way John can be upset because of an old bill,

and think that I would go back on a promise, infuriates me. Cleaning

up the kitchen, I come across the invoice while wiping the island

down. Our feelings are unresolved, of course. But it was his choice to

have it that way. I don’t want to get into scrapes with him over

things like this. He can say that its concern over Dr. Shalit being

around the children but I know that’s not it. He’s still jealous.

But we’re not in love anymore.

I pour a fresh glass of wine. To hell with temperance. I collapse in

my armchair in the living room. This cycle of regret and sadness only

happens when I let John’s feelings get to me. I did hurt him but I

can’t pay for that for the rest of our lives. I’ve been doing just

fine without his interference. When he does this-show up and act

jealous-I get my hopes up. I don’t want to that anymore. I want a

clean break. I love John but when he left me, I slowly fell out of

love. I started to remember what it was like to love him from a

distance, as my children’s father and not as a lover.

He’s always changing those rules. When I moved into this house, I

chose a place that he wouldn’t care for purposely. I didn’t want him

to feel comfortable here. And having him here today has destroyed my

supposed shield of protection. Now I’ll wonder what he thinks of my

choices.

My eyes pop open when I hear a noise that sounds like Nicky falling on

the floor. He does that sometimes when he sleeps too close to the

edge. I get up and start toward the steps but the doorbell rings.

It’s dark outside and I’m a little paranoid. Peeping out of the

window, I see John standing there. I open the door to a slit and glare

at him.

“If you’re here to…”

He stops me, “I’m not. I’m here to apologize.”

“I accept. Thank you for coming by.” If I thought this was the

opportunity for a clean break, John didn’t get that memo. He asks if

he can come in. I want to say no. I hear myself saying it but opening

the door, I step back so that he can come in.

“It pisses me off that you’re so capable at this.” He says digging his

hands into his pocket. I close the door and walk back into the living

room. “I didn’t mean that as arrogant as it sounded.”

“Would you like a drink?” I offer when I head to refill my own glass.

“It’s red.”

“Sure. Are the kids asleep?” he asks from the living room. There is a

small hallway that connects the kitchen, den, and living room. As I

pour, I sneak a glance at John relaxing on the couch.

“Yes, for a while now. They were both sleepy.” I head back into the

living room with both glasses. “You must have tired them out.”

“It goes both ways. You’re son has a knack for cornering me with

stories.” He takes a sip of wine. “I love it when he does. They don’t

always make sense but I love them.”

“Yeah, he pulled me in with some of those tonight.” I laugh as I lean

back into the chair.

“It’s really nice. You did a good job around here.” He surveys the

room. There is no sign of anything from our former life. All of the

furniture and other items from the penthouse were sold. “Do you like

the house as much as the kids do?”

“Even more, I think.” This is too familiar. My judgment is cloudy. But

I go with it because, it’s not arguing or holding ourselves at a

distance. And He’s still gorgeous. Those blue eyes still melt away the

coldness I sometimes feel. And it’s the wine. In the morning, when I’m

not slightly inebriated, I’ll still be upset that he charged into my

house with accusations.

“Why even more?” he asks stretching against the couch. He runs his

fingers up and down the stem. “Because it’s away from me?”

“Because, it’s mine.” I clarify. One reason that I don’t drink is the

affect it has on me. Staring at him, I think about his hands on me.

The wine makes me think that’s possible. It heightens feelings that

have been dormant. I only dream about making love. I’ve stopped hoping

that I might.

“Marlena?”

I snap out of daze that I am in and focus on him again. “It’s late. I

appreciate you coming by but its late.”

“You said that. Are you feeling all right?”

“No. I’m a little out of sorts. You sort of changed the rules on me today.”

He sits his glass down and leans forward. “That’s why I came back to apologize.”

“Okay.”

“No, that’s not it. I also wanted to talk about finances.”

“Because of the invoice.”

“No. I’ll handle that. I want to talk about setting up a structured

payment for the kids.”

“I’ll handle the bill. It’s my bill. And we don’t need to set up

payments. When I need help, I’ll let you know, like always.”

John runs his hand across his chin. It’s a sign of irritation that

I’ve nearly forgotten. “I want to help out around here. It’s a

wonderful property. Maybe you could buy it. I could put up the money.”

When I left, there was no settlement. I took what I had in my accounts

and put a down payment on the house. I learned the lesson that many

women learn in divorce-security is a relative term. It’s not that John

isn’t generous. But I don’t want to become dependent on John’s money.

“John I can handle the mortgage. I’m comfortable. You can contribute

to whatever you’d like for Nicky and Noodle but I’m going to be in

charge financially.”

“I knew you’d argue with this.”

“Then why bring it up?”

“Because I want you to accept my help.” He says averting his eyes.

The tightening of my veins near my left temple causes me to rub my

head. “I can’t.”

I leave him without a word to head for the kitchen. There’s a bottle

of aspirin over the sink. I put some water in a glass and throw two

pills down my throat, followed by the water. I feel the chemistry

crystallizing the air when John enters a room. I guess that doesn’t go

away.

“So you and the neighbors?”

My eyes shift to the invoice pinned on the fridge. “Yes, what about

them?” I mutter pulling a slice of bread from the breadbox.

“You said you were next door earlier.” He says casually. He’s standing

in the doorway watching me put a piece of bread in my mouth.

“Oh, Andi and James. Nicky plays with their son Colton.” I pray that

the bread helps alleviate my light head and woozy body. “Andi invited

me to a little gathering.”

“Are they trying to set you up yet?” he asks grinning. I don’t believe

it’s a sincere smile. I don’t answer. “Guess that’s a yes.”

“We’re not going to talk about this.” I say retreating to the laundry

room off the back end of the kitchen. A load of clothes is still in

the washer. I find myself hoping that he’ll follow me in there. I

don’t know why I do, but I smile within when he steps into the small

room.

“We can talk about this. We used to be really great friends.”

I pile the clothes into the dryer and turn around, leaning against it.

“You don’t want to be my friend.” I remind him. Up until today, he

didn’t want anything from me. Seeing each other opens the sore and now

we pick at it. “You shut me out of your life.” I recount sadly.

“I think we both did that.”

I’ve known him for so long that it frightens me not knowing what he

wants or why he’s here. He closes the gap between us and I move back,

bumping into the dryer. I want him to touch me but I flinch when he

does. His fingers are so warm against my cheek that I close my eyes to

enjoy the feel.

“What are you doing?” I whisper still pressing my eyelids shut.

“I don’t know.” He answers. His lips fall softly against my mouth. My

eyes flutter open, met by his steely gaze.

I pull back. “John. What are you doing here?” I ask before he kisses

me again. I pull away, pushing his chest to break us apart. Because I

thought I wanted this, it hurts to keep him at bay.

“I don’t know.” He grumbles cupping the back of my neck to pull me

back toward his open mouth. He touches my tongue with his. I haven’t

felt anything like this in a year. I find out quickly that I’m not

numb to him. My body still responds.

“No,” I cry out, tearing my mouth away. “We’re not going to do this.”

“Why not? Is there someone else?” He asks bluntly, with his fingers

already undoing my clothes.

Pushing his hands away, I catch my breath and climb off the dryer.

“There is no one. I’m not going to do this because we don’t love each

other anymore.”

“Don’t say that.”

I continue, trying to move around him. “And because my children are

upstairs and all it would take is for Nicky to see you here. I’m not

going to do this because it’s confusing.”

He cups my mouth with his hand. “Stop talking.” He lifts me up and

puts me back on top of the dryer. He moves in between my legs.

There’s some point between sex and lust where you stop thinking. And

the body takes over where the mind and heart used to control. I know

that him touching me, pulling my clothes off makes no sense. That

doesn’t mean that I stop him. Or push his hands away from sliding into

my pants. I stop talking the way he asks. No protests. I also stop

thinking in terms of tomorrow. Today, he wants me to open myself up to

him. I’m going to regret it but I can add it to the list.

Making love after a year without any sexual contact is clumsy. I

forget where to put my hands and if it’s okay to touch him. He’s

touching every inch of my body. With hands and lips. He yanks roughly

at my underwear and I lift my hips to help him pull them off. All of

this happens quietly except for the moans and grunts that fall out of

us involuntarily.

He lifts me up and I wrap my legs around his waist. I also bury my

face into his shoulder. I don’t want to see his eyes. I don’t think

we’re making love. I think we’re just turned on, slightly tipsy, and

overdue.

The room is spinning when he bends forward to undo his pants. I

tighten my legs, locking them just below his rear. He slides carefully

into my sex whether I’m ready or not. The first thrusts are painful.

The way it was when I was pregnant with Juliana. I brace myself but a

nagging thought steals my attention when the pain becomes real again.

“John. Wait wait…”

“Come on,” he grunts grinding his hips against mine.

“I’m not on birth control.” I say pushing our bodies apart. I unlatch

my legs and stand on my own two feet. John stands still for a minute

and we watch each other in the dim light. “Maybe you should just go.”

I suggest grabbing a t-shirt from a basket of clean clothes. He stops

me from pulling it over my head.

“I don’t want to. I want you.” He says leaning to kiss me. He wraps

his arms around my waist.

“You’re not being fair,” I say into his mouth. “You’re getting me…I

want you even though we both know it’s not a good idea. I…”

He crushes us against the wall, covering my mouth with his as we fall.

“I have something upstairs,” I admit shaping my hand over his shaft.

We walk linked at the mouth, kissing backwards all the way up the

stairs. I lead him down the hall, closing Nicky and the baby’s doors.

I pull him into my room and push him until the backs of his knees hit

the mattress and he falls. “I’ll be back.”

For a moment in the bathroom, before I put in my old diaphragm, I

believe that I can stop it. I can will my body back to its normal

state and send John home. But I look at my reflection. The flushed

looked overtaking my body; the swollen lips from his kisses; the

juices running down my legs; all of these signs that I’m a woman and

I’m still sexual; I want him. I’m ashamed to admit it but I’m horny

and I can’t masturbate this away.

He’s sitting up on the bed when I come back out of the bathroom. I

crawl into bed and push him onto his back. Straddling his legs, I lift

up and bear down on his shaft slowly. The fit is less constricted. I

take a deep breath and remember that we used to be amazing at sex.

Because it’s not a thinking man’s game. It’s about the act, pure and

simple. I realign my thoughts with being a college co-ed in the throes

of finding someone to lose my virginity to. No women can admit that,

but from the day we learn that we have virginity, we’re learning how

to shed it.

I close my eyes to him touching my breasts and stomach. I lean back to

press my hand flat against the mattress and rock my hips forward

causing wonderful friction between our bodies. I’m not trying to

treasure this or put it in a pretty memory chest. I just want to have

an orgasm with him. Just to show me that I still can.

He squeezes my thighs tightly between his fingers when my pace

quickens. Still without talking, he stops me and switches positions.

He pushes me on my back and crawls between my legs. He sheaths himself

back into my inner walls and starts thrusting wildly. Sex, pure and

simple. I lift my up higher on his thighs, encouraging him further

into me. Locking my legs behind him slows down his thrusting and moves

him closer to my throbbing nerve bundle. He pumps roughly until I

can’t hear a thing. I shield my face with my hand as my body splinters

from pleasure. John falls on top of me and I turn my face to regain my

composure.

There are no kisses; there isn’t any holding. We both fall asleep, exhausted.

I woke up, realizing that John is still in my bed. I’m on my side;

he’s far away on his. The other realization is that Juliana is

standing at my bedside with her thump propped in her mouth.

“Sweetie, what are you doing?” I ask jolting up. I cover myself with a

sheet and pull her into bed with me. She looks over at her daddy.

“Daddy?” She crawls from me to him. “Daddy?”

I cringe thinking that Nicky won’t be far behind her. Tapping John’s

shoulder, I call his name. “John.”

He stretches awake. He’s startled by our daughter sitting beside him.

“Hi princess. What are you doing up?”

“Nicky will be here next. I don’t want him to see you. It’ll only

confuse him.” I say taking Juliana out of the bed. She reaches over my

shoulder for him as we head to the bathroom. I slip my robe on. “Oh

baby girl. What a tangled web we weave.” I say sitting on the closed

toilet with her in my lap facing me. We’re hiding from her daddy and

Nicky. And the mess that happens when people allow their bodies to do

all the thinking. “Don’t fall in love Noodle.”

Chapter 5

”Let grace and goodness be the principal loadstone of thy affections.

For love which hath ends, will have an end; whereas that which is

founded on true virtue, will always continue.”

–John Dryden

[John]

Men are supposed to be men. Men seek pride. But I left my pride in the

pathway between Marlena’s bedroom door and my car when I snuck out of

her house so that our son wouldn’t know that I had been there.

I pound the steering wheel as I pull out of the driveway. What the

hell were we thinking? What the hell were we doing? I didn’t come to

end up in bed with her. Why would I even want to be in her bed? I

don’t trust her. I’m still pissed off at her. Sometimes I want to yell

at her for small things because I can’t get the picture of her with

him out of mind. That should have stopped me from kissing her. She

might have kissed me first. But when we fell against the wall it

didn’t matter who was leading, all systems were go.

And every thought that wasn’t about being inside her again slipped

away. All that mattered was her taste; her lips like wine and her

breath like mint. Her skin, salty. She smelled like vanilla. Who cares

about rationality when legs wrap around you, and welcome you back into

a place that isn’t supposed to be yours anymore? Pure ego caused me to

want to go there again.

Shit. I wasn’t ever supposed to let her get under my skin again. I’ve

been the man who loved her, and all I’ve gotten was hurt. That’s not

true; she also gave me beautiful children and the possibility of

giving love to them. But after building this beautiful family, she

found a way to destroy it.

It’s dark–past midnight–and there are few misguided souls on the

streets driving with me. My shirt is inside out. My shoes are sitting

in the passenger seat. I have to wonder what I’m doing. I’m running

away from my family back to my lonely condo. It won’t work–Marlena

and me–and that’s why I can’t belong to her anymore. She always said

belong to those you love, but I wonder if she ever truly belonged to

me. Maybe Alex and Roman broke her heart so much that she can’t love

me the way I need her to.

I didn’t require much from her. I only wanted what any man expects of

his partner. Loyalty. A good mother to my children. A healthy sex

life. Normal things. She is a good mother. I’d tell anyone that but

she wasn’t a good wife. Not when I started to compete for her with a

man that was supposed to help us.

Belle thinks that Nicky’s illness and finding out about a secret child

that she has no memory of is enough to cause the kind of misguided

steps that I’ve told her caused the end of our union. I told my girl

that I’d go with that if her mother hadn’t been showing signs of

disloyalty before Nicky and Rachel. I shouldn’t involve Belle, but I

need an ally too.

She betrayed us. With my baby in her body, this disgusts me to think

about. Belle doesn’t believe that her mother would be unfaithful, even

though she has all the proof. Her own conception. The baby who Marlena

miscarried before Nicky. Both products of Marlena’s bad judgment.

Evidence that Marlena does awful things to people too.

When I left her, and decided that I deserved someone who didn’t betray

me, I didn’t do it without thought. Hell I even gave her the benefit

of still being secretly angry at my relationship with Kate. I

considered that she hadn’t reacted as angrily as she should have then.

But even with all those excuses, I couldn’t forgive her. That’s what

it came down to. I loved her and she didn’t love me in the same way.

And tonight. All of those reasons why I told Belle and myself that I

could never be with Marlena again shifted angles for a second. I

stopped looking out of upset eyes and saw the vulnerability that makes

me want to take care of her.

I really only wanted to talk. I came to talk about my children. The

finances. To see what kind of home she would have without me. To yell

about her crazy doctor sending me veiled messages.

Then the look. She looked so broken when she asked me to leave the

first time that I drove around negotiating why I felt guilty about

being angry about her affair. Then I became upset that she did have

the right to tell me to go away. But it went away when I remembered

the way she was fixing my baby French fries because that’s all she’ll

eat. And how, I left her with no choice but to move on. Driving

around, while they were at her tidy new home, I felt left out of the

equation of our family. I felt vulnerable. And I wanted to show myself

that I could still be a part of their lives. So I went back.

I’ve been involved with a psychiatrist for too long. I’m more

self-aware then I ever want to be. It’s horrible to be aware of

feelings all the time. I’d rather just say I screwed up and move past

this.

After I’m home and showered, toweling off on my bed, my phone

vibrates. Marlena. I didn’t mean to rush you away. Maybe we could talk

about what happened? It’s Nicky. He wants you to live here. Seeing you

in my bed would confuse him. I’m sorry. We can talk tomorrow. I don’t

hit reply. What the hell do I have to say? I delete it and climb into

bed.

It’s three days later before I talk to her without either of us using

Nicky or Juliana as a channel. I don’t know whose avoiding whom.

There’s nothing that we can do or say that will change Sunday night’s

misstep. It was a worthy mistake but there is too much at stake for

those kinds of things to happen.

But Thursday, our new exchange day, the phone rings early. I shield my

eyes with my arm against the slits of sunlight bearing down from the

window above my bed. The sun has barely risen but she’s an early

riser. She jumps out of bed raring to go with the list in her head

that she has to complete. These details about her scramble around my

head when I hear her voice.

[Marlena]

He’s always been good at ignoring the elephant in the room. Living 20

minutes away, in the imagined protective net of his condo, makes his

ignorance even easier. I hate being shut out after I’ve opened myself

up to him again.

He didn’t answer my text. Maybe it was too impersonal to apologize

over a telephone but this is the century of technology. That was the

first thing that upset me—his disregard for my feelings.

The second was him calling the children, every day this week, like he

typically does with no acknowledgment about what happened.

Strike three. He paid the bill but strangely enough, I received the receipt.

“We’re not going to be these people,” I tell him calmly, in spite of

the way I feel inside. “That wasn’t quid pro quo John. Sunday wasn’t

about..,”

I hear him release a heavy breathe ease from his lungs.

“I’m serious. Do you know what it feels like? I’m not–you don’t pay for me.”

“I told you I’d take care of it,” he says, allowing that he knows

exactly what I’m referring to.

“And you couldn’t tell me yourself,” gets to the point of why I’m truly upset.

“When?” he challenges loudly. I’m grateful that our children are lying

beside me in my bed where it’s still quiet. “After you put me out of

your house?”

“So you’re upset because I didn’t let you stay?”

He avoids answering my question. “You can’t control yourself when it

comes to him; I was just trying to help you not betray your word to

me.”

Betray. He uses that word to convey what he thinks happened with Dr.

Shalit. What he won’t let me explain. There are levels of betrayal and

I never, in my estimation reached the unforgiveable mark.

Unfortunately, John is the only one setting the limits.

“I didn’t betray you in the first place. Not in the way that you

think. And if we’re going to have this conversation, then I want to

have it in person.”

He dismisses the notion completely. “We’re not. I don’t want to hear

about you and him. I know all I need to know. And what’s more, I

assume he somehow let you know that I paid the bill?”

“The receipt.” I say rubbing my face. Juliana kicks my side in her

fitful sleep. She turns from Nicky toward my body. We’ve slept like

this since she climbed into bed last night. When I’m less angry with

John, we’ll need to discuss her ability to climb out of her crib. It

could be time for her to move up into a toddler’s bed.

In her sleep, she’s so serene that I check her pulse several times in

the night, out of habit. I slide down from the headboard to snuggle up

to her. Nicky, trying to exercise independence stays in a straight

line on his side. Still sleeping, and breathing heavily.

“Marlena?”

“Noodle was moving. She’s a wild sleeper.” I push her raven hair from

her face and kiss the side of her neck. She’s warm there and she still

smells like baby lotion.

Touching her is the reminder that I need in the conversation with her

father. “We’re only parents now.” I say while simultaneously

processing the power of those words. “Three nights ago, you and I,” I

grow silent for lack of an appropriate description. “We…we had sex.

Don’t treat me like I’m…”

He speaks up, “I didn’t. I didn’t call you because I didn’t want you

to think that anything had changed.” He reveals with his most steady

voice. “It hasn’t for me.”

I laugh a little. It hides the sadness that sails through me. “I know

that.” I really do. I know what Sunday was about but I don’t want him

to tell me that. It’s better that he doesn’t make me hear those words

coming from him. “I don’t like this merry-go-round any more than you

do. We had a strong bond and just because it severed doesn’t mean that

the feelings go away. I’m not trying to shrink you; I’m just trying to

make sense of it for myself.”

“Let’s just table it.”

He finds it easier to hide than to face what happened. I don’t why we

had sex. I can’t tell you even with all my training. Lust. Need. But

something that never happened with us in this area is our being empty

of emotion when we were performing the act. It was just a cavalier

act.

“You have your life and I have mine and they intersect every couple of

days because of our shared responsibilities. I can live with that, if

you keep your boundaries.” He has kept them for a year. “And please,

stay out of my personal affairs…” his sharp breath signals that my

choice of words was ill received. “Danielle will bring them over later

today. She doesn’t mind doing the exchange.”

“Good. Maybe it’s better if we go through her to communicate the schedules.”

His suggestion is like a slap across my face. I bite my tongue not to

remind him that we didn’t need Danielle to communicate when we were

conceiving them. “That’s fine.”

“Summer vacation,” Eric explains, “and Grandma and Grandpa’s anniversary.”

Shifting the phone to my shoulder so that brushing Juliana’s hair is

easier, I ask what the two things have in common. She’s squirming to

get from the terror of my brush. She doesn’t like having the tangles

brushed out of her shiny hair.

“Don’t you need a vacation?” My oldest son asks me in exasperation.

We’ve been going back and forth for the better of ten minutes. I’ve

asked him to come and visit me and his little brother and sister. I

miss him and I suspect it’s because Belle has pushed me out of her

life. And because Rachel doesn’t want me to push. Of all of my

progeny, he’s the most considerate of my feelings when I’m feeling

solitary.

“It’s hard to take vacations with toddlers, honey. They’re too young

to do anything beyond Disney amusement parks.” Juliana turns her head

swiftly at the mention of her favorite empire. She’s a Disney

aficionado. “But Mama and Daddy? You want to send them away for their

anniversary?” I give up brushing Juliana’s hair and let her down from

my lap. Danielle will be here in an hour to drop them at John’s.

“Mommy, I have my fruit snack!” Nicky meets me at the bottom of the

stair lifting a torn package in the air when Juliana and I descend the

stairs. The tan shorts that I painstakingly removed grass stains from

because they are his favorite, have a splat of red juice on the front.

Nicky darts away quickly.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do with your brother,” I tell Eric

rounding the corner of the kitchen. The mess I imagined is larger than

I suspected. The rules are that Nicky leaves all cabinets to me. He

likes to climb and all I can see is Nicky falling back and splitting

his head open. That’s why there are rules. But rules aside, his Hulk

cup is lying on the floor in a puddle of red liquid.

“You sound busy Mom. I can call back.”

Setting Juliana down, I send her away from the mess. “I can multi-task

honey. Do you know how many mishaps I cleaned up between you and your

sister, while rendering judgments in your many arguments?” I’ve

already wrapped some paper towels around my hand to wipe up Nicky’s

accident. Red juice spills from the island, dripping to the floor.

“He’s in his big boy stage.” I inform Eric who finds it amusing.

“I remember that stage but you’re the kind of mom who doesn’t like a

little independence.” He reminds me.

“In a two year old? No.” I get on my knees and soak up the mess.

“Nicholas Ethan Black. I need to see you at the scene of your crime.”

I call out.

Juliana runs into the kitchen, smirking. “No Nicky.”

I stand up and throw away the paper towels. “Oh, no?” I ask her

putting my hands on my hips. She follows suit. “She’s so cute, it’s

hard to punish cute.” I tell Eric, who’s laughing at the antics of his

siblings.

“No.” She shakes her head, making her hair windmill around her face.

“Nicholas, Mommy wants to see you. Now, please.” I try again.

“No Nicky,” Juliana says again. She walks toward me with her arms lifted. “Up.”

“Where is your brother?” I ask her sitting her high on my hip.

“I can call back.” Eric suggests.

“No, give me a second.” The living room is empty. I scan the room,

hearing the telltale sign of Nicky’s presence. Breathing. Juliana

leans and whispers her brother’s name. She points behind me. Looking

over my shoulder, I see Nicky hiding behind the armchair. “Honey, come

out from under there.”

“I can’t.”

“That’s a good answer,” Eric says, causing me to lose my serious demeanor.

“Did you leave a mess in the kitchen?”

“Yes,” Juliana answers lurching backward.

Eric chuckles. “Where is the loyalty? Ask my little sister if she

knows what a turncoat is.”

“Are you going to answer me?” I ask Nicky, who’s still partially

hidden behind the overstuffed chair. He’s on all fours with his eyes

trained to the ceiling.

“I want Daddy.” That’s a new one.

“And I want you to answer me. Did you make a mess?”

“Yes.” Juliana says again. “Yes. Yes.”

“Honey?” I look to Nicky again.

“Daddy.” He says squaring his jaw.

“Mom handle Nicky. I’ll call you back later.”

“Oh, alright honey. I’m sorry about all the distractions.”

“Don’t worry. Talk to you later.”

“I love you honey.” I say before hanging up.

Nicky doesn’t budge from his hiding spot. Not even after coaxing him

with sweet words. His stubborn John Black attitude is flaring.

“Nicholas, you know better than to climb onto the counter by yourself.

You spilled juice and made a mess.”

He lays his head down, muffling “Daddy! I want Daddy.”

My frustration mounts. “Well he’s not here. I am. Come out of there,

right now.” I demand stronger than I mean to. He realizes quickly that

the tone in my voice is serious. “Now honey,” I soften, “talk to

Mommy.” I sit down on the couch with Juliana still attached to my hip.

Towering over him will only shatter his confidence. Juliana lays her

head below my shoulder, as she rubs my back. She’s good at reading

people. She perceives my distress and wants to alleviate it. She’s

slowly leaving babyhood behind and becoming my little girl, as Nicky

is trying to exhibit his own selfhood. And I have to deal with it.

“I’m not mad at you baby. I just want you to be careful.” I tell him

as he walks from behind the chair. He drags heavily across the room.

He climbs up and sits beside me. “Are you mad at Mommy?”

He hesitates with his gaze locked on his lap. “I want Daddy.”

“Honey, you’ll see Daddy. But are you upset…mad at Mommy? Did I hurt

your feelings?”

He whispers, narrowing his eyes, “yes.”

“Did Mommy do something especially bad to hurt your feelings?”

His body folds slightly. “You made Daddy go.”

My eyes slam shut and I clutch my neck. These are the casualties of

the friendly war between John and me. Unspoken casualties.

His voice doesn’t falter when he asks, “Mommy, are you mad at Daddy?”

I want to be honest with him but he’s a boy who worships his father.

“No, I love Daddy just like I love you and Noodle.”

“You don’t,” he tells me scrunching his eyebrows together like John.

“I do.” I pull him to closer to my side and circle my arms around him

and Juliana. “I love you all very much. Honey, you don’t need to worry

about Daddy and me. That’s our job. You’re job is to be a little boy.

Play with Pika, and Daddy…beat him at games,” I say widening my

eyes. “Be nice to your sister, and be a good boy. That’s all you need

to do. Okay?”

He nods but how much can a two-year-old process. I was afraid that he

would start to see John’s absence as my doing. But I wasn’t expecting

that until he was older, and by then I would have a great child

psychologist to send him and Juliana to.

“Come on baby; let’s get you changed for Danielle.”

“I’m going to Daddy’s?” he asks surprised.

I turn his face to me. “You’re not in trouble, baby. Yes, you and

Noodle are going to Daddy’s house like always.” He smiles and hops up

on his knees to kiss my mouth. “Thank you honey. I love you.”

I’ve been so busy worrying about how I’m affected by the separation

that Nicky’s fragile emotions often go unchecked. After they’ve gone

with Danielle, Juliana and Nicky are all I can think about, even

though I have two patients to see today.

An alcoholic businessman with mother issues. I usually let him talk as

much as he needs to about his mother and how she wasn’t the best role

model for him. Sometimes patients only want someone to hear them, and

to listen. He speaks about being a child of divorced parents. He

speaks about his life and I cast Nicky in his role in my mind.

I tell my patient that his mother probably did the best she could,

knowing myself that best intentions aren’t always what’s best for

everybody. Are John and my intentions about the children or us? The

frightened little boy who left my house with Danielle, and not

frightened because of not feeling loved, but because doesn’t know

where he belongs, shows me that sometimes doing my best isn’t enough.

Nicky is certainly unsure of his place in this despite my efforts to

make him feel otherwise. It’s my job to have him not sitting on a

therapist’s couch, replaying all the mistakes that I’ve made as his

parent, when he’s older.

I tell my patient that people aren’t always aware of the power that

they hold over others. One wrong word from the right person can

destroy a life. It’s about perception. My perception has been

one-sided. Maybe I should have worked harder to convince John that

nothing irrevocable happened between Dr. Shalit and me. If I had

fought for us, then Nicky and Juliana could have what I want for them.

Maybe it’s not about me or John and our hurt feelings.

I argue with myself instead of listening to my next patient. She’s a

new case. Her sense of right and wrong are extreme. She doesn’t have a

golden mean to measure. A hedonist. She’s a mother who is cheating on

her husband. That’s the first thing that made me tune out. It’s not

the story that makes me uncomfortable. It’s the happy lilt streaming

through her words. What is satisfying about betraying marriage vows?

How can she risk her children’s future for meaningless physical

pleasure without assessing the damage? The self-satisfied smile on her

face causes me to turn away. Had I betrayed John in that way, then I

could respect his decision to not be in my life. But that’s not what

happened.

I know so because I tell this patient that her happiness is selfish. I

encourage her to consider the possibility of her husband finding out.

I don’t need to tell her that men never overcome those feelings of

inadequacy. I’m sure her husband already knows. John swears he knew

before I crossed the line that it would happen. I wish he could’ve

told me that he thought so; maybe I could have stopped the train from

derailing.

Nicky and Juliana’s photograph smiles at me from my desk. Focusing on

them makes the rest of the hour bearable. I thank God everyday that I

was given another chance to be a mother. I missed out on too much of

Belle, Brady, and the twins. Rachel-that subject is too much to even

open myself up to. I can fix anything, but it takes one moment at a

time. We only get one chance. At life. With raising children, being

good children to our parents. At love.

I end the session with the adulterer with some sage advice. If she

really loves her husband, then I tell her to begin an affair with him.

Fall in love again with him.

I head back to my lovely, lonely home. Kicking my shoes off at the

door, I rush up to my bedroom and lay down. Their little smells are

still in the bed. The doll that Juliana was playing with last night is

poking from beneath my pillow. Nicky’s Hulk is on my dresser.

How am I going to do this for the next sixteen years? Then Juliana

will be on the verge of becoming a woman, and that’ll mean shutting me

out to grow out from under my shadow. Nicky will most likely be a high

achieving student who will choose to go away foe school. The window of

time that I have with them is so short. And what if they choose to

live with John full time. They’ll get that choice when they’re older.

I haven’t cried in a year. I thought if I let one drop fall, then I

wouldn’t be able to stop the others. I’m strong. I see how far I’ve

come since I moved away from my old life. But I also see how no matter

how far I go I’m only a step away from going back.

It’s not just because I had sex with John. It’s because I allowed

myself to feel for him again.

My blackberry vibrates. Nicky is waiting for you to say goodnight.

That’s all it takes for the first drop to roll down my cheek.

Changing quickly into yoga pants and a t-shirt, I grab my keys and

head for the garage. I program John’s address in the navigation system

and follow the meticulous directions of the mechanical voice to his

front door.

“I just want to hold my little boy,” I plead when he opens the door.

He crooks his hand against the frame and leans to the side. “I’ve been

thinking about him all day.” I wipe the tears away because he hates to

see me cry and I don’t want him to think I’m manipulating him. I

really want to have a real conversation. “I should have called. You

wouldn’t have let me come, and I needed to come. All day, I’ve been

thinking about what it must be like for him.” I’m talking so fast that

I forget some of the things I planned to say. “You didn’t see his face

today. We had an episode. I didn’t call you about it because I don’t

know what I’m supposed to tell you anymore.” My hands are moving as

fast as my mouth and he’s watching me silently. “We have these great

kids. And I can’t tell you the successes or the battles because of

this thing between us. I don’t want to get into that.” I say waving my

hand in front of his face. “I just didn’t want Nicky to go to sleep

without me saying goodnight to him in person. It’s important. Please.”

He moves to the side, clearing the doorway. “He’s upstairs in my bed.

It’s the first door on the right.”

I almost thank him, but he walks off before I can open my mouth.

Nicky is genuinely surprised to see me. He jumps up immediately and

leaps off the bed. “Mommy?” Falling on my knees, I welcome him into my

arms. He squeezes me as tight as his small arms can. I’m confusing him

being here, I realize when he pulls back from me. “Going home?”

“No baby. I just wanted to see you. Tell you goodnight.” Crushing him

to me again, I enfold him and lift him up. Juliana is fast asleep in

the bed with her thumb poking into her mouth. “Noodle’s asleep.” He

holds his finger to his mouth. “Will you show Mommy your room?”

He likes that idea. He scales down my body like an expert climber and

he pulls me across the hall. It’s exactly the kind of room I’d expect

from John. All of Nicky’s favorite things. An absolute wonderland for

a little boy. But even with all the majestic wonder, he wants the

comfort of his daddy’s presence when he sleeps. “I love your room.

Daddy made it really nice for you, didn’t he?”

“Hulk. Look Mommy, Hulk’s light.” He points to a glowing green night

light on the side of his bed.

“Big boy’s bed too?” I say patting it before I sit down on the green

blanket. “Can we talk Nicky?”

He shakes his whole body. “No talk.”

“Well will you listen to Mommy while I talk?” I offer, hoping the

compromise will work.

“I’m sorry.” He tells me propping in himself in front of me on top of

my knees with his elbows. With his face in his opened palms, he tilts

his head. “No more big man juice.”

Laughing, I pull him up into my lap. “Good. I accept your apology.”

“Apology.” He scrunches his nose. “Apple.”

“Never mind silly boy, now you listen to me.” I’ve always been better

at being a doctor to others who aren’t my family. I don’t know how to

get through to Nicky. I don’t want him to have to make a choice one

day between me or his father. Custody arrangements as they are change

with the emotional stability of the child. I want him to have us both

the way he wants us. “You know how much I love you and your sister. I

love more than you will ever understand.”

“Why?”

I tickle the skin underneath his shirt. “What do you mean why? Where

do you get these things?” I ask laughing with him. “I love you because

two years ago, I woke up one morning and realized that you were right

here inside of me.” Except for the slight length of his body and more

hair, he’s the same little boy that I first held in the NICU. The same

boy I almost lost twice.

“Was Jules there?”

“She wasn’t with you then, but I suspect you were together somewhere.”

He lies against my heart and tilts his heart shaped face back. “You

were in Mommy’s belly all by yourself. Can you believe your silly

Mommy didn’t know how much I wanted you.” He can’t understand the

consequences of mental illness. I don’t ever plan to tell him about

his birth circumstances. “I wish there was a way to keep you with me

always, like when you were in my belly.”

“I’m a big boy.” He argues.

I squeeze his body close. “I know Nicholas and you are a brave big

boy. You’re Mommy’s brave big boy.”

“Jules too.”

“Yes, your sister loves you. And Daddy, and Mommy.” I reiterate. “We

all love you. Even if we don’t live in the same place.” It would be

unfair to tell him that his father left us. That’s what it comes down

to. “I know you want Daddy home.”

“You want Daddy?”

“I have Daddy honey, but in a different way. He’ll always be with me

because he gave me you and Noodle. And you’ll always have him too.”

“With me at home?” he asks hopeful.

“This is your home. You and Daddy and Noodle live here. And you live

with me too.” It’s too complicated for a two-year-olds tiny attention

span. “Maybe Daddy can come to our house more?”

“And play with us?” he says happily. “Eat pizza.”

“Sure. If that’s what you want.”

He bobs his head up and down.

“I love this little boy of mine.” I say holding him in the crook of my

arms. “I think it’s time for bed baby.”

“Sleep with me Mommy.”

“Only for a little while, and then I’m going to go home.” I promise

pulling his cover back. He mouths Daddy’s bed. “I can’t sleep in

Daddy’s bed baby.”

“You can. It’s big boy bed.”

I drag us out of Nicky’s bed and carry him back into John’s room. I

make it a point not to look around. I don’t want to remember any of

the details about his bedroom. I’ll talk with him about visiting the

kids more at our house after Nicky’s asleep.

“Daddy’s side.” Nicky shows me when I put him in next to Juliana. She

must be exhausted to have missed Nicky’s absence beside her. “Lay down

Mommy.” He pats the side that is John’s, right next to Juliana. I

follow his direction and get on top of the cover. Curling my body

against the baby’s, I smell her baby shampoo. Nicky closes the other

side off with his body, grabbing my hand across Juliana’s sleeping

form. “I tell a story.”

“Okay.” He starts stammering through a tale that features Mommy and

Daddy as main characters that live in a castle with a prince and

princess. By the fifth minute, my eyelids start drooping and Nicky’s

voice is drowned out.

Chapter 6

“Sex relieves tension – love causes it.”

Woody Allen

Once I adjust my eyes to the darkness around me, picking out misshapen

shadows, I recall that it’s John’s bed that I’m in and after two in

the morning. Juliana’s legs are sprawled over me. In her curled hand

is my t-shirt, where she’s bunch a tight fist of cotton. Turning to

the side, I get a view of Nicky’s back, rising in conjunction with his

sleep. Below my foot, Pika is curled into a furry ball.

My best maneuver is replacing my body with a pillow so that Noodle

won’t feel empty air when she reaches for comfort in her sleep. I

slide the one from beneath my head between us; it’s warm from the heat

of my body. Bending one leg at a time, I slide out of bed and stretch

my arms upward. My bearings aren’t together. I can’t remember where I

left my keys. My neck has a dull ache from the angled way I fell

asleep. To say nothing of the fact that I fell asleep in John’s bed

after essentially barging in on his night with the kids.

Pika’s head pops up. She hops up on her paws and walks up the edge of

the bed. Reaching to scratch her ears, as she burrows into my hand, I

pick her up and look over my children once before leaving the room.

John’s nowhere in sight when we hit the bottom step and I lower Pika

to the ground. She wags her tail and trots off down a narrow hallway.

She’s looking for John, and I follow because we’re on the same

mission.

“John, are you back here?” Peeking in the door that Pika turned into,

I see John at his computer. He has on a headset. “John.” I call out a

little louder, standing at the front of his desk.

Pika causes him to spin around. “Piks.” He doesn’t notice me standing

there. He’s bent over smoothing down Pika’s fur.

“John?”

He snatches the headset off, startled. “Damnit Marlena, you scared me.”

“Sorry. I called your name. You didn’t hear me.” He looks immediately

apologetic. Blue eyes soften and slant upward to my face. His t-shirt

and sweat pants demystify the man. In power suits, he appears

invincible; in casual clothes, the mortal that I know he is.

“I was getting some work done so that I can stay home with them

tomorrow.” He explains straightening the pile of papers on his desk.

“These late night conference calls are a pain.”

I roll my shoulders. The normal conversation is nice. He swivels back

around. The look that crosses his face as he does is all too familiar

and painful. It’s dismissive. “I’m sorry I took your bed over. Nicky

insisted and he started telling stories. I didn’t realize I was that

tired.”

“You’ve been looking tired lately,” he says staring at his laptop screen.

“We have two children under three. Nicky and Juliana, have you met

them?” I joke, relieved when he laughs along.

“That’s why I let you rest.”

“Thank you.” I sigh uneasily. “I’m going to get ready and go. Just as

soon as I find my keys.”

“They’re on the table in the foyer.”

“Oh, good. I told Nicky,” I say yawning, “That I’d talk to you about

you coming over to our house more. I tried to reassure him about some

things tonight.”

“What things?” he asks clicking away on the laptop.

I search for safe words to talk about Nicky’s anxiety. “About you and

the fact that he mentions you coming home more than he ever has since

we separated. He doesn’t mention it to you?” If not, I feel foolish

bringing it up. “Today he told me he was upset with me because I made

you go away.”

John swivels around to face me. “He’s two Marlena. He doesn’t know

what he means. He doesn’t even know what upset is.”

“Mad. I used the word mad and he said yes.”

He grunts sharply. “Then you gave him the words to use. He doesn’t

know what it means. Of course he’ll say he wants me there; I was just

there.”

I lower my eyes to a picture of John and Belle. My family, that isn’t

anymore. “He says it when you’re not there.”

“This is the first I’ve heard of it. You have to let me know these

things so that I can stay on top of them.”

Shifting my weight from one leg to the other, I cross my arms

underneath my breasts. “You’re upset because I’m here. Right?” I read

the distant glare in his eyes. “I just wanted to hold him.”

He stands up and I follow his steps from his chair to me with darting

eyes. “What happened today?” he asks, seemingly genuinely concerned.

“Sit down.”

Sitting on the couch in the corner of the office, I lift my eyes to

his face when he sits across from me.”I had to tell my son that I

couldn’t give him what he wanted.”

“And for that you drove 20 minutes?”

I clasp my hands together across my thighs. “I wanted to hold him. And

you’ve seen my house. I was curious.” I say with a tight smile.

“Don’t joke.”

Dropping my head, I whisper, “don’t be angry with me anymore.”

“Oh Marlena, come on.” He gets up and walks back to his chair. “Don’t

turn on the water works. In case you’re not sure, it still makes me

want to hold you when you do that thing there. The sad eyes and

quivering lip. Don’t do that to me.”

“Why are you so cold to me?” I ask looking up from fidgeting with my

fingers. I brush my bangs from my eyes and lay my hand flattened

across my legs.

“Marlena.”

“You never even asked what happened. You never let me explain it.”

“What was there to explain? I saw it. I saw it for months before that.”

“Is that why we can’t try this,” I ask making a circle from me to him,

“for them?”

“This isn’t about them. Stop it.

“Please forgive me.”

He gets up from the chair and kneels in front of me.

I prod, “Are you sorry that we had sex?” I haven’t described it as

making love any of the times that I’ve mentioned it. He flinches. He’s

always hated the idea of cavalier sex.

“I can’t try again Marlena.” He tells me trapping me between his arms.

“I don’t trust you.”

“Stop being cold. I know you think I hurt you.”

He lifts up quickly. “That’s it. I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Ok.” I say resigned. “I’ll go.”

“No, sleep here. I wouldn’t be comfortable with you driving. It’s late.”

“It’ll confuse Nicky.”

“I’ll explain to him.” He pulls me up by my arms. “I’ll make up the

couch for you.”

Pika nips at my heels as we both follow John to the living room. He

disappears around a corner and reappears with a pillow and sheet.

The worse thing I ever did to him was make him doubt my sincerity. Now

every word I say deserves, in his view, thorough examination. He works

at unfolding the sheet and spreading it over the pillows on the couch.

When he’s finished, he reaches for the fluffy pillow. I grab his wrist

and circle around him. “I didn’t betray you with him. I wouldn’t do

that to you.” I say earnestly. “I was pregnant with Juliana, I

couldn’t let…”

His eyes slam shut and his body tightens. “Stop it.” He says

forcefully. He grips my upper arms and forces me against the couch.

“Why do you have to keep going with this?”

“You never listened to me,” I wince in pain, “and I wonder if knowing

the truth changes anything.”

He leans forward, his hot breath warming my chin. “I’m not going to

talk about you being a slut.” He spats angrily.

I try to yank my arms out of his grasp but he’s stronger. There’s no

remorse in his face because it’s contorted from all the pain. “Is that

what you think of me? A slut.” I yank hard again to no avail. “Let me

up.” The way he’s looking unnerves me. “John, let me up.”

“This is what you reduced me to. It’s not just you that I don’t trust.

I don’t trust the world because the person I put my complete faith in

lied.”

“I’ve never lied to you,” I cry pushing against his hands.

“Oh yeah, you lied. You were falling in love with him and you couldn’t

admit it.”

“I wasn’t in love with him. I was carrying your baby.” I kick my foot

hard against his shin and break away from the blockade when he

stumbles back in pain.”Stay away from me.”

He moves back with his hands raised in defeat. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ve wanted to do that since you saw us.” I lift the cotton of my

sleeve and see where his fingers have tattooed rings around my arm.

“Does that make you feel better? I hate it when you do that?” I say

back away. “Don’t touch me like that again? Ever. Talk to me, but

don’t put your hands on me.”

“I don’t want to talk to you,” he says running his hand across his face.

“But you can manhandle me, is that it?”

“I look at you and I want to break your neck for what you’ve done,” he

confesses dropping down onto the couch.

Rubbing my arms in the places that burn, I move to what I qualify as a

safe distance. “Don’t say things like that to me. It scares that you

feel so much anger toward me. I didn’t…” I stop before I set him off

again.

“I don’t think I can love you anymore.” Can—that means it’s a

condition that can change.

“I think I want to go.” It’s too volatile. My babies are upstairs and

their father has exhibited the violent temper that I never want them

to see.

“No, no. It’s too late.”

“John.” My voice is weary. “I’m nervous now, being here with you.”

“You don’t think that I’m going to hurt you?” he asks me sadly.

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll go upstairs with the kids.” He replies. “You get some sleep.”

I feel slightly less anxious when he gets off the couch. The angry

streak that I saw wash over his face is gone. He walks up to me and I

flinch when he kisses my forehead. Looking wounded by my reaction, he

retreats up the stairs.

I plop down shaking my head. What the hell have I done to that man?

[John]

I can’t sleep. I toss and turn, waking Juliana in the process. She

looks up through her thick lashes at me. I’m supposed to protect her

from the kind of sadness I just made her mother go through.

I’d kill anybody that touched her inappropriately, just as Frank

should do to me for being so rough with his daughter. She lifts

herself into my chest, propping her head under my chin. I think of

Marlena downstairs in my living room. The first time that she’s ever

been here and I’ve terrified her. I want to make amends.

“Princess, do you wanna see your Mommy?” I whisper rubbing her back.

She’s still half-asleep staring at me with her beautiful brown eyes.

“Mommy?” she asks, making sure she heard me.

We trek downstairs to find Marlena hidden under the covers with her

back to us. Juliana reaches out to stroke her back.

“Hi baby,” is the first thing out of Marlena’s mouth when she bends

her torso. “What are you doing awake?”

I put her beside Marlena on the couch. She lies back down and Marlena

rolls back over, hovering over her.

“It’s okay baby, Mommy’s here.” She soothes her with a hushed voice.

“I’ll go back up to Nicky.” I say getting up from the floor.

“Daddy.” Juliana whines sitting up when she sees me standing over her

and her mother.

“She wants you to stay, don’t you? I know baby.” Marlena says

consoling her. The whining dies slowly when I sit back on the floor

with my back against the couch where Juliana can still see me.

My senses sharpen in the dark. Pika is sleeping somewhere in the room,

her small tufts of breath are evident. A perfume that I don’t know

also wafts around the stale air. It smells exactly like something that

should represent Marlena. A smell that announces her presence. A

chocolate and jasmine combination that smells even better underneath

her ear where my nose wanders, with an excuse that I’m checking on

Juliana.

She doesn’t move when I curve my hand around hers to check on Juliana.

Her head turns and I see her pupils expanding as she searches my face.

I climb onto the couch behind her, spooning tightly against her body.

She faces Juliana then, avoiding my face. I cover the hand that she

keeps rubbing Juliana’s back with.

“Shhh baby.” She keeps saying to Juliana; a soft rhythm that lulls me.

And like black magic I start tracing my hand across her neck, down her

spine and back up her arm. She jerks when I get to the place that I

squeezed too hard.

“I’m sorry,” I say dipping to kiss the nape of her neck. Moving her

hair away, I kiss beneath her ear and the side of her neck.

“Don’t,” she tells me with her breathe catching in her throat.

Ignoring that, my hands coil around her hip. I pull her t-shirt up and

press my hand to her warm skin.

“John. No.” She tells me, pulling my hand free of her body.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you like that.”

“I forgive you but we…”

I yank her chin over her shoulder. “Say that again.”

She looks afraid for a split second before telling me, “I forgive

you.” That’s enough for me. I don’t want her to be afraid of me. I

never want to hurt her in that way. I can keep that monster in check.

I pull away from her. “She’s never had us together like this.” Her

voice is free of the fear. She stops me from climbing back on to the

floor by locking her arm around me. “Are we doing what’s best for

them? Or what’s easier for us?”

She sure knows how to ask the tough ones. A year ago, it didn’t

matter. Juliana was still in her womb. I didn’t have to look at my

daughter’s face. I could make a decision the way I did because I

didn’t look around for others, I jumped myself. Now there are two tiny

people to consider. I thought that by staying around, maybe I could

give them me without giving their mother any more pieces of my heart.

But she they are so much a part of her that I can’t deny her. I didn’t

know that I couldn’t divide the two.

Lying with Marlena, being pressed into her awakens the sex monster

that always appears when she’s this close to me. An erection swells

between my legs. “I have to get up from here.” I put space between my

hard shaft and her body.

Something inside her shifts. “It’s okay. She’s asleep.” Marlena says

in a sexy, low voice. She tilts her head back and uses her free arm to

pull my mouth over hers. The last time I kissed her, it was so rushed.

There was too much pent up frustration for the lazy kisses that we’ve

perfected over the years.

She opens her mouth and my job is to slowly suck all of the air out

while her lips disappear into my mouth. “The floor.” She mumbles,

breaking apart our mouths. I tumble down to the carpet first, dragging

her on top of me. She straddles me right above my pelvis, brushing

against my swollen member when she sits back to pull her shirt from

her body.

Her body is perfect. Her breasts look sexy restrained in a black lacy

bra that makes her cleavage topple over the cups. Even after having my

babies, she’s in the best shape of her life. Her belly is almost

nearly flat; her skin is still soft like Juliana’s. I’ve seen woman

half her age, age badly. I’m convinced that she’ll never look her age.

She bends over my chest. Her hair falls over her shoulder as she blows

a hot line up my body. She drops kisses on my neck, igniting a fire

between my legs. Knowing exactly what she’s doing, she sits up and

licks her lips. Bunching my t-shirt from the bottom up, she lifts up

off me to help me sit up. She pulls it over my head and I glance at

Juliana.

“She’s fine,” Marlena whispers. “I hope you have something.” Her eyes

close and she starts gyrating against my pelvis bone. Her lips are

still wet. Her chest heaving.

“What if I want to feel just you?” I ask stealing a kiss. “What about that?”

She pulls back, answering shyly, “I don’t want to get pregnant.”

“I’ll pull out.” I promise, wrapping my arms around her back. Using my

strength, I pull her off my legs and reposition her on the floor. I

sit at her side and stare at her. A smart man would run, instead of

digging any deeper into this hole we’ve created for ourselves. But I

can’t turn away from her any more than I can walk away from my

children.

“This isn’t going to stop, is it?” she asks breathlessly. “I don’t

know how to turn you down.”

I bend over her body and unlatch her bra. When the material falls

away, the mounds of delicate skin bounce free. “You’re the one that

started this,” I say covering her right breast with my mouth. She

thrusts her entire body up and I settle her with my hand. Pulling

away, I sit back on my knees. I don’t know why I’m hesitating. She

sits up and covers my face between her hot hands.

“You’re trying to make me forget that you hurt me,” she says moving

her arms around my neck.

“I’m trying to make me forget.” I admit kissing those bruises that are

right by my mouth. “Marlena, I don’t think we should do this.”

“Yes,” she purs in my ear. She sits back on her knees and scrapes her

fingernails down my arms. She looks up through half hooded eyes.

Everything about her body reveals the magnitude of her sexuality. Her

lips and dainty fingers, her trembling hands as she pulls me back over

her body. She lowers us both to the ground, with me still on top. Her

hands dip into the waistband of my sweatpants. She pushes them down my

legs, edging her body lower with them. In one felled swoop, she’s

laying eye level with my erection and I’m on all fours towering over

her, using my arms as leverage. She props herself up on her elbows and

reaches for my twitching member. Licking her lips, she slides her hand

slowly up and down the entire length of my erection before kissing the

tip. She soaks it with her tongue and I bite down on my lip. I look

from Marlena to my daughter and feel very awkward about having myself

in her mouth six inches away from my sleeping baby.

“Whoah…” I start counting sheep in my head to settle my body. “Not

with the baby there. I just can’t get into it.” I explain sitting

back.

“I don’t want to leave her here alone.” She says sitting up. “But I

want to do this with you. I’m tired of relieving myself manually. I

want the real thing.”

I shield my stiffened member and put an extra pillow on the floor for

Juliana in case she rolls too far. Marlena watches me anxiously. A

smile for my consideration of Juliana. I pull her up from the carpet,

enjoying the view of her free breasts jiggling around. She leans over

the back of the couch and kisses the baby.

[Marlena]

I would give anything to feel this kind of exhilaration all the time.

I like knowing that my babies are under the same roof with me and

their daddy. I like being dragged down a dark hallway by John. I like

when he backs me against the wall and slowly descends my body, taking

my pants and panties with him.

I like opening my legs so that he can run his fingers in the deepest

depth of the folds. I love feeling his breath in the center of my sex,

especially when he lifts the hood hiding my nerve. I slam my head

against the wall when the tip if his tongue draws circles across the

skin there. I love the way he grips me from behind and feasts on my

taste there. I love that I’m not self-conscious about him pleasuring

me there. I like the way my breaths escape my body. The way I curl my

fingers in his hair to keep him there. I love my hands when they

collapse over my face after the pinnacle of my orgasm hits me so

strongly that I can do anything except open my mouth and call his

name.

I like not seeing straight because my body hasn’t regained full use of

my faculties. I love feeling my moisture leaking down my thighs and

having John lick me clean. I love knowing by the look on his face that

it’s not over.

I like the sweet way he pulls me into his arms and ask if I’m thirsty.

Then the way he takes my hand and leads me into his kitchen. The cool

black tiled floor sends a chill up my spine. I wrap myself around him

from behind while he stands looking in the refrigerator. There is

nothing self-conscious about being completely naked in front of each,

even after all the time that has passed. I like knowing where the

scars are on his back, and knowing how they got there. I love the way

he shivers when my lips kiss the worm shaped scar on his lower back.

I love how he puts the glass of water on my lips and helps me drink

it, like I’m one of the kids. I enjoy staring at him through the

bottom of the glass, while my hands stroke his slacken manhood. I like

being rewarded with its instant swelling in the palm of my hand.

I love the look on John’s face when I push the glass away and push him

against the counter. As I lower myself to his erection, I fling my

hair over my shoulder, looking up though my bangs to make sure he’s

watching. I like the heavy feel of him in my mouth. The unnamable

taste that layers my tongue. The rhythm of motions, up and down his

shaft. The audible moans that accompany each twist and suction of my

mouth. I like looking up at him when he knots my hair around his

finger and guides me up and down. I love the trembling in his thighs

that come with him releasing himself into my mouth. The bitter, salty

taste of his juices going down my throat. The power that I feel that I

have over his body.

He stands in a frozen position, hands still gripping the countertop. I

like backing away like I’m not sure what’ll happened next. I smile

when he comes back to his senses and cups my face between his hot

hands to kiss me roughly.

That’s what’s next. Rough. I love being lifted off the ground and

pushed against the wall by his back door. The security lights are

beaming a pasty glow over our bodies. I start grinding against him to

get a reaction from his lower region.

I like that it isn’t instant. That I have to really work at

manipulating another erection out of his body. It takes sucking on his

hotspot right below his ear. Kissing while we both touch each other

all over. Whispering dirty thoughts into his ear. And like magic, he

swells up again and I lift up on to his waist, locking my feet

together against the small of his back.

I like whispering, “Don’t come inside.” It makes him moan. He likes

that I can say dirty things to him. “You’re making me wet. Now please

do something about it.”

I love hearing him slide into me. The noises that come from flesh and

moisture rubbing together. I love the way he stretches my insides,

joining us very intimately. I like digging my heels into his rear,

making him push into me more. I like not moving while he finds a good

position to thrust in. I bend back against the wall, loving how he

traces a line down my stomach.

“Not soft.” I say, barely able to open my eyes anymore. He slides in

and out of my body without remorse. Hard, long strokes that reach the

sensitive spots in my inner walls. I like milking him with my muscles

and hearing him curse out of pleasure. I secure my arms around his

neck and match his thrusting.

I love knowing that he won’t be able to come into his kitchen and not

remember thrusting wildly into me by this door. That his house is

marked by me now, in the same ways he’s marked mine.

“John….not inside.” I moan trying to make myself accountable by not

being irresponsible. “Let me take it in my mouth.” I offer, knowing

that we’re getting dangerously close to not having a choice. “John.”

He shakes his head and continues thrusting. “It’s too good….baby

it’s too tight. We’ll handle it.”

I fall against his shoulder. He called me baby. He hasn’t done that in

so long. “But John.”

“No no no no. Don’t…” he lifts me again and lays me down on the

kitchen table. He pulls me to the edge and continues pounding into me.

“John.” I moan shaking my head but continue to pull him deeper inside

me. Thinking, God please, no more babies. John leans across the table

and thrusts until my legs start shaking from my unexpected orgasm that

he’s worked hard at bringing forth. He stops for a minute and starts

grinding again, making us both explode, this time together.

I feel him coursing through my insides. Praying that no seed will be

fertilized, I reach up and kiss him hard. “Do I have to go home?” I

ask grinning.

He lifts me up and carries me back into the living room where he grabs

a throw from an ottoman. “I don’t think you’re ever going home again.”

He tells me averting his eyes.

“I am,” I tell him. “But maybe I can I have just one more taste of you

before I go.” I suggest, leaning into his chest as he spoons me from

behind. He kisses my shoulder and tightens our bond. He makes sure

that I’m covered up before lying down.

Juliana is still asleep. “You should check on Nicky.” I say closing my eyes.

“I will. Get some sleep.”

“Wake me up before it’s too late. I don’t want Nicky to see us like this, okay.”

He doesn’t answer.

“John?”

“Shhh.” He says kissing my neck. “Sleep.”

Chapter 7 (NC-17)

“In the long run, we shape our lives, and we shape ourselves. The

process never ends until we die. And the choices we make are

ultimately our own responsibility.”

Eleanor Roosevelt

When I was a small child, I had a knack for pumping myself up for

events–I lived for events–because I learned early that happiness in

life has a lot to do with expectation, and looking forward to

something.

For me it was birthdays. I looked at each year as a step into some

other person that I was supposed to become. I had to share those

birthdays with Sam, but I waited for those days and lived happily in

them when they came and lost that happiness as soon as they were gone.

After another interlude to John, some of that childish feeling is

back. There’s a bible verse that says when I was a child, I spoke as a

child, but when I became a man, I put away those childish things. But

how can I bury something that is obviously so much a part of me.

I wanted it to happen, even if I tell myself I didn’t, but now is there sadness?

When I open my eyes, I’m instantly relieved that John is still holding

me close. It feels genuine and not like a one-night stand. His breath

tickles my arm, his prickly chin stubble grazes my shoulder. He’s

never been a heavy sleeper. But my fingertips rolling down his arm

don’t disturb him. Nor does tangling my legs between his.

My insides feel exactly as they should. Like wild horses have run

right through my inner cavities. A dull ache burns my leg and thigh

muscles. There are places in my head that tingle from being knotted

around John’s fingers. All signs. Good sex is simply good sex. It’s

wonderful while it’s happening but the consequence sometimes outweigh

the wonder.

Like having my two-year-old son scurrying down stairs looking for

Mommy, because he must remember that I was with him before he fell

asleep. The consequence of that is my other child peeking over the

edge of the couch at me and her father. Still naked, joined and

without excuse.

“Mommy.” I don’t believe I’ve ever heard shock in Nicky’s voice. I’ve

seen the curious confusion that maps his heart-shaped face. He kneels

low, lifts the blanket that I’ve conveniently hidden under and pulls

my face to his. “Mommy. Wake up.”

How do you hide embarrassment from a child who doesn’t know how to

recognize it? I thank the gods of fate silently that he is only two.

He doesn’t know why I bolt up and then lay back down when I realize

that the throw covering me and John isn’t large enough to shield us

completely. “Good morning Nicky.”

“Daddy.” He taps his father’s head. Juliana crawls off the couch and

climbs onto her brother’s back. “Wake up Daddy.” I can see the cranks

turning in my son’s mind as he observes the scene before him. He leans

back for Juliana to stand on the soles of her feet before standing up

again. “Daddy’s going home?”

John’s eyes finally open. I swat him when a smirk spreads across his

thin lips. “I guess I didn’t get us up again.”

I smile and reach around him for my t-shirt. I make quick work of

sitting up and pulling it over my head. Looking around for other items

that were thrown haphazardly around, I notice Nicky holding my bra by

the strap on his finger.

He points at me, covering his mouth. “Naked Mommy.”

“You know what,” I say taking my bra, and securing my recovered pants

and panties in my fist. “Daddy’s going to find you something to eat,

right Daddy?”

Juliana pouts, having been forgotten in the awkwardness. “Me.” Her

soft curls tent her chubby face.

“I know little Ms. Me. Mommy didn’t forget you.” I tell her stroking

her cheek. “Daddy will make you oatmeal?” I guess. I don’t know what

her breakfast consist of here. At home, oatmeal is our staple.

Nicky becomes excited. “Eat with me Mommy.”

I don’t know if I’m allowed to do that. I don’t know if I’m just

screwing my ex-husband or if I’m putting my family back together. I

look at John who looks no surer than I do. “I’m going to get dressed.”

I say sucking my bottom lip deep into my mouth.

Because I have a tendency to file away all relevant events in the

reservoirs of memory, I stood, without modesty, naked from the waist

down and realized that this was the first time that we’d all spent a

night together under one roof.

I leave them, grateful not to be on the end of Nicky’s arsenal of

questions. I have things that must be done today, patients to see and

other things that fall in the natural order of my life. A life that up

to a week before didn’t include John. I find a bathroom at the end of

the hall, but I head for John’s personal bathroom.

I actually miss all the shave creams and razors that he has cluttered

on the countertop. Missing little remnants like these clue me in to

how much I say I don’t miss him, and how much I really do. I open his

medicine cabinet and close it just as quickly. It’s snooping into his

personal belongings. I know I don’t have the right to do that.

But aren’t there special privileges for allowing my body to be linked

again with his. Shouldn’t the very fact that I have no qualms about

allowing any part of him to move into the deepest, most secret places

of my body grant me immunity for snooping?

What would I be looking for anyway? A prescription for venereal

disease? Pregnancy tests? What secret thing could he have that I would

find hidden? Or is it that I just want to be so close to him now that

I’ve opened myself up to the possibility of not being vanquished from

his life.

There are condoms. That shocks me. Maybe there were others before he

started plunging into me again. I put the rectangular box on the wrong

shelf for his benefit. It affects me and I don’t want to be affected.

Just because we’re being careless with our bodies, doesn’t mean that

other things have been considered. I only have to look at my bruised

arms when I yank my t-shirt off and stand to gaze at myself in the

mirror. The bruising is minor but visible. A ring of purplish blue

shapes that match his fingers dance around my arm. Tilting my neck, I

finger teeth marks that I don’t recall being given. I open my mouth

and run my tongue against the fronts of my teeth, tasting the saliva

and semen residue.

Sometimes my memory is my worst enemy. Inside the steamy shower, I

close my eyes and wash away the evidence of John’s visit into my

wonderland. The vivid images roll like movie film through my mind. I

gave him permission to use my body once before. I gave him access and

never asked for anything more than broken I love yous. It was one of

those times when he was so upset with me that the only way I could

reach him was through sex–my body.

I know how to stop the anger. I only have to whisper his name and

spread my legs to invite him in. And we communicate with thrusts and

caresses. The way we did last night. In my head, those two versions of

John mingle and shift into the same image. Mistrustful, deceived John.

I pin everything on the next twenty minute. I pull on a button down

shirt from John’s closet and loop my wet hair into a clip. I find a

pair of John’s boxers and put them on under the shirt. I’m taking a

risk still being here. His reaction will tell me everything I need to

know. If I should no longer be here, then I’ll grab my keys and go.

John looks up from feeding Juliana. She’s sitting in his lap taking a

spoonful of oatmeal. He smiles and I settle a little on the inside. My

stomach stops feeling like a corkscrewed rollercoaster is sailing

through it. I can’t help the tiny smile that breaks through when I

look at that table and remember the way I was sprawled out on it last

night.

“I hope you wiped everything down.” I say still smiling at him. He has

the clothes that I tore from his body back on.

“Mommy. Me. Me.” My daughter doesn’t like sharing attention. She

refuses the next serving that John puts by her mouth.

“Meme needs to eat eat,” I say tweaking her nose and taking her from

John. “Where’s Nicky?”

“Eating breakfast in front of the television.”

Juliana fits on the angle of my hip. “You let him do that.” I ask,

watching him. Half expecting him to tell me that this is his house, he

answers with a nod. He stands tall from the table with Juliana’s bowl

in hand. He offers her another spoonful that she shrugs away.

‘”Traitor.” His body brushes my side as we pass by each other. I’m

happy to see that he still eats healthy breakfasts. He unpeels a

banana and leans against the counter. “You still look good in my

shirts.”

“Thank you. I hope you don’t mind. I found it in your closet,” I say

biting Juliana’s probing fingers. Her skin is clear and smooth under

my palm when I cup her face. “I love you Noodle.”

I make it a point to them often. I can show them in my ways but I love

to look into their eyes and tell them that I love everything about

them.

“She does that to me,” John says, biting the banana. ” You taught her that.”

“She learns things fast. She walked early.” I say proudly. Her

progress is steady. “She speaks well for her age.”

“She is a genius…until Daddy has to change stinky diapers.” John

jokes, pinching his nose in Juliana’s face. “Then, I have to wonder

what kind of genius she is.”

“And everybody looks strangely at me when I tell them I have George

and Gracie Allen living under my roof. I’m going to blame you from now

on.”

“I wasn’t joking.”

Nicky comes into the kitchen, bowl in hand. There are some days that

he reminds me so much of Brady, and others when I see glimpses of

Eric. The twinkle that only parents see in their children’s eyes isn’t

missed by me. Nicky is happy. He waves nonchalantly at me. Seeing his

face, I’m starting to regret this less and less. “More cereal please.”

John fills his green dish with dry cereal and Nicky toddles back

quietly out of the room. He doesn’t drink milk; he hasn’t since his

days of chemotherapy. Chemotherapy changes the tastes of foods and

drinks. Milk and mash potatoes were two casualties on the list.

“So what’s your day looking like?” John inquires; like it’s the most

natural thing and that we do this every morning.

I take a deep breath. The most important 20 minutes. “I’m going to

take a stab at something.”

John scratches his chest. “Why?”

“Because I’m a psychiatrist and I like to hear myself talk,” I reply

cheerfully. “And because I hate the elephant in the room, clearly you

can live with it standing there but I can’t.”

“It was just a thing,” he answers staring at me. “A…”

“Thing,” I add, tightening my grip under Juliana’s bottom. I should

let her go and find Nicky but I feel safer with her in my arms. Safer

talking to her father, hoping that with her being here, his words will

be considerate. “Well this thing keeps happening. And I’m not so sure

I want to call it a thing.”

“I actually like when you do this. I kind of miss the morning rambling

that you do because your mind is full of things that you have to do.”

I laugh at his slight imitation of the rapid fire speed in my words.

“Are you mocking me?”

“Pandora’s box.” He tells me. “We opened the door; something is there

and now we can’t go back.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that I like having sex with you.”

Plain and to the point. “Well thank you. But we haven’t spoken ten

real words to each other in over a year, but in the past five days,

I’ve ended up having very intense sex with you.”

“Yes,” he affirms proudly. “Do you really think it’s appropriate to

have this conversation with Jules right here?”

“She’s one.” I say tipping my lips to her head. “She’s not taking notes.”

“Okay doctor but when she’s walking around saying sex repeatedly,

don’t look at me. Daddy’s being politically correct, aren’t I angel?”

Our daughter smiles at her father. Her baby fine hairs shaping the

hairline around her face stickup. “No Daddy.”

“See, she is a traitor.”

I change the tone of my voice. “John I’m being serious.”

He pulls out two chairs and offers me one. Juliana moves to the front

of my legs and falls heavily against my chest. “I like the way that I

feel when I’m with you. I don’t think that’s our problem.”

“No, it’s not. I told you what the problem was.”

Dr. Shalit. He won’t blow up with Juliana on my lap. “And I’ve tried

to tell you that I only kissed him. Nothing else. I don’t know what

you thought you saw but I was fully clothed.”

For a minute, his eyes flash; the nostrils flare. He clenches his

hand, striking it on the table.

Juliana jumps. She looks around as if she’s not sure where the

offensive noise came from. Tears follow as I turn her around and mount

her on my shoulder. “Oh there there, baby. It was only daddy.” I

console her, glaring at John. “He scared you my baby. It’s okay, he

scared Mommy too.”

“Kissing him meant something. And I don’t know what happened before I

walked in.” He whispers, looking remorseful. “I’m so sorry angel.”

“She’ll be fine.” I assure him, rubbing her back as the tears siphon off.

“This is why we can’t try,” he recreates the circle that I did when I

asked him that last night. “They don’t need to have all of this

baggage cluttering their lives.”

“Why because you can’t control your anger at me, not even around them.”

“Kissing him meant something.” He yells, springing up. “Damnit, you

don’t get to sit there and act like you don’t know that. You might not

have had sex with him…and I’m not positive that you didn’t…but you

have a degree that says you don’t get to sit there and act like

kissing him meant nothing.”

Juliana started crying the second that her father’s voice raised.

Nicky comes barreling into the room, looking panicked. He tends to his

sister’s distress. “Jules. Don’t cry.” He tells her patting her back.

She quiets when he whispers something in her ear. I don’t hear it but

she lifts her head from my shoulder and reaches for Nicky. He’s not

big enough to carry her; that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t try. She

eases from my arms to his upper chest, causing Nicky to stumble.

“Honey, you shouldn’t carry her.” I advise, watching them twisted

around each other. “She’s nearly as big as you.”

“I’m big boy. Jules big brother.” He says.

John is watching them in silence. He’s still upset. Maybe at his

outburst or still at me. But it makes me very upset that he’s so

irrational about what happened. I realize that maybe this isn’t the

time to get into this. That enough time hasn’t passed yet. That is

until our son joins the conversation.

“Daddy’s mad at Mommy.” He states rather than asks. He does that. He

assumes more than he questions. He’s right. Anyone in the room can see

that his Daddy is very upset with Mommy.

“No son, I’m not.” John says unhinging his silence. He kneels in front

of Nicky and Juliana. She turns away swiftly, and his heart breaks in

half. I’ve seen that look before. His wounded father look. Nicky is

more forgiving. He leans forward and kisses John. “I’m sorry.”

“Tell Mommy.” Nicky says. His comprehension of these things is at

times unsettling. “Don’t shout at Mommy.” He advises John. “It not

nice.”

John exhales softly. He drops his forehead against Nicky’s. “I know

kid. Forgive me.” He pulls them to his body. Juliana fights it at

first, pushing him back. He’s the only one to blame for that. She gets

her fiery temperament from him. “Princess, I’m sorry for being bad.

And loud.”

Nicky looks toward me. “Tell Mommy.”

John looks over his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” Nicky says, “kiss Mommy.”

My son, the peacemaker. He and the baby stand resolute in the mission

that he’s assigned his father. I can’t help chuckling at the way he

waits, tapping his foot in expectation.

John unfurls his legs to stand to his full height. I’m empathetic to

his plight but I’m also aware of how new this all is for the kids.

They’re not used to us being around each other. Nicky has memories,

but they are also clouded by hospitals and Mama. He is used to having

me, and his daddy, but Juliana isn’t. She doesn’t know what it’s like

to be in the bed while I’m making love to John. Or to see us kissing

and holding each other. Those are Nicky’s precious memories. So I’m

empathetic to Nicky’s need to see peace.

I’m receptive to John when he moves in front of me, and moves my hair

away from my face. He uses his hand to pull me nearer, by my neck. The

warm imprints of his fingers sends

butterflies fluttering through my stomach.

“I’m very sorry,” he says as he brushes his lips against mine. I

expect a peck but he holds me and starts slowly penetrating my mouth

with his tongue. I know that the children are here, I hear them but I

close my eyes. It feels good just to have him touching me. That’s the

sign of a depraved woman.

I pull away, wetting my lips, I taste banana. I inhale his natural

scent. I love having him do loving things to me; I hate being his

enemy. I close my eyes just to take a mental snapshot of what I’m

feeling. I reach for him, hugging his body firmly. Nicky. It has to be

him that closes himself around our legs. Opening my eyes, I see him

leaning into the bridge of mine and John’s legs. John is gracious

enough to stand there and hold me. He doesn’t have to do that. His

forgiveness is moment to moment, but looking around, I know that for

the kids, that’s all that matters.

“We can’t talk about this anymore,” John tells me as he lifts my chin.

“Not in front of them,” he leans in the kids’ direction, “not alone,

not at all.”

I peck his lips. I don’t agree. We’ll talk about it. We’ll discuss it

a thousand times until he starts to realize what he thinks happened

didn’t. He runs his hands along the teeth marks on my neck. “Me?”

“Do you know of any other people that I’ve slept with?” My intent is

to be playful but he looks serious. “Forget I said that,” I say

spinning out of his arms. “Honey, what do you and Juliana usually do

with Daddy in the mornings?” I ask turning to Nicky.

“Relax.” John answers. “Would you like to relax with us?”

I feel like the horse being led to water. I fall so fast with him, I

feel too much. I’m far from being over him. I can tell myself that

until it sounds convincing and it still won’t be true.

I look around the kitchen that he cooks in when I’m not here. I look

at my children. I’m setting myself up for failure; I know it. We’re

not stable enough to bypass the problems in our relationship because

he won’t talk to me. But he will sleep with me. God help me but I

think I can start from there.

I have to be honest, from the moment I walked away from John after he

left me, I’ve been circling right back to him. It was only a matter of

time before we both softened. Only a matter of time before the bough

broke. Only a matter of time before one of us does something again to

dispel the myth that love conquers all.

I contemplate what will happen if I spend my day relaxing with John

and my babies. I’ll need to reschedule patients. Check on my house.

Call Eric back. A life of my own. But I only have to look at John and

the babies to realize, I wouldn’t mind being right there with them.

I nod at John and he rewards me with a sexy grin.

He ushers the children back into the living room. Nicky takes

Juliana’s hand and leaves without questions. I have to wonder what

kind of example I’m setting for both of them. The example I want to be

is someone who loves and does what I think is right most of the time.

I have to raise my son so that he can be a better husband to his wife

than either of my husbands were. Not because they were horrible, but

because I want better for him. John has to treat me with some degree

of respect so that Juliana won’t grow up thinking that she deserves

less than the reasonable expectations she should have. Who am I

kidding? We’re scarring them psychologically. But I want to do right

by them and for them; that all begins and ends with John.

“I can’t stand in here and not think about last night.” He plays with

the buttons on the shirt shielding my body from nakedness. A hand

infiltrates the space between a button that he’s undone. He squeezes

my breast gently. “No underwear?”

Shaking my head, I run my hand down his chest and slip into his

sweatpants. “Is this why you invited me to stay? You want to get lucky

again?” Scraping my fingernails up his flaccid manhood causes his head

to jerk back.

“Lucky? With those two monsters in the living room?” He steps closer,

bringing our bodies completely together. “I just like waking up with

you. I think our kids liked it too.” I don’t say that it confuses

them. He knows that. But we’re already touching and making our bodies

forget what our minds won’t. Our mouths come together again while I

stroke his shaft in my hand. “Hey, are trying to…”

“Don’t talk. We can find a creative way to keep them occupied,” I moan

into his mouth. The sensations of his hands rubbing the secret places

have turned the moment into more than playful banter. “I have to have

my legs wrapped around you.”

He takes my hand from his pants and half-walks, nearly-drags me down

the hallway where he gave me oral pleasure last night. I smile in

honor of that feeling. He stops us in the living room entryway. Nicky

is lying on his belly in front of the television, feet up behind him

with Juliana on his back. “Kiddos, do Daddy a favor. I need to show

Mommy something upstairs.” I fall laughing against John’s back at that

idea. “So you watch Fairly Odd Parents…until we come back down.

Deal?” he asks them, eagerly.

“John.”

“What? They’ll be fine. The place is kid-proof.”

“Even if it wasn’t, you’d say so just to get me upstairs. I was

thinking of waiting until after they were napping.”

“No. Now.” he growls, turning his attention back to the kids.

“Nicholas, keep an eye on Jules. Don’t go into the kitchen. We’ll be

right back.”

Nicky says yeah, never turning around. I wait a second before letting

John pull me upstairs. I want to make sure Juliana is okay with that.

Usually, she protests what she doesn’t agree with.

John drags me up the stairs, taking two at a time. Once inside his

room, he closes the door behind us and tosses me into the bed. He

stands over me, watching. I hope he’s counting his blessings. Or

wondering how we went from barely even talking to full fledged sexual

partners again. When he lowers himself to the bed, I wrap my arms

around his neck and pull his body to me.

“We don’t have time for…” he silences me with a deep kiss that

entices my hands toward his pants again. Slipping them effortlessly

in, I shape my hand around his burgeoning erection and start pumping.

“I don’t know if I can do this with them downstairs.” I confess,

starting to lose my nerve. Imagined scenarios of either of them coming

in steals my libido.

“They’re fine. They’ll watch Odd Parents for an hour. Then Juliana

will want to watch JoJo, that circus clown.” He lifts up and starts

unbuttoning my shirt. “And then Jules will come and say Daddy, can I

have some juice? Nicky will want peanut butter with no jelly and

carrot sticks. But none of this will happen until after they’ve

watched an hour of that damn cartoon.”

I love how he knows all of those tidbits about our kids. I lift up my

body and help him lower the boxers from my body. He immediately lowers

his face to my center and I pull him back up my body. “We don’t have

time for that. I just want you.”

He sits back on his rear and lifts me onto his legs. Straddling his

strong thighs, I bend and lick beneath his ear. The little moan that

follows makes me clench my thighs around him. “I want you to wear

something this time,” I groan into his ear. He ignores the suggestion

and lowers me onto my back. It’s difficult to concentrate on birth

control when he spreads my legs and grinds into me. I don’t know when

I got regressed back to worrying about pregnancy so much. Before I had

Nicky, and then Juliana, I’d pretty much given up on babies. But

apparently, someone has other plans. And my plans don’t include

anymore surprise pregnancies. “John….honey….no wait.” He looks up,

clearly agitated. I push his chest and unjoin our centers.

“It’s fine.” He grumbles dropping his head against my shoulder. “Just

wrap your legs around me and let me handle the rest.”

“Honey,” I say stopping his lower half from grinding. “We can’t do

this unless we use a condom.”

He grunts and sits up; I follow, pulling my knees to my chest,

creating a space between us. “It’s not the same,” I say quietly,

propping my chin on my knee, “but it’s the only way.”

“It wasn’t last night.” He counters with a sigh. “What’s this about?”

“Being proactive. It’s probably highly unlikely but let’s not tempt

fate. It was also highly unlikely before we made Juliana.” I try to a

smile to alleviate any building tension. “You have something, don’t

you?” Of course, I know he does, but I’m pretending that I don’t. I

also want to see if he’ll tell me otherwise.

“Time is wasting here. Two toddlers. An hour.”

“Exactly. No more toddlers.” I say, exasperated by his disregard. “You

seem to be treating this as a casual thing, and I’m not saying that to

say anything,” I explain gently, “but babies aren’t casual. Are you

trying to get me pregnant,” I ask, slightly joking.

“I’m trying to make love to you,” he says holding his head.

Make love.

“Are we making love?” I had to ask. I regret that when his eyes roll.

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want to think about this right now. I just want us to be

together for now.”

“And I understand that, but if you’re worrying only about now, then

I’m going to worry about the future.”

He gets up and walks to the bathroom where I know there are condoms.

For the life of me, I can’t turn off the questions of fidelity. Am I

allowed to expect him to have been faithful for a year?

“You know,” I put my finger on my bottom lip, “I really think that you

might want another baby. You’ve had those the whole time, huh?”

He looks up from sheathing himself with the latex. He knows what’s

coming next. He knows me well.

“You bought these for….”

“Lay down,” he says climbing back over me, “and kiss me.”

I comply with his demand with little resistance. “You bought these for

someone else?” I ask wrapping legs around his back.

He starts rubbing against me slowly. “Why does that matter? I have

them. We apparently need them.”

Pushing against his chest stops his hips from moving. “It matters

because we didn’t use them.” I hide my eyes with my next set of words.

“So I wonder if you say the same thing to them.” I’m not angry. I

don’t have enough information to be angry. And with my legs opened to

him, I’ve already surrendered my dignity to him. So it’s forward of me

to question him about his sexual activities.

He doesn’t answer angrily. “That’s assuming there is a them. And if

you want to talk about…”

“I’m only talking about for health concerns, not jealousy.” I tell him

searching his face. I still know when he’s being honest. But I don’t

know if he can still tell if I’m not.

“Just so I’m straight, you stray and I’m the one who you question

about other people.”

My body tenses from those words and I can’t do anything to stop the

onslaught of feeling hurt. “I didn’t….” I roll from his body and get

out of bed. Closing the door to the bathroom, I turn the lock and sit

on the counter. The opened box of condoms staring me in the face.

Chapter 8 (NC-17)

I try to teach my heart not to want things it can’t have.

–Alice Walker

She knows that I hate this—her crying. Breaking down and losing her

cool. Seeing her like this crumbles the hard shell that I protect

myself from her with. I find it hard to be gentle. I thought that part

of me had died; the I-have-to-care-about-her-of-all-the-time part. But

yet, it feels like a punch in the gut to see her slumped over the sink

with her face in her hands once she lets me into the bathroom.

I feel like an asshole, for being the one who takes away her

confidence. Explain that one. I don’t get the psychological aspects of

separation and divorce; the emotions or the stages. I’m more confused

than she thinks the kids are. I don’t understand any of my actions

over the past couple of days. What I know is that sometimes I hate

her. I mean, really don’t like the idea of her existing in the same

room with me. That is the man that she used to say she didn’t know,

the angry, dark part of me. I’m less and less that man when she’s

around now. My arms go around her without my permission. My chest

collides with her back and I feel that connection that we lost–for a

fleeting minute, I feel responsible for her again. For her well being.

For making her smile.

Before last week, that accountability had changed. I stopped caring

deeply for her. But I care for her. I have to care. The way that kids

that love their abusive fathers care-because they can’t help

themselves.

I’ve tried to shut her out. For a year I kept minimal contact while we

shuttled the kids between houses. We shared custody. We survived. We

did all of that without this connection that I feel again pressed into

her.

Holding her against me, rubbing her curly damp hair. The crying and

tears. All of these Marlena things that I could never forget. In the

mirror, my body hovers over her, swallowing her. She shakes from the

tears that come from the very sad part of her. She’s still amazing to

look at. I love looking at her, even when it hurts to do it. Because

every time that I look, I see something else, some part that looks

beautiful in understated ways.

I notice too that her eyes only light up for the children. That even

with my body wrapped around her, she isn’t completely responsive.

She’s afraid of being rejected and I’m not sure I can stop myself from

doing that to her again.

“You look a lot like this little girl that I know,” I say to bring a

smile back to her face. To stop the tears. “Cute as a button. Hazel

eyes.” She welcomes me tipping her head back, across my shoulder.

“These lips.” They’re soft against mine. “Don’t look so sad.” My heart

is heavy just to say it. I close my mouth around hers to steal her

breath and swallow that pain.

She pulls away, and looks at me through the mirror’s reflection. “I

don’t know how else to feel about you not trusting me.”

Saying that you trust when you don’t is a mistake that I won’t allow

myself to make. She broke it and that’s not okay with me. And my

reaction was quick, maybe even premature but I’ve had it with not

having her complete loyalty. I am a man. And I accept that as the

chauvinistic statement that it sounds like. But more than a man, I was

her lover.

Now again, I am her lover.

I was the man who helped create our beautiful children. I am also the

father of her children, and kissing another man disrespects that.

Holding her doesn’t mean that I don’t feel disrespected anymore, but

her tears make it feel less important.

The way I left her shirt half-unbuttoned flashes the creamy slope of

her breasts. I wish I hadn’t made her upset. I still want to have sex

with her. I’ll admit that having her in my bed is confusing for both

of us. But I can’t help wanting her. I know that’s why she needs me to

forgive her. But I can’t. Maybe we shouldn’t have gotten involved

again. I’m too attracted to her still. It’s ridiculous. Especially now

that I’ve had another taste of her, I don’t know how we can walk away.

I’m the kid who doesn’t want to play with his toys, but I don’t want

anyone else playing with them. We have a problem with letting go, and

I especially have a problem allowing her to go. I struggle with this.

I don’t want anyone anywhere near her or my children; I know how

unfair that is for her.

She could find someone to share her life with, because I don’t think

I’m ready to do that with her. But who am I kidding? That wouldn’t

make me happy.

“John?” She turns her body completely around. The question hangs on

her lips. I’m turned on by the way her lips hang slightly open. Her

teeth are barely touching her bottom lip. Wet hair is sexy hair. And

her hair is still from the shower. I admit that I’m animalistic when

it comes to wanting her. She’s weightless when I lift her by her hips

and sit her on the bathroom counter, sweeping my products to the

floor. The condoms fall last and both of our eyes follow their

collision to the ground.

“I didn’t use them with anyone else,” I admit moving in between her

opened knees. “There hasn’t been anyone else.” I’ve tried to. I did

buy them just in case the occasion arrived. I even considered having a

go with Kate just to spite her. She doesn’t need to know that. “So I’m

completely safe. You’re the last person that I’ve been inside.”

My blood starts racing when she smiles and falls back against the

mirror. There is something to be said for her sexy, unassuming eyes.

Even full of uncertainty and sadness, she’s sexy. She grabs my chin

between two fingers. The slight connection between my skin and her

long moon shaped nails is like an aphrodisiac. They remind me that she

likes to dig into my back as a way of telling me to go deeper inside

of her.

“And I want you to know that I’m still yours. I’m still pure as far as

that goes.” She can be so dirty one minute and delicate the next. “I

didn’t have sex with Dr. Shalit.” She snatches my face back when I

yank away. “Look at me, damnit.” She rarely gets angry enough to

curse. “I wouldn’t do that to you again.” She reads the disbelief on

my face. “I wouldn’t. I know that my indiscretion with Roman makes you

doubt me.”

“It didn’t,” I correct her. “It was you letting someone break down the

trust between us.”

“It was a kiss. One small, very insignificant thing.” She says looking

me in my eyes. “I don’t mean to lessen the damage that it did, but I

didn’t sleep with Dr. Shalit. I don’t think I could do that to you.”

“You just said that you were sure.” I say, a little less hopeful about

us. I get pangs of hope every now and then that I don’t acknowledge.

“Nothing is for sure; I’ve learned that over the past year.” She

starts rubbing my face instead of holding it. “I didn’t think that you

could leave me while I was pregnant with Juliana. I didn’t think you

could handle that anymore than I could.”

I still don’t know how I did leave her and the baby. I shut myself

off, I think. I turned inward and gave up caring whether either of us

could handle it.

“But even then, I didn’t give up thinking that we could have this

again.” She kisses me eagerly and I’m pulled back into her web. Her

legs seal me into her middle and I start touching her. “Don’t you want

to come home? I want you there. Our babies really need you there.” She

murmurs.

The heat from her mouth runs across my neck. She stops below my jaw

and sucks my skin into her mouth. “I love you so much.” I believe

that. I know that she loves me but I can’t make her happy. She lacks

something when we’re together. “Do you believe me?” She asks, lifting

her mouth from creating a love bite on my neck.

“Yes,” I tell her sliding my hands underneath her rear. I really want

to push my erection into her waiting middle. I pull wet fingers back

when one hand dives into her center. “I know what you’re doing.” I

warn, pulling her body from the counter. She closes her legs around me

as we walk out of the bathroom, attached and kissing. I squeeze her

rear hard in my hands and she moans into my mouth.

I don’t think about anything other than ripping every piece of

clothing from her heaving body to press my skin into hers. To have our

muscles and flesh burning against each other. She whispers about being

sorry; tells me that I make her ridiculously happy; that we have to

try and make things work for the babies. All the while, I’m taking my

time with her body. Tracing my tongue over the line between her thigh

and the hairy mound covering her center. Her body reacts the way I

like, uncontrollably.

Bent over her, I inhale her feminine scent. It’s distinct and all her.

Lovely. Sexy. Secret. She pulls my face between her legs. She begs for

me to lick her but I tease and blow instead. Driving her insane.

Seeing her body bend to my machinations is a turn on. Knowing I still

control how much pleasure she can get is an ego booster. Apparently

I’m doing a good job.

She says my name so sweetly that I can’t torture her anymore. I use my

tongue as a weapon in the assault on her body. She purrs and moves

underneath my mouth. Her secretions leak and soak my lips as she

gyrates into an intense orgasm. Her body goes rigid and her hands fall

my hair.

She deserves the look on her face when she opens her eyes again—a

satisfied gaze that I give her. I could fuck her senseless just to

keep that look on her face, and because I believe her when she says

that she hasn’t had sex since I left her. But I can’t talk to her

about fucking senseless, but because of me, she knows something about

it.

“I love when you do that to me,” she tells me breathless. Her body is

burning up when I crawl from her middle and cover her with my arms. “I

love you. I love you. I love you.” She dots my mouth with each

declaration. I don’t return her sentiment. I’m afraid to let her be

that close to me again. I kiss the hollow of her neck instead and rub

her skin lazily. She looks worried. She turns our bodies until she’s

on resting on top of me.

I don’t see any concern for birth control when she guides me into her

body, moaning when I’m there. Her satisfied look is familiar. She

likes the tight fit of our joined bodies. The way my manhood fits

without intrusion into her. The same tunnel that brought my children

into the world.

She guides my hands over her breasts. They are hot to touch like the

rest of her, coloring her skin pink. My fingers leave white spaces in

their wake. She used her magnificent breasts to feed Juliana. And I

missed that. I’ve always found something sexy about a mother feeding

her baby naturally. I run my fingers down her stomach. The soft, small

round curve that my children put there. The thought gets me going. I

use her hips to grind her into me. She doesn’t stop when I drop my

hands from her hot skin. She lifts up, using her knees as springs to

push off my body. She returns slowly, her mouth agape as she welcomes

me into her again.

The way her body slides up and down my stiffened shaft is

mind-blowing. I savor the ease of my shaft gliding into her. She says

how much she loves me again before speeding up the force of our sex.

She slows down, slamming her hand against my chest.

“What?” I say when her body stops moving.

She rubs her calf. “A cramp.”

Flipping her over is relatively easy. She falls onto the bed and pulls

me back between her legs. She fingers my face and I pull her hand to

my mouth to kiss her knuckles. I taste my sweat spread against her

skin. She leans up and kisses my chest, stopping to nip and suck my

nipple. I reach behind me to rub her sore calf. It’s my doing that

she’s achy. The way I stretched her muscles last night, it’s a wonder

that she’s not walking funny.

She stops me from slipping into her wetness. “Not that way.” She

manages to lift up and turn around on all fours. She sticks her hands

firmly into the bed and wiggles her rear in front of me. This is the

most gratifying position. She’s feeling adventurous. Being sealed to

her from behind, pumping furtively does something to my sex drive.

My body adjusts to hers easily, bending over her to enter her from

behind. I hear her small cries as I slam without intending to, into

her. She braces and reaches behind me to push us even closer together.

I pump savagely. I can tell that it’s too rough by the way she calls

my name after each stroke. Guttural in substance, sexy in tone. I slow

myself down and slip a finger down her throbbing nerve bundle. Her

head flies up and she starts shaking her head from side to side,

begging me to keep giving me to her. She’s tight and squeezing me

inside of her as I slide in and out of her. I drive us full throttle

to an ending that will make her quiver. Pounding harder and shorter as

I push myself in and out of her.

She begs me to make her come again. I do the best I can, pressing

myself into her tunnel of wet walls. She drops her head, crying out in

pleasure. I can feel her body tightening up in orgasm. I know by the

way that she draws shorter breaths. She clenches up, signaling her

climax while I feel the peak of my own intense end burst through our

bodies.

Our bodies are so joined that when we collapse, I stay inside of her.

What neither of us realizes is that Juliana is standing by the bed,

with tears pouring down her face. In my daze, her crying is inaudible.

But I feel Marlena jerk up and pull Juliana into bed with us. She

moves to her side and I pull our bodies apart intimately.

“It’s okay Noodle.” She assures my daughter. “You’re okay now.” She

says petting the dark hair fanning over her skin. Marlena doesn’t miss

a beat between stroking Juliana and making sure to keep me pressed

tightly against her. It’s amazing to see my little girl, lying against

her mother’s bare chest.

Juliana touches Marlena. “Boo boo.” It’s the way she talks about pain.

“No, no boo boo. Mommy’s not hurt.” She closes her hand over Juliana’s

back. “She must have seen us.” Marlena whispers over her shoulder.

“I’m so sorry for that baby.”

I reach and rub Juliana’s hair. She peers over her mother. Her little

arm springs up and swats me away.

“Noodle, that’s not nice,” Marlena chides her softly. “You don’t hit Daddy.”

“Boo boo.” She reaches up and rubs her mother’s torso.

“No baby, no boo boo. One day you’ll understand,” Marlena explains

taking her face into her hand. “Daddy wasn’t hurting Mommy. He was

making me feel good.”

In the last week or two, we’ve done more damage to them than we ever

have, even with the separation. I’d forgotten that they were even

here. Being with their mother does that to me. I forget what I’m

supposed to be doing by concentrating on her.

Distressed is the look that Juliana throws my way when I snuggle

closer to her mother. She should know that this is what is normal in a

family. That at times Daddy needs to be inside of Mommy. But I don’t

expect her to know that. She’s never had it. “She’s mad at Daddy,” I

say sticking my tongue out playfully at her. “Aren’t you princess?”

She tries to mimic me. “Bad.” She tells me hiding her face behind her

mother’s body.

“Not bad honey,” Marlena chuckles, keeping Juliana pressed firmly

against her body. “Baby, let’s have a nap. Sleep with Mommy.”

“And Daddy.” I say pulling a blanket up over all three of us. I could

jump her bones again, just watching her put our perplexed toddler to

sleep. But I force myself to resist the urge.

“I am a little tired. You want to have a nap with Mommy and Daddy?” My

daughter agrees with a nod. “I wonder what Nicholas Ethan Black is

doing down there all alone.” Marlena says patting Juliana’s back.

“Maybe we should call him. I don’t want him to wander around the house

alone. I’m surprised that he didn’t come running when Noodle did.”

I call out to my son and hear him thundering up the stairs seconds

later. He looks pleased when he sees us all in bed. “Hop up here kid.”

Had Nicky seen us having sex, an explanation would have been in the

works. One of intricate proportions but with only Juliana being a

witness, I can lay down with them and expect Nicky to settle into the

quietness.

Marlena makes room for Nicky to slide between us, finally

disconnecting our bodies. He’s the only man I’ll ever happily share

with her.

“This is how it’s supposed to be,” Marlena says so that the kids don’t

hear. “You should come home to us just to have days like this.”

I know she’s not trying to manipulate me into taking her back. I’m not

trying to play with her emotions either. I do like being in bed with

her and our babies. I like knowing that this scene won’t likely happen

with anyone except me. But I still have my issues with her and where

we stand. I don’t trust her.

She asks me if I can think about coming back to her. I kiss Nicky and

squeeze Juliana’s cheek. For them I’d consider trekking the gates of

hell. For them I say that we can talk about trying to mend the us that

our kids need, and not those destructive people who made the choices

that changed their lives. For Nicky and Jules, I’ll pretend that my

heart isn’t still wounded from their mother’s careless actions. I’ll

consider taking my pain and putting it away.

“I want you back. I don’t feel like you should have ever went away.”

I fall asleep weighing her words.

Chapter 9

“The most virtuous of women have something within them, something that

is never chaste.”

–Honore de Balzac

[Marlena]

I could get accustomed to this. Waking up and having him right beside

me when I open my eyes in a new day. There’s no feeling equal to

seeing him, Nicky, and Juliana sleeping together. The total

completeness of our family doing something as normal as

sleeping—that’s my epitome of joy.

Our babies being twisted around our nakedness is reminiscent of the

Garden of Eden. The innocence of being at the core of ourselves,

stripped of pride and shame, is a wonderful place to be lost in. There

have been nights when I’ve dreamed of waking up with John hovering

near, protecting us, keeping us warm with the heat from his body.

Because I’m the only one awake, I can enjoy peeking at Juliana’s

sleeping animated face. She twitches her nose and mouth in a cute,

almost puppy-like way. Somehow, through the night, she shifted from my

chest to Nicky’s body. Her arm is thrown over his stomach; her head is

wedged underneath his arm. She sleeps like me, with her mouth open and

her body seeking warmth. Nicky is just the opposite. He and his father

are sleeping with their backs to each other. His legs are propped

behind him across John’s hip. Their hair is all mussed up. Their heavy

breaths sing out in harmony as their chests rise and fall.

I can’t help thinking of Keema and the other girls that I met in the

unwed teen mothers’ group. I wish this kind of peace could find them

in their dysfunctional homes. Because, even with all the dysfunction

that burdens the circle of my own family, I wouldn’t have chosen any

other family. The pain and peace that eventually comes is worth it.

Lying with my children and John is worth the struggles we still have

to get to a less than imperfect place. If those girls knew what this

felt like, maybe having their babies wouldn’t be so frightening. I

know that I’m lucky to have John in their lives; some fathers don’t

even take the time to be present.

My babies are lucky. They’ve been blessed with a man who would give

his life for them, even though he’d rather live for them. There will

be vestiges of sadness in their memories; no one is exempt from that.

There will also be memories like this too, not clear but wholly a part

of their memories, when Mommy and Daddy come together to paint the

picture of their family in beautiful strokes and angles.

The irony of being banished from John’s life only to be welcomed back

without pomp and circumstance is not lost on me. I know that I’m only

here because he can’t stop himself from caring about me—I’m the mother

of his children. I’ve given him more than half of my life. I’ve given

him children, and that is the only thing in his life that hasn’t ever

been taken away. But I know what loving me cost. It’s a hefty price to

pay for any man; but love is a costly venture.

Love is that—it’s costly. It’s difficult enough to make even the

toughest of the pack give up. I don’t know why I let him go so easily.

I don’t want to live without him. And now that we’ve been trying to

excavate a relationship out of the rubble of what happened, I see just

how unfair it all was for our youngest children.

We were given a second, even third chance to resurrect our lives.

Obviously, there is no turning away from what we have. I don’t know

how to even out the system of wins and losses. I only know that I’m

tired of being on the losing end.

I run my fingers softly over Juliana’s forehead. I pray that

imperfection is not inherited for her sake more than for Nicky. Love

devastates girls, women far harsher than it does men. I wouldn’t wish

the turmoil of my love life on her. She’s too young to know that what

she saw between her father and I wasn’t just sex; I was giving him the

opportunity to reclaim me in a very animalistic way. Men find love

through sexual release. I was hoping even half-crazy with lust that he

would find himself inside of me again. I never want her to use her

body the way I’ve been using mine with John. It’s not a good feeling

to be a vehicle of someone else’s pleasure when all you really want is

basic intimacy.

Juliana will know nothing except for pure, uncomplicated love. I’m the

person who has to instill that in her. In the last months of my

pregnancy, after John’s exodus, I felt extremely close to Juliana. I

needed an ally during the sadness and she was a captive audience. I

dreamed her into existence so much that when she came from my body, I

felt as if I’d already known her. And now she’s here with Nicky,

receiving mixed messages about love and sex. I hope that this is the

memory that Juliana will carry away from this day, not of me

surrendering my pride to her daddy.

I’m wagering of what I’m supposed to do next. What act comes next in

this play? Lay here and watch my family sleeping. Appreciate the

beauty of two toddlers. Get up and get dressed to go back to my empty

house. I choose not to think about the latter. Home will be there when

I get there. Everything that I left behind when I came to John’s will

still be there waiting when I get home.

For now, I have these precious moments of solitude with my thoughts.

With being in John’s bed, with John. And our babies. I can’t say, or

think too much about them. Having them as an older woman makes me

appreciate the miracle of their lives even more. Before them vanity

had admittedly swallowed my life. Now, I relish the small things like

potty training, shoe tying, and teeth brushing. The continuum of

before and after is definitely tangible. Before them, I was sad and

withdrawn, probably a little lonely—even married to John. After them,

I don’t have wonderful days every day, but I find something wonderful

to appreciate every day.

I could scream it aloud everyday: I’m a Mommy. It’s a badge of honor.

This is the feeling that got me through most days after the

separation. Mommyhood—caring about someone else’s well-being more than

my sadness. Their faces were my reward for getting out of bed. Being

called Mommy in the sweetest voices that God ever created, pulled me

out of the fog of losing John. I have accomplished more than I’ve ever

dreamed possible but being Mommy is the most fulfilling and rewarding.

He’s so unaware of what I sacrificed to be here. Peace of mind, for

one. Nicky and Juliana’s slow acceptance of being with us both,

separately. John can face the day without trepidation because he has

the keys to our future. They’re in his mouth. All he has to say is

yes. Yes, I’ll come back to you. He sleeps without interruption

because I’m on trial still. He’s the juror and judge while the babies

are witnesses. Even so, I want to be forgiven. I need his approval

again. Somehow, his approval makes me feel legitimate.

I have to stop being so emotionally needy. I can handle him not coming

back. I know that; but I can’t handle being a fling. I realize that

we’ll always love each other. I believe in that ideal religiously.

It’s not my job to convince John of that. I need his approval, but I

don’t need his pity. And even in saying all of that, I’m thinking,

don’t the children deserve to have us together regardless of how

either of us feels.

I decide that leaving John and the children with kisses that don’t

wake them is a more suitable goodbye for the awkward, morning after

scenario that will arise. My presence is lasting; I don’t need to be

with him for him to remember what it’s been like for the last two

days. The fact that two of our children lay with him in bed is the

strongest reminder that I’ve been here because without me, there would

be no them.

I want him to come back. Not necessarily to my house, just home to me

in his heart; and back to my bed full time. The in clandestine

interludes are wonderful but I want something more. Scribbling a note

for him, I sneak away in his shirt after spraying his cologne on the

fabric.

I’m not taking Plan B because I want to abort any baby that could have

been conceived during our two-day tryst. Plan B isn’t used for that. I

don’t even need to consider the political debate of morning after

pill. I don’t look at protecting us from another unexpected pregnancy

as abortion. I think of it as prevention.

The thought presented itself when I retreated home, where the

magnitude of not using protection stunned me into calling in a favor

from Karen Bader. I owe John and myself the freedom from holding

ourselves hostage to another pregnancy. And not for selfish reasons.

We can’t possibly add another child to our tenuous union. If I could

have babies under the most wonderful of circumstances, I would do it

gladly. But these aren’t the best circumstances. I can’t risk

fate—she’s been an unreliable partner in my life.

Karen calls in a prescription for the emergency contraceptive at my

request. The request is an afterthought to our sex, a consequence

really. I don’t think to tell John because it’s a private, personal

matter. Had I been taking birth control or not letting him release

inside of me, I wouldn’t have to say anything either way. And so I

don’t.

My fear of pregnancy is not without cause. I’ve had three surprise

pregnancies in three years and still, I don’t remember when I ovulate

or when my period comes or goes. It’s been irregular ever since my

miscarriage. If in fact, it was ever regular. Under typical

circumstances, I’d figure because I’m older now, pregnancy should be

off the table, but Nicky and Juliana are proof that age doesn’t signal

an end to conception. So that’s why I ask Karen for the pill—to end

unnecessary worrying.

I see Rachel in the lobby of the hospital when I enter the sliding

doors. We both have the same awkward look as we walk toward each

other. Before we knew the truth, our relationship was easy and

comforting. Now she looks at me for answers that I don’t have. I don’t

know how to address the haunted look in her eyes anymore than she

knows how to extinguish the pity in mine. In all honesty, seeing her

now and knowing that she’s a part of Alex, I find myself searching for

traces of him in her face.

I haven’t found a trace of him; I’ve almost forgotten what he looks

like. But forgetting him doesn’t help Rachel. It also doesn’t help

her. She’s still too wounded to understand that our lives sometimes

slip from our grasp without permission. I don’t want to foster any

spirit of bitterness about Alex with her. She probably wants to talk

about him and our relationship, but she was raised to be a polite,

gracious young woman. Instead, she simply places her arms around me

and kisses my cheek. She walks one way and I walk the other. It hurts

to see her go. I don’t know what else we can do for one another. She’s

been raised already, she told me. She had the best mother that anyone

could ever have. So, the tempered balance remains between us. One day,

she’ll come to me and I’ll open my arms to welcome her because we are

striving for the same goal. Acceptance.

Karen greets me when the elevator door glides open. She takes my arm

and walks down the hall to her office. I haven’t told her any details

other than needing her discretion in this. She’s always been good at

patient-doctor confidentiality where I’m concerned. But her mind is

wandering around all kinds of scenarios. I’ve spoken to her about a

consultation or two, and in those conversations, she knows that there

isn’t anyone that I’m sharing my life with.

She closes the door behind her. “Imagine my shock,” she says making

her eyes bulge, “when my unattached friend calls me to ask for the

morning after pill.”

I don’t have to imagine it. The shock is still written all over her

face. I suspect that I didn’t really need to come into her office to

pick up the pill even if I’m trying to use discretion in the matter. I

could have picked it up from a pharmacy but I can see that she wants

details. This is the price that I’ll continue to pay for having such

an open book for a life in the past.

“It’s John.” I declare, stopping her investigation into the matter. “I

had sex with him last night and I want the chance of pregnancy to

remain very slim.”

She doesn’t seem visibly shocked by my confession. “You and John had

unprotected intercourse?”

I nod, putting up two fingers for emphasis. The other time that

included protection seems irrelevant.

“Twice?” Karen purses her lips together smugly. “I can’t say that I’m

necessarily shocked. Everyone in this town thinks that eventually you

two always find yourselves back together in some capacity.”

“I don’t want to talk about that Karen.” I say sitting down in her

chair and tossing my purse on the desk. “Talk to me about the

emergency birth control pill. I’ve read up on it a little. I

understand that it’s effective up to 72 hours after intercourse.”

“Yes, about 90%.” She digs into her white coat and pulls a silver

packet out, laying it on the desk in front of me. “There are two

pills. They are taken in two doses, in a twelve hour interval.”

It’s amazing that such small white tablets can keep a life from derailing.

“I don’t know how much you know about how they prevent pregnancy,

which is not the same as the abortion pill. Plan B doesn’t end

pregnancies. The way it works is releasing a large dose of hormones

into your body to prevent ovulation. It can stop the sperm from

reaching the egg.”

I try to wrap my mind around stopping the process of life. Not ending

it, of course, but ceasing it from even beginning. I’ve never been on

the end of this debate. There is no opposing team. John and I just

don’t have room emotionally to handle another surprise baby.

“Okay.” I say quietly. It’s the only level of tone that I find

appropriate to speak of things of this nature in.

“I want you to also be aware of the side effects. For a couple days,

you might feel like you actually are pregnant.”

I narrow my eyes at Karen. That is precisely what I didn’t want her to

say. I don’t even want my body feel pregnant.

“I know, honey but those are the possibilities. The hormones can make

your body feel crazy. Nausea, dizziness…symptomatic of pregnancy.

This warning is simply precaution. Not every case is the same;

however, I just want to prepare you.”

I pick the packet up and turn it around in my hand. A clock ticks away

in my head. “I need to take them soon.” It’s been less than 24 hours

since John and I had unprotected sex.

“And you’re sure that you want to?”

“I think I am.” I answer sounding pitifully unsure.

“And John?” Karen asks, watching me avert my eyes. “What’s his part in

all of this?”

“His part is helping me forget an important thing like birth control.”

I tell her, laughing nervously. “You’ve met him, right? The handsome,

very convincing father of my children.”

She laughs in agreement. “Yes, I have. I must admit that I wondered

how the two of you didn’t have a baseball team of children with all

the secret rendezvous in your office.”

“Karen.” I cry, laughing harder. “That’s so bad.” She’s correct in her

bold words. John and I turned my office into a hotel room during my

lunch hours—actually any time that the mood struck. This was before

our lives crumbled.

“Yes it is but that didn’t stop the rest of us envious women counting

the number of times that John showed up at your door, and the minutes

that you disappeared for.”

I’m bewildered, but amused. The relationship that John and I had then

sadly pales in comparison to now. “And I thought we were good at

hiding it.”

“Not even close.” Karen rests her hand on my shoulder. “Are you and

John back on track?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“I would. Sex typically follows commitment in your story.”

My story? They all think they know it, which is puzzling because I’m

still muddling through it myself. “I don’t know what story you’ve

read, but it’s not the same one I’ve been reading.” I tell her,

dropping the pills into my purse. “It’s a complicated mess and I’m

afraid that it’ll always be so.” I admit to Karen truthfully. I don’t

know anything more than I knew three weeks ago.

The world without pain and confusion doesn’t exist for me now. I have

to do things like sneak around to my doctor so that I won’t offend my

ex-husband with my actions. I have to smile and be courteous as

friends tell me that I’m it’s only a matter of time until John and I

find it impossible not to be together anymore. I have to bite my

tongue to not tell my child, whom I don’t know, that I’ll wait until

she’s ready to come to me. I have to swallow a little tablet of

hormones to stop my body from creating another shadow of John and me.

I do so without complaint. Why? Because that’s the world I live in

now.

By Sunday morning, I’m still nauseous. I took the first pill at six on

Saturday night, only to wake up at 6 a.m. for the second dose. I think

of it as a punishment. If only I hadn’t been so careless, my body

wouldn’t feel as if it were betraying me. When Danielle finds me on

the couch by noon, it’s a godsend to see another face. My head is

pounding—a normal symptom that Karen assured meant that the medicine

was doing its job. Either way, I can barely lift my head when Danielle

uses her key to let herself into the front door. She brings with her

the burden of sunlight with her. I can make out her curly hair and

square-framed glasses in the darkened room. I have the curtain drawn.

All electronics off. And me, sunken into the cushions of the couch

with a blanket and a water bucket.

“Are you okay Marlena?”

“No, I feel awful.” I groan uncovering my eyes. The pinching at my

temples causes me to squint.

“John called me. He wanted me to check on you,” Danielle admits

sitting down on the couch near my feet. “I wasn’t supposed to tell you

that.” She must be unaware of what’s going on between us. She hasn’t

ever been around when we’re together. She isn’t educated about the

signs of life where John and I are concerned.

“I haven’t spoken to him. I’m fine…just under the weather” I manage,

turning away from the light filtering through a slit in the curtains.

“He’s bringing the babies home tonight. I wanted to tell you that.

And, I have to go to New York City.”

“New York….” I drop my head back into the couch. In my selfishness,

I realize that she won’t be able to keep the children in line while I

recover from the pill.

“My grandmother…she’s been hospitalized. I think she’s going to be

fine. I just want to see her.”

“Well of course you do,” I say lifting my head again. “We’ll be fine

without you. Don’t worry.”

“I feel awful with you feeling so sick,” Danielle tells me apologetically.

“I’ll be fine.” I manage weakly. “John will have to help out. You go.”

Danielle rubs my temple gently. “I’ll make you some soup before I have

to go. I can make Jules and Nicky something to snack on. My plane

isn’t leaving until later.” After Danielle moves, I close my eyes and

hide my face underneath my blanket.

Every now and again, I hear Danielle walking in and out of the room. I

can also hear her climbing the stairwell. Vacuuming upstairs. Washing

dishes. Her voice on the phone. All the while, I’m drifting in and out

of sleep.

I find that I can’t help smiling whenever I see John’s face. It’s a

pleasant surprise to see him leaning over me. I immediately forget

that my head hurts. Seeing him, I find strength to sit up and extend

my legs across his bent knees. He snakes his arm around my back and

pulls me into his lap. His rubbing across my thigh seems fatherly. A

somber cast of sapphire fastens to my face.

“How do you feel now?” he asks measuring my forehead.

“Better,” I smile. “When did you get here?”

“Danielle called me. She was worried when you didn’t wake up before

she left.” He tilts my head back, examining my eyes.

“Reading my pupils?” I ask, slightly amused.

“You have a headache?”

“You’re psychic?'” I joke, kissing him.

“You’re holding your head and pinching the bridge of your nose.” He’s

been watching me do both since he pulled me onto his lap. “Did you

take something?”

I took more than something, but that’s not what I’ve chosen to tell

him. I don’t know what to really say. I stumble out an awkward answer.

“Take something like what?”

“For your headache.” He says watching me suspiciously.

Avoiding an answer, I look around. “Where are my babies?”

“It’s after ten. They’re asleep.”

I can’t believe that I’ve slept that long. I try to get up but my

dizziness and John’s arms stop me.

“Aren’t you hungry? I’m worried.”

“Don’t be,” I say, hugging him. “I’ll be okay tomorrow.”

“How do you know? I want you to eat something.”

“I will.” I hope tomorrow is better. I hope that my body will stop

feeling as if we conceived a baby. “Maybe you can come and get the

kids tomorrow, and take them to the park if I’m not feeling better by

then?” I suggest leaning comfortably against him.

“I would like to stay the night, if you don’t mind.” I do an awesome

job of hiding my excitement. My aching stomach is a big help.

“Mind? As long as it’s not inconvenient,” I say, spidering my fingers

through his.

“So, you’re going to have some soup that Danielle left?”

“I don’t think I can eat John.”

“That’s okay. I’m going to take you up and come back down to lock up.”

I look hopeful as I ask, “You’re sleeping with me, right?”

“I was going to sleep on the couch. I thought you might need your

space tonight.”

“I don’t want space. I want you to hold me until I fall asleep.” My

lips touch his again. “And be there when I wake up?”

He answers by lifting me up and carrying me up to my bedroom. The kids

aren’t in my bed, as they would usually be. “They’ll be in here sooner

or later,” I assure him as he helps me into a comfortable nightshirt.

“They missed you.” He confides. “I got your note. You should have

woken me up,” he says pulling my back to his chest as we settle in the

center of my bed. “We didn’t like waking up to find you gone.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know. That’s why I forgive you.”

I wrap his arms under my breasts and count the number of breaths he

takes until I close my eyes again to sleep. “You’re holding your

stomach,” I hear John whisper. His voice pulls me from my sleep. An

hour or two has passed since I last heard his voice. “You look like

you’re in pain.”

Groggily, I shift to lie across his chest. “It hurts a bit.”

“Maybe we should call a doctor.”

“I am a doctor.”

“I’m not kidding.”

“It’s symptomatic of the pill.” I yawn, stretching across him. The

unmistakable form of his chiseled frame rises and falls under my

cheek. I lean into the hand that plays absentmindedly with my hair. My

fingers twirl around the dark hairs sprouting from his chest.

“What pill?”

I pause. Guilt that I didn’t count on having creeps across my face.

I’m thankful that it’s hidden in the bulk of his chest. “It’s nothing

major,” I lie too easily, turning to look up from his chest. “It’s the

reason why I’m so nauseous.”

“I thought that you were only under the weather.”

“No, I had to take a prescription and I’m having a bad reaction to

it.” I turn to my side, facing away from him. “No big deal, honey.”

John leans over me. “What pill?”

This is how it starts. I feel trapped and my answers get cagey. “It

was nothing,” is another lie that I tell us both. I didn’t count on

John being here actually witnessing the effects of me preventing my

body from having any more of his babies. Now, my decision to take the

pill does seem evasive.

“You keep saying that, but you’re still sitting here with a headache

and a stomachache.” John uses my shoulder to pull me up. He moves in

front of me and leers. “You’re lying to me. I can see it all over your

face.”

“I’m not lying.” I muster a stoic face that falters when he grabs the

same bruised forearms. Flashing an incredulous look loosens his hands

from my arms. “Don’t that again.” I plead. “And don’t get angry.”

“I’m not angry,” he explains, putting some distance between us. “I’ve

actually been thinking about what you said about coming home. I spent

my entire day thinking how nice that would be for the kids.” He’s

saying something not to say something. “You’re doing this again…and I

don’t like it. If you want me to trust you, then you be truthful

damnit.”

“John, how do you do this?”

“What?”

“Go from holding me to this.” My hands clench in front of him. “You’ve

got to give me some kind of leeway and stop expecting me to hang

myself.”

He leaves me in the bed. “You still don’t get it. I thought about what

it would be like….to be like we were at my house all the time.”

“I want that.” I watch as he paces across the bedroom. “Come back to bed.”

“What was the pill Marlena?”

Even the tiniest lie makes me unbelievable and I don’t want to go back

to being a liar in his eyes. I don’t want to say that I want his trust

and not give him mine back. So I take the risk and hope he

understands.

“It’s called Plan B…” I cringe, rattling the rest out quickly, “…it’s

also known as the morning after pill.”

I wish I could name the look that lines his features. “You took an

abortion pill? Why, were you pregnant?” He retorts in a monotone

voice.

I shake my head.

“No?”

I shake it again.

“You must have been? Have you been lying this whole time?” he says

realizing what that must mean if I am pregnant. “There is someone

else…there has been someone else.”

I don’t answer because I can’t believe that he could believe that I

would make love to him with another man’s baby inside of me. It all

goes back to the same crime that he assumes I committed with Dr.

Shalit.

“You’re not going to answer me?”

I whisper, “I’m letting you do all the talking.”

“What are you doing?” He asks me sadly. His shoulders slump when he

sits back down on the bed. “What are you trying to do to me?”

“John, I’m trying to make you see how much I love you.” But it’s not

coming out the way I want it too. I want him to look at me and know

that I’m not the person who he has to keep blaming.

“You have a funny way of showing it.”

“You see,” I say pointing at him. “You want to believe that everything

that I do is to hurt you. I want you to come back to me but I’m not

going to beg you. And I’m not going to sit here while you assign the

slut role to me.” I’ll never forget the way he said it that night.

“I’m not a slut. I haven’t had any sexual relations since our

separation before the last two weeks. I want you to believe me.”

“You’re not making sense. You tell me that you took a morning after

pill. What am I supposed to think?”

“Believe me. I took Plan B to prevent pregnancy, not to end one,” I

explain. “Why do you always have to jump to the wrong conclusion with

me? You didn’t used to do that.”

“I used to trust you.”

I look him square in the eye. “I used to trust you too.”

[John]

Judgment is so easy to dish out. You can say something, and that’s it.

It’s out there and it can’t be taken back. I called her a slut—and I

meant it at that time. What else can I say? I strike out in anger.

You have to understand what it’s like for a man like me to lose trust

in someone. Loyalty and trust are how I survived these years without a

real past. I didn’t need one; I clung to her. She gave me all the

credibility I needed to get through not knowing anything concrete

about myself. It’s one of the reasons I fell so hard for her. She gave

me her as a gift. I don’t take that lightly. And when she stopped

being my gift, I didn’t take that lightly either.

“You don’t trust me?” I hate the weakness that overcomes my voice.

We’re not on equal ground. She’s the doctor with the language to go

with her title. I’m a plainspoken man who can’t find a way to tell the

woman who I’ve adored that I don’t know how to push past her slights.

The harder thing is that she looks as beautiful as she did when we

become the couple that she’s fighting to get back. But she’s fighting

me. And I don’t know how to fight fair. I’ve only known that in times

of war, the best way to kill your enemy is to keep your distance while

tearing them apart in any way possible.

“Do you think that you’re the only one who’s been hurt?” She closes

her mouth quickly as if she’s holding back words.

I don’t belong here. Her bedroom hasn’t grown on me, and I blame my

pride. This is her house; I’m a guest. I don’t like her red walls or

gauzy curtains. There are too many mirrors and figurines. More than

anything, I hate that she did this alone and now she tells me that I’m

the one who she doesn’t trust.

“John?” She’s brave enough to stand in front of me, matching the stiff

posture of my body. I think this is the beautiful creature that

destroyed me, while eyeing her to see what she’s going to do next.

“Trust extends both ways, doesn’t it?”

Without realizing it, I back away from her touch when she presses her

hand to my chest. “Don’t do that. Don’t touch me and try to….”

Her lips tremble. “I’m not trying to do anything other than have a

discussion with you.” She backs away to sit on the edge of her bed.

Long legs peek from the hem of her nightshirt. Her hair shields her

face when she lowers her chin. “I’m sorry for making you think so low

of me and my intentions.” I can’t see it but I know that she’s

dragging the insides of her cheeks with her teeth. “Why can’t you talk

to me?”

I hesitate to calm the brewing storm of my words. They’re gathering to

hurt her. But, I don’t really want to hurt her. Yet, I never

underestimate the extent of the anger within. She’s the one person who

I’ve been unable to hold it back from lately. She gets the worst of my

anger because she is the closest person to me. That’s the price she

has to pay for making me her priority—it’s the same for me.

“I don’t want to open up to you,” I admit, looking everywhere but at

her. I know that she’ll be crying after she realizes how hurtful that

is—to be displaced. “There’s no way that I’m going to give you anymore

of me,” I pound my chest, “to destroy.”

When she glances up, I see an awkward smile tilting her mouth. Her

hazel eyes are flecked with golden rings at varying degrees. They are

the saddest I’ve ever seen. It’s not just because it’s midnight and

we’re in another clash of words. No, it’s not as easy as that.

She’s sad because she realizes how true my painful admissions are. I

don’t know why she lifts her shirtsleeve and extends her arm in front

of her. She touches the bruises that my fingers left on her skin.

“Despite all the pain, physical and otherwise, I know that you don’t

mean to hurt me.” She relaxes her arm. “You don’t mean it when you

yell too loudly or hold my skin to tight. And those things hurt me.”

She tells me quietly, moving her head so that her hair falls like a

waterfall down her back. “I don’t like the anger and the accusations.

I hate being thought of as a slut,” she mutters over that word, “by

you. I hate not knowing when you’re going to do any of those things

that frighten me, John. But honey, I wouldn’t ever consider not

opening myself up to you. None of those things will do that.”

“If there’s not trust,” I ask after staring at her for a minute, “then

how can you still believe that.” It doesn’t take a psychiatrist to

know that we’re both contradictory. “If you don’t trust me, then you

should consider not being so open to me.”

“Trust has nothing to do with love–not in any fundamental way. I can

love you without trusting you. I’d like both but it’s not a deal

breaker. We can get trust back.” I shake my head disbelievingly. I

didn’t know we had moved so far away from the center of our mutual

belief system.

“That doesn’t make sense,” I blurt out. “How is it that I lost your

trust again? What exactly haven’t I done to be where you’ve needed me

to be. I took care of you when you were sick. I kept our family

together. I’ve done everything in my power to keep you together.”

She closes her hands over her face. “You lost my trust when you walked

away from our family.” She swallows hard, after lowering her hands. “I

was terrified. And I was pregnant. I looked around at the mess that

was slowly becoming my life and was shocked at how quickly it

crumpled.” Her voice is streaked with tremors. Pinched and low. “You

walked out, and you never looked back.”

I’ve never been good at this word play with her. By this point in an

argument, I’d be ready to pull her into my arms to stop it from

continuing. I’ve never been able to see the hurt breaking her

completely down. I liked to cater to the vulnerable woman that hides

underneath her strong, polished veneer.

“I didn’t leave our family,” I whisper. “I left you.” Not meant to

sting her, but my words do. She shuts her hazel eyes. They’re floating

around, all of the truth that we’ve been avoiding for a year. “Call it

ego or pride,” I continue, knowing that it’s going to be tough for her

to hear. “You broke me apart in a million fucking pieces. You can talk

about being open to me no matter what. But that’s bullshit. But maybe

you don’t realize that. Maybe you think that you’re giving me

everything.” I stare pointedly in her direction. “But I’ve had all of

you; and after Dr. Shalit, I didn’t.”

“And?” is her irritating answer.

“What?” I ask incredulously. “That’s not a legitimate reason to be upset?”

“I’m not saying that.” She says.

“You find ways to keep me from you.” I describe it badly but she gets

the point. “You’re still doing that.” I suddenly remember why it is

that I got upset. “Don’t you think that, if I’m the one that you’re

worried about getting pregnant by—that maybe you could discuss killing

those chances with me.”

She stumbles up from the bed, rushing toward me. “Don’t say those

kinds of things to me. I’ll accept a lot from you John but not that.”

Her forehead folds into lines as she glares at me. “There was no baby

to kill, no chances.” She exhales. “And there is no question about who

I’m worried about being the father, if there were a baby.”

I take a step back, feeling her wooden dresser at my back. I can

actually hear both of our hearts. Loud, primal beats that parallel our

breathing.

“My choices have nothing to do with you. The last time I trusted you

to be here, you left.” She shifts her weight, changing the angry

stance of her body. “When I had Noodle, it was almost as if you

weren’t even there. I don’t want to ever go through that again.”

Burdened by her words, I push away from the dresser and start walking.

I don’t know where I’m going. The first decision is out of the room

completely. Down the stairs and out the sliding patio door seems like

a good choice. The air feels good against my face. The moon heavy

against my back.

Her back deck is large enough to pace without stumbling into the kid’s

pool toys. Her backyard is largely fenced in. A pool is just off the

deck. It’s a great place for a family. My family lives here. Anyone

could see that there are moments of happiness here; I wonder if I’m

the only one who inflicts pain on them.

I’m leaning over the railing of the deck when I hear her shoes

clicking across the wood. I knew she’d come when she realized that I

hadn’t left her. I also know that she would’ve stopped to see about

Jules and Nicky—so often forgotten in these heated conversations. She

has Jules’ baby monitor in her hand when she comes and leans her back

into the railing beside me.

“I didn’t know what to do when you had Jules,” I begin, staring into

the dark distance, “I wanted to be there but I couldn’t be there the

way you expected me to be.” It was pure hell trying to stay involved

in a pregnancy that was largely hers, especially with me living

elsewhere. “I didn’t mean to make you feel inconsequential. I was

grateful that you had Martha.”

“Mama isn’t Juliana’s father, just as Danielle isn’t. You and I made

them together. How do you think it feels for me to have to split them

between us all the time?” She sets Jules’ monitor down and turns

around to lean over the railing. “It’s like cutting my heart out

repeatedly. I’m not going to do that to myself or any more of our

children.”

“Marlena, that’s selfish.” I tell her sternly. “You don’t know what

would happen in the future.”

“I’m not having any more babies, regardless of the future.” She

pauses, causing me to look at her. The moon has a way of turning her

blond hair brighter. Little wisps of hair whip her mouth from the

slight breeze in the air. I lift my hand to move them away, but she

stops me. “If you want that, then you need to find someone willing to

give it to you.”

She flinches at the urgency of me snatching my hand back. “It pisses

me off when you say things like that.”

The calmness that she has now is a big contrast from the usual ball of

emotions that she is. The power must have shifted and I didn’t know

it.

“This is my body. I don’t live with you; we have no commitment to each

other outside of the children. My decisions have nothing to do with

you—not according to you.” A sound in the distance catches her

attention and she looks away. I used to love her more than I didn’t.

Now I’m not so sure. When she turns back, she looks unshaken. “You can

be as pissed off as you like. Really, I’m not challenging that but

eventually all you’re going to have to get it all out—when the air

clears and the words have been said I’ll still be here.”

She’s right. No matter if I’m with or without her, she’ll still be in

my life. The truth is I’m not sure I can go without her being here in

some way. If I tell her that it’s not going to work, then she’ll

likely tell me that we can’t keep the possibility of a relationship on

the table. That’s what I liked knowing before we slept together

again—that we could get back together, even if it was just to hurt

each other more.

“If you want to be with me, I want a full commitment.” She says,

pulling her hair behind her ear. “That’s all I’ll accept. I can’t be a

good mother, a good example to them if I allow for anything else.”

I sigh. “You’re asking a lot.”

“I don’t think so,” she answers quickly. “Don’t be surprised John, but

I love you for all that you are. Even the pissed off man that likes to

yell at me.” She smiles, rubbing her nose. “I’m probably making a fool

of myself, but I want you back.”

“Why does that make you fool?” I ask, confused.

“Because you think I’m unworthy of you.”

“I never said that.”

“A slut isn’t unworthy?” she questions timidly.

“I shouldn’t have said that.”

She doesn’t hesitate to tell me, “No, you shouldn’t have.”

“I’m sorry.” I cup her cheek when she doesn’t look up to accept the

apology. “Marlena, I didn’t mean that.”

She presses her cheek into my palm. “I know but I hate thinking that

you could even say it, even in anger. I’m tired of hurting you.” Her

voice breaks, “I’m sorry.”

Somehow, this has changed into me being the one who causes too much

pain. I put my arm around her waist and pull her into my body.”If we

get back together,” I surprise myself, even as I’m saying it, “it’ll

have to be slow.” What else can I say that will make her feel better?

I don’t want her to go back upstairs to the kids with the weight of

this on her.

I bury her in my arms because she’s crying and because Nicky and Jules

want us together. It’s not a great reason for reconciliation, but it’s

enough to push me forward.

Loving her through them should help the healing process. That’s what I

tell myself when she pulls away from me to head back upstairs. I

follow because I’m hopeless. She has my heart knotted with hers. She

has my children. Everything in my life floats right back to her

anyway. I’m convinced that I’m supposed to be doing that too.

Chapter 10

“It’s not about how to achieve your dreams. It’s about how to lead

your life. If you lead your life the right way, the karma will take

care of itself. The dreams will come to you.”

–Randy Pausch

I don’t get to be sad. I choose not to think about John,

reconciliation, or anything to do with the past couple of weeks.

Today, I choose to believe that sadness and children are mutually

exclusive. Feeling sorry and unsure has no place in my life, not

today. Today it’s about life—living in a place of gratitude. Why?

Because Nicky is still alive; and Juliana is my jewel. Those are the

reasons that my life isn’t—can’t be—about feeling sorry for myself.

I woke up this morning and took a good look at those two cherubic

faces and decided that we wouldn’t do anything other than feel

grateful. I’m their mother; it’s my job to teach them that lesson. I

plan to saturate myself in the blessing that mothering Nicky and

Juliana truly is.

Perhaps tomorrow I’ll call John. And maybe we’ll discuss our

standstill. I have his promise to try to make us work. That’s enough.

I’ve learned that an apology comes with three components.

Acknowledging what I did was wrong; feeling bad that I hurt him; and

trying to make it better. We’ve gone through stages one and two.

Tomorrow, I’ll work on making it better.

But today, I look at my son and this gift of joy courses through my

veins. It’s an energy I haven’t felt for some time. My heart could

burst from watching him maneuver his way through childhood.

Peacefully. There is no sign of turmoil in his face when he looks up

from his bowl of dry cereal to ask me about the bruise on my arm. He

crafts a probing eye to the symmetry of John’s anger left behind on my

skin.

There’s no way to hide it, standing in a towel in the kitchen. I look

down to see the same picture that has him silent with question. If he

knew what the color of each bruise really meant—the purple insides

that have slowly turned yellow—in terms of love and hate being so

closely aligned, he couldn’t understand that sometimes the ones we

love are the very ones we have to hurt.

Sipping my coffee, I can’t think of a good excuse for the fascinating

shapes capturing his attention. His clear hazel eyes penetrate me

until I find something to say.

“It’s just a boo boo.” It’s true. It really is just a little bruise

that goes away in time.

“I kiss it Mommy.” He offers, pushing away from the table. On his legs

quickly, he scurries toward me. I crouch to his height. He still has

on pajamas with sleep in his eyes; but I feel like just one touch from

him can still change the world. That’s how powerful being his mother

has become. Outshining death twice, he’s more than a walking miracle

to me. And when he kisses my bruised arm, I pull him closer to be

blessed by his presence. It’s been said that if you want to see the

face of God, look into your children’s eyes. Nicky’s face has always

been a redemptive gift for me.

Nicky’s perfect, square teeth break through a smile when he pulls back

from my arm. “All better Mommy.”

“Yes, honey…Mommy is all better thanks to you.” He walks away,

climbing by himself back into the chair to continue eating his cereal.

“So, you’re going to go on with Mommy to work today.” I say as a

reminder. Cheerful so that he’ll catch my mood and think of it as an

adventure.

“When Jules wake up?” He asks sculpting a shape with his cereal on the

table. The idea of going away without his sister is troubling. He is

very considerate of her.

“She’s sleepy baby. We won’t wake her.” Taking another sip of coffee,

I bend across the table to press my forehead against Nicky’s. “I love

you Nicholas.”

“I Love Mommy,” he shouts, pumping his fist in victory.

“Good, I’m glad that makes you so happy because it makes Mommy very

happy to have your love. Do you know that?” I ask, sweeping his hair

from his thick lashes. He nods, but the understanding isn’t clear to

him. “I think Daddy’ll have to take you to get a haircut soon. You’re

going to be a caveman soon.”

He blinks. “What’s cavemen?” The question is innocently asked but my

recollection of being tossed into bed and having passionate sex with

John after his cavemen routine stomps out all signs of innocence. I

laugh, making Nicky look up inquisitively. “Cavemen silly?”

“Very silly,” I say pulling his face in for a kiss. “We have to get

you dressed.” No sooner then I lift Nicky from the chair and set him

on my hip, the phone rings. His eyes light up. “I wonder who that is

Nicky?” I say, hitting my cheek in mock surprise. Knowing that it’s

his Daddy, I grab the phone and hand it over to Nicky. “Meet me

upstairs honey.” I put him on his feet and watch him run out of the

kitchen. He runs upstairs, stomping on each step.

Juliana waking up from the commotion isn’t a surprise. She’s bawling

in the middle of my bed when I reach the bedroom. Her arms bind me

when I sit on the bed and pull her into my lap. “Did you have a bad

dream baby?”

Her security—her right thumb—blocks the path of words. I stroke the

wild hairs flying around her face, pulling them back so that I can see

her completely. Her command of language is good for her age, but she

doesn’t know how to say that she hates waking up alone; she doesn’t

know that I hate that feeling as well.

Juliana moves her head from side to side against my chest. She wraps

her legs around my back and continues crying despite me comforting her

with my body. “Baby, Mommy’s right here. I’m sorry that you were alone

when you woke up.” I pull her face back and kiss her lips. “You’re

fine now. Mommy is right here and you’re fine.”

She pries her thumb from her mouth. “Zaza.” Her pacifier. It was

Nicky’s suggestion to call name it Zaza. But she hasn’t had Zaza in

two months. When I weaned her off the breast, Zaza followed the same

fate. I keep one in my nightstand for emergencies. Usually her thumb

is enough. “Zaza.” She tells me again, this time pointing to the

drawer that it’s in.

Because of my particularly grateful mood, I give in to her and open

the drawer. I allow her to pull it out. She likes the power of being

in charge. For some reason, she needs more comfort than usual. Today,

it’s okay to be a passive mother because I can appreciate knowing that

I didn’t make her feel bad for being needy. In her future, she’ll

remember that it’s okay not to be strong always.

That’s what I’m feeling—holding her, smelling her hair and just loving

the connection—complete appreciation for the moments that count. They

are chained together in a tapestry of love.

“I love you Noodle.” She responds by hugging me, after putting Zaza

into her mouth. She rubs my arms, not noticing the bruises like Nicky.

Her understanding is small in terms of what counts and what she wants

to know. She’s a curious baby, but also quiet, peaceful. If she

remains this way, she’ll be more of me than I want. I was always bad

at expressing myself completely as a child. I was intelligent and

pretty, according to Mama and Daddy, but I grew up shy. That shyness

didn’t help me transition into childhood well because it made me seem

aloof and austere, instead of just afraid. I don’t wish the same for

Juliana.

“Mommy is taking you to work today,” I say, engaging her curious side.

Danielle will be away until next week. I have a meeting with the

teenage unwed mothers’ group. I think it’ll be a good idea to see me

interacting with my children. “You have to be dressed to go to work.”

I inform her, heading into her room.

We pick out an outfit that we can both agree on. Her agreement coming

in the form of a headshake, with Zaza propped in her mouth. In the

middle of her bath, Nicky appears with the phone in his hand.

Juliana’s soapy body slips from my arms as she charges for Nicky.

“Honey.” My attempt to calm her fails when Nicky throws his arms

around her neck between us. “You should jump in so that I can get you

cleaned up. You’re all wet anyway,” I tell Nicky smiling. “Is Daddy on

the phone still?”

Nicky tugs off his pajamas and climbs into the bathtub. “Talk to

Daddy.” He says offering me the phone to play with Juliana in the

soapy water.

“You sound like you have your hands full,” John says when I put the

phone to my ear.

“It would appear so,” I say, washing Juliana’s back. She squirms from

the intrusion of water on her skin. “It’s so much easier when she

showers with me. She has a natural aversion to baths.” I tell John,

rinsing the soap from her back.

“She doesn’t get that from you. You love being in soapy water.”

“I think that’s subjective when it comes to you.”

“Probably,” he says clearing his throat. “So, what’s going on? How’s

your day looking?”

This normal conversation is disconcerting because of the way we ended

things. It’s also not what I want to focus or think about today. I

don’t want to shut him out, but I don’t particularly want to think of

him in any capacity. And it’s disconcerting when we have an intense

conversation and wait three days to talk again. It’s both of our

faults. It’s called treading lightly. We don’t want to offend each

other. That’s why I want to deal with him tomorrow. Today is just for

me.

“It’s going to be busy. I have a couple of things that I’ve got to do,

but I have to get the kids dressed.” I say hastily. “Do you want to

say goodbye to the children?”

“Yes,” he says tightly. “I know that Danielle’s out of town still, if

you need me to get them—I can.”

“No, I have it covered but thanks for asking.” To avert Juliana’s

meltdown from Nicky’s splashing water in her face, I say goodbye and

pass Nicky the phone. Over my shoulder as I towel Juliana off, I hear

Nicky kiss the phone and say goodbye.

“Daddy wants me to kiss Jules.” He tells me when I help him from the

tub. “And you too.” My son says making good on his promise for John.

Keema’s intensity frightens me. Not in a sense where I feel that I’m

in danger of being harmed by her—it’s much deeper than physical harm.

I didn’t realize how frightened until I introduced my unaware,

unsophisticated children into her presence.

I’m frightened by her cynical take on life; by the fact that she’s

only halfway through the hardest and she’s already been dirtied by

life. And it’s only really apparent when she sees my two, happy

well-adjusted kids that I realize nobody gave her that. Nobody took

the time to care for her in the way that I care for them. It makes her

anger swell; and I’m frightened that maybe Nicky and Juliana will

leave here less innocent than when they came.

Nicky is a charmer—he get’s that from his father. From the minute we

step out of the car, he’s the center of attention. Joking and showing

off tricks and moves that I’ve never seen. He doesn’t have to show off

for me, he’s already got my attention. This is a new side of my son

that I don’t see often enough.

Even Juliana is interested the girls. With Zaza and her favorite

stuffed princess doll, she watches from my lap as we talk. I feel even

more blessed, more grateful if that’s even possible to have two lives

that can shape the world. Maybe one day, they’ll even impact someone

in the way that I’m trying to do now.

But Keema, she isn’t impressed by Nicky’s humor or Juliana’s adorable

pacifier sucking like the other girls are. I want to shake her and

tell her that life isn’t always bad; that sometimes goodness comes out

of darkness. But I don’t. I sit and watch her eyes dart. She avoids

eye contact and body contact intensely.

We’re sitting in a park under a pavilion. They’re all spread out on

the picnic tables. The sky is blue. It’s summer and we’re all still

alive. For that, I want to find a reason for each of us to be

grateful.

“I’ve been thinking a great deal about gratefulness,” I say looking

around. Nicky is sitting on Jamie’s lap; Juliana is shifting anxiously

on my lap. “I have two of the best reasons for feeling that sitting

here.”

“Me?” Nicky chimes in unexpectedly.

We all reward him with laughter. He smiles before hiding his face in

Jamie’s shirt. She could be his older sister; but she’s going to be

someone’s mother. The picture of my son on her lap is what she’ll look

like when she has her own child in that same position.

“Yes you Nicholas. And Noodle.” I say squeezing her body. “Some people

think that the greatest things in life to strive for are objects of

wealth—things without emotion attached. It’s easy to love the things

that you amass in life. Money is wonderful to have. A nice car and

house are also great.” I look at Keema, “I count my children the

greatest blessings that I have. I appreciate that I have the

opportunity to shape them. That’s big. Think about that girls. When

President Kennedy’s mother was raising her sons, did she know that

they would grow up and affect the world? I don’t think that she did,”

I say. “But what strikes me is that she gave them the idea of

possibility. Nothing is impossible. That’s a wonderful gift to give to

a child if you can’t give anything else.”

Cory dips her head, wiping a tear from her eye. I notice that Jamie

holds Nicky a little closer and the other girls heads are unmoving in

their attention. “The hardest thing for any of us to do is put our

love and trust into others. But with children, you get to do that, and

they give you love back unconditionally. Why? Because they need you.

They really need you.”

“But they’re mistakes,” Keema whispers. It’s the first time I haven’t

heard anger in her voice. “Aren’t they?”

I could tell her that neither Nicky or Juliana were planned; that I

tried to kill him at birth; that Juliana came as a total surprise. But

what’s the point in bleeding all over the group. They’ve already had

the worse of the world thrown at them.

I simply say, “Miracles aren’t mistakes. When you look in your child’s

face for the first time, you’ll know that.” I don’t expect her to

know, or even process that now.

“You have a funny look on your face when you talk about your kids,”

Diondra points out.

“That my dear is joy. I’m blessed to be a mother. It’s a job that a

lot of people don’t get right. But my heart tells me that I’m doing

what’s best for them.” Juliana brings her head to my rest against my

breasts.

“How do you know?”

“I don’t know,” I explain, readjusting Juliana’s head in the crook of

my arm. “I feel it right here.” My voice cracks. “What I don’t know is

how to make you all understand that feeling. What I want to leave here

knowing is that I don’t pity your positions; I don’t think of you all

as girls without hope.”

“Maybe you should. I’m about keeping it real,” Keema says sadly, “and

I don’t believe in joy and hope. I don’t see those things.”

“Well, honey maybe you should.” If I could cushion this girl’s fall

from hardness I’d do everything in my power. “Don’t you think that

there are things in the world that exist that we can’t see?”

“I don’t know. I don’t believe in that either.”

I tell myself quietly that no life is beyond redemption; that

everybody has the same chances to do all of the same things. But I’m

not getting through to this girl who really needs that right now.

Instead of embracing what I see as wisdom, she cowers and shakes her

fist at the unrealism of it all.

“You can’t see love, only expressions of it. It’s not a

concrete—visible—thing. There are so many things in life not to

believe in, but love has to be one of them.”

“Not for me.”

“Keema,” my heart breaks for this poor creature with no hope, “you’re

underestimating the power of believing. Without it, then nothing in

this world matters. I have to believe everyday that my children will

wake up; that when we go outside, nothing awful will happen to them;

that I’ll be around to keep them safe and protected.”

Her faces shifts and I see the bough break as the tears streak down

her face. “Nobody protected me,” she cries. My first concern is Nicky.

He looks terrified by her burst of emotion. I ask Jamie to take him to

the playground and she happily obliges. Juliana is sleeping unaware in

my arms.

“From what?” Tory asks her.

“Life,” Keema says simply.

It’s more than that. It’s that nobody showed her another way. I hold

myself purposefully back. Seeing her shoulders shake, and the anger

run away from her, I hear a voice that says Growing up female is

difficult. It is hard to be a woman in this society. And that’s not

based on feminist views; we are the vulnerable part of the population.

Men use and abuse us at will, sometimes with our permission; we’re

strapped with the responsibility of motherhood and marriage while men

seek liberal avenues; we’re through to be mature, when all some of us

are is a little girl; we’re taught very early that boys are bigger,

smarter, and entitled to their lay of the land, while girls have to

wait their turn; and for Keema, she knows that her race and class will

be a stamp that she can’t shed unless she sheds parts of herself—and

that’s not authentic.

“You know what honey, we don’t get to choose the circumstances that

we’re born into. We surely don’t have the power to say who lives or

dies, and who deserves more than others. But I do know that people

aren’t evil. It’s hard to believe but if we wait long enough, you’ll

find something good about people.”

“Are you talking about you?”

“I am,” I say shaking my head. “But I’m also talking about you. You

didn’t do anything wrong. God isn’t punishing you. You don’t get

pregnant because it’s a mistake; you made a bad choice. But what you

do with that is more important than feeling sorry for yourself.”

“I don’t know how to be anything else. All I know how to do is fight.”

She reveals.

I go away from them this time thinking: I never learned how to fight.

Maybe it’s not such a bad thing. That feeling last for the drive

home—and only those ten minutes. After I put my children to bed, I

pick up the phone and call their father.

“Will you come and hold me until I’m asleep?” I ask before he even

says hello. His answer is swift. I hear him rustling from the bed and

pulling a shirt on. He doesn’t ask if anything is wrong. He gets into

his car and talks to me until he’s at my front door. I pull him inside

and collapse in his arms.

Sometimes I hate being strong; I believe in love even if we can’t see

it. I believe that strongly when we walk upstairs with our arms around

each other’s waists. The idea is to find this kind of peace everyday

and keep it. It’s the only way to get through the tough parts.

Chapter 11

“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

I’m swimming inside her body when Marlena sings my name carelessly. I

bite my lip to stop my own song. My eardrums ring from the high pitch

of her sensuality. It’s tough to be discreet because she’s so vocal;

discreet is what we are when our children are near; sleeping or

playing together, never aware of is happening between Mommy and Daddy.

I’m not ready for that explanation. I’m glad that they are still

babies with no need to question sexual boundaries and all that.

Discreet—we don’t have to be discreet in her bathroom. Nicky is

playing next door while Jules is finally napping in her own bed.

The warmth is blazing between our bodies. She’s hiked up on my hips

with her back resting along the shower wall. Brown freckles dance

across her skin as she shivers under my fingers; I’m sculpting her

back into perfection. I always find the perfection in her

satisfaction.

The words of passionate, creative men fail me now but if I had them,

I’d write a song about the way she looks after this. After we pursue

forgiveness and forgetting by wrapping our bodies together to destroy

all the anger and uncertainty through sex. I would describe the way

her long limbs find strength in standing on their own having been

tangled around me; of her flushed skin; and her bruised lips. I’d even

describe the diminishing shadow of my handiwork circling her upper

arm. All of these things have the same degree of love and obsession.

This must be what obsessive me do when obsessions become possessions.

Devour their women until it’s hard to separate her pleasure from their

own. Kissing them until their lips shine from foreign saliva, balloon

with pain; holding them while they bleed the fruits of their labor

into their willing bodies. And even though it’s insanity to keep

walking into the same trap of lust, they go because it’s easier than

running away from it.

Round five of our welcome-back-sex marathon. Yes—I keep count in my head.

“At some point in time,” She hums into the hollow of my neck, “we’re

going to be over this part of getting back together. Right?” Her

breath is returning. She tucks her head below my chin and squeezes my

shoulders. I don’t have it in me to tell her that we’re not back

together.

“I don’t think so,” I laugh, gently unlatching her legs from around my

waist. “I guess we both have been hungry.” I say using our new code

word for sex around the kids. She used it this morning after

breakfast, when Nicky and I were building a Lego castle in his room.

I’m hungry. That was all it took to send Nicky next door to Colton’s

house. Hungry ignited the missed opportunity that had been stopped by

Nicky and Jules that morning. Just as I had climbed over her, they

barged into the bedroom; they’re used to doing that when I’m not here.

Now daddy is here and they’re still not sure of what to do with my

presence. Nicky isn’t as reticent with me when I’m here longer than

usual; Jules is more circumspect of the situation. Sometimes I feel

like she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. But I’ve committed

myself to doing this thing for them, and not so much for us. So we’re

not together, but we are working toward that at snail’s pace.

Not a lot of talking—that is what I like best. Just an unspoken

acknowledgement of trying. I come when she calls, or sometimes when I

have a need to see them and it’s not my turn. We erased the

boundaries, but some of the rules still apply. It’s only a tentative

arrangement. I’ve been here two nights so far; they were my visitation

days with Nicky and Jules. We haven’t explained anything to the kids.

I didn’t see the reason when she brought up the topic after I stayed

the night one. I’m their daddy; they should expect that—in light of

our recent sexual proclivities—I’d be the man in bed with Mommy when

they wake up. It’s too much to expect them to get that. When I figure

out how easily I fell back into this routine with Marlena, I’ll

explain it to them.

She stands naked in front of the mirror. She doesn’t think that I

notice that she checks herself over. Not vainly, but in examination.

Maybe for lines or wrinkles, of which there are very little. Laugh

lines shape her mouth; expression lines crease her forehead; yet,

she’s never been sexier. Her skin is smooth even wet. My eyes travel

to the small of her back; it’s my favorite place on her body. It’s

petite and so feminine. I’ve left imprints of my hands in erratic

splotches on her back. Water beads travel down her frame, pooling on

the floor around her. Unaware that I’m documenting her every move, she

brushes her hair. The wet curls spring into shape where she clips them

into place. When her hair is pulled off her face, shoulders, and back,

she’s never more pure looking. She slips a pink silk robe over her

shoulders as an afterthought.

She doesn’t even see it—beautiful women never see the power of that gift.

We stare at each other through the mirror.

I’ve been trying to find a way to say goodbye. My attempt is clumsy.

“I need to go home to check on things,” I tell her.

“Yeah?” she mumbles, looking over her shoulder. Her face has that

natural glow that comes from having good sex.

“Pika is probably going crazy.” And I have no clothes here; and I

never plan to stay the night. That happens quite naturally. “I need to

check out some things that are at the home office.”

“Okay.” She says simply, as she closes her robe, tying the two thin

strips of material at her waist. Water stains the light pink material,

turning it a deeper shade. She won’t ask when I’m coming back—I think

it’s because she’s afraid that I’ll say I don’t know. We both know

that it’s inevitable.

She fits like a glove in my arms when I cover her from behind. She

drops her head on my shoulder, making her neck stretch open for a

kiss.

If I didn’t want to sex her crazy every time I’m near her, leaving

would be easier. She has a way of making our time together so private

and special. Waking up with her expectant mouth closing over me is the

courteous gift I received this morning before the kids barged in. I

bent her over the bottom stairs and orchestrated multiple orgasms out

of her last night after we put Nicky to bed. We snuck to the laundry

room when the kids were in the living room after feeding them lunch. I

don’t know who can’t get enough of whom, but I appreciate the

by-product.

“John, you don’t have to make excuses for leaving,” she whispers. “We

should maintain our independence. I’m glad that you can have space

when you need. I hope you don’t think I’m pressuring you. When I

called you over that night, I really needed you to hold me. I wasn’t

trying to manipulate you. You can leave and come back whenever you

want.” I nod but that was over five days ago. She called me and I

came, we had sex and I stayed. I left and came back again. “Thank you

for being there when I don’t want to be dependent on me.”

I don’t think we are independent. I think we’re so joined that the

ties will never be broken. “I’m not making excuses.” I turn her by the

shoulders. She kisses me hard, thrashing her tongue into my mouth as

she moans and moves against my face. “Nope, nope. Not getting that

started again,” I warn, kissing her cheek and letting her go. “I

really have to go.”

“You’re sure?” She asks grinning. “I’m not a wam-bam thank you ma’m

kind of girl.”

We kiss again with our foreheads tilted together. The doorbell douses

the rising of libidos. This time, I kiss her until she pulls away.

“I’m need to get the door,” she says when I stop her from leaving.

“John, the door. It could be Nicky.”

Reluctantly letting her go, I step back. “You’re going in that?” The

flimsy silk hides nothing. Neither her pert nipples, nor the

silhouette created between her legs when she moves. “I’ll get the

door.” Jules cries out on cue, “And you can get her.” I suggest,

patting her rear as she passes. Rummaging through the pile of bedding

and clothes on her floor, I find my t-shirt and jeans. To maintain

modesty, I tug on my jeans. The beginnings of an erection press ing

against my zipper. I moan and pull my t-shirt over my head.

Marlena’s neighbor smiles from the other side of the door, when I pull

it open. She’s a nice looking woman with a nice body. She’s no

comparison to Marlena, but her smile is kind “Hi,” I return her smile.

“Marlena’s up with the baby.”

She continues to smile knowingly. If all the signs of sex are still

all over Marlena, it’s definitely true for me too. Especially between

my legs, my hands do a bad job of hiding the bulge between my legs.

She notices. “Hi.”

“John,” I say extending my hand to her. I haven’t formally met any of

the neighbors. But I know that she’s the mother of Nicky’s playmate. I

saw her for two minutes this morning when Nicky ran out of the door

toward her, standing in her driveway.

She tosses her head back, the way that women do when they’re being

cute. “He’s great. My husband took him and Colton for a treat. Ice

cream, I believe.” She covers her throat, thin fingers close around

the gold cross dangling against her neck. “I was actually coming to

invite Marlena over for a little gathering. And to be a little nosey.”

She glances sideway, grinning. “I’ve noticed the truck in the

driveway. We all have. I also noticed the handsome man getting in and

out of the truck.”

I shrug, laughing. “I must be the talk of the neighborhood.”

“Well our Marlena doesn’t date. So it’s…you know…”

I don’t know. But I’m amused that her neighbors spy what’s going on in

her house. This is why I appreciate aloof neighbors in my

neighborhood.

“You’re Nicky’s dad?” She asks crossing her arms.

“And Juliana’s,” I say possessively, leaning into the doorjamb.

“I can see where he gets the handsome face.”

Marlena rescues us from having to converse anymore. She’s thankfully

changed into a pair of snug pants with a v-neck cotton tee. Jules is

in her arms, Zaza wobbling around her drawn mouth. Marlena’s hand

slides down to the small of my back as she stands next to me in the

door. “Hi Andi. Thank you so much for taking Nicky this morning.”

“It was no problem,” she says pursing her lips. “I’m always glad to help.”

I step away from their conversation, taking Jules with me.

I’m not happy with Jules affinity for pacifiers and thumbs; Marlena

thinks that it’s okay to give her some security. I guess I hope that

daddy’s arms are all the security she’ll need. When I grab Zaza’s

handle to yank it from Jules’ mouth, she shakes her head forcefully

back and forth.

“Daddy can’t have Zaza?” I ask, fixing my mouth into a pout. She isn’t

impressed. I spread one of her blankets on the floor. My going home is

slowly being forgotten. It would be easier to go without Jules’

sparkling eyes blinking up expectantly at me. I sit in the middle of

the blanket with Jules sitting between my legs. “Let Daddy taste

Zaza.” Another no.

I don’t care what men say, and we can say some off the wall

things—life is just better when you have little people calling you

Daddy. When they at look to you to fix the small and big things;

there’s no business deal or shiny car, or even a woman that can equal

what being daddy is all about. I cherish my babies. I love them more

than my life. It’s incredible that God gives us these gifts. We aren’t

worthy enough even to handle the job, but we do what we can. Stumbling

through mistakes, we’re still doing it to the best of our abilities.

I know it’s not manly but my eyes get wet and Jules’s head starts

swimming in front of me. I cry for the gift of being her daddy. The

song Isn’t She Lovely is the perfect blend of what it feels like to

look at my little girl and just. I start reciting the song—not singing

it but just speaking the words to Jules.

Isn’t she lovely

Isn’t she wonderful

Isn’t she precious

Less than one minute old

I never thought through love wed be

Making one as lovely as she

But isn’t she lovely made from love

She turns around making her hair fly in her face. Pulling it away to

see me clearer, she starts to clap like it’s a poem. Her reaction

makes me think that maybe it’ll be my new way of telling her

goodnight. Because she was made from love, and she’s wonderful. I peek

around Jules to see the other wonderful person who helped make Jules

possible.

Marlena is still talking to Andi. She is in her best mode of being

kind and friendly. She’s made a connection with Andi; I see it in the

way she touches her arm smiling. I wonder, as I watch her, if she

misses her old life. The gilded cage that became the penthouse is long

gone, as well as friends. For two years, it felt like her life had

been swallowed by sickness and motherhood; and by Dr. Shalit. I’m sure

she likes the freedom of this house, and this neighborhood. The

normalcy of having barbeque and pool parties, something that we never

could do at the penthouse must appeal to her. Otherwise, she wouldn’t

be so happy to be there when I wasn’t involved in her life as much.

But I don’t see her as a normal type of woman. She has an air about

her that I never have been able to convince her of. She’s not an

outdoors, regular woman. She belongs in penthouses. She should be

driving luxury cars. I’ve always believed that about her, even when

she was with Roman. This neighborhood reminds me of Roman with its

plain, unsophisticated look of the people. She likes it all. She’s

always been happy to just be normal.

But Marlena isn’t normal in any way. She’s extraordinary—that’s where

my children get the extraordinary gene.

I can’t stop smiling at the sound of her voice; the quirk of certain

words that she says like programs in an upper crest New Englander way

unlike the Midwesterner that she is. Sophistication just pours from

her body standing next to anyone.

I’m being rude ignoring my daughter, whose been chattering. She turns

my head back to her. Marlena thinks she’s too shy at times. For that,

she gives her Zaza. I understand why but I don’t always see the

shyness that Marlena does. Jules is a livewire when need be, and that

has a lot to do with having Nicky as her older sibling. She likes to

do what he does, and I want her to think that she can. I want her to

be good in math, science, and English. I don’t want her to be afraid

of being smart, like her mother. Jules can’t be stuck in the battle of

the sexes—not my baby girl. She’ll be smarter, tougher, and cuter than

anyone she contends with.

Jules is a true Gemini. She moves in and out of phases that tell of

her duality. Quiet one minute, chattering the next. She’s also

creative. I have pictures on my desk that say so. I’m eager to see

what kind of person Jules will be. She has all the right tools to be a

wonderful person: a great example in Marlena.

When Marlena joins us on the floor, Jules pulls Zaza out of her mouth

and kisses Marlena’s ready lips. “Thank you Noodle. Do you have a kiss

for Daddy?” Jules extends her mouth to me and I kiss her softly.

“Thank you baby. Daddy loves Jules’ kisses.” I say. I scoot closer to

Marlena’s folded body. “Not more than Mommy’s kisses.” She allows me

to peck her mouth. “Maybe it’s a close tie.”

Marlena smiles. “I don’t mind losing to Noodle.” She checks her wrist.

“If you want to go now, I’ll handle things around here. I’m going to

probably head over to Andi’s later. They’ve decided to grill burgers

and hot dogs for the kids. Apparently Colton’s headed out of town for

the rest of the summer.”

“Nicky won’t like that.”

“No, he won’t.” She lifts Jules above her head. “It’ll be fun for them.”

“So it’s a kid thing?” I ask.

“A Colton thing. So we’ll have something to do so that we don’t miss

you too much.” She winks, lowering Jules to the ground. “And I’m happy

the kids are going this time. Andi is the neighborhood matchmaker.

Ironically, she’s a divorce lawyer.”

“I’ve gathered from the three seconds that I spoke with her in the door.”

“She’s harmless. She was worried about her husband being interested in

me.” She says innocently as if that won’t affect me. I don’t show how

it does, but I don’t like the way it sounds.

“Is he interested?”

She puts her hand on my knee. “No, he’s simply flirtatious. He had an

affair with the neighbor who lived in this house before me. I

understand Andi’s concern.”

“He sounds like a real prince.”

She shrugs. “I don’t know much about him. I deal with Andi mostly.”

“So, you’re going to go over?”

“Yeah, for Nicky. I also want Juliana to interact with more children

in the neighborhood.”

“Yeah?” I ask, because I don’t know how I feel. I think that this is

how it starts. This is how I get back into my role as husband, because

husband and daddy can sometimes be interchangeable. “Well, if you

don’t mind I’ll come along.”

Chapter 12

[Marlena]

Love? Be it man. Be it woman.

It must be a wave you want to glide in on,

give your body to it, give your laugh to it,

give, when the gravelly sand takes you,

your tears to the land. To love another is something

like prayer and can’t be planned, you just fall

into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.

–Anne Sexton

Having been glared at for three minutes, I finally fasten my eyes to

his, “Don’t look at me like that.”

It’s raining hard outside. Something about rain makes me feel

vulnerable. Perhaps the unpredictability of thunderstorms, the way

they rumble the Earth could be a factor. The Earth is supposed to be

indestructible—like my love for John. But if the Earth can shake from

natural phenomenon, then the unstable foundation that John and I are

rebuilding is subject to that too.

It’s unsettling. The way that John’s watching as if he’s looking

through me and reading all the turmoil and vulnerability that I’ve

been holding back since we left Andi’s over an hour ago.

“I think you owe me an apology,” he says very clearly. There is no

hint of anger or any emotion to his words. Just cool detachment. I

hate that. “You were out of line.”

A SUV has never felt smaller. All of these things feel disjointing.

John’s SUV, his driveway, and in the distance his condominium. His

life. Completely separate of my life, and the children’s lives. And

according to what he told Andi and Karen, it’s my fault that things

have to be this way. Have to remain this way. Why would he assume that

I would react positively to him sharing those details with near

strangers? Or react kindly to him telling me not to have another glass

of wine.

I have emotions—jealousy when it comes to him. I don’t pretend that

it’s a healthy way to maintain a relationship. But that’s what we’re

working with now. We’re too fresh in our realignment back to one

another not to be overly sensitive.

I watched him charm Karen and Andi from the moment we stepped into

their world and out of the cocoon of our own. He took my hand and led

me around the party as if I was his favorite possession. He put his

arm around my waist when I introduced him to James. When the level of

comfort shifted, I took an offered glass of wine from James. He

whispered then that we were going to his place tonight. I didn’t

argue; I smiled and kissed the corner of his mouth. And I thought

okay, this is how we start again. This is what reconciliation feels

like. I observed Karen’s fawning stare in John’s direction whenever he

found a way to touch me. She smiled at me and gave me a knowing throw

of her head. When Nicky came running up the deck to show his Daddy a

boo boo, Karen’s hand clutched her heart as if it was the sweetest

display of fatherhood she’d ever seen. I understood then how it feels

not to know the power that you have over someone.

Of no volition of his own, John became the star of the party. I found

some pride in knowing that he could merge into this new world so

seamlessly. And then suddenly, the tides shifted, and it was John’s

hand that felt too tight, making me seek freedom. His words started to

flow too freely. He wasn’t drinking. He was holding court with Karen

and Andi in the corner of the deck, watching our children play

together. I was corned by James—my eyes stayed focused on John—across

from him. I noticedthe look immediately. It’s not possessive as much

as it’s not appreciating another man being physically too close to me.

It’s an unhealthy attachment to my body, but I’m not unfamiliar with

this. So it doesn’t help to get upset about things that I’ve already

accepted.

I excused myself from James after one comment too many about looking

like I’ve finally been satisfied. I walked back over to John and his

audience and that’s when I heard it. It’s not my doing that we’re not

together. She knows why we have to be this way. For a splinter of a

minute, just a fraction, I thought to speak up. To clarify to them

what happened, to tell them that not everything is as black and white

as John has made it. But I didn’t. I didn’t because John pulled me to

his side and bent to say that he didn’t think that I should take the

glass of wine that Karen was offering me. The look that crossed her

face made me feel reprimanded.

Out of jealousy or embarrassment, I told him that I’ve been handling

my life very well since he’d left me. Karen’s agape mouth was a sign

that I’d gone too far but in a strange way, it motivated me to

continue. I shared with them that it’s easy to look at him and assume

that I had everything I needed in our marriage; that I wasn’t the one

who walked away from our marriage; it was his decision to leave his

family. And without concern for any of their embarrassment, I pulled

away from him to walk down the stairs to my nonjudgmental children.

“Look, I have a headache. I don’t want to argue,” I say looking to the

backseat where the babies are sleeping. “Nicky and Noodle are

exhausted. You’re upset and I’m not in the mood to really go into

this.”

He squeezes the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white. “Maybe

this is a bad time…I could take…”

“I don’t want to go home alone.” I say loudly. “And don’t treat me

like I’m other people. Don’t you dismiss me like that John. It’s not

fair to me.”

The loudness of my words provokes a lower tone from him. “You’re

obliviously upset. We can do this tomorrow. I’ll take you home.” He

says reaching to turn the keys that are still dangling in the

ignition. “You and alcohol are a horrible mix. I wasn’t trying to be

an asshole when I suggested no more. I just know how it makes you feel

emotional and argumentative.”

I believe that words don’t harm us. The real harm is the action

motivating those words. He can dismiss me and blame it on me not being

clearheaded; but that’s not supposed to hurt my feelings. I’m supposed

to sit quietly in his car, in his world, and take all that blame.

“Do not talk to me like I am one of your children,” I state

perfunctorily. “Don’t do that to me.”

“You’re out of reach when you get this way.” He rubs his face

frustrated. When he looks at me, the clear blue eyes that normally

exist have darkened. “No matter what I say to you, it’s going to sound

wrong. So, let’s not do this. I don’t want to argue with you with them

in the back.”

“You don’t want to deal with me period.” I say slamming my hand

against the panel in front of me. Just this morning I was in his arms,

feeling as loved and unjudged as I have in a long time. I don’t like

that we can shift like this so easily. I don’t like my Earth shifting

without my permission.

The idea that he can take all the power by turning over the ignition

and taking me back to my house riles me up. Those keys take on a

bizarre power. I jerk them out of the ignition and jump out of the

car. The rain pelts my face, soaking my hair and clothes almost

immediately. I close the door without slamming it and walk around the

front of the car. When you make moves without thinking, the next one

lacks calculation. What are the options? Go inside his house, pent up

with frustration. That usually leads to us seeking resolution through

sex. I don’t think I want to do that; I don’t think I can stand the

thought of him touching me.

“What is wrong with you?” He asks, jumping out of the car a minute

later. The rain is relentless around us. He blinks away the water

pelting down his face.

“You don’t realize how much power you really have, do you?” I ask

stepping closer to him. “You don’t say the things that you said to

those women, and think that it’s not going to affect me. You can’t be

that thick headed.”

“Marlena, you are not thinking clearly.”

“John, it was one glass of wine.” I yell. “What’s your excuse for

being insensitive? I slept with my therapist. Or I had a child years

before I met you? What excuse are you going to use for being a

jackass.” None of these things in essence is true. But for his

benefit, they fit nicely.

“This is why we’re not ready.” John replies after not speaking for a

moment. “We can’t go to a simple party with other people and not

offend each other.”

“Are you going to say that every time something is hard between us? Is

that going to be your excuse for why this isn’t going to work?” I

question hugging myself to ward off the coldness that comes from

standing in the rain. I can barely see through the haze of rain and

makeup, or the plastering of bangs across my forehead. “I know that

this is going to be tough. But I want it to work.”

He lowers his head. “Maybe you’re alone in that sweetheart. Maybe I

was being premature in saying that we should try.”

“Don’t be a coward John. You’ve never been afraid of anything; don’t

be afraid of me.”

“Why shouldn’t I be?”

“Because I love you,” I tell him simply.

“Last month, you didn’t love me.” His vulnerability is touching. “You

didn’t even want me in your life.”

Shaking my head, I lift my hand between us; acting as the wall that

will block our opposing anger. The children are in the car and I’m

standing here arguing with John. Those two things aren’t correct.

They’re adverse.

“If that were true, I wouldn’t be here now. I’ve always loved you. How

could you question that?”

He turns away from me to put his hands on the hood of the car.

“Whenever I see you with another man, it makes me crazy to think of

the possibilities. It brings up all the insecurities. I know that you

wouldn’t touch James, but then I don’t really know that. Do you see

how complex that is?”

I smile to myself. I’m a psychiatrist. I know complex better than I

know simple. I can decipher his confusion better than I can my own.

“One day we’re going to have to discuss why it is that you can forgive

me and yet still blame me. Nothing is going to be resolved until we

have that discussion.”

“I haven’t forgiven you,” he admits, keeping his body facing the car.

“That’s what we didn’t discuss. I haven’t gotten over being betrayed

by you.”

“Can we go inside?”

“I see you with other men and it makes me crazy with jealousy. I saw

the way James was looking at you and I wanted to hurt you.”

“John, I want to go inside to talk.”

“It makes me crazy that I can’t control my jealousy.”

I bump against John when a thunderclap flashes in the sky. Sooner or

later, our arguing or the thunder will wake the babies. “I’m going to

get the kids into the house.” He doesn’t respond. Once I open the car

door and lift Noodle from her car seat, he goes to do the same with

Nicky. He opens an umbrella that shields us as we walk in stride

toward his house.

Readying Juliana for bed, I change her clothes and diaper in quick

time. John’s with Nicky getting him prepared for bed. The non-thinking

activity of putting Juliana to bed is a welcomed distraction. John and

I need to talk, desperately but I don’t know how to do it without

sounding the battle cry. I just want to speak plainly without emotions

batting us away.

Thankfully, Juliana is still asleep when I put her back into her crib.

She turns to her side and sucks Zaza loudly while I lose myself in

her. It’s easier to think of what will happen to her if I don’t

resolve things with John, than it is to think of what will happen to

me. Juliana’s cues as a little girl are taken directly from me, even

when there are things that she shouldn’t see. That’s the process of

mothering a little girl. She has to see me go through hurt and

heartbreak; her later comprehension of it is dependent on me.

I love her father. If that were enough, then I wouldn’t mind her

having a front row seat in our relationship. I don’t love his

jealousy. That shows how much he doesn’t trust me. I really need him

to trust me again. I need that in my life more than I need anything

else from him. But trust is a two way street; so is loyalty. Where was

his loyalty tonight?

Juliana sneezes lightly, convincing me that she’s cold. I pull her

blanket up to her neck and stroke her silky hair. On a wrist, the gold

monogrammed bracelet that John gave her as a birthday gift dangles.

The plate reads Je t’adore. She’ll always know that it’s true, even

without the adornment on her wrist. There are so many ugly things

about our relationship, but I’m grateful that this is one of the

beautiful things.

“Nicky is asking for you.”

I turn around to see John standing there. He’s changed out of his wet

clothes into a pair of shorts. I lean and kiss Juliana goodnight,

lingering to feel the energy of peace. I whisper that I love her as

John walks up, zapping the calm. My hair stands at attention on the

back of my neck. I freeze up. Because I don’t know how to stop the

war, I simply walk away.

Nicky is awake when I enter his room and crouch low next to his bed.

“Hi baby. Do you want to hear the moon?”

“No.” He tugs my hand. “I want you Mommy.”

“Oh Nicky,” I say climbing into his bed. I fold him into my arms and

rest his head on my chest. “Mommy loves you.”

“I love Mommy.” He mumbles. He’s fading.

“I know honey. Did Daddy take my big boy to use the potty?”

“Big boy bathroom,” he corrects, sliding his hand up and down my arm.

“I’m sorry honey. Mommy forgets that you’re a big boy now.” I tell

him, kissing the top of his head. “But big boys get sleepy. So you

close your eyes and hold me until you fall asleep.”

This is how it’s supposed to be; this is how the end of our day should

feel. I should be with them, and their father should be with me.

That’s the way it’s supposed to be. I grew up in a house with two

parents who loved me. I was never afraid that Daddy wouldn’t be at the

breakfast table every morning. I knew Mama would be at the bus stop

after Sam and I returned from school every day. Society tends to play

down the role of families now because there are so many single-parent

homes.

After John left, it was easy to believe in the notion that woman can

do parenting alone. I know that I can. The fact is that I just don’t

want to. I want to have a mother and father unit for my children to

rely on. I want the babies to have the kind of family that I had

growing up. I am stronger because of my experiences; I’m also wiser. I

know what works for me and what doesn’t. Being in love is far more

productive than being bitter and angry.

I separate my body from Nicky’s gently. I am still slightly drenched.

I check to make sure that Nicky’s not before pulling his blanket over

him. A bath is what I want. I want to relax and think of nothing more

than the patterns on the hand towels. My overnight bag is in John’s

car, and when I leave out the door to retrieve it, he follows me.

“Where are you going?” He asks accusatorily.

His sudden outburst is unwelcome. It’s the not knowing what to do that

frustrates me the most. I don’t know how to combat myself against his

sudden anger and then the indifference that follows. I continue

walking until I reach the car, realizing that it’s stopped raining.

“I’m talking to you.”

I ignore him because I don’t want to continue to add fire to this

argument. Grabbing my bag, I walk past him into the house. If I can

find the words to smooth this over, it’ll be after my bath. He doesn’t

follow me upstairs; I stop looking for him once I’m in the bathroom

down the hall from the kids.

I slide into the water after I fill the tub.

Jealousy is what has destroyed us over and over. It’s the monster that

won’t be tamed. In his jealousy, he finds reason to be an asshole.

It’s counter-productive. Some jealousy is healthy, and also a natural

part of relationships. I feel some sense of jealousy when John’s being

overly flirtatious with other women. He isn’t even aware when he’s

doing it, and that’s why I can keep my jealousy in check. I understand

that women are going to be interested in John. He’s a gorgeous man

with natural charisma. I wasn’t happy with the way that Andi lavished

attention on John, but I wasn’t afraid that he would leave the party

and have a rendezvous without her.

John’s jealousy is different. He could likely believe that I am so

wanton with desire that I could have a quick fling with James. That’s

bothersome on so many levels. If he thinks that I’m not committed to

making this work, then I question why he continues to initiate sex

with me. Attraction or not, I wouldn’t be able to sleep with him if I

had no faith in his understanding of boundaries where other women are

concerned. He doesn’t give me the same credit. It’s flawed logic.

“I thought that you were leaving,” John says, startling me from the

doorway of the bathroom, “and it scared me. I didn’t mean to yell. I’m

sorry.”

He’s holding a glass of scotch. In my head, I hear him telling me not to drink.

“Lashing out at me when you’re afraid isn’t going to help us anymore

than you not trusting me.” I mumble sliding down lower into the water.

I’m suddenly very aware that I’m naked and he’s not. I’m vulnerable to

him in this position. He can stop being upset just long enough to

seduce me and then go back to being upset when I do something that

reminds him.

“We’re doing this for the wrong reasons.” He tells me, taking a sip of

his drink. “And we both know it.”

I’m doing this because I want to be with him. But telling him only

makes me look weak, and I don’t particularly want to look that way

now. “Our children?”

“Sex.”

Shocked, I sit up and bring my knees to my chest. “Is that what this

is about? You’re with me because of sex?”

He looks to the ceiling. “I’m with you because you’re the mother of my

children.”

“And sex?” I ask still bewildered. “That’s what our reconciliation is about?”

“It’s about me trying to fill the hole you left in me. And because

your children need us both to be together.”

“My children are your children,” I remind him, closing my eyes. I can

feel the onslaught of tears building behind my eyes. “And if I was

only with you because of sex, I would have fulfilled that need a long

time ago with someone else.”

His swift response is finishing his drink. “Is that so?”

“You’re incredibly insensitive. I haven’t made you feel so upset that

you have to deal with me the way that you do.” I stand up, feeling

overwhelmed by the closeness of him to me. Reaching for a towel, I

wrap it around me and step from the tub.

“You have no idea, do you?” He asks, leering at me. His hand is still

clutching the empty glass. “You’ve fucked me up.”

“I’m not responsible for your insecurity. I’ve apologized.”

He sighs angrily. “Your apologies are condescending.” The glass clinks

on the rim of the sink when he slams his hand down. “And sometimes

when I’m making love to you, it feels like you’re trying to make me

forget what you did.”

“I haven’t done anything,” I shout pushing past him. He catches me in

the hallway and locks me in his arms from behind.

“You did, didn’t you?” He whispers holding me from slipping away. “You

fucked that weak doctor.”

I turn my head away from his voice. It’s burdened with his turmoil and

the cloud of alcohol. The scent of the brown liquid is potent when he

hisses, burying his face into my neck. He tightens his grip as he

pushes me against the wall. My face collides with a picture frame that

crashes into the floor. We both stop squirming when he bends down to

pick up the picture of Juliana.

“You don’t understand what it’s like to have to live with it.” He

tells me from the floor.

“Then don’t,” I say quickly and without thinking. When he bolts up and

snatches my face between his hands, I’m unprepared. “If you feel like

you need to hurt me again, then I will leave and never come back.”

He isn’t affected by my threat. He simply stares at me for too long.

When I try to pull away, he says, “No, you look at me and tell me the

truth. I can handle it.”

“You’re not thinking clearly.” I say, feeling the pressure of my

headache combated by the heaviness of his hands. “Right now, I’m

afraid that you’re going to hurt me.” I admit honestly. If it weren’t

for him holding me still, my entire body would be trembling in fear.

The look in his eyes is animalistic and cold. “I’ve told you the truth

from the very beginning. I didn’t sleep with him. And I’m not

interested in James or any other man.” The first tear rolls. “I’m not

going to spend the rest of my life trying to convince you of that

John. Time is not a luxury. It’s precious.”

“What made you stop loving Roman enough to sleep with me?” He asks out

of left field. “What exactly did I have that made me so irresistible?

You said that you loved him.”

“What?” I say in disbelief

“You don’t know, do you? You don’t know now and you don’t know when

you’ll do the same thing to me.”

“So what do you want me to say? I’ve been a bad girl John. I’m sorry

for loving the man that I’m supposed love. What happened between you

and me has nothing to do with Dr. Shalit. It has nothing to do with

Roman.”

He slowly drops his hands. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

[John]

I stop myself to protect us both. Yes, I’m pissed off at her. Yes, I

want to make her realize that but I don’t like seeing the terror in

her face. It’s getting to the point where I don’t know if I can stop

myself. I don’t want to hurt her; God knows that I would rather cut my

own heart out first.

She acts clueless. I hate that because she’s too smart to pretend not

to know what I’m dealing with. I’m not asking her to read me. I’ve

told her everything that I have in me. I don’t trust her. I don’t

fucking trust her.

Jules. I hang her picture back on the wall. That face is why we have

to keep this up. Why I take Marlena’s hand and lead her to my bed.

“I can’t have sex with you,” she whispers when my fingers untie her

towel. “You lash out; I use my body to get you to come back. To calm

down. This is painful for me John.”

I let her ramble. She’s saying one thing but her body is saying

otherwise. I lay her down and crawl between her legs.

“I’m really scared for the day when you actually…” I cover her mouth

with mine. She pushes up to resist. “John, no…I don’t want to.”

I cover her mouth again, and she turns her head.

“Not tonight. Not after all that was said. Either we fix this or we

give up trying.”

I try to kiss her again. My mouth is near her ear when she uses her

body to push me completely off her to roll on her side.

“I need you.” I say because it’s always worked in the past. “I really

need you right now.” I use her shoulders to turn her back over, and

climb back on top of her.

“No.” She tells me turning away from my kisses, prying my hands away

from her body.

“Please.”

“I can’t. I’m sorry. Let me up,” she tells me, rolling away again.

When she gets out of bed, I turn away and pull the cover up. The

rejection is worse than the betrayal, I think. I close my eyes.

Chapter 13

“Show me the mother; and I’ll show you the child.”

–taken from an Army Wives episode.

One of my biggest regrets in life is that I introduced Sami to

incredible anxiety in her life. I showed her that safety is

subjective; that marriage isn’t forever; that imperfection comes tied

with a bow; that a mother can destroy her teenage daughter’s notion of

love.

I did all of those things when I fell in love with John, destroying

her idyllic vision of life. Sami lashed out and I deserved some of it;

yet, somehow she’s transformed from an incredibly bitter girl into a

well adjusting woman. That’s not to say that there aren’t still days

when she blames me for the unhappiness that she experienced growing up

but those days are few and far in between. I believe that marriage to

Lucas has mellowed her. She’s in a wonderful place where bitterness is

less acceptable. Those days are not my favorite days as Sami’s mother.

Thankfully, today isn’t one of those days. Today she’s being sweet and

I need sweet right now. I need someone that tells me that they love me

to prove that it’s not conditional.

John can’t or won’t do that because I bruised his pride; I never turn

him down. Our intimacy is one of the only things that we do well, even

when we’re disagreeing. But I couldn’t allow myself to be seduced by

sweeping the anger under the rug. If he’s upset with me, and can’t

spend time with me outside of bed, then I don’t know if I want that

relationship back. I believe that we both deserve better.

He frightens me. I don’t enjoy being afraid of John. I’ve never had

that before. When I went to bed that night, I climbed beside him and

stayed on my side of the bed. He didn’t touch me; I was afraid to

touch him. I went home the next day because I decided if I wanted to

spend an evening essentially alone then I should so at my own house.

His silence is uncomfortable, and very lonesome. It’s even worse

because it’s his visitation with the babies. So the comfort that I’ve

been having with all four of us being together, has diminished. He has

them; I have me.

To get my mind off those issues, I decided to combat another issue. My

teenage group. When I think of Keema, I think of Sami. And that’s

exactly the reason that I invited her to speak to my group. She was a

teenage mother, and she’s done a wonderful job of raising Will. And

her story isn’t full of light, so I believe the girls can find some

way to relate to her. Keema’s anger is so evocative of what I saw in

Sami, it’s only courage that thinks that they can find common ground.

Sami’s practically glowing sitting across from me. The fresh-faced

woman that I rarely see anymore has definitely found what I found with

John. True love. Her face lights up whenever she mentions Lucas’ name.

She’s wildly happy and in love.

Her blonde hair is hanging over her shoulder. The icy blue eyes that

used to be filled with rage are shining with something else that I

can’t name. “I don’t think I’ll have coffee.” She says, lowering the

menu. We’re having lunch in the cafe across the street from my office.

“Maybe ice tea?” She decides, handing the menu to our waiter.

“Honey, surely that’s not all you want?” I say scanning the menu for

something that she could enjoy. “How about a cob salad?”

“I’m not really hungry.”

“If you’re sure.” I show her a picture of a fruit platter. “How about fruit?”

Rolling her eyes, she tells me “okay Mom. Fruit.”

It still amazes me that I gave birth to this woman that sits across

from me. I carried her in my body and now she’s full-grown, and a

mother herself; and she’s beautiful, internally and externally.

“Honey, I’m glad you don’t mind speaking to these girls.” I say after

the waiter walks away. “You’re going to be effective because you know

what they’re going through better than me.”

At times, she has the Brady’s self-confidence. It’s not vanity, but

just a strength that doesn’t show itself until it’s absolutely

necessary. It hasn’t always been there, but as she matures, it grows

as well.

“I hope so. It was a tough thing have a baby when I still felt like

one myself. I remember being terrified when I was pregnant with Will.”

We rarely discuss what happened during that stormy time. She and I had

vastly different goals for our relationship then. She slipped from my

hands and found love where she thought it existed.

“Imagine how I felt having my little girl…” I pause when she lowers

her head, “I’m sorry.”

Her eyes are tearing when she looks up again.”It’s not you.”

Reaching across the table, I grab her hand and squeeze it. “What is it honey?”

A smile breaks through. “I’m pregnant.”

“You are? How wonderful is that?” I press her knuckles to my lips.

“I’m happy for you. Truly baby. Wow.”

She tosses her hair behind her, revealing the parts of her that are

Roman. The angular jaw and chin. “It was a surprise Mom. A nice

surprise. Lucas and Will are beyond excited.”

“I bet.”

She slides her hands across the table to unfold a napkin. “I’ve been

waiting for the perfect time to tell you,” she says dabbing her eyes.

“We’ve already told Daddy and Grandma.”

I envy the easiness that she’s always had with her father and

grandmother. Their relationship has always been very special. She’s

always been close, closer to her Brady family than me or my parents.

We get Eric in the exchange; it would be nice to have them both.

“Mom, you’ve been busy with everything. And Nicky and Jules, I didn’t

want to intrude.”

It’s no intrusion. You’re my baby girl too. It’s just been a rough

period of adjustment. But I’m fine.” I smile. “I’m thrilled about this

new baby.”

“I’m glad. I was hoping you would be.”

“Why wouldn’t I be? I love babies.” I remind her. She’s only one of

many. “Are you ready for another child? Will’s a teenager. It’s been a

long time since you had a baby.” I ask conscientiously. That’s a part

of being Mommy; no matter how old they get, they’ll never stop being

babies. I hated when Mama asked inconsequential questions that I’m

asking Sami. I can’t believe how much I sound like Mama asking Sami

these questions. “I’m sorry honey. Of course, you’re ready. You did a

great job raising Will.”

“There were moments…we both know that.” Sami allows, leaning

forward. “But he’s a resilient kid. Let’s hope it’s in the genes.”

“I don’t think we parents ever think that we’re doing enough. I never

felt like I was with you all.” I say propping my hand under my chin.

“That’s the price we pay.”

“Now that surprises me.” She says, genuinely shocked. “You always seem

to have all the answers.”

I laugh. Children have no idea; Sami couldn’t possibly know of how

much I doubted myself, and still doubt. “When I had your brother

DJ—honey, I was afraid to bring him home. He was so tiny and I was so

green.” I can still feel the way I trembled trying to feed him for the

first time. And Don being just as unsure as I was. “It was horrible. I

didn’t have Mama or Daddy there to help me. I wanted to be responsible

and handle it all on my own.”

“I’m sure you did fine.”

“I was horrible,” I say dramatically, “but I finally realized that he

was much more afraid of me than I was of him.”

She ponders my words. She smiles and slides her hand back across the

table. “Thanks for telling me that. Is it hard to remember him?”

“No, he’s never far from my memory even though I had him for such a

short time, but it was meaningful.” I have to stop to breathe. If I’m

not careful, the sadness can overwhelm the goodness in the memory.

“Losing him made me appreciate you all more when I had you.”

He would probably be on his way to becoming a father had he lived. I

don’t allow myself to dwell on his death. It devalues his time here. I

had him and that was a gift.

She changes the subject. “So Mom, talk to me. Tell me what’s going with you.”

“Nothing much,” I say eyeing her. She’s not good at hiding things.

“Oh really?” she says winking.

I half smile at her attempt to pry information out of me. “What do you

know? Excuse me, think you know?”

She mirrors my propped hand, sitting back. “You and John?”

“What about us?”

“You’re seeing each other again?”

“We’re too old to be seeing each other Sami. And who told you that?”

“Why? It’s true isn’t it?”

“I don’t know.” I admit with all honesty.

“Mom, are you being cagey with me?” She asks mockingly. “No the better

question is why are you being cagey with me?”

“Sweetie, I assure you I’m not. I don’t know what’s going on. We’re

talking. Fighting. Flirting with reconciliation.” I exhale heavily. “I

just don’t know.”

“I know. John took Will and Lucas to a baseball game. He talked to Lucas.”

“And?” I ask curious.

“Exactly what I’ve said: you’re seeing each other again.”

“If only it were the case. It’s complicated.”

“Have you noticed that you always say that whenever I ask you about

John and your relationship? What’s so complicated?” She asks

pointedly. “You’ve been fighting to be together since I was a little

girl. Isn’t it time that you either gave up trying or just made a

choice to be together.”

Her forwardness is a lot to take. “Sami.”

“Mom, I’m serious. We don’t want to get involved because it’s your life.”

“Honey…it’s not….”

“Mom, either you love John or you don’t love him.” She drops her hand

to her lap. “We all know that you do. So, why the separation? What’s

up with that?”

She doesn’t know about Dr. Shalit. It’s too much to put another mark

against my relationship with John in her conscious. So of course, I’ll

take the blame. “I don’t think we were on the same page last year.

Nicky was sick and I was pregnant. A lot of things happened.”

She doesn’t look appeased.

“Things that I don’t want to talk about.”

“Okay.”

“Thank you.”

“Can I say one thing Mom?” She asks, narrowing her eyes. She continues

with my affirmation. “If you and John love each other so much, why is

it so hard to stay

together?”

I listen to my daughter relate her teenage motherhood with the girls.

I listen with craned ears, and an open heart. There will be things

that will hurt me to hear. I know that it reflects badly on me that

she became a mother so young. But I’m open to hearing that; it goes a

long with closing old wounds.

Sami seems worlds away from the little girl who told me about her

pregnancy. This woman is confident, and compassionate. She is sitting

in the middle of the circle with all the girls surrounding her. Cory

and I are sitting outside the circle. This is something for them. We

can’t own their experience because we haven’t been there.

“I don’t understand how you ended up with a baby?” Diondra says after

Sami explains her birthing experience. “You’re mom is cool; you said

you have a daddy.”

She smiles. “She is a cool mom; so is my dad. But when you’re a

teenager, you don’t know that.” She looks toward me for unspoken

permission to allow our secrets to pour out. “But I didn’t learn to

appreciate my mother until I had my son Will. Until then, you don’t

realize how awfully hard it is to have kids.”

Keema peers over Sami’s shoulder at me. “You’re mom wasn’t mad at you?”

Sami hesitates. She’s thoughtful of how she speaks to them at my

request. “No, you’re Keema?” She nods at Sami. “Keema, she wasn’t mad.

It was more like disappointed. As moms, we expect so much of our kids

that it can be hard to not see them being who you want them to be. “

“I want my kid to be whatever it wants to be.” Jamie tells the group proudly.

“Until you have to see your kid not get what it wants,” Sami gently

says. “I know how my mother feels about me now. I wasn’t sure then.”

“You didn’t think she loved you?”

Sami faces Keema. “I didn’t know I loved her. She always loved me.”

Keema considers Sami’s words. She regards me from across the circle

again. Her hands twiddling nervously in her lap. “I don’t have a Mama

but if I did, I’d love her.”

“Where is your mother?”

“Jail. Or on the streets.”

Sami’s mouth follows the same O shape of mine. She recovers quickly.

“So you were raised by another family member?”

Keema’s voice becomes inaudible. I see her mouth, reading that her

grandmother raised her. She shifts her body to slide lower into the

chair.

“You miss her don’t you?”

“How can I miss something I don’t have?” She answers Sami quickly.

“Because I missed my mother when I thought I didn’t want her. It’s

hard to tell ourselves not to want what we should naturally have.

There were a lot of years that my mother couldn’t be with me.”

“Why not?”

“Things out of her control,” Sami says looking around the circle. “I

missed her so much that I told myself that I didn’t need her. But she

came back, and it’s like I was afraid of what loving her would do.”

“You were afraid of losing her,” Tory says. “I feel that way

sometimes. I don’t like to get my hopes up because nobody comes

through.”

“It’s exactly like that,” Sami clarifies. “It’s easier to shut her out

then to risk letting her in. Girls, I know what that feels like. When

I didn’t let her in, I went to find love elsewhere because I refused

to see that she was only there to help me. I did things that I’m not

proud of as well.”

“You got pregnant because you didn’t love your mother?” Tory tries to

simplify it.

“I got pregnant because I didn’t love myself; and because I didn’t use

protection. I was a kid.”

“Where was your mom?”

“Right where she had always been. I just had to turn around to see

her.” When she does, I’m smiling so big that my mouth hurts. “If I

hadn’t allowed her to be in my life, then I don’t think my son would

be the kind of kid that he is today. It’s all about learning your

boundaries as a parent, and because you’re so young, as children

still. Don’t let them tell you that your life is over because of your

baby. Babies are gifts. They are also a lot of work. You just have to

be prepared for it.”

“How can we be?” Keema asks.

“That’s not something that people can tell you. Inside, you’ll know

it. I do know that being prepared is letting go of the bad things that

you think got you in this position. That could be mothers, fathers, or

boyfriends. It’s really about you making a choice to be the best

parent that you’re child deserves. I wouldn’t give anything up for my

son. I don’t know what kind of person I’d be without him.”

“Are you happy that you had him?”

“If I could’ve waited and had the same child when I was ready, I

could’ve been happier with that. But I had to go through the

experience to actually know that.”

I can’t add anything to this session if I wanted to. I can see that

Keema doesn’t look so cautiously as me when she leaves. She’s really

the one I’m fighting for. The other girls will be fine. I can see that

they’re able to do what they’ll need to do. They’re not as sad; they

have been muddied by life as much. But Keema, she breaks my heart.

I hug my child. The wisdom of ages and experience has turned her into

a beautiful fountain of wealth for these girls. She thanks me for

being there for her and I bury my face in her hair to hide my tears.

She makes me unspeakably proud.

Chapter 14 (NC-17)

“The lonely one offers his hand too quickly to whomever he encounters.”

—Friedrich Nietzsche

I’m trying to put things into perspective.

She’s not with anyone else.

She’s trying to prove to me that I can trust her again.

She didn’t close the door on us; she’s just taking space.

This tight rope act of I-hurt-her, she-hurts-me has its limits. It was

so much easier not caring. That’s the place I was in last year, and

like magic, I’m right back to being the sorry one who needs to make

sure that she’s okay. It’s aggravating.

It’s the back and forth that’s driving me crazy. I think I know where

she stands, most of the time. It’s my own conflict that has me

questioning whether coming to her house uninvited was a good idea.

Sitting in my truck, trying not to be seen a few blocks down is

definitely not a good idea. It’s dark. The neighborhood is extremely

still. And I’m lurking like a menacing ex-husband. I can’t be that

man. Can I?

I need to see her to rectify things after letting them fester. But I

have seen her; I’ve talked to her. Once since she left me a couple of

days ago, and only to tell her that I was bringing the kids home

today. Couldn’t we have talked then? We should have; but I didn’t. I

don’t know the damn rules anymore. I used to set them, now I’m

wondering if I’ve broken them.

I dropped them off at six. She answered the door in a t-shirt and

shorts. I don’t ever remember her wearing things as simple as a

t-shirt and shorts. When she was with me, there were suits—expensive

and designer label—of every color under the sun. But I like the shorts

and t-shirt; I like the thigh-high length and snug fit. I might just

be horny; and that might be why I’m here. I want to peel those shorts

off and hook her legs around mine. I’ve wanted to do so since she told

me no.

It’s been haunting me. She never tells me no; she’s always wanted me

as much as I’ve want her. But that night, I was ornery and a little

loose from scotch. I might have grabbed her too rough, frightening

her. That is not a look that you forget—the woman you love. The woman

I love—that’s it, she is that woman. I might have been able to bury

that for a year, but now there’s no hiding it. I wouldn’t bother if

she weren’t. I wouldn’t be so upset when I feel disrespected. And I

damn sure wouldn’t be sitting outside of her house, trying to talk

myself out of getting out.

I don’t like being rough with her, but I can’t seem to help it. I tell

myself that I’m not that angry with her, but then I see her being

ogled by her neighbors; or she says things about me abandoning my

family; and the anger flares up without notice.

I need to apologize for that. That’s why I’m here. I also need to her

to let me kiss and touch her.

When I knocked on the door, it was symbolic that I didn’t have the key

to just go right in. I stood and rang her doorbell, with my heart in

my throat. Those beautiful eyes widened, and she smiled a little. It

wasn’t for my sake; she was happy to see the kids. She took Jules from

my shoulder and grabbed Nicky’s hand—all in the front door—while I

stood waiting to be invited in. Or maybe I was waiting to say

something that never came out. I walked back to my car and drove to

this spot. I didn’t want to go home alone.

I don’t have a plan formulated. I figure, I could just knock on the

door. Call. Text. Anything. I want some type of communication with

her. I don’t like being shut out. These are the excuses I give myself

for leaping over her backyard fence and opening an unlocked window on

her first floor.

I’ve always been able to move around the dark easily. I’ve done this

before, except normally it wouldn’t be my ex-wife and children who I’d

be surprising. The darkness of my acts isn’t lost on me; they probably

won’t be lost on Marlena. But I’m not worried about those

consequences. I know I’m not thinking straight. When has being in love

ever made sense. Hell, the majority of my time—since reuniting with

her—has been trying to make sense of what we’re doing. It’s pointless.

If it made sense, then I’d be at my own house moving on.

The insanity of creeping through her house has my senses on alert. I

hear the carpet crunching under my feet; a clock ticking; crickets

singing outside; and even my children sleeping. Even as I walk, I know

that this isn’t normal.

Nicky’s asleep when I tiptoe into his room. He was exhausted when I

brought him home after playing in the park. His mother has restored

the gritty little boy that I brought home back to his usual shine. He

smells clean, like soap and lotion. His little body is turned away

from the edge of the bed; he’s clutching a Hulk. In my bed he’s in one

still position; in his bed, he’s all over. Legs astray, peeking from

beneath the cover. I hide his legs back under the cover and pull it up

over him. I flick on his nightlight—his mother must have forgotten.

Making my way down the hall, toward Jules’ bedroom. The door is

closed. I find her curled against her mother’s back when I step into

the doorframe of Marlena’s bedroom. Met by her delicate perfume in the

air and the slight twirl of uneven breaths that come in her sleep.

It’s almost sacred to be allowed to see a woman in this state of

being—pure and unpretentious. A bedroom—her sanctuary—is the physical

personification of who she is. The bold red walls—even if I hate

them—is a part of the personality that the world doesn’t see. Red is

also sexy. I think I’m bothered by the red walls because I can’t

imagine why she needs to be reminded of sexy when I wasn’t with her.

The gauzy gold curtains are feminine and regal—that fits her

perfectly; books on her nightstand—her intelligence; no television—her

need for uselessness in her life; figurines of hunching, smiling

angels—religion. All of the reasons that I have fallen completely back

into her clutches and lost my reasons for staying away. Goodbye is

hard. Especially to everything that we had. I thought I was ready to

give that up; I’m a bigger bullshitter then even I knew.

What am I doing?

No matter how much I need to make what happened right, I don’t have a

right to trespass into their lives like this. I don’t own them

anymore; I don’t own her. This is her place where she should feel

safe. But does she need to be safe from me?

I didn’t want to get involved again for this reason. When it comes to

loving her, reason takes a far leap off the bridge. I haven’t thought

of what she’ll say when she wakes up. How she’ll feel about me

breaking into her house. I only know that I wanted to be here. Even

knowing those reasons might not be enough for her not to feel

violated.

Jules’ is in the middle of the bed. I can’t tell you what it does to

me to see my baby being so close to Marlena. What is it about the idea

of woman having your children that makes them so sexy to men? I don’t

understand it; I don’t need to. Our children have always been what

have kept us close. Even when she was trying to mother Belle without

me, I still felt bonded to her. That connection is deeper this time

around. We’ve been through so much since then. So damn much that we

should have learned how to get this right.

Jules’ sucking Zaza drowns out the other sounds in the room. Her

mother’s hair is caught in between her fingers. She must have fallen

asleep playing with it—I like to do the same thing. I bend over

Marlena, catching the sweet smell of her hair. It’s incredible that

Marlena doesn’t hear me breathing, or the heavy pounding of my heart.

She’s sleeping peacefully. One hand is tucked under her chin while the

other is twisted behind her to cover Jules.

Gold eyes flutter open, widening to my face in the dark. She looks

alarmed. But how else should she look, waking up with a man standing

over her. “It’s me, honey. Don’t be frightened.” I keep her from

sitting up. “It’s John.” She looks at me confused. “Baby, wake up.

It’s me John.” I shake her shoulders when she goes from looking

confused to frightened.

“John?” Her voice is muted with sleep. Her hands shoot forward to push

me away. “John?”

“Yes,” I assure her, taking her hands into mine. “It’s me. I need to

talk to you.”

She bolts upright. “What the hell are you doing? How did you….”

My two fingers silence her. “I sort of jumped your fence and climbed

through a window.”

“You sort of broke in?” She clarifies, raising her voice. Jules’

shifts and we both turn to her. “You broke into my house,” she asks

disbelievingly, after Jules settles back into sleep.

“You’re going to wake the baby up.”

“John,” she tears my hands away, “what were thinking?”

I knew it wasn’t right. That’s what I was thinking, but she knows

that. There’s no need to rehash what we already know. She twists

around to check Jules and I turn her back to me.

“I was thinking that I wanted to talk to you.”

“You’ve had a couple of days to do that. Why would you need to do it

now? At this hour?”

“Marlena.” She raises her eyebrows, squaring off with me. The anger

that clouds her face upsets me. Instead of answering her, I reach over

her to pick Jules up.

“What are you doing? John, what’s going on with you?” She follows me

as I lower Jules into her playpen at the foot of Marlena’s bed.

“John?”

She’s standing in front of me, with her hands on her hips. Her hair is

wild, mirroring the look gripping her face. Damn it, she doesn’t even

know that this is sexy. This anger and determination not to be

railroaded by me. The shorts are gone. But she’s in a nightgown that

looks vaguely familiar. And I’m trying hard not to think of slamming

her against the wall and making her hit the mother of all orgasms.

“John?”

I come clean. “I couldn’t turn that car around and leave. I’ve been

sitting outside for hours.” She steps back. “I couldn’t stay away

anymore.”

“John? You’ve been outside?”

“I miss you.” I have to whisper. That’s how hard it is to admit that.

“I’m sorry about coming here like this—I miss you. And I’m sorry.” She

feels frail wrapped in my arms. Her hands at her sides; her face

turned away.

“John.”

Her cheeks are still hot from sleep. Underneath my rough hands, they

feel like silk. She tries but I don’t allow her to take the thing that

I love looking at away. I hold her head beneath my hands and kiss her.

She denies me entrance into her mouth, pressing her mouth tightly

together. Her head is shaking between my hands. “John, don’t.”

“Baby.” I groan.

She grimaces. “Don’t call me that.”

I haven’t called her baby unless we’ve been in bed together. It used

to be one of my favorite names for her. “I know….it’s been confusing.

Hell, I’m just as confused as you are but I need you.” I beg her.

“Why are you calling me baby?” She asks, craning her neck to the side.

“Because, I feel closer to you than I have in a year.”

She snatches away from my grasp. “You’ve called me that exactly twice

since we’ve been sleeping together again. Is that what this is about?

You want me to go to bed with you?”

“I want you to stop shutting me out.” She’s like paper when I push her

onto the bed. She muffles something against my chest but I’m working

to stop her flailing legs from kneeing me in the groin. “Baby.”

She pushes me off. “You can’t break into my house and try this. It’s

not rational. Do you know what could have happened if I thought you

were a burglar? I had Noodle in the bed with me.”

“I’m sorry.” I say sitting up on my knees, with her body beneath me.

Her legs are still dangling over the side of the bed. “It doesn’t make

sense to me either.”

“I don’t feel comfortable letting you touch me,” she whispers. “I just

don’t know which John I’m going to get anymore. You scared me.”

She still hasn’t forgotten. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what gets into

me. It’s not you.”

“Maybe it is; you only get violent with people who you are angry with.

You’re obviously still very angry with me.”

“I still love you.” I say, pressing myself against her. My face, my

hands. The erection straining my pants. All points of our bodies are

connected but she keeps pulling away.

“Don’t do this to me. I….”

“I want to do this to you.” I tell her invading the sanctity of her

body with my groping hands. If I could slow myself from trying to

steal the uncertainty from her, I would. It’s not likely because I’m

already snatching straps from her shoulders. Torn fabric falls against

her skin. She constricts me from moving between her legs. I use my

hands to erase the gap between our excitements. “I didn’t come here

just to make love to you. I came to say how sorry I am for making you

frightened.” She moans sharply in my ear but she’s still resisting.

“I’m sorry to invade your privacy and do the things that I’ve done

tonight.”

“John I can’t do this.” She tells me, her voice hoarse. “I want you to leave.”

“Yes you can,” I say lifting up on my hands, “and besides, I don’t

think I can leave even if you want me to.”

“I’m not a slut,” she cries pushing against my shoulder. “I’m the

mother of your children. And you can’t do this to me, not like this.”

Her tears wet my cheek when our mouths tangle together. I’m ready to

push all of the pent up love into her. To use my hands to motivate her

hips into action. But I can’t do it until she’s stopped crying. “Baby,

don’t cry.”

“No.” She says pushing my hands from her face. “Let me up.”

“No.” She closes her eyes for a second. When she opens them, the fight

is gone. “You’ll be gone in the morning.” She says sadly before

crushing her mouth against mine. She cries out when I thrust into her

clothed middle. Just to show her that I’m ready.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I say, lifting her nightgown above her

thighs. Her hands are lightening as she tugs off my clothes and pulls

me back to her. The frenetic wave of energy that surges through me

passes into her and she shifts our bodies into the bed fully. I help

her with taking the nightgown off her body, tossing it over our heads.

I have to take care of her first. To make the experience seems more

than a one-night-stand. I know every spot on her body that makes her

mind thunder with clouds. She likes to be touched on her neck, with my

rolling fingers and tongue. I breathe on her there, leaving my mark. I

bite her shoulder and lick the curve beneath her arm. She’s always

been a moaner. But my forefinger silences her. I remind her that our

baby is a few feet away.

“Are you going to leave me in the morning?” She asks trying to open

her legs wider. I think she’s on birth control again; she doesn’t

worry about getting pregnant.

I shake my head and push myself slowly into her warmth. “I promise,

I’ll be here. I love you. I would never hurt you in the way that you

think.”

Being buried in her damp canals, I feel a part of her. I start

gyrating, digging—to find a place inside that I haven’t been. The most

secret of all places is the center of a woman. That gift of being

attached so intimately is maddening. To think that I’m here, making

love to her makes me dig harder. Deeper. Rougher.

Questions.

Do you love me? yes she moans. Do you miss me? a mere breath to

answer. Each answer brings about the urge to be deeper, closer. I

straighten my body into a long line pressing into her as I start

ramming into her. She stutters my name; and breathing in ways that

resemble childbirth techniques. We’re caked in our mutual sweat,

sliding up and down along each other. I want to come home, I say; she

cries yes. A long rhythm of yes and then John, followed by sexy

unnamable sounds.

“The baby,” she manages, as she wraps her arms around my waist to keep

me close. She matches my thrust just as quickly as I give them. “John,

don’t wake the baby.” The headboard dots the wall with every thrust.

Obvious lovemaking, wall hitting that my children aren’t sophisticated

enough to appreciate.

I can’t stop.

I continue assaulting her body until she twitches so fiercely under me

that her legs shoot up and she grinds roughly into me. I come first,

hard. But she doesn’t stop. She takes my hand and uses our juices to

play with her until she has to bite into my shoulder to keep the

orgasm our secret.

[Marlena]

A throbbing on the inside of my thigh is one of the main reasons that

I wake up roughly. It’s John’s handiwork from last night. Red

splotches resembling his open mouth. That must have happened after the

first time.

Why does being horny have to make one so reckless?

There was a second time. It happened after we’d fallen asleep. In my

sleep, I felt the gentle thrusting from behind. I came in my sleep,

asking myself how it’s possible. That’s when he burrowed under the

covers to stimulate me with his tongue, lapping between my legs

gently. I came from that too. At least he took the time to think of

Juliana, who I’d forgotten in the heat of the moment. I remember

covering my face with a pillow to stifle my carnal moaning.

And then we fell into a deep sleep.

My shoulder is riddled with teeth marks. A half moon of his teeth

indents my breast. He made love with such a vengeance last night that

my body is the walking story of it all. All things that happen in the

dark will always come to light.

We have to stop doing things with Juliana in the room. I know she’s

innocent enough not to know what’s going on. And as a doctor, I know

that sex shouldn’t be hidden from her. But the kind of sex that we

have at times could scar her for life. Distinguishing the act of

making love and devouring our flesh purely on lust isn’t something

that I want her to learn from me. Every woman deserves to discover

those facts in their own time.

And I never want her to have to beg someone to stay the night; that

was pitiful enough to merit me waking up alone. I deserve it after

being so careless. He’s not there but he’s left behind things to

remember him by all over my body.

It’s eerily quiet. Juliana isn’t at the foot of my bed in her playpen.

And after looking, I see that Nicky isn’t in his bedroom either. They

have to be with John. At least he didn’t leave me without any regard

for them.

He can be so savage and wanton that my expensive nightgown ends up

useless and torn on the floor. It still smells like him and me when I

close it over my nose before throwing it away.

I take a quick shower before heading downstairs. I’ll call him. I want

my babies back home with me. And I want to talk about him breaking

into my house. In the midst of reckless sex, important discussions are

tossed aside.

I can’t believe there are no notes. I look in my quiet desperation. I

towel off and look at my body. This must be the way that women who

sell their bodies feel. Used. Angry. Empty. All that they have left is

the feeling that you’ve been torn from outside in. I am walking

slightly strange. My thighs are tender. My skin is marked everywhere I

look. That cuts down on outfit choices. The bruises on my arms have

vanished, ironically.

After slipping into a high neck shirt and a nylon body fitting shorts,

I head downstairs. Truthfully, I’m still hoping that I’ll find some

sign of John’s goodbye. Or a sign that he’s returning. His watch or

wallet. Something.

The house is still closed up. No curtains drawn; no windows opened.

The shoes that Nicky kicked off at the door remain there. Juliana’s

princess TV tray is sitting in the center of the living room. He must

have fixed them breakfast before they left me. I continue onto the

kitchen.

The open sliding door catches my eye. I’m quietly relieved when I step

onto the deck and look out to see John and the kids in the pool.

“Mommy,” Nicky says, calling John’s attention to me walking toward the

pool. Noodle is clinging to her daddy; her arms are swathed in pink

floaters. Nicky is floating around them with a vest and a kiddy inner

tube.

John smiles up at me. He’s wearing sunglasses. I love him in

sunglasses. Only I know that the welts on his back are from my

fingernails. “Good morning baby, you’ve been out for a while.”

“Someone turned off my alarm,” I say sitting on the edge to dip my

feet in the pool. “Good morning Noodle.” John swims to me and puts

Juliana on my lap. “Noodle, I missed you in bed last night. You

weren’t kicking me or making Mommy too warm.”

“Her Daddy was though.”

I ignore him and turn my eyes to Nicky wading in the pool. He’s been

learning gradually how to be comfortable in the water. “How’s Mommy’s

big boy? Did you sleep well?”

“I dream.” His face is dripping with the water from his wet hair.

“Of what Sweetheart?

“Monsters get you. You cry.” He says, describing the dream with his

face twisted.

“No I’m fine baby. That was a bad dream but I’m here. No monsters.” I

explain. He probably heard me crying out his father’s name, but that

part is lost on him.

“Good.”

“Are you teaching your Daddy how to swim?”

“He is. He’s beaten me several times, haven’t you kid?”

Nicky nods excitedly. “Mommy swim.”

“Mommy me. Me. Me.”

“I’m right here Noodle.” I say turning her around. Her bathing suit

spots my shirt with water. “You’re determined to have me swimming too,

I see.”

John watches me so closely that it makes me uncomfortable. I don’t

know what he’s thinking. What I’m thinking probably doesn’t equal the

seriousness in his face.

“You thought I left you, didn’t you?”

I nod inattentively. “Who put your hair up Noodle?” I ask lifting the

long curls in her ponytail. Water has the same curling effect on her

hair.

“Are you avoiding me?”

“No, I want to talk to you. I just don’t want to do that now.”

He puts a blockade around me with his arms on the pool wall. “I think

Nicky should come closer.” I suggest, watching Nicky floating away.

“He’s fine. Now stop avoiding me. Would you look at me?”

I continue to look at Nicky.

“Hey,” he says turning me by my chin, “I told you that I wasn’t going

anywhere. But that’s not what has you uptight, is it? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I lie. Well, I half tell the truth. I don’t know what’s

wrong. I only know that I was relieved that he wasn’t gone, only to

feel anxiety follow. “Please, get Nicky.”

He swims away and leads Nicky by the rim of his inner tube back to me.

Nicky isn’t pleased to lose his independence. “Mommy wants to clip

your wings kid.”

“Mommy wants to keep you safe.” I say leaning to kiss Nicky’s head.

“Do you want Mommy to get in the water?”

Nicky nods happily. John drops his hand on my knee and squeezes. “Come

on baby, get in.”

My skeptical face makes him laugh. “Yes, baby. My baby.”

“John.”

“Why do you look so grim? Honey, last night was amazing. You were so

fired up. Don’t make it seem dirty. You are my baby.”

“I’m not…it’s just…”

“Baby, go get in a suit. Swim with your family. We’ll worry about the

tough stuff later.”

He sounds dismissive. “Don’t treat me like that. I’m worried that you

don’t realize what….”

He snaps my face into place. “I realize–believe me but can we have a

stress free day. Please?”

Sighing, I pull away. “We’re going to talk about you sneaking into my house.”

“We will.”

“And you taking no for an answer.”

“Okay.” He kisses my chin.

“And you….”

He leans in to kiss me. “Me what?”

“You and me.”

“I want you back.” He says clearly. “I want you and my kids back in my

life. All the time.”

“Don’t quiet me with your mouth,” I tell him accepting his tongue

sliding across my lips. “I’m serious.” I moan. Juliana slaps his face

lightly, trying to pry us apart. “Oh baby, don’t hit daddy.” I laugh,

rubbing his cheek.

“Is that funny?”

I cover my mouth to stop from laughing. “No,” I tell him shaking my

head, as laughter bubbles up. “I’m sorry.”

He snatches Juliana from me and uses the distraction to swim away,

yanking my leg to pull me underwater.

When I reemerge from the water, Nicky and Juliana’s laughter fills my

ears. John is grinning with our daughter pointing at me.

“That was so not funny.” I tell the happy trio as I drag myself from

the pool. Wet clothes cling to me, outlining my body. John’s eyes

travel the length of my body. “I may as well get into a suit now.”

“It’s about time.” John tells me winking.

I don’t notice James unlatching my fence until I’m halfway into the

house. I turn to his voice when he shouts my name.

“Hi James.”

“Hey,” he steps into the yard, not noticing John in the pool. “I heard

all the commotion. Just wanted to check it out.”

“Oh,” I smile, “we’re fine. The kids are in the pool with their daddy.”

“Oh.” He lifts his eyebrows as if he’s expecting something else. Some

encouragement to stay. “Well, Andi’s still away with Colton. She

decided to spend time with her parents before heading to Texas to see

our daughter.”

I nod, trying to keep my words to a minimum. He tries to look me over

without being obvious. I’m afraid to see if John notices.

“Maybe I’ll go say hello to John and the kids. You look like you need

to change.”

“I do.” I say moving into the house. I have no view of the backyard

from my bedroom where I slip into a two-piece. Of course, I can’t find

the one-piece that doesn’t overexpose me. This bathing suit is from

vacations that I took with John before having babies. John named it

the dickmatizer–which I never liked. His reason is that he gets

instant erections when I’m in it. A simple black bikini. I was happy

to fit back into it after having two babies; now I’m worried that John

will think it’s too much; that I’m trying purposefully to flirt with

James.

I take my chances on him not being there when I walk back. But he’s

there, in a lounge chair by the pool. He’s holding a beer on his knee,

having an animated conversation with John.

I sense John’s disapproval immediately. He sees me before James. I

shoot him a what look before walking past James. Both of their eyes

settle inconspicuously on my curves. I’m proud of my body; I choose

not to be self-conscious about being a curvy, voluptuous woman.

“You look amazing,” James says unabashedly. “I hope you don’t mind me

saying so John.”

He smiles tightly. Of course, he minds but my uptight look makes him

keep the jealousy monster at bay. “She’s gorgeous.” He gets out of the

water with Juliana. The but-she’s-mine look isn’t missed by me,

especially after he pulls my neck to peck my lips after passing

Juliana to me. “I think you might want to change her,” he suggests,

keeping his mouth close to my ear, “and put on one of those cover-up

thingys.” He turns quickly to dive back into the water.

“Seeing you makes me miss my wife,” James says, pulling my attention

from John and Nicky. “Especially after last night. You all can go,

huh?”

“Go?”

He points to the marks that I have stupidly forgotten on my body. “At

it—he was an animal last night. I was out by the fence having a

cigarette. I heard you. I didn’t realize you’d be so vocal.”

I must look like the dense idiot that I feel like. Who talks so freely

to people that they’re not very familiar with? People who are

reckless. He’s already had one affair.

“I don’t know think that’s appropriate.” I tell him, heading back into

the house to change Juliana. “Baby, I want you to find your love

early. And stick with him. I hope he’s a little like your daddy and a

lot like a prince.”

John and James are sitting next to each other near the pool, watching

Nicky splash around. Juliana reaches for her daddy when we get close.

He takes her and nips her forehead, pulling my hand to still me from

walking away. He eyes my sheer cover-up. “I’m going to get in with

Nicky for a while.” He runs his hand across my rear up to my back. “Do

you want me to take Noodle?”

He pulls me into his lap. “No. I’ll keep an eye on her.” Juliana

fusses when our faces touch as he nips my lips. “Oh baby, daddy’s got

one for you too.”

“She might want Z-a-z-a.” I say getting up, avoiding James’ intent

staring. John not only has to have me, he has to let others know that

I’m his. He rubs my stomach, stopping just below my navel. “You do

look amazing.”

When you’re involved in a pissing contest, then you should get out. I

drop my cover-up and jump quickly into the pool. I focus on Nicky

instead of the conversation poolside. He’s showing me how well he can

doggy paddle. The determination pushing him is all John. He must

conquer everything. He’s trying to not be my little baby boy anymore.

He pushes me away when I try lifting him from his inner tube. I can do

it, he says climbing from the hole. He wants to swim underwater,

holding his breath. I don’t trust that he can but crushing his hope

isn’t what I’m about to do. So I hold my breath as he plunges down and

comes back up smiling victoriously.

“You did good Nicky.” He wipes my kisses away. He’s in the big-boy

mode. No fawning from Mommy allowed. “I’m proud of you. Daddy should

see that.”

He calls his father to the pool, proceeding to show him the underwater

skill. John congratulates him with James standing beside him. They are

a contrast. John’s features are dark. His face, finely chiseled. His

body in perfect shape. James is light. Light hair, green eyes. He’s

also shorter than John. He looks cerebral, like a businessman. Like he

belongs in suits while John can go from a suit to swimming trunks

without seeming out of place.

And they both watch with circumspect eyes. I know what John’s

possessive glare is about; James’ is a mystery.

“I think she’s tuckered out,” John tells me, laying Juliana on his

chest. “I’m going to put her down for a nap.”

“I can do it,” I offer.

“No, stay there. I’ll be back.”

I count the minutes until John comes out of the house. I can take

doses of James–small doses. He’s been sputtering about Andi’s

time-consuming job. I’ve been paying attention to Nicky, nodding on

cue.

“Baby?”

I am happy to see John. He slaps James’ back before jumping into the

pool and swimming to me. He wraps his arms around me beneath the

water. “I can’t believe you still have that suit.” He whispers.

“Where’s the baby?” I ask, circling around his neck with my arms.

“In the living room. I brought her playpen down.” He points to the

monitor. “If she budges, we’ll hear her.”

“Are you…” I ask when he pokes my stomach, “You couldn’t be?”

“Always,” he says kissing me with no regard for James.

“John, we have company.”

“I’d like company to go away.”

I shrug, keeping my eye on Nicky. “He heard us last night.”

“Really?”

I nod, closing my eyes. His fingers are creeping into my bathing suit.

“John, don’t do that.”

“Shhh,” he says tracing my lips with his tongue. “He’s not even paying

attention.”

“I don’t like the idea that he could. And Nicky’s right there.”

I fall into his shoulder when he wraps my legs around his back. “I

have something for you.”

I look up grinning. “I don’t want it.”

“Not that,” he says swimming us over to the wall closest to Nicky and

furthest away from James. “Reach into my pocket.” He instructs

pressing me into the wall.

“Uh no.” I tell him dipping my head back. He kisses my neck and pulls

me back up. “No John. I can’t.”

“It’s not what you think.”

I slide my hand between our bodies slowly. He’s poking into my thigh

though his shorts. When I rake my hand over it, he snatches it back.

“My pocket not that.”

I reach inside, pulling a key out. “What’s this?”

“So you don’t have to climb into any windows.” He pulls my lip into

his mouth. “It’s yours,” he moans against my lips. “My key. I meant

what I said. I want to come home but until we get all that settled, my

home is yours.”

It’s been a long time since I cried because he’s done something to

make me smile. He knows me well enough to know that I’ll drop the

matter of him breaking in my house. But it’s also a very sweet

gesture.

“Don’t cry,” he says wiping my face.

“I’m sorry. That’s just the sweetest thing that you’ve ever done.”

“No, I don’t think it’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever done.”

It’s not. He’s given me jewelry. Cars. Children. Safety. Love. The

ability to lose myself in his touch. Even with James and Nicky only a

few feet away. He moves my bathing suit to the side, plunging his

fingers roughly inside me. I clutch the wall and glare at him.

“He won’t know.” He mutters circling the hardened nerves that throb

between my legs. “Open your legs.”

I shut them tighter. “John, not now. I can’t…” I cry feeling it

bursting at the seams. “Please don’t do this to me.” He flicks gently

between my legs, leaning into my ear as if he’s only whispering

something sweet and not making my legs quiver against him.

“Shh.” I’m leaning into his shoulder, pulling his skin into my mouth.

“I’m going to make love to you.” I shake my head fiercely. “Yes.”

“Nicky.” I remind him. We both look across the water. Or son is still

playing safely by himself. “If you do this, I’m not going to be happy

with you.”

“You will, after it’s over.” He promises dropping kisses across my face.

“You two look like you need time alone,” James says, bending by the

wall where John has me propped up.

My body is still reeling. I bite my lip and keep my eyes on John as he

joins our bodies underneath the water.

“Oh, just relaxing with my baby and the boy.” He tells James,

thrusting into me secretly. The only sign is a water funnel that rises

to the top of the water. “You should stop by again, when I’m here. We

can talk business.” He says slowly pushing in and out of me. I drop my

head to his shoulder. “She’s tired. It was a long night.”

“Yeah, I know about those.” James pats John’s shoulder and stands up.

“I’ll see you. Maybe when Andi comes, we’ll get together again.”

John tightens my legs around him. “Maybe.”

The slow motion of his body pushing into mine is painstaking. I claw

at his back, scraping my way to his rear. I see Nicky in the distance

before I close my eyes and drop my head onto the concrete.

The sounds and sex intermingle. There’s Nicky and breathing. I’m

trying to keep them separate. I hiss to keep from moaning. I smell

cigarettes and John. James’ eyes peep through the fence slits

unbeknownst to John. He’s too busy trying to make us both come without

disturbing Nicky.

I lean forward. “I’ll never forgive you for this.” I say falling back

against the concrete.

My body loves it, but my head and heart are crushed.

Chapter 15 (NC-17)

Whereas last night

the cock knew its way home,

as stiff as a hammer,

battering in with all

its awful power.

That theater.

Today it is tender,

a small bird,

as soft as a baby’s hand.

She is the house.

He is the steeple.

When they fuck they are God.

When they break away they are God.

–Anne Sexton (The Fury of Cocks)

John has strong, heavy hands. Rough skin lined in age and devotion.

Those strong hands hypnotize me into sleepy trance. The night helps.

The isolation of my bedroom and the beauty of his strong hands

touching me. All helpmates in his seduction. I see seduction brewing

in his eyes, and feel it in the heaviness of his kneading hands. The

public display of intimate acts better suited for the privacy of a

bedroom weren’t enough. We’re still making up. Instead of flowers,

John offers the fury of his warm body entering mine. That’s our love

language. Mad equals passion equals sex.

It never happens in sequential, rational order. Anger shouldn’t equal

passion. It happened in reverse this time. Tenderness equaled a

display of love. I never said that any of this made sense, but there

is a certain sense of order.

It was a bedtime story. John was the narrator, Nicky and Juliana his

captive audience. My bedroom—a sort of holding pen for every new

moment in this transition—and bed welcomed all four of us. Juliana

listened to her father’s interpretation of a Disney princess story,

complete with voices and an animated face. She’s starting to fall in

love with him, the way that Belle and Sami did as little girls. Before

the story, which had been Nicky’s idea, Juliana sat in her daddy’s lap

eating French fries on the back deck. She refused to get back into her

chair; she wanted to be with Daddy. She fussed even, calling his name

until he did rescue her from the offending chair. With the patience of

a saint, John let her eat each one at snail’s pace. She’s very

particular about that.

I confess that I’m incredibly attracted to the daddy in him. The

fawning, overprotective father who lets his one-year old sit in his

lap, prohibiting him from eating. The father that leaps off the bed to

illustrate fire-breathing dragons and dons a towel on his shoulders as

a cape.

This impressed even Nicky, who begged for a story about Hulk.

Unfortunately, there are no stories. So John, in his infinite

daddy-wisdom created on for Nicky. Those hazel, daddy-loving eyes

followed his every move around us. Juliana was sitting between my legs

while I played with her ponytail. Nicky was lying on his belly near my

feet.

That was the beginning.

Then there was bedtime, when John rustled them both into his arms for

firm hugs. I thought watching them this is what they need every night.

Daddy putting them to bed with me. Not a phone call. There was the

shower that was supposed to be Juliana and me, to get the pool

chemicals out of her hair and off our skin. But Daddy came to check on

his baby girl after getting Nicky to bed quickly. And there was the

shower, where we all three, stood together.

Most people don’t advocate that—having nakedness and love so freely in

front of children. As a doctor, I have no qualms about Juliana or

Nicky seeing us without clothes. It’s quite natural part of living; I

don’t want to make them ashamed of their bodies. Sex is another thing

all together, and I’m not sure that it matters now. She’s only one.

She doesn’t know what’s happening. But before we got out of hand,

after John washed my hair; after he folded us into his arms from

behind; after he kissed my neck and stroked my hair; after I felt his

love nudging my back; after I turned my head to seal our breaths

together; after he whispered something that turned my neck red; I

parted our bodies and told him to calm down. I left him in the shower,

knowing that it changed temperatures after my departure.

And then there was standing in Juliana’s bedroom over her crib. He

joined us, playfully demanding Zaza from our stubborn girl. Exhausted

from being so fascinated by John, she closed her eyes and went to

sleep without any of the usual fanfare. I was already on fire by the

time John leaned and kissed her goodnight. I’d never stopped since the

shower. He can relieve himself with a cold shower; I have to use him

to quench what he started. That sounds awful, but when we walked back

to my bedroom holding hands, I’d already known what I wanted to

happen.

I wanted him to continue trying to seducing me. I can initiate but my

mind enjoys the process—being led down that alley by him. It boosts

his ego; I’m not above stroking it from time to time. Even when I’m

upset with him, I tend to think of how he feels. The show that he put

on for James—before the sex—didn’t please me. I love many things about

John. I can appreciate his possessiveness, but I don’t have to like

it. It is a problem. It’s what makes him volatile with me. Ever since

he shook me up and left marks, the possibilities have remained in my

mind. I’m not afraid of him, not the parts that I saw with Nicky and

Juliana. I can make love to that man.

He massages my bare back. I’ve never gotten fully dressed since our

shower. My robe is around my waist; he’s straddling the small of my

back in tight boy shorts. Heat builds between the bonding of our

bodies. Sex is all about heat, about building and then extinguishing

that fire.

Sex is also a mind game that we play with each other. I’ve stopped

believing in sex for sex sake. I’d never believed it so much until

John and I came back together after all that time; but it’s not

without its hardships and emotions. We’ve perfected the mechanics; the

emotions are what make me feel like a failure. I’m lying here thinking

how can I want him so much after all that’s gone on. He’s broken

boundaries repeatedly. He’s broken my heart and stolen my trust as if

it’s something that comes and goes easily. And yet, I’m lying

underneath him feeling my own wetness seeping out of me. It speaks to

the fact that I’m not in control of my body where John is concerned.

I can say no all day long. I can mean it. I can fight urges to slam

him against a flat surface to rid myself of want. I can tell myself

that I don’t like the way he’s been treating me. I can do all, say all

to make myself feel better; but in the end, I’m still lying underneath

him.

“What are you thinking about sweetheart?” he asks, bending over my

back. The hair curling down his chest tickles my skin. “You’re so

quiet.”

He doesn’t want to know what I’m thinking. It’ll burden the moment,

ending the seduction. So I offer him something safe. There I am,

thinking about him again.

“Noodle.” I say simply.

The motions along my back stop. “In the shower? I almost got carried

away there for a minute. I’m sorry about that.” Why is it only his

fault? I wanted him to touch me as badly as he wanted. I have a way of

confusing him without meaning to do so.

“Thank you, but I wasn’t thinking that profoundly.” I lie. After one,

it gets easier to do. “I was thinking that she’s ready for a toddler

bed,” I murmur, turning my head sideways.

He starts kneading my skin beneath his knuckles again. “Here I am,

giving you a really relaxing massage and you’re thinking of your

Noodle. I must be doing something wrong.” He snorts.

“She’s not a baby anymore.” My voice cracks. The idea is so foreign to

me. I know they grow up but why does it have to be so fast. “I know

she’s still a baby John, but this is when it starts. She’ll be out of

her crib and into school.”

“Then college and having her own babies.” He adds, laughing.

“Don’t make fun of me. I’m sensitive about my baby growing up.”

“Oh, honey.” He coos, rolling his hands across my neck. “She’s not

leaving you anytime soon.”

“I know that but those bars are no longer restrictions. She uses them

as a ladder.”

“Not your baby?” he says mockingly. “We can change her crib into the

toddler bed whenever you’re ready.”

I swat at his thigh. “I’m never going to be ready but apparently

Noodle is, so that’s now.”

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll have it done with as less trauma to you

as possible.” He says sweetly. “She’s still our baby. She’s still your

Noodle. Tell me something, where the hell did you get that—Noodle?”

I forget that he wasn’t here bonding with Juliana and me in her first

year of life. Those times were precious. And I admit that I used her

and Nicky as shield against losing John. I could deposit all the love

that I wasn’t able to give to John anymore right into them. If John

had been in the picture, the bond would still be strong but the

attachment wouldn’t be.

“She was so squirmy as a baby, like a noodle. And long. Don’t you

remember when she came out of me?” He stops again. “She was long and

wet, and squirmy,” I finish so that the awkward lull won’t continue.

He wasn’t there. “And when I used to breast feed her, she wouldn’t sit

still. Always grabby. Always moving her little head around.”

“Was it lonely?”

I know what he’s talking about, but I don’t want to talk about him

being distant when I gave birth to his daughter. “No. I had the

children. It was okay.” I say sadly. “It wasn’t perfect granted, but

we made it through. And we’re not going to discuss this anymore. I

don’t think about the past because we have to live in the moment.

Right?”

“You know what my problem is?” He asks with some cheerfulness

returning to his voice. “I’ve never been able to resist this body and

that face.”

Softness cradles my face when I drop my head into the pillow. “Now

finish my massage,” I order him, “so I can remember why it is that I

think you’re so good to me.”

“I am good to you,” he says leaning across my back. He uses the heat

from his mouth to draw warm lines over my neck where he’s pushed my

hair over my shoulder. “And I’m sorry when I’m not.” He slides his

hands over my arms. “Looks like you had a rough night.” He says

examining my marked skin. “Does this hurt?” He kisses a teeth mark on

my shoulder.

The blood gathers under my skin at his touch.”Mmm mmm…no” I say

trying to keep my body still.

“This?” A bite just below the nape of my neck.

“Uh uh.” I whimper, squirming under the weight of his thighs. “There

are more where those came from. Are you going to kiss every one of

them?”

John repositions himself lower on my body, straddling across the backs

of my knees. Tossing my robe away, he leans forward and kisses the

small of my back. He starts his methodical art of seducing me. Drawing

a hot line with his tongue down my side and back across to do the same

to the other. Latching his mouth near my hip, he works mercilessly at

marking me. When he’s satisfied with his work, he fingers the spot

gently, rubbing my tender skin.

I’m overheated and tingling. “Why is it that men have do that?” I ask,

slightly turning my torso to catch his gaze. “Is there something

exciting to the act of marking your territory?” I think it’s

animalistic; but hypocritically, I haven’t stopped him.

“I don’t know why other men do it,” he tells me in a gravelly voice,

“but I like the taste of your skin.” He drops his mouth to another

spot, higher up my back. He uses teeth to pull and stretch my skin

until that spot is pulsating like the other one.

“So, it’s not about making it impossible to wear certain outfits?” I

wonder aloud reaching behind me to rub his lower arms—the only thing

that I can reach in my confined position.

“Oh, you mean bathing suits that have your neighbor’s tongue hanging

out of his mouth?”

I stop touching him and lean up slightly. “No. I mean leaving barbaric

markings on my body that look like I’ve been in the throes of

passion.”

“You have,” he reminds me, dipping to make another beneath my arm.

“You’ll never get it. You’re not a man.”

“Thank goodness.” I say falling back into the pillow.

He threads his fingers through my curly hair. It’s rarely ever

straight anymore but he likes it. He leans to inhale the scent. I

still smell chlorine, even after he washed it in the shower. He says

he loves it, whatever it is. It’s now him. The cologne and sweat; his

shaving lotion and breath. That’s what I smell like.

“Would it offend you if I said I wanted to fuck you mad?” he whispers

near my ear.

I turn around slightly. “It might.” I wouldn’t mind it if he did. I

welcome the sensation building between my legs to be stifled by his.

But fuck is such a dirty word. I’ve had enough of feeling dirty today.

“Well, I’ll say instead that I’m whipped—proudly whipped.”

“Whipped?” I repeat, dropping my face into my pillow to smother my

laughs. “I think I’d rather hear the curse word than the word that

accompanies whipped.”

He rolls off my back and I prop myself up on my side. My chest is

heaving against his because of the closeness. He knots his legs

through mine. A hand falls to my hip, then my stomach. Fingers start

drumming down my torso. I’m fading into the stupor of John’s intense

seducing skills. Keep her guessing—I’ve figured this part out; and in

expectation.

“Oh, like you know what word accompanies it?” He says sarcastically,

leaving a kiss on the corner of my mouth.

I fall against him, whispering,”Don’t tease me. Kiss me.” He lays me

down to combine our mouths and breaths. Sucking all manner of air from

me, he penetrates with his tongue scraping my teeth. I swallow,

tasting his saliva go down my throat.

“Like that?” he asks, breaking away.

I shake my head slowly. “Exactly like that.” His skin always gets so

warm when he’s turned on. Playing between my fingers with the hair at

the nape of his neck closes his eyes. I make kiss each lid before I

lean forward to whisper, “So you think I have you,” my voice lowers,”

pussy whipped?”

He opens his eyes instantly, the heaviness of his lashes darkening his

deep blue eyes. “Say that again,” he growls cupping my neck

forcefully.

I smile meekly. “No. Only once in a lifetime bubsie.”

“Bubsie?”

“Oh never mind,” I say, slapping his shoulder as I inch closer to him.

“My mother told me never to say that word unless I’m talking about

kittens.”

He grins. “Two things baby: no Martha talk in bed; and why would your

mother even know that it’s a dirty word?”

I can’t help laughing. He thinks that we’re so provincial. Dainty and

pure. “Well, my mother did have babies. I’m sure she didn’t grow up in

a white-gloved family. And as much as I don’t want to think about it,

I’m sure my parents had a healthy sex life that could have included

dirty words or names for private parts.”

He cringes. “Baby, don’t—wait, private parts have names?”

“When I was a little girl, Mama said it was my pretty.” I tell him

playing with his hair.

“It is pretty,” John says kissing my chin.

“Don called it his strawberry field.”

John grabs my wrist. “Don? I don’t think I want to know what Don nicknamed you.”

“I’m just saying, people do that.” I tell him bending my wrist behind

his neck. “Why does that get you going? Don was a lifetime ago.” He

twitches as my fingers scrape behind his ear. “I’m with you now.”

“I’m a jealous fool for your pretty. I don’t like sharing, even if it

was before me.”

“Well it’s all yours now.” I assure him. “We don’t have to think about

strawberry fields or pretties. I just want you to make love to me.”

“I agree.” We kiss again—very sweetly, lingering in each other’s

mouths. My hands are rubbing his arms and chest while he plays softly

with my breasts. “Baby, is that why you keep coming back to me?” I ask

holding my mouth open suggestively. “Because I have you,” I hover

right in his ear, “pussy whipped?”

He lifts me up suddenly and moves me into a straddling position.

“You’re trying to speed through this, aren’t you?” He asks hoarsely,

as secures his grip on my hips. “That word coming from your very clean

mouth turns me on so much.”

I toss my head back, “Does it? Even more than, I’m hungry?” I lift my

eyebrows suggestively. “Or is it better than,” I dip my voice an

octave lower, “fuck me baby?”

“What’s gotten into you?” he asks shaping his hands to my rear. He

juts his hips upward. “Do you feel that? I was trying to slowly pull

you in with foreplay.”

“I don’t need foreplay. The pool was foreplay.” I remind him using my

hands to bring his fingers between our bodies where we’re linked. He

smiles appreciatively as he sweeps his fingers through the sticky

puddle between my legs. He lifts up to let me lower his shorts over

his thighs. I turn quickly around on his legs, sitting back on his

stomach to peel his shorts over the rest of his legs. “Your skin is so

warm.” I say bowing to it.

I drag my tongue over his ankles and up his calves, grinding my hips

as I go. His hands feel rough on my hips, as he tries to turn me back

around.

“You’re killing me.” He grunts.

“Baby?”

“Yeah,” he strains, slapping me lightly on my rear.

“Don’t ever do what you did in the pool—ever again.” I reposition

myself across his thighs, facing him. “I love fucking you,” I say,

surprising him with my frank nature, “but not with crowds. Our love

isn’t meant to be on display like that.” I touch him finally, closing

my hand over his stiff shaft. “I’ll do whatever you want except for

that. It made me feel cheap.”

He’s voiceless as I stroke his rigid appendage between my palm. The

friction is smooth from me wetting his shaft with my tongue. Tweaking

near his tip causes liquid to trickle over the head. I lean to lick

him. He thrusts up, shoving himself roughly into my mouth.

“John?” I manage, even with him bulging inside my jaws. “I mean that.”

I tell him running my hands up and down his chest to match the pace of

my mouth.

He shudders in my mouth moments later, gripping the sheets. I wipe his

juices from my chin. Lowering my mouth, I find a place on his body

that would look good with my teeth marks. Near his pelvis. Sucking his

sweaty skin, I make my mark. It’s not about possession; it’s about

knowing that I can.

I crawl up his body, placing a kiss on his mouth as I fall to his

side. “I love when it you call me baby.” He clasps my hand, threading

our warm, clammy palms together. “It makes me want to do crazy things

to you.”

“You just did.” He assures me, patting my head. “I don’t know if people get it.”

“Get what honey?” I ask looping my legs through his.

“That you’re a triple threat.” He says, leaning over me. “You’re

beyond gorgeous. I could make love to you all day for that reason.”

“Aww, isn’t that sweet?” I tease.

“That’s not all. You’re one hell of a doctor. Smart and beautiful. And

add to the fact that you’re a great piece of ass.”

I pause. “A piece of ass?”

“And not only that, but you have a talent for fellatio.”

I bolt upright. “Those aren’t compliments John. Those are things you’d

say to someone who you pay for their services.”

“Is it?” he asks, ducking away from me swatting him. “Hey. I was

kidding. Relax.” He massages the muscles at the base of my neck. “You

know how I feel about you. It’s in the way I touch you, right?” John

lifts me up, turning me around to face the headboard. There are chips

of paint eaten away from the collisions due to our rough sex.

He hovers over my back, slipping his hands down my sides and belly.

Touching me everywhere at once turns me on more. He smiles when I turn

back around and climb onto his lap. I love the curl at the end of his

hair. Hugging him, I reach through his arms and drag my nails through

it. I connect my feet behind him. “Sometimes I think we’re going to be

fine.” I mumble against his mouth. “I wake up and you’re here—it makes

me think how wonderful it is to have that again. Even when we’re not

doing this—just your presence is enough. But then something happens

and we lose the wonderful.” I kiss below his ear. “I start to worry

that you’re anger will hurt me.”

“Don’t say that baby.”

I allow him to brush my lips with his forefinger. I also allow him to

pull me down into the bed; and spread my legs open.

“I know you like to communicate through sex,” I add, bending my legs

at the knees the way he wants, “but it’s not the way to solve

everything.” He’s already meticulously jutting his tongue across my

belly. He bends his neck lower and slides his tongue up and down my

folds. “Baby.” He flattens his palms against my thighs to open me

wider. I tangle my fingers in his hair while he works through the

tangles of my mound. He sits up and climbs between my throbbing legs.

“I love you.” He looks up from grinding against me. Our mouths fall

together and I whisper it again. He bites my bottom lip until the

blood spills into both our mouths. I steady myself on my elbows and

help slide him slowly into me. “If I’m good at fellatio,” I moan as he

starts moving, “it’s only because I love your taste so much.” I grip

the backs of his thighs to pull him further into me. I like feeling

him deep within me when I’m this turned on. Sometimes I like it sweet;

but deep and hard is what we do best.

“I love you too baby. I love you so much.” He tells me holding my

knees against my shoulders. At some point, we became so familiar as

lovers that it’s not an imposition to be literally opened to him. To

have his body plunging deeper into my inner walls feels natural.

Natural in the sense that once he’s inside of me, it’s hard to tell

where we end and begin. The symmetry of my middle fitting perfectly

with his means that we belong together intimately and otherwise.

I understand better—because he’s merged with me—that he has to prove

virility with sex. He has to mark his territory as wild animals do.

That becomes starkly clear in the comingling of my soul with his. I

know this John. I recognize the animal look in his eye, but it’s not

frightening. He’s not trying to hurt me. He’s trying to show me how

much he loves me.

Yet, he has hurt me enough to be weary of sudden transformations.

The strange fits of passion that I’ve witnessed don’t belong. They are

strange, foreign. Unwelcome. The pulling and holding too tight of that

passion doesn’t break through our current sexual energy. He only does

those things when he’s upset.

But he makes love to me so completely that I can’t distinguish his

hands from his mouth. His lips are always on me—covering my face,

eyelids, lips, nose, and forehead—pushing in and out. Those strange

fits have no rhyme or reason. And in the rendering of our orgasms—mine

then his—I fall apart so that he can piece me back together again.

When he tries to move away from me, I close him between my legs,

resisting his pulling out. I need to have him there, so that I can

still feel him. He lays gently on me. “I’m going to dine on mienne for

round two.” John whispers.

“Mienne?” I sigh sleepily.

“Mine. The new name for your pretty.” He says kissing me.

I’m trying to catch my breath when the phone unfastens the silence around me.

The words hit hard. The realization stronger than even John’s weight

pressing into me. John and the room start to swim in front of me. He’s

pumping gently as I hold the phone and feel his love rise again below

my belly. I can barely hear myself over Eric’s voice. But I know that

tears fall and that John’s grinding slowly. I wrap my arms around his

shoulders. He finally looks up. His hips stop rocking.

“It’s Mama.”

[John]

We have a plan by the time the sun comes up. I’ve held her all night

while she’s cried.

I pack the kids suitcases while she gets her things together in her

room. I didn’t want to leave her for a second; the look that has been

on her face since Eric’s call worries me. But the kids need clothes

and structure even if their mother’s world has suddenly shifted.

Martha had a triple bypass last night. She’s in critical condition.

And Eric says that Frank won’t leave her side, which makes Marlena

nervous. Frank’s been a steadying force for all of her life; if he

starts cracking, then Marlena won’t be far behind.

I can get the plane to fly us out no later than 9 a.m. Jules and Nicky

are unnerved by all the frantic movements around them. They haven’t

seen Marlena yet. Jules is clingier than usual; I can see how worried

Nicky is, even if he doesn’t know how to express it. They are their

mothers’ children—taking on the weight of the world around them.

“We’re going to visit Papa and Nana Evans.” I explain to Nicky as we

fumble through his outfits. He watches quietly. “We’re going on

Daddy’s airplane,” I offer to sweeten the pot.

“Where’s Mommy?” he asks softly.

“In her room Nicky. Let’s get you together, and then we can see

Mommy.” I offer zipping the suitcase. His sister is watching just as

quietly. “Jules, you’re all set.” I say taking her from Nicky’s bed.

Nicky darts from the room when I turn my back to put the suitcases

down. “Nicholas,” I call out following his short strides to his

mother’s room. He’s already in her arms when Jules and I cross the

threshold.

“It’s okay,” she tells me holding him close. “Mommy needed a hug from

my baby boy.” She gets off her knee and rises to sit down with Nicky

on the bed. “I’ve been a grouch,” she tells him. Her eyes are

red-rimmed and streaked with tears. Her nose is glowing red. “Mommy’s

sorry. Good morning baby.”

“Why sad.” He asks bringing his hands to covers her cheeks.

“Don’t you worry about Mommy. Daddy’ll take good care of you.” She

shoots me a look.

“Don’t worry about anything.” I put the Jules in her outstretched

arms. “I’ll take care of it. Martha’s going to be fine.” I whisper to

her.

Marlena tucks Nicky and Jules into her body while I stand over her,

stroking her hair. “I love you.”

I hold her in my lap, cradled like a baby on board my plane.

I worry when she has emotional breakdowns. I wonder how easy it would

be for her to fall back into the shattered woman that Dr. Shalit took

advantage of. I wonder what it would take to for her to go back

under—where she’s unreachable.

Last time, it was only Nicky who she neglected. I suffered but my son

was the real victim of her illness. I don’t want that for Juliana or

Nicky. I want to keep her together as much as it’s possible. She

already seems to fragile for my liking. Too weepy. I can’t take that.

I’m holding her as if her life depends on my energy.

I know she’s not weak but I pray she’s strong enough to withstand

whatever is waiting for us in Colorado.

Nicky and Juliana are sleeping. Marlena goes in and out of sleep. But

I’m here when she opens her eyes. “I can’t sleep. I’m so worried about

Mama.” She says tightening her arms around me.

“Baby, she’s still fighting. I know Martha. She’s going to be okay.” I

assure her brushing my lips across her forehead.

“John, we don’t know that.” She cries, widening her eyes tensely.

“I choose to believe that.”

The luxury of my own plane is that I can take my wife into a back

compartment and make love to her so that she feels able to move

through this phase of her worry.

Marlena initiates the quickie in the kitchen area of the plane. She

moves against me desperately. She hates not having control. But what

she can control, she does. Using her body to make herself feel more

than numb, she grabs my ears and crushes her mouth into mine. She

slips her clammy hands into my shirt and thrusts hungrily.

We make love in a dark corner with her biting my neck enough to draw

blood. She glides up and down my member, trying to replace the sadness

for pleasure. Holding her against the wall, she won’t let me back

away. Our bodies are glued together. Mouths and hands. Her arm is

crooked around my neck, pulling me close.

“You don’t have to be scared,” I say pulling back to hold her face.

“I’m not going anywhere.” I promise as I give her another orgasm that

makes her cling to me for air. “I love you.”

She wraps her arms around me and I carry her back to the open compartment.

“I love you John.” She says settling again into my lap.

“I love you too.”

Chapter 16 (NC-17)

“The ache for home lives in all of us, the safe place where we can go

as we are and not be questioned. “

–Maya Angelou

[Marlena]

My parents never asked much of me. In fact, they’ve given me more than

I could have ever asked of them. Unconditional love, that I feel even

when I’m thousands of miles away from them; and roots—a home that I

can always come back to and see exactly where I’ve come from. Yes,

there were expectations. If the worst that a parent expects of you is

your best then that’s the gift and the curse we accept. Yes, there

were trials. There were moments when I felt their expectations choking

me but never did I have a sense of being without them. Never have I

been this close to losing one of them.

I’ve had loss all of my life. Sam and DJ. Rachel. John. I know how to

work through the grief of those kinds of losses. I can sustain myself

enough to go forward. But if I lost anyone of my parents—my core, the

center of my being—then I don’t know how I could recover.

They’ve always been my strongest supporters. Mama—more than Daddy—in

the last years has been my backbone. In my fragile state of mind, she

came through and helped to pull me out of myself. She gave me

encouragement to love Nicky and John better. Mama offered the gift of

compassion and sympathy, even in her confusion. Even with me out of my

mind—she loved me.

She’s always loved me. The picture of grace and love—I couldn’t be who

I am without having had a mother like Mama. People have long seen me

as this tower of strength and sophistication. I didn’t come from the

womb with these traits. I saw them in Mama first. I mimicked her

because she has always been the best example.

Using Mama’s fortitude as my greatest lesson, I decided that falling

apart wasn’t an option. I admit that I used John on the plane to

gather myself before seeing her. It’s easy to find me when I’m wrapped

around him while he says my name. To gather strength from his love

enough to steady myself for the task of seeing my mother—mommy—lying

listless in a hospital bed.

Daddy. The first thing he said when I opened the door to Mama’s room

was, “It’s ironic that the biggest part of her is now broken.” I

wrapped my arms around him and he shifted my arms underneath—to wrap

himself around me. That’s always rather been my parents’ way: they

surround me when I most need them. We hugged until I was out of tears

and feeling guilty for not being here enough. He touched my cheek and

told me that it was okay.

He assured me that the worst was over. That the bypass surgery was

necessary and had done what her doctors wanted it to. I heard his

declarations as a daughter, not as Dr. Evans. I stopped being a doctor

the moment I walked into her room. I was only her daughter. And all I

wanted to hear was that she was going to wake up and tell me how much

she loved me. There are too many things that I have yet to tell her. I

have to share what’s going on with John. I need to talk about Rachel.

I need her to put her arms around me because selfishly, I don’t know

if I can function as well without her arms.

She’s never been frail. She’s older. Her skin is lined with age and

now sickness. The wires crisscross across her chest. The monitor

measures the strength and courage of her heart. My mother’s never been

weak. She’s a fighter. I know she has it in her to overcome this

trial. She’s done it time after time. Through losing her parents,

losing Sam, and nearly losing me she has never given up. She’s always

fought on. She is from the best generation.

“Mommy, I need you to hear me.” I whisper, leaning forward to lay my

head next to her on the pillow. “I love you so much. You’re not

allowed to leave me Mommy. You’re not allowed to go anywhere. I know

Sam’s probably asking you to come to her but I’m telling you to ignore

her. I’m being selfish. She can have you later; I’m asking you to stay

with us now. Daddy needs you still. I need you. Do you hear me? I

really need you. I have two little children that still need a

grandma.” Tears slide down my cheek, wetting the pillow beneath our

heads. “Remember when I tried to end my life…I know it frightened you.

It frightened me too. But what I remember is that when I opened my

eyes, you were there. You came to rescue me and I needed it more than

you know. So I’m here to be your hero. Okay? Take my strength and come

back to us. I won’t take anything less.”

It’s only through my daddy’s strength that I can leave Mama. Because

he’s just as determined not to lose her, I go when he tells me to

check on my family.

John took the babies back to Mama and Daddy’s. I had to beg and plead

with him to do that—he didn’t want to leave me for a second. I

understood his hesitation but Nicky and Juliana don’t need to sit

around the hospital. It’s my belief that Nicky spends enough time in

hospitals not to have to be there unnecessarily. I know they’re tired

and confused as well.

I’m tired enough to sleep for twenty-four hours. But walking into the

front door of my childhood home awakens my energy. My son breaks away

from his brother and father to crash into my arms. He holds me until

my arms hold him too tight and he has to back away.

“Mommy,” he squeals. I release him to hug Eric. He holds me,

tightening his arm around me until I stop resisting. He whispers how

much he loves me. His voice is soothing, familiar. So much of who I am

comes from being this man’s mother. He’s a man. It’s easy to forget,

looking into his gentle, cradling eyes. That’s my baby boy.

John surrounds me too. Sandwiched between John and Eric, I resolve not

to go into the emotions that are at the brink. I have the things that

I need most. John’s the strength; Eric’s the calm.

[John]

I thought I knew her. The descriptive modifiers that classify the

being that I’ve come to know as Marlena: best friend, ex-wife, and

mother.

That’s not who she is—not completely.

She is somebody’s daughter; she is somebody’s little girl. Frank’s and

Martha’s baby girl.

It’s possible that someone else loves her just as deeply as I have

grown to love her. I’m selfish enough to believe that when I started

loving her, that’s all that she ever needed.

But she is a daughter. A well-cherished daughter.

She’s never been a daughter in my eyes, except for when she was sick

and Frank and Martha came to rescue her. That was hard for me to see

because I’m usually the hero to her helplessness. I won’t tell her so

but I like when she needs me. But once we stepped off my plane, she

stopped being weak.

She has an inner strength that comes from her gut that I always

forget. I always stupidly think that as her man I’m there to keep her

together. And I do so. But the woman who I made love to on my plane

out of some sense of pity isn’t who showed up in that hospital.

She straightened her back, wiped her face, and tore into the crisis at hand.

Grace under pressure.

I didn’t expect that. I expected to have to hold her hand but she

broke away from me and went straight into Frank’s arms. I stood back

with Jules and Nicky, watching her discuss Martha’s condition

resolutely. That’s not what I expected. She still has the ability to

awe me.

[Marlena]

“Mummy.” It’s Juliana whose cries pierce the darkness. I’m walking as

fast as I can to get to her. Stumbling through the hallway of my

parents’ home, I know that Mummy means two things: I really need you;

I really need to see you. “Mummy. Me-Me.” She’s standing with uplifted

arms when I flip the light switch, leaning into the railing of the

crib. Her curly pigtails bounce on the top of her head like bunny ears

as she shakes her head willfully back and forth. Her father is asleep

in the bed; Nicky’s sleep is unencumbered by her alertness. “Mummy.”

My daughter stretches as far as her arms allow upward.

“Mummy’s right here,” I assure her, lifting her from the crib to press

her snugly into my chest. I haven’t held her all day. I’ve been at

Mama’s side for two days. As one year-olds are apt to she’s asleep

when I beat the sun to the hospital to sit with Mama until visiting

hours are over. “You can’t sleep?” Juliana nods against my chest; her

silky hair rubs my chin. “I’m going to hold you all night if you’d

like. I’m so sorry that I’ve been so busy baby.”

She tugs at my neck. “Me-Me.”

“I know baby. I miss you so much. I wish you could come with me and

sit with your grandmother. You’re too young to understand this.

Everything about your life is too complicated for you to understand.”

She welcomes my lips on her forehead. Starved for my attention and

affection, my daughter also bends her fingers around my hand to keep

my hand embracing her cheek. “Just because it’s been tough, doesn’t

mean I haven’t asked it of you, has it? You and Nicky have been my

little angels in all of this. You don’t complain as much as you could.

I realize you’re only one baby, but you have your father’s genes. You

could make my life a lot harder than it is. But you’re not like that;

you’re so amiable and forgiving.” Her eyes are less vibrant in the

dark. She eyes me worshipfully, as I talk low and close to her head.

“Your grandmother’s going to be all right. She’s going to come home

and hold you again. She was there when you came home,” I reflect,

recalling Mama’s amused, tear-stained face after Juliana had slid from

my body. “She was the one who helped you find us. She just kept

calling your name. Juliana. Juliana.” I thought, especially in all the

pain I was in that she was nuts. But thankfully Mama ignored my

rolling eyes and called out to the baby anyway. “And you followed her

voice until she could find the light and come home to us.”Nicky stirs

but doesn’t awaken. He shifts underneath the blankets that I pull over

him.

I hold Noodle in Mama’s rocking chair until her little eyelids can’t

stay open any longer. John found it in the attic. Mama never rid

herself of any memory of being a mother like some mothers do. She

never threw away my crib or high chair. This is the same rocking chair

that she rocked Sam and me to sleep in over so many nights. She kept

my christening gown and first lost tooth. After putting Noodle beside

John in bed, I find all of these mementos in the attic.

John fixed my old crib for the babies in my old bedroom where we’ve

been staying. It’s not as antique as I would think. It’s a beautiful

pale white color with corded gold embroidery along the boards and

railing. Both Nicky and Noodle aren’t fascinated by the crib the way I

am. I don’t remember being Nicky or Noodle’s age, not sleeping in the

crib with Sam. Mama told me that she didn’t separate us for a long

while. We slept in the same crib because it brought us comfort to curl

around each other and hold hands in our sleep the way we must have in

her womb. I wish I could have that memory as my own. Hearing Mama

relive her memories of the way Sam and I touched and smiled is almost

as good as remembering it. Her voice has always been so full whenever

she speaks of raising us. The hard parts are always thrown away to

remember only the goodness.

Sneaking into the attic gives me an Alice in Wonderland feeling that

is a contains the magic of being all grown up and still such a child,

swirling around the mementos that are hidden beneath sheets. I slide

my fingers across the dust covered cedar chest under Mama’s pale

sheets. Her initials are scripted in the lid when I open its latch.

Mama’s wedding dress. Sam and I would play with it for hours when the

cedar chest still sat at the foot of Mama and Daddy’s bed. Arguments

would ensue over who would marry Daddy—to five year olds he seemed the

only suitable choice—before Mama diplomatically diffused our dispute.

She gently told us that we were already too late. She had him and she

wasn’t giving him up for anyone, not even her adorable baby girls.

A cheval cherry wood mirror that used to occupy Mama’s side of their

bedroom stands tall under a sheet. I stood in this very mirror to see

how my prom dress looked; to see if Sam’s fingers had indeed left

marks on my cheek after a pinch; to check if my breasts had gotten any

larger overnight; to measure myself against my mother. Meaningful

memories for a woman having a brush with orphanhood. A picture of my

mother’s parents rests under the dress. Sam’s hair from her first

haircut lay curled in a needle box. Her name is stitched on the

outside in white. My hair is in a similar box of a different color.

She’s always been sentimental. Now, it’s clear why. You need those

memories to go on when there is nothing else. Mama and Daddy had two

little girls fill their lives for 18 years and then we were gone away.

I imagine Mama came up here often to recollect the days when she sat

with us and rubbed our hair or bathed us. Those tiny moments that made

up our lives.

I hold onto Mama’s dress tightly, bringing it to my face to inhale.

It’s mothy but still so reminiscent of Mama. The silk, beaded bodice

scrapes against my cheek. The skirt is still silky pools of material

with tulle stitching underneath. Mama was a knockout in the dress.

“Marlena, are you up there?” John’s footsteps follow his voice up the

creaky stairs. “Baby?”

“I’m here.” I say folding the dress away in the cedar chest. I put

things back the way I found them and stand up so that John can find

me. “Is it Nicky or Noodle?” His shape appears in the grey light of

the hanging bulb in the slanted ceiling. Worry lines his face. He

attaches himself to me like a magnet.

“No,” John assures me, hugging me from behind, “I just wanted to hold

you. I saw the little princess in bed with me. I figured you’d come

back.”

“She didn’t wake you did she?” His hair is soft between my thumb and

index fingers. “She needed holding by her daddy. Come to think of it,

I need you to hold me about now. But you know that, don’t you?” I say

leaning back. “I’ve been running around like a madwoman since we came

here. Have I told you how much I appreciate you coming?”

“I love you,” he sighs into my hair. “Don’t thank me for loving you.

How is she?” I haven’t told him much. Eric has given him more

information than me, and spent more time with him and the children

than I have.

“Mama?” I ask, turning around to put my arms around his neck. “She’s

doing fairly well. She’s going to come out of this with less damage

than expected.” John’s hands rest on my rear, pulling me closer to

him. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“You’re tired,” he says knowingly massaging my back. “You need to rest.”

“I will, just as soon as Mama is out of ICU.”

“I won’t argue with that, but I am going to ask you to get some sleep

before you head back.” He sweeps my lips with his and takes my hand to

head back downstairs. “I want to hold you. Jules is still in the bed,

can you sleep there?”

“I’ve been doing it for a year now.” I remind him, following him into

my bedroom. I used to dream of marrying a man like my daddy when I was

sleeping in this room. After Sam moved into her own room, and I

finally was able to learn the parts of myself that had been hidden

because I depended on Sam so much. Daddy switched my wallpaper once,

after I left fifth grade. I went from pink rabbits to yellow walls.

They matched my yellow canopy bed perfectly. My little desk and

armoire are still here. It’s like walking back into childhood. “I

guess the crib was just for novelty sake.” Nicky is still sleeping in

the crib but Noodle is triumphantly sprawled in the center of my

full-sized bed. “We knew they wouldn’t sleep there.” I smile, looking

over my sleeping toddlers. “They like Mommy in bed with them. I’m

surprised Nicky’s braving the crib.”

“They’re like Daddy.” He raises his eyebrow and runs his hand down my

cheek. “Daddy likes Mommy in bed with me.”

“I bet,” I say unbuttoning my pants and sliding them down my legs.

“Nicky is just plain exhausted or he’d have moved when Noodle woke

up.” I remind him, catching a glimpse of Nicky tussling with the

blankets. By morning, they’ll be off his body again. “I can’t believe

Mama kept all of those things up there. It’s like going back in time.”

I lift the hem of my shirt over my head. Standing in the dark in only

a bra and panties, I feel suddenly overexposed. John cups my breast

and moves to kiss me. “John,” I turn my mouth away, “I’m tired.”

“I know baby, let’s get some rest. I’ll go with you tomorrow. Eric can

stay with the kids.” He offers, shifting Juliana around so that I can

slide into bed.

“You don’t have to. I want them to have at least one of us while all

of this is going on. They love Eric, but they’re not that familiar

with him.”

He gets into bed and tucks his stomach against my back. Juliana’s face

is pressed into my ribs. Her slight breathes warm my skin there. “Eric

is their brother. They’ll be fine with him.”

“John, please.” I lean up and touch his shoulder.

“Baby, I’m going out of my mind with worry every minute that you’re

there. Now I came to be with you, and I want to be with you.” He says

without raising his voice. “I know how hard this is on you. Remember,

I’m the one you clung to before we came.”

“I know,” I recall the intense orgasm that he gave me on his plane. “I

know that, but I’m fine.”

“Are you?”

I allow a moment of calm to rise before answering him. “Yes.”

He starts rubbing my thigh softly. “Well, I’m here because I want you

to turn to me. You don’t have to do this alone. I know how much Martha

means to you.”

Closing my eyes to the feel of his warm hand against my thigh, I sigh

and put my hand atop his. “John, you don’t have to make love to me to

let me know that you’re here for me. I’m good. I promise; I’m not

falling apart. I’m not going to have a breakdown. I’m just doing what

needs to be done, okay?”

He pulls his hand back. “I’m trying to do that too.”

“You are, more than you know.” I allow him to drape his hand across my

thigh. “Everything has happened so quickly between us. It’s like—we’re

here—again. It’s fast and scary.”

“It doesn’t have to be scary. Last year was scary honey. I had you,

and then you were gone. Everything can leave with the blink of an

eye,” he exhales deeply, “like with your Mama. I don’t want that to be

us. I don’t want you to be here today and gone tomorrow.” His grip is

nearly unbearable.

“I won’t be.” I choke out. “I’m here. John, I’ve always been right

here.” Tracing Juliana’s spine, I look over my shoulder and hold her

father’s gaze. “We’re both so emotional right now that everything is

raw and overwhelming. We’re feeling as if life is fragile; that it

shifts without our permission.”

He dips his mouth to kiss my shoulder. “It does. I lost a year of

loving you. I don’t want to lose any more time.”

“We won’t,” I whisper, believing it unquestioningly. “I love you.”

Our daughter’s eyes flutter open under her dark lashes. She starts

pulling at her ponytails. “Mummy.”

“Right here Noodle.” Tumbling across my stomach, she lifts up onto her

knees to peek at John. A bevy of giggles jolts from deep in her belly

when John does something behind my back. “Baby girl, you’re going to

wake up your brother.” She yanks at her hair again. “Do they hurt?”

She looks at me, pulling her curls forcefully. “Maybe Daddy did them

too tight.” I say releasing her hair from both constraints. She rubs

her scalp and kisses me. “Thank you Noodle.”

“I thought they were cute.”

“They were,” I tell John pulling our child onto her back. “Just too

tight. Where’s Z-a-z-a?”

He shrugs. “She doesn’t ask, I don’t give.”

“Oh, I see. Well in about three minutes you’ll want Z-a-z-a.” I say

rubbing her belly. “You’re wide awake aren’t you?” She giggles when I

drop my finger on my nose. “But Mama is all tired out.”

“She’s not,” John informs me, leaning over me to rub Noodle’s face.

“She’s been doing this. She hasn’t been napping in the day.”

“Oh, Noodle,” I stress covering her face with kisses. She grabs me

behind my neck to keep me close to her face. “I see the moon, the moon

sees me.” She smiles and drops her hand from around my neck. “The moon

sees somebody I want to…” Noodle’s hand grope against my chest. It’s

been months since I last nursed her. It was hard weaning her and there

were many nights when I slipped and gave her my breast instead of the

bottle. And she doesn’t do it often, but every now and then, she’ll

regress to trying to find out if she can get nourishment from me.

“Baby, Mommy can’t give you milk anymore.”

“She still does that,” John asks, fascinated by the idea.

My three-minute warning comes into play once Juliana realizes she

can’t have me. She mumbles Zaza against my neck. “Daddy’ll get it,” I

promise, tapping John’s leg. He slips out of the bed and leaves the

room. “You have such a wonderful Daddy. And you have him wrapped

around your finger just like your sisters do—and you know it too.”

“Here.” He re-enters the room with Zaza held up. “In protest, mind you.”

“Protest duly noted,” I say sliding the nipple between Juliana’s anxious lips.

“You’d better get some sleep honey. It’ll be morning before you know

it.” He leans into my neck and presses our bodies together. “I love

you.”

“I love you too,” I say kissing the back of his hand.

The moment I’m finally resting, feeling secure in his arms with our

little girl clinging to me he asks me a question that I pretend not to

hear.

“Did you feel like you needed to call him?”

I close my eyes tighter.

Chapter 17 (NC-17)

Take this love

It calls your name

No need to walk alone

From nowhere to now here

–The Kin “From nowhere to now here”

How do you show the man whose best communication evolves through

sexual acts that you love and need only him? You remove your

inquisitive yet-thankfully-sleeping child from the bed that will serve

as place of seduction. You make certain that she is happily satiated

with a binky; that her brother isn’t close to awaking, by tracing the

outline of his body with your finger. By moving their dark-haired

sleeping forms close enough to feel each other’s warmth, so that their

mingling heat might keep them asleep longer. And then, you crawl back

into bed with that man and unburden the erection that jerked and

prodded against your back while you slept by tugging at the waistband

of his boxers to slide them down his strong legs.

You get on all fours over his body, to show your vulnerability and

sexuality. You curve your lower body away from the freed erection to

maximize the titillation of him not being able to touch the one thing

that he loves to touch. You kiss from the nape of his neck, down

through the dark, thick masses of curls that stop just above his

navel. You circle said navel with the tip of your tongue, dragging

that tip out of the small hole into the hard, bony regions of his

naked pelvis. You push him back down when he finally startles awake,

digging your nails into the skin of his taut chest. You slide your

hands into the forest of hair again, stopping to rub his nipples

between your fingers. You kiss the defined muscle of his inner thighs

slowly, leaving behind remnants of your lips and teeth. You ignore his

throaty groans riffled with questions and reminders of other

responsibilities. You puncture each shh that roils across your lips

with kisses back up his body, until you’re face to face again.

You look into his eyes while you grind your mouth against his. While

you inhale his scent, breathe, and body into yours. You smile, even

though you’re feeling possessive and turned on because you want you

have him more than he knows. You lower your mouth to the sculpted

peaks of his chest and go down that valley to the apex between his

shaky thighs. You quench the unsavory need built by the meshing of

your skin with his by clutching his scrotum in one hand and wetting

his tip in your mouth. You squeeze the malleable skin under his shaft

the way that he showed you—because he likes a certain pressure. You

liken the way that he slides in and out of your mouth—the soft,

hardened length—much in the same way that you allow him to do within

your body. You lick the underside of his mossy, glistening head

because he swears it’s the most sensitive part of his body. You use

your tongue to swirl around him until his thrusts become

uncontrollable. You hum when he pulls your hair to let you know that

he loves having you on him as much as you enjoy being on him so

intimately.

You swallow the force of his climax deep into your throat, down into

the core of your body because it’s what you do for people you love.

You don’t cry out from the forceful way he snatches you back to his

mouth to kiss. You savor his tongue slipping into your mouth, stroking

the roof of your mouth and against your tongue. You fight with his

mouth to draw his lips into your mouth so you can suck them; and then

allow him to do the same for you. Kissing him pleasurably for kissing

sake.

You curve your lips into a shy smile and press your head under his

chin before you get out of bed to pick up you’re crying child. You

look at him as if he’s the only man in the world that you’d have

inside the mouth that you’re kissing your son with. You assure him

that you love him before you leave the room.

[John]

Kiss-swollen lips. Mussed hair. Cherry-colored cheeks and neck. My

shirt is swallowing her sex-starved body as she stands over the stove

with a fork in her hand. She doesn’t notice me until I’m curved

against her. I slip a hand into the top of her opened shirt. Her bra

is a barrier between my fingers and her large mounds of creamy flesh.

“Hi.” She murmurs tossing her hair over her shoulder and leaning into

me. She tilts her neck strategically, placing a kiss on my mouth. “How

do you feel?”

“Relaxed,” I say sliding my finger under the lacy material keeping her

breasts prisoner. “Thanks to you baby. How are you?” Her breath

hitches as my other hand travels past her belly into the waistband of

her panties. She clenches her legs, ceasing the motion of my wondering

fingers.

“Honey,” she looks up pointedly at my son, whose sitting at the table

with a coloring book. His round face is pinched in concentration. He

hasn’t noticed me yet.

“I can appreciate that,” I whisper trying to discreetly unbind her

legs, “but you have to be on fire down here.” I find her heated center

through the curly hair. “Don’t you want me to quench that fire?”

“John.” Her eyes fasten on Nicky, who’s still immersed in his coloring

book. “I’ll live.”

My son finally looks up to see me enveloping his mommy from behind.

“Daddy.” A warm smile crosses his face, showing his small teeth. “Want

to eat with Nicky?”

“Good morning kid.” I pull my hand from between Marlena’s legs. “Of

course I want to eat with you.” She still smells like me when I kiss

her neck. “I want to eat Mommy too.” I whisper for her ears only as I

walk away to kiss Nicky good morning.

“Juice, Daddy.” Nicky yells. I have to smile at the way his animated

hands flail in the air at me; at his tussled hair and brown eyes: he’s

his mother’s boy down to her cleft chin. “I want juice.” My son is

such a little man now.

“What kind of juice honey?”

“Daddy,” he rolls his eyes, “Nicky not honey. I’m kiddo.” He declares

furrowing his brows. “Joy and Mommy honey.”

“Yes,” I confirm, watching his mother’s flushed face swirl into

concerned the Mommy mask. My touching and rubbing has little effect

when Mommy is in full mode.

She turns to Nicky. “How about orange juice, baby?”

“Yes Mommy.” My son nods happily before turning back to me. “Orange

juice, Daddy.” He tells me going back to his coloring book. He looks

up and thanks me after I’ve poured his juice in his Hulk sippy cup. “I

color picture for you.”

Drawn once again to his mother, I make a blockade around the stove

where she’s scrambling eggs. “Mommy will hang your picture up.” I tell

our son snuggling into his mother’s neck. “You’re cooking. I love to

see you in the kitchen with my shirt on making eggs.”

“It’s the best I can do,” she says, tossing the eggs around the skillet.

“That’s not the best you can do,” I assure her, finding a new opening

for my hand to inch down into her panties again. She bends forward,

using her body to open a gap between us. “I want to show you what I

can do. See?” I cup the mound between her legs. “Open your legs baby.”

“Nicky’s right over there,” she says masterfully keeping her building

desire out of her voice. She whimpers quietly. Her body slowly caving

to my probing fingers as she begs me not to touch her there. “Juliana

will be up soon and Nicky’s here.” Her neck rolls forward. “Don’t

John. The baby.”

“I just put her back to sleep.” She bends her neck further. “I’m not

going to fuck you right here baby. I just want to touch you.” She

slowly opens her legs with my hands guiding them. “I just want to make

your body come alive. You were so sexy this morning that all I could

think about in the shower was fucking you senseless.”

She stops moving. “Don’t talk like that with Nicky right there.” I

love the fierceness of protection that my dirty talking brings to her

eyes. The embarrassment at losing her willpower. She wets her lips and

closes her eyes. “John, did you hear me?” She uses her ass to stop me

from grinding into her.

“You’re right. Nicky shouldn’t know how sexy you are. I don’t want

anyone to know that.” I moan pushing my fingers back into her panties.

“You’re wet for me baby. Do you want to come for me?”

She looks around me to see if Nicky is watching me rubbing her. The

overprotective mother that keeps the wanton sexy woman in check keeps

her from answering me. But her body sings with mine by parting her

legs, and covering my hand. She uses her small, feminine fingers to

guide me to touch her the way that will get her off quicker. I cover

her nerve bundle with my thumb and slip two fingers into her tunnel.

She claws at my fingers to go deeper. Hooking my finger at an angle, I

thrust up slowly, pulling it in and out of her. Her head falls back,

her mouth widens. The top of her breast thrust forward as her breathes

turn ragged. “Quiet baby.” I say checking to make sure Nicky isn’t

watching. He’s still coloring. Marlena uses her free hand to pull my

hand away from her breast and slips my fingers into her mouth. She

sucks on my fingers to keep her moaning deep and buried in her throat.

I rub my erection hard into her ass with the same speed of my fingers.

The friction of my fingers coupled with my writhing drives her

senseless as her body clenches against my hand, dripping her juices

down my hand.

“Tasty,” I say when I finally pull my hand from her body to suck her

nectar from my fingers.

She leans into the counter until she gets her bearings together. I

attend to Nicky, finishing the eggs and scooping them on a plate. My

son and I sit together and eat food that his mother lovingly made. My

smirk pisses her off when she turns around and sits down at the table

with us.

[Marlena]

“I didn’t call him,” I say, concealing my face. “I wouldn’t call him.

I told you that I wasn’t going to ever have contact with him.”

The veins twitch at his temple when yells. He tightens his jaw that

looks beautiful when he’s at peace, and not tight with anger. Why he’s

yelling is the reason I’m hiding the tears spilling from my eyes. I

don’t want to see that venom overwhelming the gentle, calm man whose

arms I slept in last night.

“I wasn’t ignoring your question. I don’t want to talk about him with

you because I know what it does. It turns you into a time bomb and I’m

the only one who feels the explosion John. I don’t know how many

different ways to tell you that I haven’t spoken to him. I haven’t

seen him. I didn’t sleep with him. I don’t want to sleep with him.

What else do you want me to say?”

He forces my head up from between the shield of my arms. “The truth.”

The truth. He heard my phone ring and I didn’t answer. I checked the

screen to make sure it wasn’t about Mama before I ignored the call.

We’ve been together all day with the children at Mama’s. Daddy called

this morning to say that Mama would be having tests all day. He made

me promise to stay home to rest up because she would be coming out of

ICU soon.

John and I took advantage of Nicky and Juliana’s long afternoon nap.

After I fixed breakfast and showered, we lounged around with them

watching their favorite Disney movies until they were both asleep in

our arms. He made love to me in the kitchen, against the wall while I

bit his shoulder to keep our lovemaking quiet. My phone rang then but

he was too busy thrusting into me to care. I initiated another

intimate coupling on the living room couch while we napped by simply

lifting my leg over his hip and guiding him into me from behind. He

asked then about Dr. Shalit—I avoided answering again by feigning

exhaustion.

When I finally got up to fix me a drink of water, my phone rang, and I

ignored the call. He snatched the phone and saw Roman’s name on the

screen. That set him off on a tangent that ended up back at Dr.

Shalit.

“John, I need you to stop being so insecure.” I put my hands forward

to rest on his chest.

My words are met with such force that I don’t feel the weight of his

hands pushing me away from him. I only feel the crash of my body

hitting the floor. Looking up from my shameful perch, I see the terror

of my own reflection in his cloudy eyes. There’s no way to say I’m

sorry for pushing you away so rough; I didn’t mean to knock the wind

out of you is not sufficient. There is no way that I should accept it.

This is how Alex—but John’s not Alex. Alex accused me of things, acted

passively aggressive and then launched into the brutalities that only

conflicted man can administer.

I use my own strength to get back up. “Don’t touch me.” I mumble

lurching back before his arms surround me. He backs away as if my

words have slapped him. “Don’t you have anything to say?”

He stands in front of me with his arms folded. Holding back the

weapons that aren’t usually described as such.

“I don’t understand this. I’ve been making love to you all day. I

don’t—” I cry, my voice cracking. “What is wrong with you?”

He can’t answer.

“You’re so afraid of losing me that you don’t even realize that you’re

the one who has the power to keep pushing me away.” I yell, frustrated

with his silence. “I don’t accept this. I won’t live with a man—”

His hands are like fire on my forearms. White hot anger and pain—he

yanks me to his body. Our foreheads meet heavily, colliding bone to

bone. His image swims in front of me as I try to find a single face in

the cloud of many. I bunch my arms together, my entire body to keep

him from stroking me back to being comfortable with him. He sniffs my

face, hair, and mouth. I pull away haughtily only to be slammed right

back to him.

“Don’t leave me.” He says resolutely. I shake my head against his face

to pull away from his lips touching mine. “Don’t leave me.”

“You’re hurting me.” I cry feeling his fingers digging into my skin.

“I don’t want you to touch me right now.”

“Don’t leave me.”

“John, please. You’re hurting me.”

He closes his eyes and leans into my shoulder. “You can’t leave me.”

“We need help,” I admit to us both, “or we’re only going to end up

hurting one another again.”

“I don’t want anything except you. Give me your love—that’s always

been my strength.”

He told me that once before; I was terrified of that man as much as I

am terrified of this one standing in front of me. “Don’t leave me.”

“John.” I contemplate the heavy knot in my stomach. I feel the ache

crowding my back and behind. My arms are burning with pain. “You can’t

keep going on like this. We aren’t resolving anything.”

“Just love me.” He demands, wrapping his arms around my waist.

“I don’t want to make love right now. I want to talk,” I say pushing

him away. “Talk.”

He crushes into me. We won’t talk. I’ll let him make love to me and

hope that it’ll make up for the anger that his own mind evokes. I

close my eyes knowing that what I’ve said is only the tip of the

problem. He can’t reconcile love and trust into one emotion. He can’t

trust me enough to not go back to Dr. Shalit in hard times. And I

can’t trust myself enough to keep giving in to the temper tantrums and

anger. I can’t keep being the reason for him lashing out.

Chapter 18

“The great gift of human beings is that we have the power of empathy.”

–Meryl Streep

It doesn’t matter how many hours I’ve spent in hospitals—I almost

never feel adequate to withstand being in the insulated environment of

looming halls and sterile rooms when it’s my family occupying the

sickbed. I never feel able to see my loved ones in harm’s way. Now I

know some degree of what Mama felt when she sat at my bedside after I

attempted suicide. Unspeakable courage that is corded with her blood,

within the depths of her DNA must run from her to me. What she never

knew is that I heard her voice, as mentally anguished as I was. I felt

her pouring her strength into me from my bedside.

“Hey little girl.”

My head lifts up slowly to see if I’ve made Mama a figment of my

imagination. But I’m not imagining her tired eyes gripping my face;

I’m not dreaming that the bond between our hands tightens; I don’t

think it’s only my hope that makes my mother call my name weakly.

“Marlena.”

“I’ve never heard such a sweet sound,” I say, lying against her stiff

arm. She tries to rub my face but the coiling wires and IVs impede her

touch. “Mommy, you scared us.” I gently admonish her, lifting my head

to see her eyes start glistening. “Don’t cry Mama. I’m here.” Her

tears wet my thumb as I sweep beneath her eyes to collect those tears.

“Daddy’s outside. He’s been waiting for you to wake up.” Her eyes

wander beyond me. Searching for the man who she’s belonged to for the

most significant part of her life. They’ve life partners. She’s

looking for him because she understands how scary all of this must’ve

been for Daddy.

“Your daddy,” she manages, clearing her throat, dry from days of not talking.

I nod, but my feet won’t budge. I can’t walk away from her not even to

tell Daddy that our miracle was granted. That Mama is awake and

talking again. She closes her eyes when I press my lips to her

forehead. Gone is the scent of her favorite perfume, replaced by

astringent medicinal aromas.

“I’ll get him,” I promise, moving my cheek to hers. “I just want to

feel you next to me.” She nods and the curve of her smile touches my

cheek. “I don’t know if I can stand to lose another person who I

love.”

One day, I’ll lose both of them and I won’t be able to stop it. I’ll

be so powerless that my sadness could paralyze me. I realize that is

the process of life. You have such a short time—a moment really—to

cherish the people you love.

“You must be thirsty. Do you want water Mama?” I ask, after I feel

I’ve had her close enough. “You’re throat and body must feel like

strangers to you. Do you remember what happened?”

“My heart,” she croaks, trying again to move her hand to touch her

bandaged chest.

“Yes, a heart attack. Daddy said you collapsed at home.” I say trying

to jumpstart her memory. Sometimes sickness takes chunks of memory,

especially the seconds that you’re body experienced the trauma. By

doing so, our body is protecting us psychologically. “You’ve had

surgery. Does it hurt much?” I hold a hand very close to her heart

without making contact.

“No.” She says exhaling. Talking is a lot for any patient that has had

such aggressive surgery. Opening your body, no matter how slight or

tiny a surgeon cuts, is unnatural. She needs her rest but I know my

mother. She can be stubborn. She wants to see Daddy.

“I’ll get daddy.” I look at her before opening the door. If I were

half as strong as she was, I’d be proud and courageous. She winks with

a wry grin. How she can find humor in pain is the testament of how she

didn’t crumble after Sam’s murder? I never saw her cry over that

horrible nightmare; I never saw her stumble in her resolve to keep

Daddy and me sane.

Daddy’s broad shoulders slump in the shadows created by sun blaring

through the room. He stands with his hands behind his back, facing the

North end of the hospital campus. He’s rarely been ill in all of my

memory. Nor have I seen weak or bowed, but this man is tired.

Exhausted from worrying about Mama. He hasn’t been home and I know

that he barely sleeps. The heavy lines beneath his eyes shock me when

I touch his shoulder making him turn to look at me.

“Daddy.” My arms have always fit perfectly around his middle. His

hands have always been able to release the anxiety knotted in my back.

He brushes the bruise on my hipbone unbeknownst to him. I do my best

not to show how painful his touch is. “Mama’s awake, Daddy. She’s

asking for you.” Daddy puts his arm around my waist. It hurts like

hell; it hurts worse that it was John whose hands caused such pain. I

never knew how to pick up the phone and tell Daddy that Alex was

hurting me when he did. I was ashamed to even admit that he was

hurting me. So I fixed my clothes to hide bruises. I wore my hair

longer to keep inevitable neck scars our secret. I begged Daddy off

from visits that he wanted to make. I dealt with my abusive husband

the way most woman do—alone.

Seeing my mother’s eyes brighten at the sight of Daddy is enough to

push John out of my mind. He traces her jaw line tenderly, much in the

way that John does to me, before kissing her. Their foreheads come

together slowly as Mama’s eyes fill with tears. She calls my father by

his pet name—Paddy. Sam and I loved to hear her say Paddy because

there was no one who could say it more perfectly than Mama could. As a

child, you learn that your parents are human and made of clay. As my

parents’ child, I learned Paddy meant, I love you, I want you, I thank

you for sharing your life with me. The name still brings a luminous

smile to both Mama and Daddy’s mouths.

“Come over here,” Daddy beckons me, holding his hand out for me to

take. He clutches Mama’s and I take her other to form our circle of

healing. “This little girl didn’t want to leave your side honey.”

“That’s because she’s your daughter,” her throat still scratchy. Mama

gives my hand a tug. “She’s her father’s daughter.”

“I am my parents’ daughter. And as your daughter, I implore you not to

ever do this again. Ever.” Her hand folds forward for me to kiss her

knuckles. “Promise me.” Reduced to a child-like understanding of fate

and sickness, I look to my mother to ease my anxiety over losing her.

She only offers a tired smile that turns downward after seeing my face

wince from Daddy’s arm wrapping around my waist.

“Are you okay baby?”

Shaking my head, I grin and point towards her. “Always the mother.

You’re the one in the hospital bed Mama.” My mother’s eyes penetrate

the cover I’m attempting to build. She changes the subject but I know

that she’s being infinitely patient. That as soon as Daddy leaves the

room, she’ll find some way to pull what I’m obtusely trying to keep

inside. She continues with Daddy as I reluctantly pull away from the

energy of their conversation.

I long—yes long to be on the other side of the window in Mama’s room.

The people seem to walk around very unaffected with what’s going on

around them. The young man at the bus stop with white earphones

trailing from his ears, has he ever felt anger to heavy that he can’t

express it except through his fists? Or the middle-aged woman crossing

the street, has she ever felt terrified by her lover? The couples in

cars driving along, have any one of them cheated and broken the circle

of trust required for relationships? Have any of them ever been tossed

away, welcomed back, and punished for still being in love? Or is it

just John and I who suffer these ills?

So caught up in my existentialist moment, I miss my father’s exit from

the room. Mama’s voice claws through the fog to gain my attention.

“I’m sorry Mama; I was lost in thought there for a moment. How are you

feeling?” She moves to make room for me to lie down beside her.

Fingertips. Mama’s warm, soft fingertips trial the bottom of my shirt.

I flinch when her nails scrape the multi-colored bruise. I don’t have

to see it, and I haven’t, to know that it’s there. I know how my skin

turns shades that it wasn’t ever meant to be. A horribly beautiful

rainbow of red, purple, yellow and blue—a kaleidoscope of love and

resentment. “I don’t want to burden you with this.”

“Baby?”

“He’s not a monster. He’s the man you first loved, and he’s Nicky and

Noodle’s daddy.” I cry, biting into my bottom lip. It keeps the tears

back for one minute longer. My need to absolve him of the bruise on my

back is pitted against Mama’s blind confusion. She uses all her

strength to pull my chin up—to face her. To stop averting my eyes

around the room. She stops tracing my back. “John,” I finally rasp

out.

The sound of pity is cringe-worthy. Her confusion is not knowing that

we’re back together in some capacity. “John? He did this.” My mother

whispers as if it pains her to even think or say the words.

I can’t bear to look into her astounded eyes. I can’t bear to shatter

her image of John. “Mama, it’s not what you think. We’ve been

together—we’re reconciled. I think it’s just—” My justifications are

thin, and without merit. “He’s not Alex. It’s been so…Mama.” The

compounding thought of Alex and John being linked in this way are to

blame for the instant tears buckling from the corner of my eyes. She

permits me to ramble while rubbing my hair. “He brought me to you.

He….”

“He hit you?” She tries to formulate what I’m not saying.

I shake my head against her chest. When I need the words, they’re

missing. They’re hiding in the hollow depths of my shame. In the abyss

of offensive, hard truths about myself and John. He didn’t hit me.

He’s never done anything remotely close to striking me. But I’m a

psychiatrist who knows the stages of emotional abuse that

progressively turns into physical abuse. I can document types of

possessiveness and jealousy that could turn violent. But this is my

relationship; I’m not detached from what’s happening to us. I am not

objective in the retelling of the events. The truth is what we seek;

and I have given John a truth that he doesn’t believe.

Mama’s chest rises and falls with strenuous breaths. “Mama, I’m fine.”

I say adopting my bravest, sturdiest voice. “This isn’t your concern.”

“No,” she counters stopping me from getting out of the bed. “You tell

Mama what’s going on? Do I need to call your father back?” She

threatens seriously. “Tell me.”

“He didn’t,” I say sitting up. “He has never hit me,” I tell her

lowering my head. “There are just these moments of madness—or

confusion—where he holds me too tight by my wrists or forearms.” I hug

my arms, moving up and down the once bruised skin there. “He yells at

me for being unfaithful, when it’s not the case. He’s…”

“Consumed,” Mama describes. “I know that much Marlena. I saw him in

the delivery room remember? I alone watched him treat you like a

incubator for Juliana instead of her mother. I held your hand and we

pushed Juliana into the world while he stood back angrier than a

rattlesnake.”

“Are rattlesnakes angry?” I smile, infusing humor into the

conversation. To pull the Mama bear back into my mother. To have her

focus on her recovery and not me.

“Don’t take this lightly baby. I don’t.” She tells me swiping her

eyes. “I don’t presume to speak from your experience. I don’t have

that picture of what’s going on between you and John. What I know is

only what I see. You don’t deserve this,” she gently presses my back,

“and I don’t think this is healthy for the children or you.” Her voice

is still hoarse, reminding me that she just came through major

surgery. “Did he hit you there?”

“Mama, no. He pulled away and I lost my balance.” I sound

battered—which is sadly what I am. “He’s not Alex Mama.” He’s not.

He’s John; and he’ll never be Alex.

“Honey.” I draw two fingers to her lips. Leaning to kiss her forehead,

I whisper to get some rest. “I love you.”

“I love you too Mama. Close your eyes; I’ll be here when you’re awake.”

I stay with Mama until she is asleep again. I stay with her because I

don’t want to go back home and deal with the consequences. Mama thinks

that I don’t hear what she’s saying. I know what it cost her

conscience after she found out that I had been living with abuse right

under her nose. She can’t deal with John’s anger objectively.

Inevitably, John’s face can change into Alex’s in Mama’s eyes. She’s

my mother and because I’m a mother, I know how my pain torments her.

Daddy’s strong hands drape along my shoulder, waking me out of my

sleep. I look up to see him smiling down. He helps me up and pulls me

to him. “She’s fine. Don’t look so sad baby.”

“I know.” I tell him looking over my shoulder to make sure she’s still

sleeping. “I’m just happy to have her back. Where’d you go?”

“Home. I thought you might need to see someone.” He points toward the

door. John’s on the other side with his hands jammed into his pockets.

“Go on, I’ll sit with her.”

“Daddy,” I hold on instead of letting go.

“What?” Daddy holds me away from him. “What’s wrong honey?”

I look at John and shake my head. “I love you.”

[John]

I envy the way Frank holds her without trying to possess her. I admit

that I want to; I need to have her be mine in ways that break ties

with anybody else. I’ve been her whole world and now I’m not. She

drops her head on her father’s shoulder and sharp pains stab my

chest—my heart. Untainted love. I miss that.

She walks slowly away from Frank to me. He’s never hurt her. I know

that about him. He’s a good man who loved his children and wife.

That’s what was expected of him and that’s what he gives. What bothers

me is not knowing what is expected of me. Or if she wants me to be

what Frank is for Martha.

“Hi.”

She keeps her chin low, her eyes to the floor. “Hi.”

“Eric’s with them. They’re watching videos. Nicky wanted me to give

you this,” I tilt forward and kiss her cheek, “and Jules says I love

you.” She smiles and the stabbing isn’t so sharp in my chest. “It’s

great about your mother.”

“Isn’t it?” She says looking over her shoulder at her parents. “She’s

talking and being Mama. It felt good to have her back.”

“I know how much you missed her. How worried you were.” She doesn’t

back away from my hand. “She’s a trooper.”

“Yeah.”

She’s tired and it shows. Her body is full of exhaustion. Dark circles

beneath her eyes. Her posture isn’t so pointed. The hazel eyes not so

sharp. She stretches and her hand drops to her hip. The look that

inflicts her face makes me feel the pain as much as she did.

The crazy thing about love is what words fail you. You bend and hope

that you both break instead of just one of you. But words fail, while

you stand in a tunnel of mystery. I don’t know what she’ll do or how

she’ll deal.

She’s my angel. My gift from God. My comfort. My home. The one place I

want to bury myself when it all gets too much.

Assholes do what I keep doing to her. I don’t know why. I know it’s a

cop-out. I hurt her. I hated the way she looked at me and had to get

up on her own because I was too much of a coward to help her.

“The kids want to go camping,” I say moving closer to her.

“Camping?”

Her perfume. Her long hair and beautiful, sad eyes. “Eric’s fault. He

told Nicky about camping nights with Frank. Nicky wants to sleep under

the stairs tonight. He wants us all to sleep there.”

“I’m not really up to that,” she says folding her arms over herself.

“For Nicky?”

“John, it’s not going to be this easy to…”

“I don’t want it to be easy. I just want to do this for Nicky tonight.”

She’s a mother first. And at this point, I’m not above using the kids

to keep her close and forgiving. She’d do anything for our babies. I’m

the asshole that pushed her but I never meant for her to fall. Her

hands touched me and I reacted without thinking. I didn’t want her to

touch me. I never meant for her to be looking up from the ground at me

standing over her.

That’s not who we are.

So I ask for one more favor. One more promise. Another piece of her

soul to tie with mine.

Chapter 19

“If I am what I have and if I lose what I have who then am I?”

–Eric Fromm

Being solicitous to John’s suggestion doesn’t mean I’m naïve and

attempting to sweep the red flags under the rug. No, it’s just the

opposite—I never want Nicky or Noodle to be in the storm of John and

my relationship. They don’t ever have to know what happens between

their daddy and mommy except that we love them and each other. And

that is 100 percent true. A bruised back and ego can’t diminish love;

they only change the angle through which I view our love.

So I attempt cautious, non-confrontational communication with John. I

agreed to sleep under the Colorado sky not to make us feel relieved of

what had happed, but to grant my son his child-like whim of fantasy. I

gauge myself; how I seem to Mama when John wants to say hello to her.

How I stand shoulder to shoulder with the man I’ve admitted has

inadvertently hurt me. How I twist my mouth into a smile foreign to my

lips. How she eyes me candidly as she talks with him all while Daddy

stands without knowing any of the things that makes Mama act slightly

suspicious. John puts his arm around my waist, ironically gently

enough not to affect my contusion. Mama watches me for a reaction, and

I can’t give her anything more than another weak smile. What she

misses—what they all miss is my hand wiping the tears as I walk out of

Mama’s room holding John’s hand.

I rely on my resourceful faculties of centering myself within my own

mind. Quieting everything else around me to get back to my core. The

lull of the car helps my relaxation. Bluesy notes hum through speakers

that are accompanied by a low moan that comes alive even without

lyrics. Counting backwards from ten is the method by which I seek to

block John’s voice and touch. Squeezing my knee, rubbing with the pads

of his fingers against my denim clad leg. It bothers me; it brings me

out of my meditation. With John, there are no moments of alone. We’re

always one—always together.

But that hand on my leg reminds me of Mama’s words, did he hit you

there? No Mama, he only hurt me. I don’t want to dwell on this; I

really want to move on. I could do so if I hadn’t brought Mama into

the secret. But now I see what’s happening to me through Mama’s eyes.

How you get beyond hurt is how you travel through life. It’s not one

simple logic or thought pattern; life forces you to seek other

options. Buddhist wisdom declares fill your mind with compassion.

Compassion. Love. Joy. Forgiveness. I hold each of these promises

inside but having such positive attributes doesn’t shield me from

having the negative thoughts.

The bluesy music grabs me, as tightly as John has my leg. The soft

moans of a man in love. There is beauty in music because sometimes you

find yourself in the words, or the notes. Music is also ambiguously

reflective. You can see yourself and still hide from the truths

offered. I recognize the soulful croons as Otis Redding.

I’ve been loving you too long to stop now

The desperation of a man determined to cease loving his lover is one

of the saddest things I’ve ever heard. John. We’ve been loving each

other for so many years that it seems unrealistic to stop.

There were time and you want to be free

My love is growing stronger, as you become a habit to me

Oh I’ve been loving you a little too long

What makes one person feel possessive and jealous is the same emotion

that causes volatile outbursts. Insecurity. Vulnerability. What makes

John dig his hands into my jeans, makes him also slide inside my inner

thigh. Habit. Love and time that makes the idea of separation

unbearable.

I’ve been loving you a little bit too long

I don’t wanna stop now

No, no, no

Don’t make me stop now

It’s only me who could stop him from loving me. And I don’t want him

to stop. He won’t unless I give him the notion that I want him to

stop. He needs me to help him understand why he’s so angry. We need to

rid him of all the insecurity that hardens into anger. Women are

devastated when their lovers cheat emotionally more than if they are

physically unfaithful. Men are bothered more by the fact of a physical

invasion of another man. Invasion. That is how John sees the actions

that took place between Dr. Shalit and I. They are his own imagination

but obviously very real to him. Infidelity crushes that confident man

that he shows the world.

I love you, I love you,

I love you with all of my heart

And I can’t stop now

Don’t make me stop now

Please, please don’t make me stop now

He kisses me as an apology and I accept that. Words would shatter the

careful lie we’re building around each other. We’re okay. We have to

be. My children need us to be. Isn’t that why we’re together again?

Didn’t I convince him that these children deserved us together,

working and living our lives together?

But there is sadness in coming together, reuniting under such a guise.

For the children. I said so myself; I pushed him until he the idea

seemed like it began in his mind. I was the one begging him please

don’t make me stop now. Love me. Keep loving me. And to that end, I’ve

created the dynamics of this reunion; it’s dependant on the way I

handle things. John is an innocent bystander, just as much as Nicky

and Juliana.

We sacrifice peace of mind for love and loved ones.

Clichés are ostensible. Yet, I find that this particular line bears

repeating. There is no place like home. There is no feeling like

finding relics of your past sustained in your present. And the gift of

sharing past and present with your children is a jewel in their

childhood treasury.

My childhood home is a Cape Cod revival style that Daddy bought after

he came from the army. Over the years, Daddy has kept it in tip-top

shape. Shutters are painted every year, the gable roof weather

proofed. A well-manicured lawn maintained by Daddy on the weekends.

Even a white picket fence surrounding rectangular span of grass. The

perfect place to grow up. To dream dreams, nurse heartaches, and gain

experience. It is also the perfect place for my son to experience

camping for the first time. In the safety of our backyard, where I

also spent starry nights with my Daddy. Where John sets up the blue

nylon tent that Eric brought over for his brother and sister. Where I

watch him apply his innate nature skills into making Nicky’s night

memorable. He creates a fire pit away from the tent. He does all of

this with a smile, building my admiration for a man who would go to

such lengths for his boy.

“Daddy,” Juliana points out the kitchen window that we’re watching her

father through. Her legs are clamped around my hip as she plays with

the ends of my hair. Her small voice pulls me out of my fog, “Mommy. I

want Daddy.”

“Daddy?” I feign sadness. “What about Mommy baby cakes? Don’t you want

your Mommy ever?” I ask tickling her belly. My daughter’s laughter is

an elixir for any ails. It rumbles deep in her stomach and burst out

cheerfully. More and more, she’s becoming a walking chattering image

of her father. Silky dark curls that are naturally buoyant fall over

her forehead when she lays her head over my shoulder. “Is my Noodle

going to sleep outside with Daddy and Nicky?”

She shakes her head, as is her habit of late. She nuzzles my chin and

kicks to be let down. The activity happening outside is more

interesting for Juliana. She darts to the back door and tries the

knob.

“Mommy,” with her hands on her hips and furrowed brows. I shake my

head because this can’t be the little girl who I was just nursing not

so long ago. “I want Daddy.”

“Not yet,” I say keeping an eye on John and Juliana, who is on the

verge of a tantrum. “Where is Nicky? Help Mommy find him.” Juliana

undeterred tries the doorknob again. “Noodle.”

“Daddy,” she retorts, kicking the door. She is rescued from

chastisement by her father opening the door. Her face lights up and

she lifts her arms. Her body curves to his naturally as she falls into

his neck. This is her hero. He gives her security and love that

pierces my heart just a touch. This relationship has been building

since our reconciliation, or perhaps I was never privy to it because I

wasn’t there.

“Peanut?” John tilts Juliana’s face back. “What’s wrong?”

“She wanted her daddy,” I inform him, turning away from the scene in

front of me. If he could cradle and caress me the way he’s doing

Noodle, I wouldn’t have to cry from not always feeling the way Juliana

does in his arms.

“Love Daddy,” my daughter purrs to her father.

I love her daddy as well.

The sky is clear and full of stars that captivate Juliana. She’s

sitting between my legs, with her Princess blankie draping us. Bundled

in a fleece jacket like Nicky, to keep the chilly summer night at bay,

she points over our heads to the stars. Nicky is interested in the

flames of the fire. John is holding him between his legs, holding a

Smore over the red and orange flames.

“This is the last one,” I say to Nicky, who has devoured three. The

evidence is all over his face and hands.

“Oh Mom.” John cries out making a silly face for the kids benefit.

“Yes, I’m being mean Mommy.” I say sticking my tongue out. “And when

you feel well in the morning because you don’t have a tummy ache, you

can thank me.”

Nicky holds his stick steady over the flame with a look of fierce

determination. Licking his lips as he leans forward to inspect his

work. My heart jumps. A normal reaction to my two year old being so

close to flames.

“Nicky you’re too close to the flames. Back away a little and let

Daddy finish your Smore.”

He disagrees. “No Mommy. I do.”

Two defiant toddlers with stubborn tenacity about getting their ways.

“No Nicholas Ethan Black, I want your daddy to help you.” The evoking

of his full name quells his defiance. He loosens his hands from the

stick and scoots back against John’s chest. Their profiles silhouette

each other in the shadows. John the father, Nicky his chubby faced

boy.

“I sleepy,” Juliana says rubbing her eyes. “I want Zaza.”

“No Zaza Joy, candy,” Nicky tells her, looking confused by her not

enjoying the treat being offered.

Juliana shakes her head grumpily. Sticking her thumb in her mouth, she

lays her head down across my thighs. I rub her belly, remembering that

she’s not had much to eat. Still refusing much of anything beside

French fries, she didn’t eat smores or the hot dogs that John grilled.

“I think you need something in here,” I say rolling my fingers under

her jacket to feel her warm skin. “Are you hungry?”

“Zaza.” She demands quietly.

John isn’t happy with the return of the pacifier. His look of

consternation isn’t lost on me when I oblige her by pulling it from my

pocket. She greedily takes it into her mouth and starts making sucking

noises that match the crickets.

I’m not sure how long Noodle will want to actually be in the outdoors.

Nicky seems to be enjoying the Boy Scout existence under his father’s

watchful eye. When they head to the back of the yard to relieve

themselves, Nicky assures me as they walk away that it’s what men do.

I take Juliana to the tent and situate her within the sleeping bag

that she’ll share with me. Her little body is heavier in sleep. She

slumps into the sleeping bag from my arms, turning toward away from

me. In a few hours when she’s wet, she’ll awaken and I can take her

into the house. “You did excellent your first try,” I whisper, kissing

her eyelid. Excellent. A word that caused me a lot of trouble. “Don’t

be anything more than what will make you happy. You don’t have to be

perfect for me. I love you Noodle.” Toeing off my shoes, I crawl into

the sleeping bag and snuggle with Juliana.

Nicky and John enter the tent after the flames have been doused. It’s

not a tiny space but with two adults and toddlers, every look and

breathe is felt. Nicky comes bolting in, high off extinguishing a fire

with his father. Learning what power means under his father’s hand.

Men do things to protect the woman, John tells him as they prepare for

bed. He shows Nicky his pocket knife and warns against touching it

after saying that all he needs to survive and protect us is in the

knife. My son’s eyes widen when John allows him to touch the shiny

case. His father also tells him that men survived nature for hundreds

of years before men destroyed that way of life. He starts spinning a

tale of Indians and cowboys that keeps Nicky’s eyes craned to him.

While he’s talking, I lean to kiss Nicky goodnight and scrunch down

into my sleeping bag again. John continues his story until Nicky is

passed out. I hear him shuffling around on his knees as he situates

Nicky for sleep. I’m pretending to be asleep. I’m actually exhausted.

John takes advantage of the quietness and our sleeping children. He

rolls over to my sleeping bag and unzips the side where I’m lying with

my back to him. Prowling, he lifts my shirt up. He pushes my pants

lower on my rear. A kiss causes me to arch forward. Not out of

pleasure.

“John?” I say sounding awkward and confused.

“I didn’t know it looked this bad,” He mumbles kissing around the

bruising, “You know this was a mistake. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

I nod against my daughter’s sleeping head.

“I love you so much. I’d never intentionally hurt you.” He tells me,

but I’m wondering about the intentional times. “I love you.”

I don’t know how to respond without crying, so I remain quiet and

pliable. He uses my quietude to turn me over by the shoulder and push

me on my back. He is careful to not make noise as he proceeds to make

love to me gently. I close my eyes because looking from side to side

reminds me that my children are inches away. He constricts my wrists

in one heavy hand above my head and revels in the power of being male.

Being the stronger gender who offers sex instead of real

communication. Or a real apology.

I’ve been loving you too long; don’t make me stop now.

He collapses between my thighs after bringing us to a quiet climax.

His minutes after mine, but just as quiet, just as satisfying. I wrap

my arms around his neck and shift so that I’m lying on top of him.

It’s the only way not to feel the pain in my back.

Tormented by love, I kiss the man who I’ve always loved and am just

now starting to realize I don’t understand. He does something that

causes my heart to beat quicker. He tells me that hurting me is like

hurting himself. But what troubles me most is that he whispers that

I’m tainted and he hasn’t figured out how to cleanse me. How to make

me pure again. How to make me his because I belong to him.

I’ve belonged to him always, and I’ve said so myself. But the way he

says I’m his makes me feel restricted in his arms. When I lift up to

fix my clothes, he keeps a tight rein on my body and I close my eyes

wondering what part of healing this really is.

Chapter 20

“I’ve been told that I don’t seem like the kind of woman who would

tolerate such treatment. … But I do not believe anyone—man or

woman—walks into a relationship believing such things will happen, or

wanting them to.”

–Brett Butler Knee Deep in Paradise (Highly recommended by moi)

I thought that having her mother back would erase the withdrawn glaze

that’s been settling over her face. Martha isn’t just back from

death’s doors; she’s walking around the hospital telling doctors that

she’s going home sooner rather than later. Marlena inherited some of

that spunk and passed it on to Sami and our other girls—even Jules.

But I don’t see spunk when she looks in my eyes; in fact, she often

turns away to avoid looking at me.

She left this morning without a goodbye—I hate when she does that. She

left a note on the kitchen table that I found when Nicky pulled me

from bed to get his breakfast. Hospital—be home for lunch. Love M.

She’s been in this mood. Pulling away from me, even when I make love

to her. I don’t feel as if she’s there in the mix with me. I feel her

arms grabbing at me and her body moving against me, but I don’t feel

her. It’s as if she’s checked out.

She keeps mentioning getting help—another person who will divide and

conquer our dyad. I don’t need anyone’s help besides her. I only need

her to love me and be with me like she’s always been. I didn’t come

back to her to feel lonely. To wonder if she’s in this reconciliation

as much as I am—I’ve surrendered everything.

Marlena might beg to differ; she might say that I haven’t allowed her

disregard for our relationship to rest in the past. Marlena would tell

me that I haven’t forgiven her for seeing her lips and body grinding

against that bastard; that any man who she’s been involved with is a

threat to our future because of my inability to let go.

Hell, she’s the doctor. She’s done a pretty good number on me, and

what’s more, she can’t see it. If she’s the communicator, why hasn’t

she found a way to communicate her empathy for me? I am still pissed

at her but it ebbs every time she does something adorable. I keep

telling her that I’m over this, or I’ve tried to show her that I am,

but obviously, I’m not.

I need and want her to reassure me that I’m it for her. We used to

know that before suspicion and infidelity flared up between us. Before

I watched to see if her eyes twitched when she tells me how much she

loves me. Before I started getting angry enough to blow my top at her.

Before I starting doing things that I know aren’t right to her. Before

I stopped trusting her.

I dial her number because I need to hear her voice—and truthfully, to

see if she’s where she says she is. Why would I suspect that she

wouldn’t be at the hospital? Because she has shown, she can be

untrustworthy. And because ever since we’ve been in Colorado, I

haven’t felt particularly close to her. Not since she needed me on

that plane. She looked in my eyes as she came and I was thinking how

beautiful her need was then. How sexy her sadness was for me.

Pulsating around me while I held her up—I held her up. I miss holding

her.

It goes right to voice mail.

The last of our large brood catches me checking Marlena’s voice mail.

Her password is our wedding that ended up not being official. Jules

darts around the sharp corner of the cabinets crying. She sails into

my legs, wrapping her arms and legs around me. Nicky isn’t far behind

holding a stuffed snake menacingly.

Sami is asking Marlena to call her about Martha. I feel guilty for

doubting her. I save Sami’s message as new and almost hang up.

Jules shrieks and I scoop her up, rescuing her from Nicky’s snake.

“No like Daddy,” she cries, bending her face to hide. “Bad sake.” She

murmurs into my shirt, kicking frantically at Nicky’s offending toy.

He’s enjoying the sound of her terror. A mischievous look that reminds

me of Brady grazes his face.

“Kid, cut it out,” I admonish gently. Nicky and Juliana are

sensitive—far more than Brady and Belle ever were. I don’t have to

raise my voice. I don’t like the look that comes from my loud voice

bellowing over them. “You’re scaring Jules.”

“No like sake,” Jules cries still squirming away from the toy.

“Snake,” Nicky corrects yanking it back. “Joy—just a toy. Don’t cry.”

He says looking remorseful. Nicky doesn’t usually play menace to

Jules. He’s as devoted as a little boy can be with his baby sister.

The worry I had over him being jealous of her was for nothing. But

sometimes, I see that my son is still a little boy and Jules’ big

brother. It’s sometimes a brother’s prerogative to goad his sister.

“I’m sorry,” Nicky says rubbing Jules’ foot. He’s barely standing past

my thigh, so he tips up on his toes to hug her legs.

“No want Nicky.” She says kicking her feet free. “No love Nicky.” She

folds her arm across her chest. Her eyes full of indignant fire. “I

mad.” She tells me, instead of her curious brother.

“I’m sorry.”

“She’ll forgive you Nick,” I assure him, “she’s mad now but she loves

you, don’t you Jules?”

My daughter closes her mouth tight, shaking her hair with the force of

her anger. Looking for all intents and purposes like me. I don’t often

see me in her face. Maybe it’s because I’m always looking for Marlena.

But in her anger, I see the furrowed brow and twitching lip. Anger

isn’t pretty but in my daughter, it’s endearing. Right down to her

ability to twitch her nose in an effort to ensure that she looks as

mad as she feels.

Nicky’s remorse doesn’t soften the hard gaze. I’m watching him try to

figure out how to appease his sister’s anger when I notice an

unfamiliar voice on Marlena’s voicemail in the phone that’s in my hand

still.

“Daddy. Make her stop,” Nicky demands. “I’m sorry.”

It’s a man who identifies himself as a doctor—Dr. Quinn Palmer.

Returning her phone call.

“Daddy,” he yanks my free arm.

“You hurt her feelings buddy,” I explain to Nicky. “You scared her.

She has to be mad at you for a little bit, right baby?” I say closing

my cell phone and focusing on them. Jules agrees with a swift nod.

Nicky, unhappy with that wraps his arms around his chest. “Son, you

can say you’re sorry…and wait until she forgives you.”

Juliana’s head turns side to side. “No. Nicky mean,” she pouts.

I understand why she can’t forgive him. In her mind, he’s supposed to

be the person who he always is with her. Not mean and menacing. Jules

can’t comprehend that Nicky loves her, even while he did a bad thing

that hurt her. She’s one. She knows love and niceness. Meanness

scrambles her idyllic vision of Nicky. She doesn’t know what to do

with her anger but even at one, she knows that she should have it. She

is her daddy’s daughter.

“I’m good boy,” Nicky counters his sister’s claim. “I draw you picture.”

“Good idea, Nicky. Ply em’ with gifts. A boy after my own heart.”

Nicky smiles at his sister. She returns a half smile before burying

her face in my shirt again. I give Nicky thumbs up before he turns to

begin his quest in winning Jules’ forgiveness. He skirts away in a

flurry of red and tan.

“You’re going to have to forgive him sometime baby.” I say pulling her

face up. “You can’t stop yourself from it—believe Daddy. He didn’t

mean to scare you baby. Boys are sometimes thickheaded when it comes

to these things. Take your Daddy’s word—he loves you just as much as

you love him.”

Jules’ face finally opens up and the creases of anger float away. She

drags her thumb into her mouth and kicks to get down. My little girl

can melt my heart without trying. She’s beautiful, thumb sucking and

all. I’m no expert but I haven’t seen a cuter sundress on any little

girl. The yellow sleeveless dress is a nice combination on her tanned

arms and legs. Her feet are clad with yellow sandals that cross her

ankles and over her foot. She still toddles when she walks even though

she walked early for her age. She pulls her thumb out of her mouth and

peers up through the hair covering falling over her eye. “Gotta make

poopy Daddy.”

Chuckling at her very feminine understanding of the mechanics of going

to the bathroom, I pick her up. She’s been resistant to potty training

and Marlena hasn’t pressed the issue. Parenting from two houses means

that Jules will have to do it when she’s ready because if I’m stern

and Marlena’s lenient with training, Jules doesn’t find a routine to

stick with. But she has mastered knowing that she doesn’t like poopy

in her diaper. She’ll sit on a pot for that reason and that reason

alone.

Daunted by the size and formality of the toilet, she hides her face.

Whenever I see her doing that—hiding from her fears—even when it’s in

my arms I worry that she’ll be afraid of life. The baby of the family

is always going to be that. She could be scarred from us protecting

her too much. The battle of knowing and uncertainty, how much is too

much or too little wages in every minute of parenting.

I pry her face up softly, thumbing across her cheeks. “It’s your

potty,” I say pulling the pink and yellow potty that nearly didn’t

make the trip to Colorado from a corner.

“Mine,” she asks pointing to herself with an infectious smile.

“All yours,” I say putting her down. “Shall I do the honors?” She nods

and lifts her dress to reveal her Dora Pull-Up. Cartoon characters

saturate the free market and my kids are the consumers who they

capture.

“Dora dry,” she says pulling the tabs apart. They’re the reveal

diapers that change colors when they’ve been soiled. “Dora good girl.”

“No, Jules is a good girl. You kept Dora dry baby girl.” I help her

sit down on the potty. “You want Daddy to leave?”

She bites her bottom lip, thinking. Usually this is reserved for Mommy

and Jules but Mommy’s not here and I’m not squeamish about this kind

of stuff. I’m her father; we don’t have to be weird about bathing and

bathroom issues. I want that easy camaraderie where Jules can come to

me with anything, even needing tampons when that time comes.

“No leave Daddy.” She leans back and stares ahead.

“These are some awfully bright toes,” I say tweaking her toes. A soft

pink color layers each of her tiny toes. Marlena lovingly painted them

when Juliana saw her giving herself a pedicure. She does that for

relaxation. I enjoy seeing Marlena being feminine. I jumped her bones

after she painted my daughter’s toes, giving her a glow that tells me

that she knows how much her mother loves her.

“Mommy pained them.”

“She did a good job.” I say, rubbing them again.

“Poopy hurt,” she grimaces. “Zaza.”

I shake my head. “Mommy has Zaza. Besides, Daddy wants to talk to you.

With Zaza Jules-bear doesn’t talk as much.” And I hate the pacifier

sticking out of her mouth. She’s too intelligent to have an object

jammed between her lips. She’s also too old. “Maybe you don’t have to

poopy sweetheart.”

Jules grips the arms of her potty, scrunching her face. She jumps when

water splashes her behind. “Eww,” she twists her mouth and nose up in

disgust. Water splashing her butt is a new concept—one that she isn’t

comfortable with.

I rub her belly. “All finished?”

“No,” she cries hysterically.

“What baby?” I check to behind her. “What happened?”

“Wipe poopy Daddy.” She reminds me, pointing to the toilet paper.

I toss my head back. Jules is such a girl. “I think we need wipeys honey.”

“Yeah,” she says bobbing her head like it’s the newest idea she’s

heard in her life.

“You stay put; Daddy’ll get them from the room. Okay?”

She nods. “Fast Daddy.”

“As fast as my feet will go,” I promise kissing her before leaving the

room. Marlena and I collide in the hallway on my way back to Jules.

Nicky is on her hip holding up the picture he drew for his sister.

“I hear that someone is upset with my little prince,” she says hiking

Nicky higher on her hip. “Where is the princess? She has a gift.”

I fight not to show the suspicion I feel while looking at her.

“Bathroom making poopy.” She looks somewhat less stressed than when I

last saw her, which would have been after I rolled off her and spooned

with her until I fell asleep last night.

Relaxed is too mild a word. She looks sexy. Her hair spills over her

delicate, tanned shoulders. Her hair is the longest it’s ever been

since I’ve been with her. It’s also blonder—honey blonde with platinum

streaks framing her face. I pride myself on knowing those tidbits

about my woman. I know that she’s been wearing her hair curly because

it’s easier to maintain with the kids; and because she knows, it’s my

favorite style on her. Loose curls are pinned back with a large pair

of Jacqueline Kennedy type sunglasses. She has that Jackie air about

her—she always has. Raw sexuality that isn’t overt; it’s confidence

that comes from self-awareness. In a simple full-length strapless

dress, she looks more bohemian than professional. Her breasts have

always been nicely shaped, well-proportioned. In the elastic-trimmed

bust of the light colored dress, the curves of her ample mounds hover

below the top. Crushing Nicky against her sends a tremor that lifts

her cleavage. Having younger children has softened her wardrobe, which

is both good and bad. Now she’s more likely to be in form-fitting

jeans that hug those curves that I know so well instead of pantsuits.

Now men are more inclined to look.

Jules calls out to me. It still takes me a minute to stop examining

Marlena before heeding Jules’ call. Marlena flinches against my

scrutiny but Nicky shakes her concentration by plugging his nose and

asking to be let down. He leaves his drawing with Marlena and

disappears down the hallway.

She turns and regards me strangely. “John?”

“I’m coming baby girl,” I call to Jules, eyeing her mother as we both

enter the bathroom. Marlena crouches to Jules’ level. She runs her

fingers through Jules hair. Her wedding finger has never looked

bearer. “I have wipes.”

“Mommy wipe me,” Jules tells me happily reaching for her mother’s neck.

“If you insist,” I step move back. “Here Mommy.”

Everything Marlena does with our children is lovingly done. The

cheerful congratulations for using the potty bring a wide, proud smile

to Jules’ lips. Marlena finishes cleaning Jules up and carries her

back to our bedroom. She lays her on the bed and puts another Pull-Up

on Juliana.

“I hear you’re upset with Nicky,” Marlena says lifting Juliana from

the mattress. They both sit on the bed. Jules crawls into her mother’s

lap and starts rubbing her arm. “Baby, answer Mommy.”

“Up…see..”Jules attempts, scrounging her nose at the unfamiliar word.

“Mad honey,” Marlena clarifies, running her hand across Jules’

forehead. “Nicky is sad that you’re mad at him.”

“Sake,” Jules explains looking as indignant as she did when the

incident occurred. “Nicky bad.”

“No baby cakes, Nicky isn’t bad. He was being silly. Little boys are

silly.” She says, encouraging our daughter to see Nicky’s game as just

that. “He scared you but he’s so sorry for it now. He loves you.”

“I mad Mommy,” she grunts poking her lip out. “Nicky bad.”

“Okay, I’m not going to tell you to not be mad at Nicky. People we

love can make us mad but you can’t stop talking to Nicky or loving

him. He’s your brother.”

She buries her face in her mother’s bust this time. “Mad.”

“Okay,” she soothes her. “Noodle is allowed to be mad for a little bit

and then we’re going to be happy again. Do you know why?” She tilts

Jules’ head back. “Nana is coming home. Doesn’t that make you happy?”

Jules leaps up to circle her mother’s neck. She hops up and down on

her Marlena’s legs. “Love Nana Mommy.”

“She loves you too baby girl; she can’t wait to hold you and Nicky again.”

“That’s great honey,” I interject, feeling left out of the

celebration. “She must be doing better than we all thought.”

“She’s not one for giving up,” Marlena tells me smiling. She hugs

Jules, meshing blonde and black curls. “I came home early to tell you

all in person.”

Watching her rocking Jules, I ask a completely innocent question. “So

that’s where you were coming from? The hospital?” I pause but not long

enough to answer. “I called you.”

I observe the way her mouth turns downward, and how her eyes narrow in

their own brand of suspicion. “Yes. I turned my phone off when I got

there. You didn’t leave a message.”

Message. The stranger who she’s called rumbles around in my head. What

kinds of secrets is she keeping from me? I find that I can’t control

my urge to confront her, not even with Jules lying in her arms. I have

no place to put the suspicion. If she could open up to me; if she

hadn’t left this morning under the cloak of secrecy; if she could just

be straight with me. This must be what she thinks is my anger. It’s

not anger; it’s curiosity. If I don’t ask, it’ll remain.

“Why do you seem so tense,” she deciphers, watching my inner conflict

wash over my face. “Why are you looking at me in that way?”

“Mommy me want Zaza,” Jules mumbles after finding no satisfaction with

her thumb.

Marlena pulls her closer, stroking her back. Jules wraps her legs

around Marlena’s back—she flinches the way she’s been doing every time

someone touches her there. Marlena helps Jules comfortably rest her

head across her shoulder.

“Mommy,” Jules urges softly, “want Zaza.”

She shushes her as she starts rocking her. Now it’s Marlena who stares

at me strangely. Evaluating me circumspectly through her analytical,

professional eyes. Jules’ whimpering distracts me.

“Don’t cry sweetie.” Marlena consoles our over-tired child. She only

gets fussy and clingy when she doesn’t know what to do with her

tiredness. I wonder—as Marlena’s face grows wary— why she doesn’t give

her the binky. She pats Jules’ back. “Can you check on Nicky while I

put her to sleep?”

Her dismissal irritates me. “He’s fine. Either he’s watching cartoons

or coloring.” I grumble.

“Okay,” she concedes, focusing on rocking Jules. “Go to sleep baby.”

“She wants the binky.”

“I know.” She speaks softly with a look that begs me not to keep going.

“What’s with this dismissive attitude?”

“I’m not being dismissive,” she blanches.

I pinch the bridge of my nose to relax. It’s not that serious. But why

do I feel like she is? Why is she more focused on keeping Juliana

quiet than fixing this silent bridge between us? I’ve never been a man

who’s regretted that she is a devoted mother first, until times like

this.

“Where were you?” I ask glaring at her, knowing that it’s making her

uncomfortable.

Jules lifts her head from Marlena’s shoulder. The gesture reminds me

that she’s still there. And that she’s sensitive to tension. Marlena

kisses the back of her hand when Jules’ fingers prod her lips.

“John, she’s sleepy.”

“She can sleep. Then we’ll talk,” I insist, wanting an answer to all

the unspoken questions. “Give her the binky, she’ll sleep faster.”

“You didn’t want me to give it to her yesterday,” she reminds me,

creasing her forehead with worry lines. Closing her mouth over Jules’

fingers as she averts her eyes again. “I don’t want another scene.”

“Scene?”

She nods, reliving the mini-argument we had after dinner yesterday in

her mind. It’s amazing what she chooses to hold on to. What things

gain prominence in her mind over the things she chooses to throw away.

Jules as usual was crying for Zaza; I suggested that she let her cry

for a minute. Eventually she would forget Zaza in my estimation of the

problem. She starts sighting case studies about attachments and

individuation. I reminded her that this was our child and not a case

study. I won. She didn’t give her the pacifier.

She didn’t turn away when I apologized for being a little loud. I

didn’t touch her in anger; I won’t touch her like that again. But when

I did touch her, I felt her distance. I didn’t realize she was so

upset over it until now.

“If you want to have a conversation with me, then let’s do it.” She

tells me squeezing Juliana, “but she’s staying right here.” She’s

serious. Something else hides in her hazel eyes. When she catches my

gaze, I see the fright piercing through.

“You’re afraid to be in the room with me,” I realize. Sighing my

confusion, I inch closer to her.

“Mommy I like,” interrupts Jules. She lifts her head again and snakes

a hand around the hollow of Marlena’s neck. She wants the poem that

Marlena often narrates to her at bedtime.

Without missing a beat, she grabs her hand and whispers, “I like you forever.”

“Love you always,” Jules recites sleepily.

“As long as you’re living.”

They both whisper, “My baby you’ll be.”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” I say matching the level of their voices.

“You have.”

I feel cornered by those two words and humiliated that my maleness has

struck up this new emotion in Marlena. “I haven’t. That was an

accident.”

She looks at me sadly. Her heavy lashes framing her wet eyes. “There

have been too many accidents lately.”

The sound of my heart pounding drowns my eardrums. Why is she on the

verge of tears? “Marlena, I don’t like how this sounds. This

accusatory way you’re looking at me and pointing fingers. I haven’t

hurt you ever on purpose. I love powerfully. That’s the kind of man I

am.”

Stroking my sleeping daughter’s back, she whispers, “And I’ve accepted

that over the years…and maybe that’s my fault.”

“Accepted?” This isn’t my Doc. She’s talking like she doesn’t know me;

she’s watching me like I’m a stranger. “Where were you today?”

“Visiting my mother,” she retorts quickly.

I give her another chance to tell me the truth—to quell my misgivings

about her. “I called your cell,” I dangle that bit of information,

purposely holding the rest back.

“And I told you it was off.” Jules whimpers in her sleep. “Were you

checking up on me?”

It was never checking up on her before. “I called your cell,” I say

again, waiting until she lifts her eyes to mine to finish the rest, to

let her in on her secret. “Did you call him back?”

“Him,” she exhales harshly. “Which him?”

“Are there that many?” I say unable to resist making a dig. “You can

lay Jules down. I won’t touch you.” I show her my palms.

She shakes her head nervously. I give her a chance to put the pieces

together. When she can’t stand the silence anymore, she asks me who.

“Palmer. Did you return his phone call?”

Shocked, she takes a deep breath. “You went through my voicemail?”

“Well when you just disappear out of bed with me,” I grit out, “without a word.”

She scoots back so that her back is against headboard, far away from

me. “I didn’t disappear. I went to see my mother,” she says caressing

Jules, “like I’ve been doing everyday that we’ve been here. You were

sleeping. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“Why are you making so many excuses?”

“It’s an invasion of my privacy. That’s inexcusable.”

“You gave me the password,” I remind her.

“You’re intentionally trying to goad me into an argument. You’ve been

provoking arguments all week. I’m exhausted worrying about my mother.

And I don’t have that energy to make this okay for you.” She explains

calmly. “I’m trying to see this from your prospective. I know it’s

been up and down. I know it’s confusing but I’m at a lost as to how to

help you.” She switches Jules from my shoulder to the other before

continuing quietly. “Dr. Palmer is an abuse counselor. This little

back and forth between us is a cycle that I recognize,” the last

sentence stabs my heart, “because I went through it with Alex.”

“I’m not Alex North.”

[Marlena]

The first time you’re struck by your lover, you think this isn’t me,

this isn’t us. Shell-shocked is too small of a word to package the

shift in your grounding. It’s greater than even shock—it’s

incomprehensible, soul-shatteringly irrevocable.

The first time you think, why is this happening? Your second thought

is how can I fix this. When you can’t find answers, you look for

practical solutions. Ways to keep your face shielded from inevitable

blows. Make-up fixes for cuts and bruises that tell the story. Hiding

limps from the force of kicks to your ribs and back. You find quicker

routes home so that he won’t have a reason to complain about your

being late. You negotiate lovemaking as a bargaining chip to

forgiveness. You try your very best to not do anything that will make

him angry.

And even with all those practical solutions, with my pragmatic

approach to physical abuse I still never learned the lessons. He

disappeared and I forgot about him and the daughter I bore him.

I may have forgotten many things, but I know the looks, the feel of

the air, the hard silences. I know that even if I want to believe that

those symptoms aren’t there, and that John will never be Alex—I am

still one player on a stage of numerous others players. I am only

responsible for my part.

I trace my nose, shuddering because I remember the sound of my bones

crushing with Alex’s fist. It’s late. The ghost of Alex North has been

haunting me lately. That sadistic voice that tortured me with

put-downs and emotional abuse sputters on about John being just like

him. I look around the dark room, sitting up in the bed. John hasn’t

come back since our polite disagreement. Polite—it didn’t end up with

me being hurt.

Nicky and Juliana are tangled together at the foot of the bed, having

reconciled over French fries and juice boxes. Nicky wouldn’t give up

until he won his sister’s favor again. She caved easily—we forgive

easily. Closing my eyes to thank God for them as I often do several

times daily, I also resist the pull of being dragged into my the

battered piece of my psyche where Alex roams freely. I thank God for

Alex not fathering Nicky or Noodle; and even for not having real

influence over Rachel.

These Alex nightmares, living nightmares, come in times of abject

loneliness. They were rampant when John and I first separated. I could

be fully awake doing normal things like nursing Noodle or feeding

Nicky breakfast when I’d hear his voice calling my name, making my

skin crawl. Devils speak beyond the grave, but Father Flannigan warned

me that I didn’t have to listen. It was easier when I was inching

toward a surer place in my life. I decided to just start living—to

piece a life together with or without John.

And then I saw him, my heart melted. I lured him home and he started

punishing me for all the sins committed against our relationship. In

the same way I felt helpless with Alex is the same way I feel with

John. The only difference is I had stopped loving Alex because I was

terrified of him.

I’m not terrified of John, not my John. I know he’s gentle and

forgiving. He’s given me both of those gifts throughout our lives

together. Something about my last sin has split him into two people.

My John would never yell and grab or push me. Not with our babies only

a few feet away. And not when my mother is deathly ill. My John

doesn’t use force to display love. My John is possessive; I’m not

pretending that this is news to me. But there is a fine line between

possessively loving and obsessively possessing.

I love my children possessively. I want to know where they go, with

whom, and why because they aren’t able to account for themselves yet.

That is a mother’s love, the provocation of parenting. You go, do, and

say things that aren’t entirely you because you aren’t thinking

rationally. When it comes to loving children, rationality can be

dismissed. But even with Nicky, Noodle, and the other children, I know

that I gave birth to them but they are their own entity. They belong

to me in undefined ways that don’t cease their personhood.

But why the hell am I trying to rationalize why John’s attitude seems

to have changed about me? I used to have pride in the way he loved me

so openly. Public displays of affection that were witnessed by

everyone in our lives. Tokens of his love as a way of thanking me for

sharing his life. My John.

And now this—Dr. Palmer verified what I already knew—he’s being

emotionally abusive. Subtle as it may be, the accusations and modified

behavior are the signs of an invisible abuser—one that doesn’t know

he’s being abusive.

If John had any idea that he was falling into classic abusive

patterns, I know he’d stop himself. I didn’t tell Dr. Palmer that the

patient I wanted consultation on was me. We only had a phone

conversation but he identified the subtle signs for me and I had to

concur. He suggested a group for batters; I told him that I’d pass the

information on to my client.

He’s not ready to be confronted with that, and I’m not ready to admit

that I’m staying in a relationship that has the ability to erupt into

physical violence. I’m still a trained psychiatrist who can defuse

sitiuations.

And I’m a fool in love.

The mixed messages that society is saturated with swears that love

conquers all, forgives all, knows all, and condones all. I don’t

condone being hurt by anyone who loves me. But I’ve done everything

that society conditions us to believe in; and yet I’m still fighting

If you’re confused, imagine me. I’m walking through the fog hoping to

find light soon. I’m holding on to my faith that I can make John see

what’s happening between us. By doing that, I’m going to take Dr.

Shalit, Roman, and Alex out of the way. I’m going to exorcise our

relationship of demons threatening to take us into the pits of hell.

Once we’ve done the hard work of regaining trust and having true

forgiveness, then we’ll be at a positive place again.

I’m too old to raise two toddlers alone. I don’t want to separate them

from the reunification between my house and John’s. All of this is

about being comfortable—I’m the most comfortable with John. All of

this meandering thoughtless pattern of trying to make this okay is

about not losing what I have.

If I make him less insecure then he’ll behave differently.

He’ll respond to me differently.

I just have to be the Marlena he wants me to be again.

Chapter 21

Ain’t no way for me to love you

If you won’t let me

It ain’t no way for me to give you all you need

If you won’t let me give all of me

I know that a woman’s duty is to help and love a man

And that’s the way it was for them

Oh but how can I how can I how can I

Give you all the things I have

If you’re tying both of my hands

–“Ain’t No Way” Aretha Franklin

Love has the unmitigated power of making you a stranger to yourself.

I’m accustomed to being in control of my thoughts, and my feelings.

But love vexes me to the point of weakness. Loving John in these last

few weeks is making me feel the way I did when I asked him for a

separation before we had Nicky or Juliana. I was gaining strength

then, having given my self-power away to people had long stopped

deserving my trust. I felt strong then. I would love to be her again;

I would welcome becoming a tower of unshakeable nerves and have

strength to do the right thing in every situation.

But life isn’t always about right or wrong—is it? And love has never

been about right or wrong. Being in love is an awful balance; the

beauty works only as much as the ugliness. You can’t have one without

the other. No one is exempt from suffering. It’s a human condition

that keeps us connected to the grain of humanity within us—all of us.

The one thing you know is that with birth also comes suffering, love,

a measure of happiness, and death.

But who suffers more in our situation? Me, John, or the children? And

who mattes more when all aspects of the situation are taken into

account? I’m not shirking the niggling panic hiding in my bones. Or

pretending that Dr. Quinn’s advice hasn’t shaken me to my core. I know

that John’s pain doesn’t come free; I’m the one who pays in the end. I

did this unforgiveable thing that can’t be forgiven. I realize that

now. I realize that John chooses his version of a grey event; nothing

about our situation has ever had simplicity as an excuse. No black and

white. For my act of treason, John suffers through punishing me. I

suffer in knowing I turned him into this man.

I’m weary because the rage that I’ve seen in John is untapped. I know

everything about John except his capacity to dive into the lake of

rage without a life preserver because he doesn’t want to be rescued.

He wants to swim through its depth to get to the very bottom. I blame

Stefano for the descent of John’s unchecked rage. You take a loving

man and take everything he’s ever had in life and add him into a life

of another man and all you should expect is a man relying on his

natural instincts to get him through it.

No one has ever understood how deeply John and I connected when he

came into my life. That when I saw him the first time, the urge to

stay connected at some level was immediate. That I felt a surge of

familiarity and pure love lifted my body from the cloud of my

half-lived life. That when he touched my hand for simple hand holding,

I felt as if I was on fire. That when he looked into my eyes with his

haunted eyes, I wanted to do everything in my power to exorcise

whatever was haunting him. And when he did kiss me, every piece of him

found its way into my body. Spiritually. It was more than the sexual,

intimate act. My body relaxed and seemingly said aha, I’ve been

waiting all my life for you.

And when I really became intimately aware of John, of his habits, his

pains, his loves, his losses, his violence, his temper, his devotion,

I knew that under the perfect packaging there was the possibility for

the caged animal of his soul to rattle. I’ve seen him nearly kill men

with his bare hands—scaring me terribly. The look, that caged animal

whose only objective is preserving his life and the life of his

family, still sends chills down my spine. The look that would haunt me

until he used his body to erase that image of a menacing killer with

that of a loving lover. I realized then that he was at battle with his

own heart. John never enjoyed hurting people, but in light of his

training and entrapment by Stefano, it’s instinctual—the inclination

to bend to violence as a solution. The lover and the menace are two of

one heart. And now, for the first time in our lives I’m the target of

both those faces.

I know the consequences of allowing this thing to fester between John

and me. I know what being hurt by the one person who you’ve trusted

with everything inside of you feels like. And it’s not one-sided. I’ve

hurt John just as much as he’s hurt me; we’re experts in hurting each

other.

The strange part of being hurt is how much allow yourself to be hurt,

even when you know how to stop it. How you feel inside when you tell

him that he’s breaking you apart by destroying what you have, and

feeling badly because he was so hurt by those words. He looked at me

as if he wanted to hurt me then, as if I had three heads and was

trying to deceive him with my words, as if I was patronizing him. He

left, without saying goodbye.

And all I can think about is where he is, and why he’s not here with me.

With sensitive toddlers, pitiful and uncertainty are undesirable

traits to have lingering in their faces. They pick up on the sad

energy bending my back, keeping my head lowered to the ground. The

patterns on the floor are easier to count than thinking of all that

I’ve been thinking about since John left.

Nicky wants his Daddy; Noodle needs Mummy. And because children have

no concept of Mommy needing me-time, they need and want both things

simultaneously. My raven-haired daughter’s feisty fussing envelops me

to the point of distraction. The quivering motion of her bottom lip

brings unshed tears to the backs of my eyes. Even thrown heavily

against my chest, she arches and squirms, shedding tears that I wish I

could let loose as well. Instead of joining her tirade, I rock her

against my chest to assure her that she’s safe in my arms. To get her

body as close to me as I can, so that our heartbeats start pumping at

the same rhythm. Mine, larger; hers, smaller; but unrivaled in their

affection for each other. Her little button nose has a red tint

covering her nostrils from the unimaginable force of her crying.

Nicky’s own tantrum is quenched by the fire of his baby sister’s.

Instead of asking about his daddy’s whereabouts, he asks why Joy is

crying. He stands between my knees and starts rubbing her back to help

me quiet her down. It’s amazing how young children learn to be

emotionally responsible for others. Together Nicky’s hand and mine pat

his sister. He remembers that she likes Zaza when she’s sad and he

disappears from our sight, reappearing with the pacifier in hand. He

climbs into my lap, straddling my knee, and leans over a calmer

Juliana to put Zaza in her mouth. She accepts the nipple easily,

lifting her heavily lidded eyes to her brother. Nicky kisses her arm

and climbs back down from my lap. When the only sound from Juliana is

her sweet gentle sucking on her binky, Nicky rubs my hand soothingly.

As a witness to his father’s storming out, he’s been unusually

attentive to me. The angry exchange between me and John, thankfully

didn’t play out in front of Nicky, but the exit was just as affective.

From what Nicky’s tried to say in that little boy, not really

communicating way he described a mad Daddy leaving without saying

goodbye. Now that absence ensconces more than just my son. Nicky and

goodbyes are precarious. My guilt whispers often that he senses that I

was gone when he truly needed me when he was born. That he’s still

thinking that when he opens his eyes Mommy won’t be there. He’s always

been able to rely on John. John leaving him behind without a word is

weighing on his little brain and the only way he can communicate that

is by sticking closely to me.

He’s been asking for John for thirty minutes. The questions have gone

from curious to sad, and now timidly frightened. He’s starting to

think that maybe his daddy won’t be coming back. He purses his lips

and tilts his head every time the question slips from his mouth,

rubbing his chest like John does in deep thought. All I can tell him

is soon, that his daddy will be walking into the door before he closes

his eyes to say his prayers tonight. In a child’s reference of time,

it’s long. Soon or now, John’s not there and those words don’t mean

anything to them. He asks if he prays now, will his daddy come back.

I’ve been lack on making sure that they do that—pray at bedtime. When

you have all of the blessings, you can become so caught up that you

forget to acknowledge the blessing giver. I tousle the mop of black

hair and say he’ll be back. Believing that John’s anger will

eventually subside and he’ll remember that he’s not the only person

being affected by this mess.

Juliana’s body clings to me so that when I try to put her down for a

nap, she wakes back up with a start. Her vulnerability, the darting

eyes toward the door and anxious sucking on Zaza instigate the

tightening in my stomach. And Nicky pacing around checking windows and

doors for his Daddy as well. My children’s apprehension about John’s

curious absence slowly overcomes any sense of my guilt for saying what

I said. Even if I called him a vile, contemptuous name these are still

his children; they still need him.

Nicky puts down his coloring book and asks again. Where is my Daddy?

Where—usually he only speaks of Wanting him. Now he’s distinguishing

that John’s not here and he knows that somehow Mommy can resolve that.

Or that somehow Mommy has caused that. The hazel eyes that he

inherited from me pool and tears slide down his cheek when I give him

the same answer I’ve given him since his inquiry into John’s absence

began. I lift him to my other hip; Juliana is perched on my other. He

drops his head to my shoulder. We both shed tears, his, in sadness. My

tears are hot across my cheek, matching the ire gripping my stomach.

Setting my pride aside, I carry my babies to find my cell phone and

punch in speed dial one. Holding each of them snugly on my hips,

Juliana tilts her head to my chin while I maneuver the phone and

patting Nicky’s back. I drop the phone as if it is a hot coal when his

voicemail comes on immediately. Coward.

I pull together dinner for Nicky and Juliana. That many hours have

passed since John’s departure—lunch to dinner. Evening makes the Earth

sad; it makes us all feel a little mournful. I read that in a poem.

It’s true. I feel less alive, a little dispirited, and a lot pitiful

trying to sit with Noodle pawing at her French fries on my lap. She

gurgles after picking apart each fry and swallowing the chewed potato.

Food and Juliana have always had an interesting relationship. She’s

never like it much. She’s been the toughest child to figure out

nutritionally. When she picks up a fry that’s too cold, she puts it

under her nose to smell and tosses it aside. That’s Noodle—particular

about the way it goes into her mouth and how it feels once it’s there.

No more moping, just a terrible building of the pot of resentment and

fury at John’s disappearance act. Fury has no place at the dinner

table. Not with Nicky sitting disagreeably in a booster seat at the

dining room table. Not with Noodle chattering on in her finagled

language. Her command of words is excellent but she still resorts to

these moments of rambling meaninglessly. Not for Nicky, he responds as

if he can understand everything coming from her mouth. She and Nicky

have a twinship that isn’t bound by being in the same womb at the same

time. They’re bond is delicately wound in the love assigned to

siblings without conditions. It would’ve been a quiet life for Nicky

had Juliana not graced us with her presence.

She offers her brother a half-eaten French fry, from the warmth of her

wet mouth. Puzzled by Nicky’s headshaking refusal, she starts babbling

to him argumentatively. Twinship. The cleft in Nicky’s chin expands as

his mouth shifts into as a giggle that climbs into roaring laughter. I

eye them both, wondering what they find so amusing; smiling knowingly

because I know what their connection is like because I’ve shared it

with my own sister; hoping that John will walk into the door before

Nicky remembers that he’s not there; praying that I can make things

okay for my children if he doesn’t come back.

Nicky looks so much like John when he’s smiling and happy. It’s the

best face that both my son and his father offer the world. Charming

grins with wide, shining eyes. Eyes that have more depth than the

average person can handle. Juliana looks at him adoringly while

offering one more fry that finally he allows to be put into his mouth.

She awards him with applause. He’s forgotten that he doesn’t want to

be in a booster chair. My children take comfort in each other, while I

alone know that their father’s absence is tearing me up inside.

By bath time, I’m not worried anymore at all. I’m just angry. I’m

angry for myself and for my son who keeps looking through doorways and

windows for his father. My pity is hardened by the bitter pill I’ve

had to swallow. Yes, I can get angry. It’s such a rarity that I don’t

know how to keep it from spilling out. My tone is sharper; even the

babies aren’t exempt from me chastising Nicky for accidently splashing

Juliana’s eyes with water.

He reacts quickly to my tone with tears. I pull him quickly to me in

the water surrounding all three of us. Juliana stands between my legs,

shiny from soap and bubbles. Nicky isn’t as easy to settle as Juliana

when he’s been chastised because we so rarely do it. I apologize until

his tears cease and a smile cracks. His hair is slick and pushed back

from his face. I kiss his nose and cheeks. He accepts my apology and

makes room for Juliana to come into my arms. When she mimics the hug

that Nicky gave me, I inhale the Dora bubble gum shampoo that I washed

her hair with. I pull her back against my chest to sit down between my

legs. This is the most peace and relaxation we’ve had all day. Water

and soap have that effect on you.

After the struggle to pull two slick toddlers from a bathtub is over,

I manage to get them both into our bedroom. Nicky jumps from the towel

and my arms onto the bed while I put Noodle down to finish drying her

off. She squirms as I towel off her feet, between her toes and up her

animated legs. She cries my name when I reach her face and rub behind

her ears and neck. Kissing her, I pull her up on her feet to do a once

over again before slathering baby lotion all over her body. I warm the

cold lotion between my hands before sliding my hands over her skin.

Nicky decides that he’s bored waiting his turn. He gets up on the

bottoms of his feet, grinning impishly at me as he starts leaping on

the bouncy mattress. Juliana’s eyes widen in excitement. She resists

my efforts to put her diaper and nightgown on. Holding her down

gently, I dress and diaper her and allow her to slip from my grips.

Switching bodies, I pull Nicky to repeat the process. Juliana, taking

Nicky’s place hopping on the bed, leaps up and down, calling Nicky’s

name as her feet touch the mattress.

It takes one hard bounce to send her over the edge of the mattress

just as I’m finishing putting on Nicky’s underwear. Her head hits the

floor first. She lands on her back with her hands twisted in the air.

I get to the floor quickly. It’s hardwood. Her mouth is wide open but

nothing comes out. Twisted in fear and pain, her face trembles. I bend

over her, start breathing into her mouth, and help her cry out. The

first scream is soul shattering. I never want to hear another sound as

primal and terrified as that again. Her eyes are shut tight, her

cheeks wet. Without moving her, I check her over for blood or signs of

trauma. When she moves her neck to seek my face, I reach for her and

bring her to my chest. Nicky is standing behind me asking if she’s

okay.

I get up and bring to the bed for a thorough examination. She’s still

crying my name when we both look up and see her father rushing to her

side. Without a second thought, I snatch her into my arms and eye him

angrily.

“Where the hell have you been?” I ask, tears choking my words. The

fear and anger are indistinguishable in my face. “Don’t you touch

her,” I shout pulling her away from his extended arms. “Don’t you dare

touch my child.”

“Calm down,” he warns me, reaching for Nicholas who is also reaching

for him. “You’re scaring the kids.”

“They’ve been scared all day,” I say through clenched teeth. “Waiting

for you to walk through the goddamn door. Don’t you ever do that to

them again. Don’t take your anger out on them. I won’t allow that to

happen to them.”

My words sting, as I intended them to. John’s composure is unshaken.

He’s holding Nicky, rocking him against the sea of our angry words.

Juliana‘s tears are falling so much that the towel covering my chest

is soaked. Nicky’s face is hidden, for which I’m grateful. The anger

and hurt that have cast this ugly spell over me is not the face I want

him to see.

“What happened?” John asks gesturing to Noodle.

Her sobbing increases, as well as my own anxiety and the need to get

out of John’s sight. His eyes are too penetrating. I’m not strong

enough for penetrating eyes tonight. I’m so pissed that I could spit

fire when I open my mouth to speak.

“Don’t touch her,” I warn again, feeling very protective of her in her

injured state. “She’s fine. She’s been fine without you all day.”

“Marlena,” he says, his voice edgy. “She’s going to go into hysteria

or hyperventilate. Let me see her. Is she hurt?”

I stand up, reaching for Nicky as I go. He comes to me quickly and I

again balance my youngest two children as we retreat from their

father’s presence. The only place I can think to go is my parents’

bedroom. Nicky cries are low and intermittent. He asks for his daddy,

breaking my heart but I don’t give into the pleas. I pull the covers

back and settle him there. Juliana seeks Nicky in the bed and she

curves her head under his arm, near his torso. I pull the cover over

them and surround them with my arm. Playing with their hair until

their sleepy eyes close. I check Noodle to make sure there are no

knots on her head. I check her pulse to make sure it’s strong. She’s

content with Zaza and Nicky. Her body hit the floor with force, but it

wasn’t a hard concussion-inducing fall. She was more or less

traumatized at just falling from the bed. When they’re both sound

asleep with purring notes escaping their mouths, I kiss each of their

heads and slip out of the room.

John’s in the room when I tear in and start going through my clothes

to find something to sleep in. He watches me silently. Unnerving me

with his silence. I drop my towel and pull on a pair of silky bottoms

and a tank top, not caring if he’s watching my nude body or not. I’m

so upset that I can’t look at him.

“Are they asleep?”

Walking slowly to the window that he’s standing in front of, I stop a

few inches in front of him. Without thinking about why or what I’m

doing, I lift my hand and cross his face with all my might. His face

is like stone when he turns quickly back to me. “I wanted to see what

hurting you felt like since you’ve been so good at doing that to me.

Surprisingly, it does nothing for me. If you want to check out, then

check out but don’t make my children suffer while you decide. I swear

on everything that’s holy, you really fucked up today. You might have

been trying to hurt me but you only ended up hurting them.” I close my

eyes. “I’ve never known you to be a coward. What you did today was

cowardly.”

I turn to walk away but he catches me by the elbow.

[John]

You can actually hear when your heart breaks; the crunch of your soul

while it anguishes, when the woman who you’d give your very last

breath for comes to grips with what kind of man you truly are. Heroes

die hard deaths.

My disappearance was self-serving. I stayed away to make her worry

about me. Well, not initially—I left hoping that she might follow me;

she didn’t and revenge seemed a perfect punishment. I recognize that

move as purely self-motivated self-destructiveness. That is how I’d

describe myself right now, standing in the face of Marlena’s rare show

of brutality.

She doesn’t hit as hard; but the fact that she hit me is hard to

stomach. It’s not who we are as a couple. But this is becoming so

common to us that she doesn’t flinch when my hands-of their own

volition-imprison her pale, trembling arms squeezing until my knuckles

stretch white with anger. White—the color of purity except when the

white heat of anger begins to blind my better conscience. She

stubbornly holds my eyes with her shining golden ring hazel eyes that

turn mossy with anger.

“I’m not Alex North.” I tell her clearly.

She takes this silently, biting into her bottom lip. Watching me as if

she can’t figure out if I’m him or not. Certainly my grip on her arms

isn’t erasing his image from her mind. It takes a real man to admit

his wrongs. I pride myself on taking responsibility for wrongs.

“I love you.”

“I love you too,” she allows, swallowing hard. “I love you more than

my life. I’ve proven it over and over again, haven’t it? I left my

life, the comfort of my family because I love you so much. And all

I’ve been is punished for my choices-by you and the people who were

hurt because of my love for you.” Her children. Roman. She did choose

me; I wasn’t free then to choose her. “I don’t own my heart anymore.

It’s all yours. I can’t even begin to think how I can take it back,”

her voices strains. “I don’t want it back.”

“What do you want,” I ask humbly. My own heart is pounding anxiously

in its chambers as I watch her sad countenance grow introspective. Her

lashes curl against her cheek as she closes her eyes to my intense

gaze. The need to reach out and stroke her full bottom lip is great.

So is the burden of her vulnerability igniting the fire between my

legs.

“For you to stop punishing me. I chose you,” she whispers, prying my

fingers loose from her arms. “I’ve always chosen you. Those babies in

my parents’ bed belong to you and me. Our love is the reason that they

exist.”

What is it about vulnerability that makes me want to wrap her legs

around me and thrust in to with abandon? Her shiny eyes, threatening

to burst with tears? Her shaky voice? The way her arms cross under her

breast? The unbridled blonde hair hanging over her shoulders?

“You chose me,” I say, not sentimentally the way she said. “You had

this great life and you chose me over it. And then you gave me

children.” My babies. Created in the fierce passion between us, with

our crazy need, because we can’t ever get enough of each other’s

bodies. The moans and cries that we welcome during our lovemaking went

into the melody that made my babies. And then she carried each on in

the body I know so well. Every added curve was a result of me leaving

my seed behind to create these perfect raven-haired babies that keep

us so closely tied together. “And ever since I’ve been waiting for

someone to ring the death bell.”

“The death bell?”

“By all rights, you didn’t belong to me.” And maybe I blame her for

that; but I’ve never been able to admit it until now. “I took you from

another man-mind, body, and soul. You were supposed to be happy with

Roman but you made love to me. I gave you our baby so that I could

keep you…at least that is how I rationalized my actions back then. I

wanted you so much that I made you love me.” The sad truth of my pain.

My real pain. “And maybe you weren’t ever supposed to be mine. Maybe,

you weren’t ever supposed to love me back.”

I expect her to stop me. To correct something in my revisionist view

of our past. And yet, she doesn’t. Marlena, my beautiful lover exhales

deeply and turns away from me again. She turns her back, crushing my

vulnerability under her retreating footsteps.

“Don’t walk away from me,” I call behind her.

I used to believe I owed everything to her. She brought me out of a

dark place when she showed me how much light there was in love.

What happened to that woman?

“Do I have to open a vein, Marlena,” I ask, trailing her into the

hallway, down the stairs. “Is that what it will take to get you to

care? If I were some outlandish doctor with Mommy issues would that

make you turn around and deal with me? Or your obsessive ex-husband?

What does it take for you to finally get around to being real with

me?”

She pauses in the foyer near the front door. If you break the thing

you love most, then you can’t expect love from it.

“Doc?”

She turns around, her hair flying wildly about her face. “I’ve been

waiting for that…” she lifts her fingers to her mouth. “I’ve been

waiting ever since you left me for you to call me Doc again, and

really mean it.” One little word that means so much to both of us.

“You’ve been punishing me by withholding those little things that I’ve

grown accustomed to. I didn’t think this,” her hands fall forward and

open, “would be easy. I prayed for it; I hoped that I could love you

through the pain and anguish. My mother thinks you’re abusing me. The

doctor—Dr. Palmer—believes that we’re exhibiting early signs of a

physical and emotionally abusive relationship.” Tears that hurt my

chest roll down her cheeks. “But I don’t believe any of those

diagnoses because I know you. I know you,” she points sharply at me.

“You couldn’t hurt me. And you tell me that over and over again. You

say you love me and I believe you. And I tell you the same, hoping

that you’ll believe it.” She sobs into her clenched fist that is

pressed into her mouth. Her tears are usually my cue to pull her into

my arms to collapse against my sturdy chest. She puts her hand up to

stop me from doing so. “For a year I’ve wanted nothing more than to be

yours again. I wanted that even more than I knew—I jumped at the

chance to recapture what we had. Maybe that was our mistake, thinking

that we could put us back together so easily.” She twists her body so

that her face isn’t visible. Her shoulders shake under the weight of

forceful tears. “Nicky and Juliana were terrified that you were never

coming back. I felt guilty because I thought I was the reason you

wouldn’t. How could you do that to them? Why do you keep hurting us?”

If I wait long enough, she’ll have to turn around and show me her

face. If I hold out answering her, Marlena will have to see why I’m

not responding to her.

“You talk about loving you as if I had no choice. I fell in love with

you. I’m not ashamed of my feelings. I’ve come to terms with our

pasts. All of it.” Her sobs soften. “I can’t love you if you won’t

allow me to love you.”

That’s it.

“Maybe you don’t love me.”

Her back straightens and she runs her fingers through her hair. “Oh,

and the last twenty years of my life have been an illusion.”

“You’re the one who can’t look at me,” I remind her. “I’m standing

here trying to gut out the truth in this mess. This bullshit, façade

of a life that we’ve pulled and pinned together. I’m giving you what

you always ask of me and you’re refusing to see it.”

She turns slowly on her heel. The most magnetic characteristic about

Marlena are her eyes. They articulate her feelings when words fail

her.

“Façade,” she says cautiously, “as in inauthentic? I can assure you

that my love for you has always been very real. No bullshit—as you put

it. Or falsity. I love you. You can challenge that as much as you

want.”

“I’m not challenging you. I’m trying to get you to see this my way,” I

say calmly. “You’re right, I’m trying to hurt you. I’m trying to make

you pay and I can’t stop myself from doing it.”

“But I love you,” she whispers in a small voice.

“Doc, this isn’t about love.”

“Well, then what?”

“Hurt and betrayal. Do those words ever cross your mind? You betrayed

me with another man. You betrayed me too much with other man.” I

remind her again. She conveniently forgets that I saw her in his arms.

That before my babies were in her womb, Roman’s was there first. “I

can’t erase those things. There. I’ve said it.”

“Yes, you have.” She reflects sadly. “But I can’t keep paying for

those crimes.” Her tears continue. “I won’t keep paying for them. You

can’t have it both ways. You can’t love and hate me with equal

measure.”

“Well, that’s the price we pay…” stopping myself from completely

shattering our tattered images.

“The price we pay for what?”

“Loving each other,” I say quietly. “But this isn’t the time for this

conversation. We’re both raw from Martha’s illness.”

“It’s too late to pull back now John. You’ve said things that need to

be discussed further.”

“No, I’ve said things that you already knew. We both know what’s at stake.”

She narrows her eyes suspiciously. “What?”

“If you don’t know, then we’re in bigger trouble then we both know.”

“John—” I interrupt her when she brushes her hair away from her face.

“Don’t. Just let it rest.”

“Fine, I’m going to sleep in Mama and Daddy’s room tonight. We could

use a break.”

“Yeah.”

“Goodnight.”

Chapter 22

“That ye maybe, the children of your father.”

–Spoken by Martin Luther King Jr.

Nicholas peeks over the wall that his sister’s small arm forms over

the bridge of his nose. His daddy is still not here, neither is his

mommy. He sees the shadows that look like animals prowling along the

walls. Each one angrier than the next, larger and seemingly coming

across the way to snatch him and Joy away. Nicholas opens the other,

bravely. His daddy isn’t afraid of monsters on walls. His daddy is

braver than Hulk. And if he were there, he’d want Nicholas to protect

his baby sister.

He wants to do that always, always keep Joy from being afraid and

hurt. Because boys do things like that. His daddy is that way with his

mommy and his sisters.

The monsters aren’t real, Nicholas convinces himself opening both

eyes. The only real thing in the room is his baby sister. He is happy

because Joy is still there, and she isn’t crying anymore. Her tears

and pain make his stomach hurt. When she fell, he felt the impact of

her collision as much as she did. He felt sad when his mother’s face

twisted in fear as she dropped to her knees to help Joy. He felt even

sadder when his daddy came, after he’d been missing him all day, and

his mother used a voice that Nicky didn’t recognize when she talked to

his father. Then he didn’t know what to make of his mother’s taking

them away from their daddy.

Joy cried hard then. She was telling him that she wanted daddy to hold

her, but Nicky didn’t know how to tell her that something else was

happening. Their mother was acting strange and their father didn’t

know what to make of her behavior.

They talk to each other so that only they understand. He’d held her

hand after their mother lay them down in bed and communicated that he

would be there when she closed her eyes. And when she did, he finally

decided to allow himself to get some sleep too.

Now, he’s awake again listening for some sign of life. Joy’s sucking

her thumb lightly with her legs tucked against her belly. The weight

of her head is holding Nicky’s shoulder down. They’re not in the

bright room that reminds him of the sun.

He looks around–Nana’s room but she’s not home yet either.

Clearing his face of Joy’s silky strands of hair, Nicky slides away

from his sister. He makes sure that her eyes are still closed after

she curls against the pillow in the absence of his body. She likes to

pretend sometimes for their mommy that she isn’t sleep because like

Nicky, she likes Mommy’s face kissing all over them when they wake up.

Nicky likes his mother’s smell, knows it intimately, and searches for

it when it’s not around.

This time, Joy is really sleeping.

Nicky climbs down the side of his Nana’s bed. His quest is clear: find

where his Mommy and Daddy are. He pokes his chest out toward the wall.

He’s not afraid. Trekking across the room, he stands on his tippy-toes

to try the doorknob. No such luck. That scares him because he doesn’t

like to be locked away. It reminds him of the hospital where he was

kept and unable to move or leave. He doesn’t like to be confined in

spaces. He closes his ear over the door surface, straining to hear

anything. It seems so dark when he can’t hear anything except the

eerie echoing of the night outside the bedroom window.

He wants his mother. She wouldn’t leave them; she never leaves them

alone. She always has a hug for them when they open their eyes. Nicky

loves to see her there, loves being called her baby boy. Love feeling

braver because he has a brave Mommy. He also loves his sister. Nicky

crawls back into the bed beside Joy.

He wasn’t always happy that she was there. When she came, Daddy left.

When she was still in their Mommy’s belly, they left the only place

Nicky knew as home to move away from Daddy. He thought that Joy made

Daddy go away. Sometimes when he gets mad at her, he still thinks that

it’s her fault. He used to be their baby. He used to have all of their

attention and then Joy came into their lives, Daddy left and they both

had to share them—one at a time.

He loves her. He always has loved her. Sometimes he feels jealous of

her because daddy always says she’s his little princess. And he kisses

her all over. Their daddy kisses him too but he’s now a big brother.

Big brothers have to be brave and need mommies and daddies less than

baby sisters do.

Nicky understands that. It doesn’t mean that he didn’t like being the

only baby and having them all to himself. Daddy and Mommy were always

there with Nicky before Joy came. When he got sick, they never left

him, not ever.

And they would never leave him in a dark room to face the monsters alone.

Nicky scrambles out of bed again. Joy will wake up soon. And he has to

go to the potty. He tries the doorknob again. His hands slip on the

cold knob because he is too short to get a good grip. Surveying his

surroundings, he spots a hatbox near his nana’s dresser. He slides it

across the floor to prop it in front of the door. When he is finally

eye level with the formidable doorknob, he turns it slightly to pull

the door back.

Blinking against the light, he waits until his eyes adjust. He’s

getting used to his grandparents house. It’s not like either of his

houses, but he’s comfortable prowling through the hallway looking for

his parents.

He remembers the need for a bathroom and pads down the hall toward the

bathroom. Toward the noise, the soft sobbing behind the bathroom door

that is left slightly open. Nicholas peeks through the slit of light.

His mommy. The same way that his stomach tightens and aches for Joy is

also the way it hurts for his mother.

He understands that he cries when he can’t tell his parents what he

wants or needs from them. He also cries from being hurt. He feels

burdened by the sobs coming from his mother. He wants his daddy. His

father can make her feel better, the way that he does for his sister

when she’s crying.

He remembers how his mommy yelled at his daddy; he decides to comfort

her himself. Pushing the door open wider, so that he can actually see

his mother, he realizes that it’s his daddy that’s making her cry. He

slams his eyes shut when his mother’s head falls back against the rim

of the tub. That’s where his parents are, with his daddy moving

against his mother. He peeks laying one hand over his eye. It scares

him that his daddy’s teeth dig into his mother’s neck—like a vampire.

Nicky’s chest feels heavy, and his fear steals the breath he is trying

to take freely. He forgets that he has to use the bathroom when his

mommy cries louder. He’s hurting her, upsetting Nicky.

He clumsily bumps into the tub with his fist raised. “Don’t hurt my

mommy,” he cries punching his daddy’s arm. Warm liquid seeps down his

leg as he continues to pound into his father’s arm.

His mother pushes his father away, sitting up to stroke Nicholas’

face. “Nicholas.”

He doesn’t believe her. He doesn’t want his father touching either of

them when he reaches to stop Nicky from hitting him. “Get off my

mommy.”

“Nicholas, don’t hit your father.” She gets out of the tub and wraps a

towel around her. “Nicholas?” She bends down. “Baby, Mommy’s fine.

Come here.” He pulls back from her and moves in front of her.

“No Mommy.” He’s determined to protect his mother. He stares at his

father, standing defiantly protecting his mother. He pushes her hand

away. “No Mommy.”

¥

[Marlena]

“That broke your heart,” I say, noticing the dismal look mapping

John’s face. Age lines crease the skin around his eyes with the slight

frown turning the corners of his mouth.

“What?”

“Nicky.” I remind him. Though, I don’t think the image is far from

either of our minds, as we lay spent in each other’s arms. I curl into

his side, lifting my leg across his hips. “That really broke your

heart honey,” I muse, tangling my fingers around the chest hair

beneath my cheek. “I’m sorry about that.” He dips his chin to my hair

as his fingers slide up and down my arm, covered in sheen of our

mutual perspiration.

He accepts my apology, silently. I made love to him just as quietly.

Only after Nicholas calmed down and stopped fighting of both us, and

only after John inaudibly left the room to collect his thoughts

because Nicholas wouldn’t allow him to touch me after I lifted him up

and carried him out of the bathroom. He wouldn’t let his father

anywhere near me without voicing indignant anger. He screamed so

loudly that I fought the urge to cover my ears. I plied him with my

soft voice, reassuring him that I wasn’t hurt by allowing his fingers

to wander across my skin. The particular way he’d cried out and lunged

at his father when he found us making love is as angry as I’ve ever

seen him.

Nicholas’ horrified look shamed me into covering my body and pushing

John from the juncture between my legs. My child’s terror brought me

out of the lust-filled fog of our make-up sex. His anger reminded me

of the reason I’d slipped into bed beside them instead of with John.

Children have the power of bringing a sense of order to the chaos.

Before Nicky crept into that bathroom, I was allowing myself the

permission to forgive John for leaving the children and me to fret

about his absence. John’s power over me is not something I can begin

to understand. I simply bend to that power and offer myself back to

him.

Who cares about the linguistics of how I got there in the bathtub,

shaking from the anticipation of lovemaking. Who cares whether any of

that made any sense? Not Nicky and certainly not John because all that

mattered in the end is that our choices had again assailed our child’s

sense of peace and calmness.

And on the merit of Nicky being his father’s son, I sought John to

heal his confusion. Or to make us both feel less destructive. The best

tool I have to do any of that is with my body. It’s maybe sad, even a

sick addiction to quell any sense of unwanted emotion with sex. And

maybe I sought John because even in my sadness over all that’s

happened I still need him to make me feel as if we can get over the

humps that fragment our already frayed ends.

What I should have said—instead of climbing into his lap—is that he

can’t have it both ways. Not the anger and love, not my body and my

pain but I couldn’t say those words—I couldn’t find those words. He

was in pain and my only instinct was to heal him. It mattered very

little that we were in the openness of the dining room where I’d

shared so many meals with my parents.

I wanted to erase that look, that insecure look that made his eyes

with unshed tears broke my heart.

And he allowed me to. I stripped him of his insecurity and the towel

tied around his hips. I silenced him when he tried to speak and asked

him to allow me to make him feel good. Ultimately, we both needed to

feel good. You don’t wonder why you need to have every part of your

body connected to the person who has brought you to the edge of

frustration. I’ll tell you why you don’t—because it doesn’t matter.

What matters most is that you know love exists in the nastiness. You

know that somehow this wouldn’t make sense to people who aren’t a part

of the relationship but to you, and more definitively to him, all of

the parts that exists equal love.

So many times over these few days, I’ve wondered how I can keep coming

back. Keep giving my power away. Keep the bond that is begging to be

severed between us. I know in the way he kisses me all I need to know.

The hard, possessive hold of his mouth over my lips tells me. That you

can speak through sexual mechanics is a gift as well as a curse. I can

tell John in my sincerest voice and reasoning that I’m with him even

until the end, but he doesn’t understand that better than guiding his

hands to caress my inflamed flesh. Allowing him to lay me down on top

of my mother’s dining room table is a sort of bargaining tool. If I’m

sexual and wanton, then the pain stops and we can move into the

loving. I love you so damn much. I need you more than I need anything

else. Promise me. I need you to belong to me. Only me. These are the

affirmations he mutters while prying my legs gently apart. You hear

words that declare possessiveness over your being and they don’t make

a dent in your conscious. Not with John pressed so firmly against my

hips. His need making a hard indentation against my belly. What do you

say to those things? What do you do when all you want to do is stop

the words and have him swell inside you? How do you avoid seeing the

situation for what it’s worth—that you’re in the purest meaning of the

words fucking your husband on the dining room table. You don’t. You

don’t ask. You don’t worry. You don’t wonder. You open yourself up and

take all of him inside, even as painful as that all is. More than

physical, more than even emotional but spiritually debunk of any sense

of you.

And that’s what I did. I wrapped myself firmly around him to allow his

penetration to feel weightless. I held his face against mine and

pleaded with him to look at me while he kissed me. While he melded our

bodies together, using his body as the guidepost.

But now that we’re finally finding our breath, I’m wishing that we’d

talked instead. I love him and it should be more than enough. I can’t

count the sound of anyone else’s heartbeat as painstakingly as I do

when I’m sprawled over him.

“I don’t want to fail them,” he sighs into my hair. “I’m their daddy.

Did you see Nicky’s face?”

“Honey, he loves you. He worships you.”

“He thinks I’ve hurt you; or he’s afraid that I’m going to hurt you.”

“He’s two years old John. Seeing the archaic act of sex between his

parents isn’t exactly normal. I’ll reassure him that I’m fine. He’ll

forget.”

“I think he’s seen too much…” he says.

“No, he just doesn’t understand what was happening. You were hovering

over me; I was calling your name. It’s confusing to him. We’ll explain

it to him.” He lifts up, bringing my body with his from the surface of

the table. He twists around to grab the towel hanging on the edge of

the table. “John?” Handing me the towel, he turns around to climb off

the table. “John, tell me what you’re thinking.”

“You always do this, don’t you?” He turns his back to me. “You were

pissed off at me. Why did you make love to me?”

“Because I love you,” I say touching his back. “I want you to know how

much I love you.”

“Is any of this making sense to you?”

“When has love ever made sense to us?”

“You don’t have to do anything that you don’t want to do. You know

that, don’t you?”

I don’t exactly understand the meaning of the hidden words. “I

know…but what is making you feel so…”

“Maybe you should focus on the children, more than me,” he suggest

turning back to face me. “I’m the least of the worries.”

“Don’t do this right now. Nicky was frightened by the whole thing. It

doesn’t make you a bad father. It doesn’t mean that he will stop

loving you. Why is this bothering you so much?”

“Because,” he says taking my face between his hands, “I finally saw

the way you look at me when I’m upset with you….but I saw that in

Nicky’s eyes.” He whispers brokenly.

“Oh honey.”

“And I don’t like that look baby. What are we doing to each other?”

“You said I didn’t love you,” I say to add another perspective. “You

don’t believe that, do you?”

“Sometimes I do believe that or I wouldn’t have said so.”

“John, how could you believe that I don’t?”

He hugs me heavily. “I love you.”

“John, I know that. But do you know that I love you as well?”

“I know when I need to know.” He stops me from responding with a kiss.

“I hear what you don’t say to me too,” he mumbles against my lips,

“and I’m worried.”

“Don’t worry.”

“You’ll always be here?” He asks oddly. “Is that what you are going to

tell me next?”

I cup my hand around his neck and pull him closer. “Yes, I’m not going

anywhere. I’d never leave you.”

“Don’t make promise you can’t keep,” he warns. He closes his eyes and

presses his mouth to mine again.

“I don’t make empty promises.”

Chapter 23

“Forgotten is forgiven.”

F. Scott Fitzgerald

[John]

I wonder why the romantic poets never wrote a poem about the curse of

being in love with a beautiful woman.

It is a curse.

Gripping her hand tighter, I wrap my arm around her waist. “Do you

have any idea how sexy you are?” She bends her neck slightly,

revealing the delicate curve of her neck. An oval diamond hangs

against her throat. “You look beautiful.”

A smile tugs the corners of her glossy pink mouth. “Thank you honey.”

I press a kiss to her sun bronzed shoulder, exposed in the black

sleeveless sheath hugging her curves. My intimate knowledge of her

body is sound. The sexy scent radiating from her skin is the effects

of perfume dabbed behind her ears and below her hairline.

“You smell great.” She closes her arms around my back. “Can we skip

this celebration?” I suggest, nuzzling her neck. My skin tingles under

the pressure of her raking fingernails. The swell of her cleavage

presses firmly against the keyhole neckline of her dress.

She smiles slyly. “You know we can’t do that John…not right now,

anyway,” she winks. Her dress defines the roundness of her curves as

she twirls out of my arms. “Mama is going to be surprised; I hope

Daddy isn’t having trouble convincing her to come tonight.”

“She’s going to love this…and you for planning it.”

“It’s all thanks to you.” She slants her mouth over mine, sliding her

tongue into my mouth. “Thank you for bringing all of our family here

to Colorado. This wouldn’t be a party without all of them.”

“I love your parents as if they were my own. I want to be together

with you, sixty years later, still in love like them.” I say thrusting

my tongue into the depths of her mouth. “Maybe we can steal five

minutes before everyone else shows up.” I groan, flattening my hands

across her rear. “What do you think?”

“I think,” She breathes, “you should calm down big boy.”

“Are you turning me down?” I pout.

“I’m taking a rain check.” She says separating from me. “There’s

Addison.” She rubs her fingers across my lips, wiping away the

remnants of her lip-gloss.

Frank and Martha’s anniversary party planner glides into the room on

4-inch heels that add height to the diminutive brunette carrying a

leather portfolio. “Dr. Evans. Mr. Black.”

Addison was a capable delegate for Marlena when it came down to

decorating and preparing for Martha and Frank’s anniversary party. I

left my checkbook and Marlena behind while I flew back to Salem to

attend to some business for two weeks. They worked together with the

result being the lavishly decorated banquet room of the art museum.

Metallic silver and black silk bunting hangs from corner to corner in

the vast room with hardwood floors. A center table frames the room

into a circular shape that allows the guests an unobstructed view of

Martha and Frank. Grayscale photographs of Martha and Frank’s young

smiling faces stare out from the walls where they’re hung

strategically.

Marlena and Eric, who were adamant in celebrating Martha’s recovery

and the longevity of the Evan’s marriage, created the long list of

invited guests to celebrate with us. From Frank’s old military friends

to Martha’s bridge club members and high-school girlfriends. No

expense spared, I gave Marlena clearance to make this a memorable

celebration.

“This is wonderful Addison. You’ve done a magnificent job here.”

“Thank you. I hope your parents will be pleased.”

Marlena takes my hand. “I’m sure they will.”

It’s easy to forget that before Marlena belonged to anyone, she

belonged to her parents. She’s my baby, not in a sexist, demeaning way

and she’s their baby, too. It’s self-evident, the mutual admiration.

Frank holds onto her waist as they greet the guests visiting their

table. The appreciative smile curving her mouth is for them. There are

faces that I don’t know; ones who seem very familiar with Marlena; men

with hugs and kisses; women who share a few words before moving past

the table. She gives Martha a look of concern after every few hugs.

It’s been a speedy recovery but Marlena has been careful not to ask

too much of her mother. Refusing to let her lift Nicky or Jules,

Marlena has also taken over the management of her parents’ house; she

has involved herself in Martha’s rehabilitation process as well. But

looking at the three of them, standing under the light of a delicate

chandelier, sickness is an afterthought. Martha looks well; Marlena

has made sure of it.

Her beauty is always evident when she’s this happy. Her cheeks carry a

healthy pink hue. Her eyes are sparkling. She’s the most beautiful

woman in the room. Soft curls frame her shoulders to accentuate the

sensuality of her appearance. The clingy fabric of the sheath dress

molds the curve of her breast and hips. It stops just above her knee.

Her legs are naked; her feet clad with peep-toed heels.

Jules toys with the charms dangling from her mother’s wrist. She is

propped on Marlena’s hip dragging the hem of her mother’s dress with

her squirming legs. From time to time, her eyes flow to the checkered

dance floor near the band where Nicky and Rachel are spinning around

to the lazy strains of an Ella Fitzgerald instrumental.

Marlena extended Rachel an invitation along with the rest of Salem. On

the plane ride over, her quietness alarmed me. We used to have an easy

rapport until I found out who she truly was. I’ve purposely distanced

myself from her since she helped save Nicky’s life, but my son is

obviously comfortable in her presence. He’s grinning with wide eyes to

match his mouth. He’s suited in a tuxedo that had Marlena’s eyes

shining with tears. The children that I’ve raised with her are milling

around the room. Sami and Eric, who seemingly stick to each other

whenever they are in each other’s presence, do their part in greeting

guests. Roman was a part of the contingent of Salemites travelling on

my plane as well Caroline, Bo, and Hope. Their faces are sprinkled in

the crowd.

“She’s still gorgeous,” a masculine voice says to my back. “You’re a

very lucky man.”

My wife’s ex-husband extends his hand toward me. Don Craig. I recover

quickly from the shock of seeing him. I’ve never seen him in person;

I’ve never had a need to. He looks older than he should. Lined eyes

and weathered skin.

“Thank you,” I offer my hand in return. “This is a first.” I say

confidently. “It’s nice to finally meet you. I’ve heard a great deal

about you.” Is it appropriate to call him Don or Mr. Craig? He seems

so much older that I almost feel compelled to the latter.

“Ah, a polite man,” he chuckles, slapping a hand over my shoulder. “No

wonder she’s been with you for all of these years. She has a wicked

sense of humor. How are you treating my girl?”

Eyeing Marlena, I casually answer, “Now that would be Marlena’s place

to speak. I never presume to speak for my wife.” I scratching my

chest.

“That’s good. I had to learn that.”

This, I’m not prepared for. Not the smugness of him knowing her in

ways that maybe I’ve never gotten to know her. He married her before I

ever knew her.

“She’s still daddy’s little girl. Marlena Evans is a formidable

woman.” He says smiling knowingly.

“She is,” I accept, watching Marlena’s gaze turn to our direction.

“She’s always going to be Frank’s little girl though. No matter what

other man is in her life.” Her smile fades.

“Your little girl is beautiful.” We look toward the center of the room.

“Thank you.”

“Marlena’s sent me pictures of them both,” he reveals without missing

a beat. “The boy is lovely as well. Is that him dancing with Marlena’s

daughter Rachel?” Don surveys Nicholas circumspectly. “He and D.J.

have similar features.”

“That’s amazing,” I say. “Marlena says that our son favors me.”

Don narrows his gaze on Nicholas. “Except those eyes; I’d know her

eyes anywhere.”

“They are pretty amazing.”

Marlena bends to settle Jules on her feet. She whispers in her

father’s ear and starts toward us with Jules in tow. My daughter’s

dark curls spring along her shoulders as she keeps pace with her

mother’s long strides. The floor-length dress that Jules picked for

the party drags along the floor, hiding her sandal clad feet.

She smiles eagerly when she sees it’s me that they’re walking toward.

“Daddy.” Jules’ drops Marlena’s hand. She pads past Don, the virtual

stranger, to barrel into my opened arms. “Kiss me-me daddy.” She

requests taking my face between her tiny hands to shower my face with

kisses.

“Don?” It’s said cryptically, with measured excitement, with her eyes

locked on me as she accepts his hug. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

“Miss the 60th anniversary of the couple who gave me my favorite ex

wife,” he tells her smiling lightly. “You look beautiful. Haven’t aged

a day since the last time I saw you.”

Marlena steps back with Don’s hands clasping hers between them.

“You’re kind,” she blushes. “You look wonderful.”

“You’re a great liar.” He keeps a firm seize of her wrists. He holds

her in front of him and nods approvingly. “I can’t believe you gave

birth to two children within two years. And you still look like a

million bucks. What’s the secret?”

She looks over her shoulder at me. “Love.”

“Always been a sucker for that,” Don says eyeing me again, “haven’t you?”

“Don.” Marlena pulls awkwardly from his grasp. “I know you’ve met John

informally.” She sweeps a nervous glance between us. “This is our

daughter, Juliana.” Jules hides her face in my chest at the

introduction. Marlena pries her face out and asks her to say hello. My

daughter waves and dips her face back to my chest.

“She’s as beautiful as the pictures,” he says touching the curls

falling down Jule’s back. “And that Nicholas, all that dark hair….like

D.J.”

Marlena isn’t expecting the comparison. She swallows past the lump in

her throat. “Yes, he does have that.” She turns to me. “He’s

definitely his father’s son.”

“That he is,” Don accepts closing her hand over Marlena’s shoulder.

Watching the familiarity of this man with my wife is a powerful

combination of jealous and temperance. On one hand, I know that she’s

mine; but on the other, he has known her in ways that I haven’t. He’s

seen her through the death of their baby son. He was the man who

helped fix the damage that Alex North did to her. Don is as much her

husband as I am. We’re both exes in that way. We’re both beneficiaries

of her love.

“Mama and Daddy would love to see you. Daddy saw you come in,” Marlena

says patting the hand that is still on her shoulder.

“Yeah, I’m going to head over.” He scans the crowd. “Is that Roman?”

Marlena nods. “It is. He’s with the twins.”

“Oh, I haven’t seen them in years. I’ll head over to them after I’ve

spoken with Martha and Frank.”

“Good. They’d like that.”

Before he walks away, he feels comfortable enough to press a small

kiss to Marlena’s mouth. My eyes shut voluntarily. I hold Jules tight

enough to make her squirm against my chest for release.

“I’m sorry baby,” I breathe into her hair. “Did daddy hurt you?” She

shakes her head, poking her bottom lip out.

“Come here baby,” Marlena reaches for her. Jules climbs into her arms,

wrapping her legs around her mother’s waist. “It’s okay. Right,

daddy’s just strong. He doesn’t realize how strong sometimes.”

Especially when I hurt her is what she doesn’t tell Jules. Marlena

lifts her eyes to mirror my stare. Grappling what I perceive as a

slight against my relationship with her, I acquiesce to my checked

anger. “Are you okay?”

“Fine.” I say simply. “You?”

She tips he rhead forward. “I forgot to tell you that I invited Don.”

“You did,” I reflect dispassionately. “It’s fine. I’m not upset

Marlena. You don’t have to treat me like I’m a dangerous man who can’t

control himself.”

“I know that,” she relents. “I just forgot. And yes, so that we don’t

have to do this later…I have been in contact with Don over the last

year or so.”

“I can see that.” I kiss her quickly, walking away to find Bo.

[Marlena]

Being in Don’s arms feels safe, I could even describe the feeling as

normal. Dancing with him in this room, between the swell of other

couples I can remember what it felt like to be a part of Don’s ideal

golden couple.

“Baby, you’re still one helluva woman. You know?”

“You never change,” I chuckle. “Do you realize that?”

“Why should I doll? I like me,” he says with his charming, politician

smile. His Irish eyes peer dauntingly into me. “Once upon a time, you

liked me too.”

“Don.” I shake my head laughing, allowing myself freedom to lean into

his chest. “Are you trying to charm me for any particular reason?”

He stops swaying. “No, in all honesty I’m very happy to see you in

person.” Age has given him a wide girth around his waist. Heaviness in

his hands. A foot taller than me, I still fit perfect beneath his

chin. “Is your hair blonder by chance?”

He backs away from my light slap against his chest. “Is your hair grayer?”

“Touche.” I settle back in his arms and start moving with the music.

The easiness of being with Don, of laughing and reminiscing is

freeing. The eyes are watching, the mouths chirping. But they haven’t

a clue. What the world perceives of my outside appearance is never

aligned perfectly with the inward. I often don’t know what is

pertinent when it is.

Don and I—the reconnection started over an email. Desperation didn’t

cause me to look up my ex-husband. In fact, a simple business

transaction from our marriage that was never resolved. I contacted his

lawyer and Don contacted me. And through random emails we’ve share the

details of our lives. His remarriage and divorce story led to my own

sordid tale.

Is it strange to have all three of my ex-husbands circling each

other—of course. It’s also a survey of my past to see these distinctly

different men I married.

Roman is far less open with me since our baby died. I don’t push the

relationship either. I think our past speaks for itself. He gives John

power over that. Don doesn’t. They don’t have the same history. The

guilt and pain that broke down my marriage to Roman are not the same

things that broke up Don and I. Don doesn’t know John as well as

Roman.

Roman would never feel comfortable anymore dancing with me. He’s more

comfortable being with Will and the twins, far away from me. Don has

no qualms about holding me close—he shouldn’t.

I know better. I should anyway. But I guess I feel free and rebellious

with Don. He’s my ex-husband. There is no possibility that we’ll ever

go back to being who we were 30 years ago, which is the kind of

easiness I need with my ex-husbands.

I search for three faces as I allow Don to lead me. My two youngest

babies and John.

Don tilts me backward. “You’re awfully quiet. You are doing one of two

things: thinking too much or stewing.” He reads my face as he helps

straighten my back and grabs my chin.

“What would I be stewing over?”

“You tell me,” he offers. “Or I could guess.”

“The babies,” I reveal looking over his shoulder. “I’m looking for the

rug rats because usually about this time, Juliana will want to strip

out of her dress and start streaking for the guests. She is a dainty

doll until you need to dress her up.” I laugh at the image filtering

my mind. “And if she’s sleepy, she’ll want to be held or it’ll turn

into a debate about her pacifier. Nicky is less demanding. He’s

probably following Rachel around like a puppy. I think he’s in love

with her.” I look and catch Don’s sad eyes sliding across the room.

“Are you okay?”

“Do you ever wonder?”

D.J.

“All the time. He would have been a wonderful son who made us both proud.”

Don looks past me, finding John and Nicholas at Mama and Daddy’s

table. Nicky has his grandpa engaged in an animated conversation. I

follow Don’s eyes. “He reminds me of our boy, baby.”

I run my hand down his cheek. “I know. I’m blessed and very grateful

for Nicky and Juliana. It’s wonderful. But I also know that your life

is full, Senator Craig. Let’s not get maudlin here.” I laugh as a way

to ease the sadness. “You and I both know you would have tired of your

little woman at home. You have exactly what you wanted.”

“I never loved her like I loved you,” he says hugging me. “Never since

either…and it’s not a line. Don’t look at me like that.” I tug my

bottom lip into my mouth. “I know you’re in love with him. I’m not

trying to damage that. Call me sentimental.”

“Sentimental.”

He tosses his head back laughing. “You’re still my favorite girl.” A

kiss to my cheek and we’re dancing again, laughing in each other’s

arms.

He interrupts the silence of our dance. “You have a real pit bull for

a husband.” Don and John are making eye contact. “I can see that he’s

not exactly happy with you and me, like this?” He pulls me closer to

emphasize his point.

“I must have a thing for pit bulls.” I say, lifting my eyebrow. “He’s

fine.” I hope.

“Would you like to go to him?”

“Are you sending me away?”

“Are you forgetting who I am? I’ve been in his shoes before.”

Untangling my arms from his shoulders, I rest my hands on my hips.

“What does that mean?”

“It’s cute that you still have no clue. Go on kiddo. I’ll be here when

you’re finished.” He shoos me away. “Go.”

Juliana collides with the backs. “Noodle.” I bend down and circle my

arms around her. She lies against my shoulder and murmurs in my ear,

an undecipherable rambling that matches her grim face. “You’re tired

baby.” She rubs her eyes with the back of her hand.

“No.” She cries, twisting her body away from me. “No no no no.” Noodle

shapes her mouth into an O. “Mommy noooo.” She screeches defiantly

into my chest. “No want sleep.”

“Noodle, calm down.” I struggle to keep her still. My high heels offer

nothing in the way of leverage while contending with my frustrated,

tired one year old. “Hey, hey. Look at mommy.” She turns away instead.

“Baby, look at mommy.”

“No mommy.” She shrugs my hand out of her hair.

Her father’s agile steps bring him to us with few strides. “What’s

wrong princess?” John says crouching beside us. He cranes his neck to

rest his cheek on hers. “Tell Daddy why you’re giving your mother such

a hard time.”

“No.” She declares stubbornly. I whisper what started her tantrum over

her head while she twirls her hair around her finger. “Zaza daddy?”

She asks, her eyes lit with hope.

“How about a dance with Daddy?” John offers instead. “Will you dance

with me princess? In this pretty dress and the pretty curls, you look

like Daddy’s princess. Princesses have to dance with their daddies.”

She becomes entranced by the thought. Princesses rule her world. She

loves the idea of being one for her daddy. “Dance daddy.” She whispers

against his cheek.

“Come here then.” John lifts her up and rests her bottom on top of his

arm while the other holds her arm outstretched. He kisses the bridge

of her nose and is rewarded with her contagious smile. Her tantrum is

forgotten as her daddy glides her over the floor, spinning and dipping

her. The other couples open up a circle around them. John dances with

her until her smile is permanent, until Noodle’s eyes are wide with

excitement. He closes his hand over hers and pulls her cheek to his

shoulder when the song seamlessly changes into “Daughters” by John

Mayer.

By the chorus, I feel a tap on my shoulder. My daddy folds me into his arms.

Fathers, be good to your daughters

Daughters will love like you do

Sami and Roman join us on the floor.

Girls become lovers who

turn into mothers

So mothers be good to your daughters too

Reveling in being my father’s baby girl, reminds me uneasily of

someone else in the room. Looking over my daddy’s shoulder, I see her

head lowered. A real pain shoots through my heart.

I lead Daddy to her, extending my hand—clasped with his—to her. “Baby

girl, dance with us.”

Rachel lifts her head. The shock is registered in her eyes. “I can’t.”

“You can,” Daddy tells her. “Come on.”

He takes her hand, I take the other. We form a circle and start moving

to the strains of the guitar.

On behalf of every man

Looking out for every girl

You are the God and the

weight of her world

[John]

She should be allowed to be happy in the company of any man—without my

jealousy. Without my intrusive staring, that makes her turn those

hazel eyes away from me. She should be able to have the same trust

that she has in me.

But I’m not perfect. And once before she asked me for permission to be

imperfect in my eyes. That should extend to me in this case. I can’t

stop feeling out of control where she is concerned. There are too many

reminders of why resentment is a big part of our relationship. Too

many people.

Roman.

Rachel.

Don.

“Hey man.” Bo squeezes my shoulder. “What’s up? Are you okay?”

A smile isn’t enough to alleviate the worry in Bo’s face. “I’m good Beauregard.”

Bo rubs his chin and steps back to look me over. “Beauregard…this must

be serious. Talk to me.” He pats my back. “I don’t know if I need to

even ask,” Bo says following my gaze with his eyes. “Marlena?”

Across the crowd, she’s captivating the attention of two men I’d

rather she didn’t. Bo’s brother and Don. “Look at her Bo, she’s

beautiful.” Bo nods affirmatively. “I love her,” I tell the man who’s

been closer than a brother has. “I love her so much that it makes me

crazy to see that.”

Bo’s eyes slide to Roman and Don. “They were married.” He offers conciliatorily.

I agree silently. Everybody in the room knows that she has been

married to three men who are in this room. Everyone knows that she was

married to me and pregnant with Roman’s child. To be fair to Bo, I

smile sadly, as I throw my arm around his shoulder. She was pregnant

with my baby when she was Roman’s wife—she always reminds me of that

when I talk about the baby she lost. Only obsessed people remember the

tidbits that everyone else forgets.

“You have to give her some leeway,” he sighs. This is what people who

know Marlena try to do; they try to explain her actions because she’s

known for her transparency. “She doesn’t like to have unfinished

relationships. She hates the tension and anger,” Bo explains

knowingly. I allow him to finish, because he’s known her longer than

me. It’s not that I agree with his version of Marlena. It’s just this

is a woman who belongs to everyone who has ever loved her. “She has

children with Roman—I’m telling you what you already know. Believe me,

it’s not easy on any of them; I know you know what that’s like. You

couldn’t let her be out of your life either.”

“Sometimes I want to take her away from the world, and lock her away,” I admit.

She’s trying to pay attention to what Roman is saying, but her eyes

keep moving into my direction. Eric is at her side talking with Don,

who is standing in front of them. Her fingers are wrapped around

Eric’s arm.

“Are we talking about the same Marlena?” Bo asks sarcastically. “She

doesn’t like to be controlled. You know that. Look man, we’re all glad

that you two have finally gotten it together enough to get back

together. Do the right thing John.”

Juliana rushes to her mother’s side with her arms thrown up. “What’s that Bo?”

“Trust her.”

My baby girl’s body curls against her mother. Marlena coils her arm

around Jule’s after hitching her to her hip. Even if she’s done

everything in the world to hurt me, she’s been just as good a mother

to the little girl in her arms.

“She’s not going anywhere,” Bo assures me. “She hasn’t stuck around

this long out of duty and besides, everyone knows how much that woman

loves you. Look at her with your little girl over there. I bet she’s

wishing that you were over there, instead of over here tossing angry

looks her way.”

“Hey, I’m not—“ Bo stops me with his hand. Men understand without

words; Bo understands because of his relationship with Hope.

“Go over there man.”

I wrap my arm around her waist and kiss the warm back of her neck. Her

eyes find mine and I see the smile behind them, the hint of it on her

lips. “I’m sorry.” I mouth, tipping her chin so my lips slant over

her’s. “I’m an ass.” I say for her ears only. My daughter, who hears,

turns her head quickly around to me. She presses her finger against my

mouth to quiet me.

“Bad.” Jule’s says shaking her head at my offensive language. Widening

her eyes in a curious gaze, she swats my lips softly. “Bad Daddy.”

“Juliana.” Marlena chides, snatching Jule’s hand back. She softens her

voice after Jule’s looks at me remorsefully. “You don’t hit Daddy

Juliana; you don’t any hit anyone honey.”

I’m more affected by Jule’s drooping head than her soft tap. Tears

crowd her eyes after I lift her face up. Unsure if she should come to

my opened arms, Jule’s cowers against her mother’s neck.

“Noodle,” Marlena says soothingly, “Daddy isn’t mad at you. You did a

bad thing to daddy but you’re not a bad girl.” She reassures our upset

daughter. “No hitting, ever.” Marlena reiterates, looking into my face

and not the hidden face of my silent daughter.

“Princess, I’m sorry for upsetting you.” I whisper against her silk

curls. “Daddy needs a hug so bad right now from you that my heart

hurts.” She twists her head around slowly. Jule’s is definitely her

mother’s daughter, quick to forgive, eager to settle uneasiness.

“Please.” Marlena puts her into my arms and Jules’ automatically

circles my neck with her arms, squeezing with all her strength.

“That’s more like it.”

“I love Daddy.” She tells me. The missing pronoun doesn’t bother me. I

know that she meant to assure me of her love, but for the audience of

ex-husbands surrounding us, her broken language is even better. I’m

her Daddy. The strangers watching her tightening limbs against my body

don’t bother her. “Sorry Daddy.” She says kissing my unharmed chin.

“I forgive you baby. And I’ll stop saying bad words,” I promise,

winking at her. “I love you Jules.”

She wraps her arms around my shoulders and leans away from my chest.

“Daddy love Mommy,” she asks smiling.

I pull Marlena against my side, bending to kiss her forehead. “I love

your Mommy very much,” I assure her. “And Mommy and Daddy love you,

right?”

She tosses her curls with the affirmative nod of her head.

“My girl.” I say pulling her back to my chest. I often stop myself

from thinking about what would have happened without Nicky and Jules

coming into our lives. All the questions that arise from late-in-life

babies give me pause. Will we be available for them like younger

parents are? Are we preparing them for a world that we feel lost in?

Things that only come to mind because I’ve been married to a

psychiatrist. And because I worry, I don’t share my worry with

Marlena, but I feel anxious about what kind of parent I am. I’ve

always felt comfortable being a father; it was the only thing in my

life that ever made me feel as whole as loving Marlena. But I’m not

thick to the possibility that my outburst and rages have shaken them

up, even if they haven’t seen it with their own eyes. Why else would

my little girl think that bad means hitting? Parental cues? Marlena

doesn’t spank. Her discipline is patience with dialogue. Jule’s didn’t

see her mother hitting anyone. And though, I’ve never struck Marlena,

I wonder now, with Jule’s glued to my chest, if she has seen something

else that she took for hitting. A shake. Or a shove.

“Honey.” Marlena says squeezing my elbow. “Roman is speaking to you.”

He jams his hands into his pocket. “John.”

“Roman. I’m sorry; I was caught up in my little girl.” I say, not

missing the hint of envy in his face. “What were you saying?”

“We,” he tells me including Don, “were saying that you sure know how

to throw a party. This is all great man.”

“Thanks. It wasn’t all me, I only pay for things. You know, hand her a

card and watch her do the magic.”

Don’s comfortable laughing overpowers Roman’s awkward laugh. The

fundamental differences between us are clear. We are two men who

happened to share a name and woman for a time. I understand how that

weighs on him.

“She’s good at that still?” Don throws his hands up. “I should have known.”

“Don, you’ll never change.” Marlena adds, stroking my arm.

Don guffaws. “Why would I? I think my humor is my greatest charm.” He

says laughing again. “You couldn’t resist it when we were married.”

“That’s officially my cue to go,” Eric says, kissing his mother’s

cheek. “I’ll be over there.”

Marlena’s smile is tight as she watches him walk away.

“Weak stomach,” Don humors us, tweaking Roman’s shoulder. “I haven’t

even started on the fun part of our marriage.”

Roman chuckles. “Oh, let’s not talk about the olden days. We all know

you were prince charming and you swept the beauty queen off her feet.”

Don turns to Marlena with a wry grin. “Is he kidding? Haven’t you told

him about us?”

Roman nods. “I think I know all I need to know.”

“Well, maybe my friend, but I’ll never understand how she went from

prince charming to a cop.” He smirks. “Cop and doc? It’s cute and

sickening, isn’t it John?”

Shrugging, I notice Marlena’s nervousness. She smiles and relaxes

against the hand that I rub up and down her back. “All I know is that,

she’s mine now. I don’t think all the rest matters,” I remind them

without meaning to sound proprietary. My motions are contrary to that

because I pull her closer and hold Jule’s closer. Closer to me because

they are mine.

“I guess you’ve lost that feminist streak in your old age,” Don jokes,

rubbing Marlena’s cheek paternally. She blushes. “I guess since you’ve

been barefoot and pregnant twice now, you don’t have much to fight for

anymore. You’d have slugged me for being that way back then.”

Keeping myself from being unmoored by words that I perceive as digs is

easy. Marlena keeps her hand rubbing away while mine is still touching

her. Still connected to her while they stand in disjointed lines near

her. “I didn’t mean to be chauvinistic.”

Don looks me square in the eyes. “You just are.”

Marlena shakes her head. “Don.” She gets the humor that is not as

funny to me. “If you recall, you had moments of wanting a little lady

to sit at home. And besides all that, I was never a feminist.” She

adds smiling.

“You used to be,” Roman reminds her. “At least when I was married to you.”

“Well, that was a long time ago.” I say looking at Don and Roman

calmly. A loose smile hangs on my mouth. “She’s my girl now.”

“Yeah, lucky bas…” Don cups his mouth and points to Jules. “I wouldn’t

want to upset the little lady there. She’s a tough cookie. As I was

saying, you’re lucky.”

“Yes he is,” Marlena adds kissing my cheek. “He knows that.”

“Well, when is he going to make an honest woman out of you again?” Don

asks her. “Everyone can see that none of us have a chance with you

anymore.”

Taking measure of Don’s coy words, I look at him. “Were you coming

here to see if you had a chance?”

“You know what they say.” He lowers his voice. “There’s always a chance.”

“Not here,” I assure him curtly. Don quietly accepts my words and nods at me.

“Honey.” Marlena chides me. “He was kidding.”

“Were you Don? Was that just a joke?”

“You know me…I’m a kidder.”

“I’m getting to know you,” I remind him. He tightens his mouth and

looks at me suspiciously. Marlena looks away from his penetrating

eyes.

“I’m going to get a drink.” Don says breaking the awkward silence.

“Join me Roman?”

Roman agrees and they walk away together with their heads craned

together. “How often do you speak to him?” I wonder aloud.

“Daddy, dance.” Jule’s says when a song change catches her attention.

“Okay princess.” I pull Marlena to the dance floor with us. We put

Jule’s between our bodies and lock her in. “You’re daddy’s favorite

girl.” I whisper to my happy daughter, beaming under the lights. “Are

you going to answer me?” I ask Marlena.

“No.” She says simply as she slides her palm against mine and

intertwines our fingers. “Noodle, are you having fun?” Jule’s lies

against my shoulder, telling her mother yes. “She’s getting very

sleepy. I think I’m going to take her and Nicky to the room after

this.” She looks around for Nicholas, instead of looking at me.

“Either we’ll talk about this here,” I say brushing hair from her

face, “or in the hotel room.”

She sighs. “John, it’s not worth it. We’ve had so many good moments

tonight. Don’t make it bad.” She asks pleadingly. “I can see your mind

turning over. I saw it when we were talking to Don and Roman.” She

lowers her voice for Jule’s sake. “I can’t make them disappear from my

past.”

Possessed by jealously, I frame her face between my hands tightly.

“How can they be in the past when you keep bringing them into our

future?”

She closes her eyes, breathing heavily. “Not now. Please don’t do this now.”

I relent the strain of my hands against her cheeks, allowing her face back.

“Baby,” she taps Jule’s back gently, “we have to go now. Let’s find

your brother so we can get to the hotel and put you to sleep.” Jule’s

climbs into her arms sleepily. “Can you settle things here? I want to

say goodnight to my parents and get them settled.”

I nod.

“John.” She pulls my chin lower. “I don’t want to fight.” She slides

her hand across my mouth after kissing me. “I’ll see you later.” She

steps closer to my body when I don’t answer. “I’ll see you later.”

“In a bit.”

She kisses me again and I see the desperate need in her for me not to

be upset. But I’m imperfect. And when I feel threatened, she’s the

only one who can lessen that feeling. She walks swiftly across the

room, shaking hands and receiving hugs along the way. She gathers

Nicholas from Rachel and kisses her parents goodnight.

It should be enough that she’ll be waiting in the hotel room next door

to the museum. That we wanted privacy to make up for the weeks that

I’d been gone, that should matter more than my urgency to know how

much Don knows about my life. If he knows why she and I broke up, and

if he knows about this new stage in our reunion—the resentment. That

my children will be sleeping in the three-room suite isn’t enough of a

distraction. Because, God help me, all I can think about is her

sharing details of our life with a man who used to share her bed.

It’s the demon that I can’t control. I love this woman to the point of

breaking my sanity.

Chapter 24

“Anxiety is love’s greatest killer. It makes others feel as you might

when a drowning man holds on to you. You want to save him, but you

know he will strangle you with his panic.”

–Anais Nin

The silence is terrifying; our silences always are. The pain is dull,

but my heart shattering feels worse. The way I avoid your face, and

the remorse mapping it.

I want to remember how this potent moment began because then I’ll feel

better trying to forget the end. And forget that I knew how we came to

this place that we’re in. Silent and unsure.

I knew when I saw your face. When you walked into the room where I’d

been waiting edgily for you to return from the party. Maybe it was my

fault for leaving you to the residue of my pasts without me to clean

up the rosy memories of ex-husbands. Things that wouldn’t settle

easily with you. Or maybe, it was your fault for trying to prove that

our love was greater than any other marriage I’ve ever had.

I’ve never felt the need to do that.

But I did that—I left you to Don. I knew you couldn’t leave it alone.

And with me not answering you, you tried to pull the answer out of

Don. I think. You’re not upset with me. I knew that when you kissed me

at Nicky’s bedside. You kissed the children, and told me not to take

long. And when I did, when I climbed back into bed with Nicky to put

him back to sleep, you stood in the doorframe of the room telling me

to come to bed.

That’s when I stopped knowing what mood you were in. That sense of

urgency that came tangled in your growl for me to come to bed.

In total faith, I left our son’s bed and came to you. Fresh from a

shower, your hair wet and slicked back. A towel tied at your hips. The

evidence of your strength corded through the muscles sculpting your

arms, back, and stomach. And even more when you pulled me against you.

We’ve had sex that wasn’t always gentle. We’ve been so consumed with

passion that we had no qualms about using our bodies to find the

maximum amount of pleasure. I know that kind of sex.

But this was something foreign, and uncomfortable. When I fell back

into the bed from the pressure of your body, I closed my eyes. I lay

still while you ripped the straps of my new black chemise from my

shoulders. That made me tremble. Maybe you thought it was in

anticipation.

I thought about stopping you. I thought that as soon as your hands

slid down my thighs to part my legs. I thought about slamming them

shut again, and asking you to talk to me. But I think I was afraid of

what you’d say.

And like the swift movement of a clock hand, you settled between my

legs and starting kissing me softly. You turned the tide and made me

comfortable enough to loosen your towel while you lapped at my

breasts.

And just when your kissing and wandering hands had me arching my back

into the mattress for you to touch me, you changed the energy. You

kissed my lips with feather-light touches, and mumbled Don’s name

against my wet, opened lips.

And instead of the gentle connection between our bodies, I felt you

slam into me to your hilt. You stopped when I cried out. You asked me

if I was okay. I should have said how uncomfortable I was becoming

with the nature of the act. That instead of feeling like you were

making love to me, I felt like you were exacting some revenge on Don.

On Roman. On me for marrying them. But I felt you between my legs,

swelling inside, and I told you yes.

We were connected on a superficial level that I don’t think I’ve ever

experienced while lying underneath you. Not that I was in pain, or

that I was doing something that I didn’t want to do. We do so many

things in the name of love that we wouldn’t do for any other

legitimate reasons.

I let you use me to make yourself feel better. I swallowed Don’s name

into my mouth because it was the punishment being merited. I felt your

body, heavy on top of me, felt your secretions inside my body. Felt

like a rag doll, limp and voiceless. I kept my arms around you. You

pulled away and got out bed.

And when you came back, from wherever you disappeared to, I welcomed

you back into the bed. Afraid of what was next. Afraid that you were

feeling as confused and used as I was. But you turned to your side and

buried me in your arms. The apology without saying so. I lay against

your chest so that you could play with my hair while I listened to

your heart.

You asked me why I married them—as if it were just last week that I

made these decisions instead of lifetimes ago. I’ve wondered myself.

Because I don’t know, and I haven’t known; and I always assumed I

knew. Wasn’t it simply that they loved me?

Don made me feel that. I felt in love. The patterns were easily set

for me to follow and I stitched myself close to him. I never gave

myself the chance to step away—he would’ve never accepted that. It’s

clear: he believed that I was made for him. That he gave me access to

another part of myself is not lost on me. I’d been so tightly drawn

and walled up that it took a man as audacious as Don to break through.

We started too quickly. The impact of loving a man struck me so

profoundly that I forgot everything I’d ever learned about myself and

became different, again. Masks become necessary. It’s common that

women displace themselves for love; yet I completely disappeared.

But how do I communicate that to you.

All my life, I have been something other than Marlena—daughter, wife,

mother and the secret. Isn’t it sad I’m nearly at the half century

mark of my life and the only thing that I’ve ever known about myself

is that I can do what is expected of me. Be patience; love despite the

way that I am treated; and lie convincingly, even to myself.

Roman was a hard man to live with. He’s demanding. He doesn’t yield

even a little when he feels certain. But I felt that he loved me as

well. The truths are open for interpretation: I am the mother of his

children. We have an unresolved dynamic to our relationship that we’re

both afraid to confront.

I’ve always given the men in my life more power than they deserve.

Even with you, especially you. If the transactions of my life spread

from one set of hands to another seem casual, it’s that way in my

memory.

You want me to stop being the woman in their memory. I can’t do that,

not even for you. You want me to stop hurting you with my past and my

actions. I can’t do that. You want me to do all of that, while

forgiving you for punishing me. I can’t do that.

Our problem isn’t love. You’ve been my husband for the greater part of

my life. But those are the people who have the greatest strength in

their ability to hurt. You’ve also hurt me in ways that I’d forgotten.

That doesn’t matter to you. You see this without the gray area.

Lying with you shouldn’t feel so foreign. There are things that I know

about you that others could never guess. There are ways that you

function in the world that cease when you’re with me. I’ve had over 20

years to learn every facet; every face, what it means, your telling

eyes; the way your body moves inside of mine. These are not

unfamiliar. When you lie and I still need to believe you, I can and

do, because I’ve been trained to accept the worse in the men I love.

I gave you a pass on your anger and didn’t turn you away because

you’re the only person I’ve ever completely belonged.

And yet.

“I thought we weren’t going to do this to each other anymore. Nothing

has changed.” I whisper against his neck. It’s not a question. It’s

what I now know about him. About us. I have the evidence. Even as I

told him that, his pain wasn’t too big to contain by opening my body

to his torment.

“I know.” The heavy timbre of his voice rolls beneath his throat. “I miss…”

I drop two fingers against his lips. It’s too soon to have to deal

with the mess that we’ve made of our lives. “I just want you to hold

me.” The drumming of his heartbeat against my face is rapid and

unsettled. His skin smells of bay rum.

I could live with him having an affair. It wouldn’t have been the

easiest concession to make, but I could. I could live with him

fathering another woman’s child. I could do those hard things because

he would fight to make me believe in us. What I can’t live with is

feeling as if I’ve just been violated by him, and not being

comfortable enough to say so.

We can’t win this battle with the ghosts of my past.

“I know what you’re thinking about.”

I drag my bottom lip between my teeth. “I don’t think you do.”

“I do.”

“John….” rolls faintly from my mouth.

The first couple of weeks without him, I still reached out for him at

night. I would gather myself up in the mornings, having not slept all

night and pour myself into an outfit that he would love. I chided

myself for three weeks. I went to work and barely made it through. I’m

sure everyone around me felt as if she was watching my descent into

depression. I wasn’t depressed or sad; it was more about loneliness.

I’ve always hated that feeling. The world has always seemed harsher

when I’m alone. He’s the only person who takes my fear away—and now

he’s the man I’m starting to fear.

It was a full month before I realized that this wasn’t temporary. I

had told him that I didn’t want to see him with my actions. As lonely

people are apt to do, I still hoped that he would come anyway. He

didn’t. And I stopped wondering and waiting. I had myself and I

learned to slowly deal with myself. After two months, he still hadn’t

called. There is a point where my body started doing things

involuntarily. I could get through days without having any thoughts of

him, of what was happening to us. I thought I had always been in

control of what happened to us until he left me. I gave him all the

power, even in our separation. I knew that I was still waiting for him

to come back to me. I figured he would realize the mistake that he had

made and come back to me.

And somehow, I let him make me forget all of it. Every painful moment.

And now when he looks at me, I think, you’ve changed back into

yourself. Sweet, gentle John. You feel like my baby. You sound like

him. You’re breathing seems like his.

Regardless, I bury my face in his chest. “I don’t think I want to be

with you anymore.” I mumble incoherently.

[John]

Why don’t you know that I know you best? Why don’t you get that I’m

the man who knows what you need, sometimes better than you know? Why

don’t you understand how well I know these phases of yours?

Exert independence. Emphasize your independence with big gestures.

Make love to me. Make me believe in us. Remind me of our special

relationship. Send me into tailspins. Shock me. Hurt me. Challenge me.

Love me. Love me.

I don’t know if you believe what you’re saying anymore than I do. Why

else would your heart be racing under my thumb? And the goose bumps

padding along your arms. I don’t trust what you’re saying because

you’re not sure. When you’re unconfident about what you’re saying,

your voice trembles. Your bottom lip droops and quivers. You are

trembling inside. You’re breathing. You’re body. Everything about you

screams how unsure you are.

Trust the body, it knows. You taught me that. You also told me to

trust people when they reveal who they really are—they know themselves

better than anyone else.

But I know you. I’ve had you for all these years and they haven’t been

fruitless. I’ve learned the ways of women, but you in particular,

you’ve taught me so much about truth and lies. Of lies that we think

are truths. And I think that you’re lying to me.

You resist my lifting your head from my chest. I want to see your face

because you’ve never been able to hide anything in these intimate

moments. With my body underneath yours. Your thigh drapes between my

legs; my fingers roll down your warm skin. The lingering scent of

perfume, used to entice me.

That was your intent when I walked back into this room. I wondered

what you would do to make me forget the way you allowed Don to hold

you. It’s not entirely up to you to make me forget, but you do that so

well that I’ve come to expect it. You weren’t there to greet me with

your arms when I opened the door. You were with the kids, putting them

to sleep. Making sure they were asleep so you could offer yourself to

me without interruptions. I know the playbook. You were worried about

what would happen between me and Don after you left. You should’ve

been worried. He’s an arrogant man as much as I’m a possessive

husband. He made comments, told me how much he loved you; and he

reminded me of the reasons I can’t trust you, because you keep these

kinds of things from me. But hearing you putting my babies to bed was

the best reminder. You don’t belong to anyone, not even me.

I grabbed a shower and waited for you to come to me. When you didn’t,

I stood in the door and asked you to come to bed. I wanted to hold

you. I wanted you to wrap your arms around me and make me forget. I

wanted you to use your body in ways that I’ve told you not to. You

never listen to me anyway. Tonight, I was happy about that.

You stood there in a sexy black nightie. I wanted you. Was that wrong?

Is that why you’re talking nonsense now?

I try to lift your head again, this time you’re less resistant. You

prop your chin on my chest, sighing in exasperation. Are you tired of

this kind of conversation? You move your eyes slowly across my chin to

my eyes. Are you taking a mental photograph of what I looked like

after telling me that you didn’t want to be with me anymore?

Maybe, you’re not the only confused one in the room. “I don’t think I

heard you.” Running my hand across your forehead to move pieces of

hair.

You hide your eyes. You’ve never been a coward with me. “I don’t think

I heard myself.” You laugh. How could this make you laugh? “I’m sorry.

It’s not amusing; this isn’t the least bit amusing,” you explain

quickly. “And I’m stammering because I’m afraid to say it again.” You

lick your lips after looking up again. “I’m stammering because I don’t

know what just happened between us in this bed.” You look at the

sheets tangled around us. “I don’t know if I’m supposed to ignore this

awful feeling turning my stomach.” Your voice follows the descent of

your lowered eyes. “I don’t know if I should get out of this bed and

ask you to stay away from me.”

Stay away. My stomach knots. “I hurt you?”

You hide behind the hair tenting your face. But without seeing it, I

know. You don’t know what to say next. You can’t guess my reaction and

that worries you. And yet, you find bravery somewhere. “My problem is

that I’ve never been able to look at you and be truthful.” You rake

through your hair, peeling back the layers of blonde to reveal wet

eyes. “That sounds awful. It’s like I’m making excuses for you,” you

whisper, “and me. But this isn’t about excuses John. I don’t think I

want to be you anymore…” Your top lip folds over the other. “I don’t

think I can be with you.” You amend again, moving the hand that I slid

to your hip away. Rolling onto your back, you cover up with the sheet.

“I don’t think that we should be together unless we can agree to get

some help.” You correct yourself once more, confusing me further.

“John, are you listening to me?” Tilting up from the pillow.

I hear everything you’re saying. I’m taking in every bit of your

insecurity and fear. “I hurt you?” My question hasn’t been answered. I

need you to answer me.

“In more ways then I can even say,” you mumble, rubbing your chin.

“But this isn’t just about…”

“Say it,” I insist, moving up to prop my head against the headboard.

“Say what you’re trying so hard not to say…to admit.”

You sigh, and I feel like you’re stealing my breath. You cover your

face with those slender fingers that don’t have any of my rings on

them. No sign of our commitment. “What do you think I’m not saying?”

You ask quietly.

“You’ve said it before,” I remind you gently. How could you forget?

“You told your doctor it before.” If we’re talking about the same

thing. The same ugly thing that makes women hate men for their power

and control. If we’re talking about me taking something valuable from

you without permission. “Is that what we’re talking about—what you

told your doctor?”

“He’s not my doctor.” The sarcastic voice from our angrier days. When

you could tell me anything without worrying how I’d react. “And I

didn’t tell him anything that you haven’t admitted to yourself. And

I’m not saying that.” You add, tightening the sheet around your body.

“I don’t even know what the hell I’m saying John.”

“You’re saying that I hurt you.” I sputter.

You shake your head sadly. I can believe that drudging this all up

makes you sad. It has the same affect on me. We have to remember what

really happened when we do this. Whenever we bring him into the

conversation, I’m reminded of how you changed for him. How you turned

yourself inside out for him; you changed the memories we used to share

into fragments of anger that I don’t remember; you changed the joy

inside those memories into confusion. You hurt me. But when we’re

reading the laundry list of hurts, those things are never mentioned.

The remnants of eyeliner smudge your cheeks as grey tears slide away

from your eyes. “No, John.” Your hand feels like hot iron in my palm,

locking our fingers together. Touching me to make me believe we’re

okay. Or are you touching me to tell me goodbye? “I’ve been violated

before. I know that pain and the intention of what was happening

then.” You know that hurt intimately. So how could you equate me

loving you to something like that? “I’m not saying you hurt me in that

way. I don’t want to let those words come out of my mouth or yours.”

“So, you’re telling me that I haven’t hurt you.” You’re confusing word

gymnastics. The pulling away and then the touching. Who has hurt who

in all this? You don’t even know about Don. The conversation I had

with him after you left. “All I’ve done, in my recollection of tonight

was ask you about your ex-husbands. That’s how I’ve hurt you? By

asking you relevant questions about your ex-husbands’ continued roles

in our lives.”

You drag your body from the mattress to prop against the headboard.

“It’s all of it, John. It’s the jealousy, possessiveness, and

mistrust. It’s me, questioning your intentions every second now. I

never know…”

I turn so that I can see you better. “I made love to you. I would

never hurt you that way.”

What you don’t see is how badly that hurts me. I heard you cry out,

and I looked into your eyes and asked how you were. “We’ve done that

before, made passionate love.”

“Not under these circumstances.”

“Do you hear yourself sometimes when you’re talking to me?” My voice

betrays the calm mood we were in. “I would never hurt you. You just

told me that I didn’t hurt you.”

“Not in that way John, you haven’t.”

“Oh damn it Marlena.”

I could hurt you; and I could justify it to myself. But these are

private thoughts I’ve never shared. I might’ve said it jokingly, or

without the serious tone that I would’ve needed to show you how

serious I am. But in times like this, with all your confusion, I could

definitely hurt you. But I’m not that man, because we’re not those

people. “You talk crazier every day. Do you realize that? What the

hell do you want from me?”

“Do you realize that you just went from calm to upset in five second?

Do you hear how loudly you’re speaking to me?”

Your hand feels like a burden. So I push it—you—away, and climb out of

the bed, naked. Vulnerable and so damn confused by your empty words. A

safe distance away, I sit on the edge of the dresser and stare at you.

I can look all night and still not get where this is coming from. I

don’t understand what all the sacrifices were worth if you’re talking

about leaving us behind. And you haven’t mentioned that again. You

haven’t said that you don’t want us anymore. You’ve only skirted

around the reasons why you might want to end us. But how could you

want to end us?

“Marlena.”

A small voice interrupts, “Mommy?” We both look to the doorway where

Nicholas is standing, rubbing his eyes sleepily. “Daddy?”

“Nicky, what’s wrong?” He shuffles to the sound of your voice, with

his eyes half opened. The pajama top with Hulk’s face bunches as he

crawls across the bed on his belly. “Couldn’t you sleep baby?”

He pouts, burying his head on top of the sheet across our lap.

“Daddy’s too loud Mommy. Joy’s scared.”

Coming from my place across the room, I fall to my knees along the

edge of the bed, ruffling his hair. “I’m sorry honey. Is your sister

crying? Why didn’t you bring her with you?”

“She’s scared,” he tells us, closing his eyes as you rub his cheek.

“She wants Mommy.”

I press my hand to your shoulder. “I’ll get her.”

She’s peeking over the blanket covering half of her face. Happy to be

rescued from the dark, she reaches for me and hops up from the

disheveled bed. I carry her back into the room with her head tucked to

my shoulder. Little girl smells, indescribable by me, soften my

frustration with you. Holding her always makes me feel more loving

toward you. I can’t tell you how much I loved looking at her when I

didn’t have the opportunity to look at you. I love my daughters and

the way that their arms wrap around my neck to keep them above the

fray, out of danger and heartache. Away from jealous men like me.

With the ease of a mother who’s done this a thousand times, you reach

for our daughter and sooth her with words and kisses. There are no

monsters, you tell her. Daddy isn’t a monster—I wonder if you believe

that. I’m going to hold you until you fall asleep, you promise her.

You roll the tips of your fingers down her face slowly to make her

sleepier. She asks for her pacifier; you give it to her. You tell her

how much she’s loved and protected. You tell Jules that Daddy will

always protect her. Do you believe I’ll always protect you? You

whisper that in the morning, when it’s bright and pretty again, we’ll

be going home. You tell her how much you love her and rock her until

her eyes don’t open up again.

That’s your ability as a mother, putting our children to sleep, with

Nicky sprawled on your lap and Jules pulled against your chest. As a

mother, you’re not uncertain. That only comes when you’re dealing with

me. With them, you’re steady and assuring. Keeping the anger between

us from spilling into the atmosphere around them. Poisoning the way

they look at us.

“When you came to me, asking for a second chance…you said that it was

because of them.” You’re pulling the blanket over their arms and legs.

Leaning down to kiss them, you’re eyes dart away from mine. “You

started this conversation. Now let’s have it.”

“Nicky and Juliana have a very special relationship.” You say sitting

on the edge of the bed, closest to the kids. Fidgeting with your hands

keeps you from looking at me. “He wasn’t always sure that he wanted a

baby sister. After you left,” your voice cracks, “he was probably

confused about what it all meant. Being so used to being our baby, I

worried that he would be jealous of the baby. I talked to him about

loving this new baby because she was ours. She belonged to us. I

always knew she’d be a girl. And from the moment I put Nicky’s hand on

my belly to show him the life there, he understood that too. He loved

her, even in my belly.” This is my punishment for the way I left; I

deserve not to have the memories. “And when she came, he still wasn’t

sure what she was doing there. He used to peek over her crib and

whisper to her in their little language. But I always knew how much he

loved her. Even when he did things to hurt her. There were moments,”

you add so that I don’t have time to interrupt these revelations.

“Once, I left Noodle to grab something in another room. When I came

back, Nicky was in her face, closing his hand over her mouth and nose.

Not angrily, not even brutally; it was just an act that he couldn’t

stop himself from doing. He looked up at me when I stopped him and

picked Noodle up. I looked at him to see how my sweet son could do

something so dangerous to his sister.”

When you stop to finally look up, I don’t come to your side.

“He looked at me and said I didn’t mean to hurt her. I just wanted to

love her.” The pain in his words is deeper for me than she knows. Then

I’m willing to admit to myself, or her.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this before?”

She lets a breath slip away. “Your son was 2 years old. He thought he

was hurting his baby sister out of love. She was crying and he didn’t

want her to be sad.” You rub your face to clear the tears. “I can

accept that from Nicholas; I’m not going to accept that excuse from

you anymore.” You manage through the burning obviously lodged in your

throat. “I can’t.”

You can’t. What about what I can’t stand? “So you’re making it easy

for me by telling me that this is over? It’s not that simple.”

“It’s not. It’s a tough thing.” You cry, covering your mouth. “The

place we’re in right now is dangerous, and I’ve been trying to avoid

seeing that. I’ve been assigning blame everywhere but on the face that

it belongs to.”

“Mine?”

“We need help,” you continue without acknowledging my question. “We

need to talk to someone who can look at this situation objectively.”

“I’m not allowing anymore people into this relationship.” I say

without hesitation. “There are already too many people in this

relationship.” I don’t trust anyone to deal with us besides us. There

is no two ways about my feelings there. “I don’t think we need anybody

except for you and me. We’ve done the objective third party.”

“Well, that’s your choice John.” It’s false bravery. I know you don’t

mean that. It’s not my choice. It’s our choices that have us here now.

“I choose to take control of the situation.”

I had control and then you made me forget. “So, that’s it? You want to

put an end to this now. After all the begging and pleading, and

manipulation, you want to give up.”

“I want us to be happy.” You reach for your robe, looking

uncomfortable with the way I’m staring at you. “Will you get dressed?

Please.”

I look at you as if you’ve misplaced your mind. Your mind must be

doing somersaults to suddenly decide our naked bodies are too much for

this conversation. “Nobody is happy 24 hours out of the day. You know

that.” I tell you slipping into a pair of shorts, away from you.

“I want you to stop…” You say to my back.

I turn around swiftly, upset at the implication. “No, I want you to stop.”

“I’m not going to fall in love with Don again. I’m not going to run

away with Roman. I’m not going to keep your children away from you.”

“What?” The total shift in conversation stuns me. “I’m beginning to

worry about your state of mind.”

You ignore that. “We can share custody.”

“Why are you talking so caviler about this?” I ask you, coming back to

you. Standing three inches from you, mking the hair on your forehead

move with my heaving. “Look at me.”

You look over your shoulder at them instead. “I’ll let you have them

on weekends.”

“Let me? What is wrong with you?” Your shoulders buckle between my

fingers. I don’t expect you to stand here. You surprise me by not

pulling away. “I asked you a question.”

“I want to end this.”

You’re standing right here, but you’re not here. You’ve checked out. I

shake you to get your attention. “End this. You’re the one who wanted

to start this again.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You wanted to recommit yourself to me and our children again. You

used your body to make this all right. You made love to me over and

over again so that I wouldn’t question your sincerity. You wanted me

back.”

I’m not prepared for the way your neck twists. “I’m sorry.” You mutter

with your head tossed back.

I shake you again. “You wanted me back.”

“Please,” you tell me pressing your palms against my chest.

“You wanted us back.” I remind you.

Tears stream down your cheeks. “This isn’t going to get us anywhere John.”

“And you see Don, and now this.” I reason. Don and all the other

secrets that keep falling out of her closet.

“This has never been about anyone, except me and you.”

That surprises me. “It isn’t?” It’s always been about everybody except

me and you. I love you. That was enough at one time.

You’re not strong enough to pull away. “No. You’re suspicious of

everything I do. You’re hurting me.” Your face tightens, as you wince

and try lurching back. “John.”

“I’m always hurting you. Isn’t that what you tell me? I’m hurting you.

I’m not in love with you. I want you back. Make up your mind,” I

shout. You’re small body moves with ease when I turn you around.

“You’re hurting me.”

“I love you.”

You look me clear in the eyes. “It’s not enough.”

A wounded animal who’s only known violence. That’s the look mapping

your face after the impact. Your body moved too easily again. Limp

like a rag doll as I pinned you against the wall. The first move is me

letting your arms go and stepping away. You cover your face with your

hands. I hear you crying softly.

“Mommy?”

You uncover your face, wiping your tears frantically. Trying to get it

together to address Jules. “Baby. What are you doing up?”

“Marlena.” You snatch your arm away. “Wait, I’m sorry.”

“Mommy?”

“Marlena.” I want you to know that I’m very sorry. I hate when you

ignore me. “Baby, I’m sorry. Wait.”

“Don’t.” You say trying to get past me.

For the same reasons that I pinned you to the wall, I snatch your

wrist and keep you from going to Jules. From ignoring what just

happened. Dragging you into the bathroom, I slam the door behind us.

“John, Noodle is afraid. I want to go to her.” You plead, backing away.

“I’m sorry.” I say, feeling like I’m losing the battle. Losing your

attention and the chance to redeem myself. “It’s all this around us.

Focus on me.”

“I want to get Juliana.”

“No,” I yell, blocking the door. “You have to deal with me. Me.” Why

don’t you see me? “I’m standing right here and you’re looking past me

like I’m a stranger. You tell me that you don’t think I love you

enough. And I’m supposed to accept that.”

You’re crying again. “John, please let me by.”

We jump when Nicky and Jules’ voices break through from the other side

of the door. Pounding with small fists, they’re crying out for you.

Jule’s wails are powerfully incessant.

“John. The children.”

“Me. Look at me.”

Your voice finally rises. “John, you’re scaring them. I want out.”

Every time they pound, you jump. You cringe when Jules sounds as if

she’s leaning into the door screaming your name. “Do you hear that?

How can you stand there while she’s crying like that?” You kneel in

front of me to get as close to them as you can by the door. “Don’t cry

baby. Mommy’s fine. I’ll come out in a minute.” You promise them,

trembling. “Don’t cry. I’m fine.” You lie to them as well as you do to

me.

Nicky catches my attention. “Daddy…I want my mommy.” You look at me

shaking your head. “Daddy.”

“Please.”

I move aside and you stand up and snatch the door open dramatically.

They collide with your knees as you kneel for them to hug you. “I’m

okay. Don’t cry anymore sweetie. Mommy’s here.” You tell Jules who

hasn’t stopped sobbing. Nicky is composed and rubbing his sister’s

back. “Are you okay? Yeah? I’m sorry you had to see that. I’m so

sorry.” You can’t keep yourself from crying, not even for them. “I

love you so much. Both of you. I love you.” You squeeze them and they

wrap arms around your neck. “Come with Mommy.”

Neither you nor the children acknowledge me when you scoop them up and

walk to their bedroom. I stand back because you don’t invite me,

knowing that I wouldn’t be able to accept anyway. I know it for sure

when you close the door behind you. I hear the lock click.

I lose. Again.

Chapter 25

“It’s not true that life is one damn thing after another; it is one

damn thing over and over.”

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Healing hands. I’ve found they come in all shapes and sizes. The most

effective, therapeutic touch for me has been familiar, has come from

gentle souls whose world itself has been shaken; their small and

unlined hands have healed the physical pain.

The physical pain bears no comparison to how much pain we all feel in

this. Pain stretching from stern to stem. Large and unencumbered.

Paralyzing both of them into fragile, careful children.

Fragile and yet still able to act as salve in my deeply rooted wounds,

they cling to me out of our mutual need. I need them to be well,

physically, mentally, and emotionally; they need Mommy to be all of

those things as well.

Nicholas especially. With great determination, he’s taken a

protective, proprietary role with me. He can’t communicate why he’s

drawn to be with me constantly. Communicating how jarring it was to

witness his father’s erratic behavior is not something Nicky’s privy

too. He can’t speak that or find words to describe his feelings. It’s

been a challenge for me to find ways to communicate with him about

what he saw.

John is the king of his world. When the king comes out of character,

he offsets the entire play. My son is reeling. He’s lost his footing.

We all have.

I don’t blame John for what happened in front of the kids. I haven’t

even dealt with what happened to us in that hotel room. My first

thought extended beyond our drama to our children. My only thoughts

since then have been about their well-being.

In the room that night, I held back my own strong emotions for their

sakes. I held them all night. So tight that imprints of their bodies

indented my skin. Nicky wouldn’t speak; he let Juliana babble while he

vigilantly watched the door until he couldn’t fight sleep anymore.

This is my little boy believing that he needed to protect me from his

father. From a man that he adores, the king.

I wasn’t afraid of John coming after me. The damage was done in the

bathroom. I could forgive being shoved into the wall; his anger could

even gain a pass. Nicky and Juliana being dragged into the chaotic

situation changed my forgiveness level. Even if he wasn’t physical in

front of the children, they still felt the brunt of it far worse than

I. I’ll never misplace the feeling that washed over me at the sound of

Noodle’s terrified shrieking. Sounds that I’ve never heard, or want to

ever hear again. That’s why my first and only thoughts have been of

them. I’m doing damage control.

I left Colorado on a commercial flight with Nicky and Juliana in tow

the next day. I confided in Rachel. Either chance or fate allowed her

to walk down the hallway to meet me by the elevator. Anyone could see

that my night had been long. Puffy eyes from my private tears that

morning. And thankfully, she didn’t ask questions that weren’t

appropriate. She put her arm around my shoulders and graciously

offered her help with Nicky and Juliana.

Before we left, I had a moment with John. A brief moment where he

quietly apologized, and asked to fly us home. A cordial but strained

exchange that took place in the hotel lobby. I simply shook my head no

and asked for time to get my bearings together. He asked about the

kids—he used the word babies. He said can I see my babies, wondering

how they were as well. The son of a bitch in him fades away when he

becomes vulnerable about the children. We both stood there,

understanding that our children had witnessed one of the greatest

crimes against childhood. I spoke my daughter’s name. Rachel. He took

it as an indictment and I shook my head, frustrated. Tempted to remind

him of what he’d done last night in front of those same babies when

his face changed, I pointed instead to the waterfall that Rachel had

taken them to see. Impossible to miss were his lonely uncertain eyes

making me pause to wonder what he might be thinking. I’ve never tried

to keep them from him, and no matter what has ever happened between

us, I would never think it fair to keep them away. He told me he

wanted to say goodbye to them, and I led him over to them.

Nicky wasn’t happy. He threw himself to the ground between my and

John’s feet. Noodle cried, clueless to her brother’s personal agony.

Nicky didn’t want to be touched by his father, and following her idol,

Noodle didn’t either. Torn between my children’s pain and their

father’s torment, I couldn’t stop them from shouting or him from

saying goodbye. In afterthought I knew that I allowed that because I

hadn’t given myself permission to be angry with him. I hated the

torment for the three of them, but I have to admit I wasn’t unhappy

with the way John felt. He dropped to his knees and added long kisses

along the crowns of their heads.

As he walked away, the thought that he was getting what he deserved

crossed my mind. Let him go away confused, I told myself. Stop chasing

your dragon. I won’t deny that a part of me, deeply buried part,

wanted to stop him and make what happened disappear. Nicky and Juliana

weren’t in any state to handle me disregarding what they saw, so in

trying to make them feel safe again, I gathered them both in my arms

and led us back to something that resembled safety. The haven of our

home, and back to our life.

Our life includes them with me. My babies with their healing hands.

Sleeping tucked at my sides in my bed where they’ve reclaimed their

sleeping places again. Their body temperatures making their presence

known. Nicky’s warm palms pressed into my back, while Noodle’s fingers

tangle my hair. Sleeping soundly, having fallen asleep listening to

Noodle’s favorite story last night.

Yesterday is gone, and today is all we have. Today, we’re going to

deal with the inevitable mess of Colorado.

Nicky’s inability to leave my side and use the restroom, asking me

constantly if I’m okay, incapacity for eating his meals, or playing

like a boy his age is indicative of the trauma he’s suffered. He won’t

allow me to leave a room without him, not even for the bathroom.

Noodle through sibling osmosis absorbs his anxiety and is mirroring

Nicky’s emotional attachment.

I have two toddlers in need of an objective person to get to their

anxieties. A child psychologist who specializes in trauma.

I called their father, who’s been giving us all space—and I know how

hard that is for him. Muted communication through text messages that I

hardly respond to. The texts are about Nicky and Juliana, about seeing

them. He is being more generous than I could be not seeing them. We

both stay away from what happened between us. I finally called him

after they went to sleep last night. I thought he’d scoff and say he

wouldn’t allow them to see the doctor I’ve set an appointment with. He

was very agreeable. He hasn’t spoken with them since Colorado. I did

my best to give him a view of what it’s been like with them since

Colorado. They’ve been afraid, and when I’ve mentioned him, I see how

frightened they are still.

I feel awful for their fears as if I’m the reason they won’t speak

with their father. If they didn’t feel the need to watch me all day,

they’d be more inclined to spend time with him. Maybe. I offered him

the chance to see them with me for the appointment. He didn’t hesitate

in saying yes. He might be many things, but an unloving father who

doesn’t care about his kids isn’t one.

It seems the harder I try to push John out of my mind, the more

Juliana or Nicky seem to remind me of him. Lying on her side, Jules’

protruding thumb covers her John-like mouth but it’s there. Her dark,

unruly eyebrows hiding under masses of raven hair. She seemingly feels

my scrutiny and opens her eyes on cue. Looking through her thick

eyelashes, the hint of a smile replaces her thumb. She blinks, yawning

lazily.

Kisses litter her face from cheek to cheek. She stretches against me,

curving her back into my stomach. “Time to get up.” I whisper.

Indulging her disregard for the finger I drag across the bridge of her

nose, I lean to snuggle in the small curve of her neck. Strawberries

and Cream. Milky breath. The tidbits of her childhood that’ll always

be memories. She slams her eyes shut. “Noodle, I know you’re awake.

Come on sleepyhead.”

[Nicky]

His mommy doesn’t know that he tries hard not to wet himself. That

even when his body tells him how much he should go to the potty, he

can’t do it. He’s afraid, and he doesn’t know why. He misses his daddy

but he’s afraid to see him. His daddy chased him in his dreams last

night, and when he woke up, he’d wet the bed again. But he didn’t wake

up his mommy, or scream. What he chose to do was quieter, biting into

his wrist to stifle his fear.

“I didn’t know were you up, honey.” His mommy says, twisting around to

see him. She doesn’t seem afraid anymore. She doesn’t look sad either.

“You and Noodle are being sleepyheads this morning. Maybe Mommy should

get the tickle monster to wake you all up. What do you think?” She

smiles. He likes her kiss across his eyelids. She sits up, pulling him

into her lap. He’s happy she doesn’t notice his wet pants. “How are

you? Did you sleep well” Nicky bobs his head, wrapping his arms around

her waist. The heartbeats are comforting. If it beats too fast, he

remembers the room and his father keeping her away from Nicky. He

remembers after, when they slept, hiding from his daddy, in his

mother’s arms. Her heartbeat raced then. Pounding hard enough to make

Nicky’s heart follow. “Baby?” She straddles Nicky across her legs, and

looks at him strangely. “Did you have an accident?”

Ashamed, he climbs from his mother’s lap. Big boys use the potty. He

decided when Joy was a baby that he should be a big boy and always use

the potty. He can’t help himself. And he can’t find the words to tell

his mother, who has stopped smiling at him.

“It’s okay Nicky.” His mother pulls him back into her arms. Squeezing

him. “Baby, it’s okay.”

He doesn’t want to be a baby. What Nicky wants is to make his mommy

smile and happy. Not sad. Not afraid. If he’s a bad boy, then she’ll

call his daddy and then he’ll scream and make Nicky and Joy scared.

“I’m not a baby.” He pouts withdrawing from her. “Joy’s a baby.” And

Joy is the one who still needs diapers, not Nicky. He snatches away.

“I’m big boy.”

“You are a big boy.”

He doesn’t believe her.

“Are you afraid to go to the bathroom at night?” He shrugs.

“Baby…Nicky, it’s really okay. Mommy isn’t angry with you.”

Maybe she should be. He can’t be brave if he’s still a little boy. How

can he protect his mommy and sister if he can’t go to the bathroom

like a big boy? He follows his mother everywhere. It’s not because

he’s afraid, he is afraid for her. He’s more afraid for what could

happen if he’s not there.

His sister pokes her head up. She needs him to be her Hulk, too. She’s

only a baby and she probably misses their daddy too. But, if he comes

around, then Mommy will have to be scared too. So Nicky will protect

them like Hulk protects people, even from his daddy.

“Finally,” his mother says helping Joy onto her lap. “Good morning

sweetheart.” She kisses Joy’s cheek.

Joy needs her pacifier. Nicky climbs over his mother to hop out of

bed. Zaza is on the dresser. He stumbles over the carpet, feeling

awkward in his soiled pants. But for his sister, he’ll do anything.

Zaza is next to a new picture of Nicky, Joy, and their parents. His

mommy put the picture there after their daddy started sleeping in bed

with her.

“Joy wants Zaza,” Nicky assures his mother when he pokes it in her

mouth. “She loves Zaza.”

His mother rubs his belly. “You have a wonderfully considerate brother Jules.”

“Joy,” he corrects her. Joy is his name for his baby sister. His daddy

likes to call her Jules. “She likes Joy, Mommy.”

[Marlena]

I know there are some who believe that society is addicted to

self-help and delving into the inner sanctum of our souls for answers.

I know that people are opposed to children being counseled. That it’s

all too much for children to process any way.

I don’t care. Critics have never made me stop doing what I think is

right when it comes to my children. These are my children. I’ve

screwed up so many times with Eric and Sami that I find myself

proactive where Nicky and Jules are concerned.

Yes, at two years old and one, they have no real way of grasping the

power of what’s going on between their parents. I know all of the

reasons why people will say it’s unnecessary. Children are resilient,

forgiving beings. And yet, some don’t find the tools to be resilient

or forgiving. Emotional needs have to be met for them to get there.

Sitting in a tub of water made bubbly by Noodle’s Dora bubble bath,

it’s them against me. A team gelled in silent angst. Noodle’s small

frame leans against my chest as I stroke her hair. Nicky’s occupied

with Hulk in the front of the tub, with his back turned toward me.

Those tiny shoulders carrying so much baggage.

“Mommy?” Noodle twirls around. “I want Daddy.”

Nicky turns sharply. Confusion washes over his small features. He

lifts his toy from the depths of the water and tosses him over the rim

angrily. It’s a toy that his father bought.

It’s hard to dive right into this. He’s obviously concerned about

seeing John. “Don’t you want to play with Hulk any more?” He shrugs,

leaning over the edge of the tub. “Nicky?”

Noodle taps my hand adamantly. “Mommy, I want Daddy.” Puppy dog eyes

and her endearing pout follow. “Mommy?”

“Baby, we’ll talk about Daddy. Nicky?”

He’s stubborn like all of my children. A stiff back and tight mouth.

Not open and willing to hear what I’ve been trying to tell them all

morning. Noodle’s hopeful eyes penetrate me for answers while Nicky

avoids looking our way. To him, we must feel like traders.

“Daddy misses you both very much. He wants to see you,” I say

squeezing excess water from Noodle’s hair. Her hair springs into curls

drenched in water. “Would you like to see him?”

Noodle nods eagerly, plopping Zaza into her mouth. Her brother isn’t as eager.

“Honey?” I don’t want to make him do anything that he doesn’t want to do.

“Can we get out?” Nicky asks as he stands.

“Not yet,” I say, inching closer to Nicky. “You know that your Daddy

loves you and Noodle very much.”

“Out,” he says firmly.

“Not out.” I turn him by his shoulder. “Daddy is coming over here

today with someone who’s going to be talking to you. I’ll be there.

Noodle will be there. We’ll all be together.”

Chapter 26

“We do not see things as they are; we see things as we are.” — Talmud

It’s true that I never know who or what I am until I see my reflection

in Marlena’s eyes—until I saw it in her eyes. Years ago, before we

came together to make babies and build a family, I saw the possibility

in her eyes first.

Every time I see those eyes and the gentleness there, I’m pulled back

into my faded memories.

She represented a place, a true person that I wanted to commit to.

Through her eyes, I saw what I could be. A lover in ways that isn’t

physical. That we melt into one person when we are physically together

is a vivid truth. We love each other to distraction—she says. I love

her to insanity and back. I don’t know what I’d do if those things

weren’t available to me anymore.

Even if I hurt her to the point of no return, to a place where she

would need to keep her wall up, I’d still need her to give me some

portion of her. More than our children’s mother, more than my lover.

More than even my best friend. I need her essence to keep me grounded.

I’ve always needed it.

I’m clinging to this hope of changing. My son is afraid of me; his

mother avoids me. That’s not the man I want to be. I don’t want to be

an estranged daddy who only comes around every couple of days,

bullshitting the kids and myself. I don’t want to be the ex-husband

who can’t enter his ex-wife’s house because of her fear of me. I don’t

want to be an ex anything where my family is concerned.

I don’t want to be here either. Sitting in a triangle with Marlena

across from me and Genie Danby at both our sides, in Marlena’s house,

waiting for Marlena to answer hard questions about what’s going on

between us.

I don’t want to hear my own breathing above Marlena’s barely audible

voice. Or feel how hard my heartbeats punch my chest. I don’t want to

stop looking at Marlena, even if she’s avoiding looking at me.

If she did that, she’d see how much I’m not that man in Colorado.

“I don’t know what you’re asking me, Dr. Danby.” She mumbles, cringing

over her own words.

I miss those little quirks about her. She has a physical aversion to

words that wound anxiety in her belly. It’s only been a couple of days

and I feel like I’m severely undernourished from not seeing her.

In her house she looks untouched by pain. Jeans and a cotton jacket,

half-zipped. No makeup or jewelry. Just her.

Sparing my feelings, still protecting me despite everything else,

Marlena bites her lip evasively. I have a love hate relationship with

your bangs. When they’re a curtain for hiding pain, I have urges to

sweep them from your forehead. They’re doing just that, and you blink

them away while fingering your jacket zipper.

Dr. Danby is relentless. I think any person who chooses to pick other

people’s brains for a living has to be. She’s dressed casually,

probably to make us feel less apprehensive about spilling the mess

that consumes Marlena’s face now.

Dr. Danby is fresh-faced. Young. Not particularly beautiful, though I

find that no woman has ever been able to reclaim the beautiful title

from me since I handed it over to Marlena. She is probably half our

ages. Dark hair pulled into a neat ponytail.

Her voice reminds me of a morning talk show host. “Marlena…John if I’m

going to help your children, then I insist that we use only honesty in

this room.” She glances at Marlena warranting a smile that I know is

not real. “This is only an assessment. I’ve spoken to you Marlena

about this type of counseling. Reaching a child is extremely

difficult, especially a child in an emotional rainstorm and as young

as your children. Communication is minimal when it comes to trying to

get a child to explain their feelings.” Dr. Danby taps the table top.

She’s married. “Just from watching Nicholas’ interactions with his

father and sister, I can tell you that something is going on.”

My heart jumps into my throat when I hear Marlena say my name. But

it’s what she says that makes me even more anxious. Nicky is confused

about his feelings for John.

She used to tell me that she wasn’t a psychiatrist when it came to our children.

“Do you think he takes his cues from you?” Dr. Danby asks, turning to

Marlena. “You seem very uncomfortable in your ex-husband’s presence.”

Agreeing quietly, we finally catch each other’s eyes. A tremble, so

slight that it’s unnoticed unless you’ve been etching this face in

your memory for as long as I have. Retreating eyes fall to her lap.

She isn’t ready to go there yet.

“I’m fine in John’s presence. I’m concerned about Nicky and Juliana’s

interactions with John. The situation I described to you has

definitely changed their view of both of us.”

The only problem I have with her statement is that she’s the only one

who’s been able to deal with them. I’m the outsider, and because I

trust her to do what’s best for them and out of my guilt, I allowed

her to handle them without me for a few days.

Dr. Danby draws me back into the conversation. “The relationship…it’s

changed for you as well John?”

I don’t have to think of my answer. I’ve been thinking about how much

it’s changed in the solitude of my punishment. I do however take my

time in answering. Why? Because Marlena is waiting to hear what I have

to say for the first time since Colorado. Because she wants to know

what I’ve been thinking and how I feel about her.

“Our relationship changed before Nicky and Jules ever got wind of it.”

Marlena listens without looking up. “We’ve spent a lifetime together.

This is sort of like our second act. But at the beginning of act two,

something changed. She changed.”

“Is this meeting about you and Marlena, or you and the children?”

“Both,” I say quickly. “She’s their mother and I’m their father.”

“And?”

“And we deal with our children together,” I tell Dr. Danby harsher

than intended. “We’ve never needed to see a therapist about our

parenting skills.”

“I’m sure you’ve never been in the place that you find yourself in

now.” She scribbles something on her notepad. “Am I correct?”

Marlena is suspiciously quiet.

Feeling trapped, I shake my head. “I don’t know what I’m assuring you

of right now.”

“Your children…they witnessed something between you and Marlena.”

“Sure, an argument.” I say feeling dryness coating my mouth. “We’ve

argued before,” I hesitate. It was more than an argument. I’ve finally

come to terms that I crossed the line with her in Colorado. Things

happened so fast. One minute I was on top of her trying to forget Don

and Roman, and the next we’re hidden from the kids in the bathroom.

“Why don’t you tell me about it,” Dr. Danby suggests.

I don’t have it in me to do so.

“We’ve been going down this road for some time,” Marlena tells her,

sitting closer to the back of her chair. Crossing her arms on the

table after she rubs her forehead slowly. “But that night there were

different elements at play. I can’t describe to you the way it felt to

be standing there with the two of them screaming for me, for us

really.”

It was a horrible thing to do to all of us. I never wanted to be the

man who hurt Mommy in my kids’ eyes. Not in the horrible, guileless

way that I’ve been doing. None of us deserve that.

“I haven’t processed what happened, not completely. I don’t know if I

ever will.”

Her forgiveness has always been copious. This time I can hear

something new in her voice, see a change in what forgiveness means in

her incomprehensible face. This time, the forgiveness isn’t there.

Tolerance is what it feels like.

“I don’t want to do this right now,” she mumbles, letting her hair

fall over her shoulders to hide her face as she tilts forward. “I want

to talk about what to do for them.”

They’re in another room not far away. Every once and awhile Jule’s

voice lifts above our awkward conversation and brings a smile to both

our faces. We can still share those kinds of things, parent-friendly

things.

“This is about them,” Dr. Danby assures her. “You’re interaction with

John is the well that both of them draw from.”

“I don’t agree,” Marlena asserts, lifting her eyes to Dr. Danby. “It

wasn’t Nicky who saw what happened, not the physical part of it

anyway. It was Juliana. She saw her father pinning me,” her voice

strains as she cups the front of her neck with a shaky hand. “Juliana

witnessed that firsthand, however she hasn’t exhibited any signs of

trauma. She’s been exactly the opposite. Juliana sort of cornered me

today about seeing John, very forcefully I might add. She’s definitely

not resorting to the behavior that Nicky has.”

Witness. Behavior. Trauma.

She uses these powerfully polarizing words as if she didn’t have a

hand in what happened in Colorado. But I’m not supposed to think of

her as anything but the victim.

“I think we probably needed to discuss this before this,” I say,

glaring at her. “I think we should have had a meeting about having

this meeting.”

“Are you feeling left out of the process?” Dr. Danby intervenes.

She has a way of making me feel small, and inconsequential. “Those are

my kids too.” Marlena closes her eyes. “Here’s what happened: I was an

asshole.”

Dr. Danby shows both of her palms. “John.”

“No. Let’s get this out of the way so that we can get to the real problems.”

Marlena speaks up. “This isn’t a real problem?”

Annoyed, I ignore her and seek Dr. Danby’s compassion. “I have no

excuses for what I did. I won’t try to make any. I pride myself on

taking responsibility for what I’ve done. And I am more than partly to

blame for what happened in that hotel room.”

The mention of hotel room makes Marlena flinch. Dr. Danby notes it and

I note how much I hate being this guy, feeling like we’re back in Dr.

Shalit’s office. Like she’s siding again with someone who doesn’t know

me as well as she does.

Pushing beyond my hurt feelings, I continue steadily. “My

wife…ex-wife…” I hate that description. “Marlena and I have very real

issues with each other. We don’t trust each other.”

Dr. Danby leans forward and tells me softly, “Speak for yourself John.

I want to know you’re feelings and not how you think Marlena feels.”

“I’ve never had to,” I say, choking up unexpectedly. “I never would

have thought of us being in this place right now. She’s the woman who

knows my thoughts without me telling her.”

Marlena’s easily provoked emotions add to the raw stage between us. My

sadness and her confusion, drifting around each other.

“What happened?”

I look at the woman whose two-word question keeps me silent. She can’t

decipher us. Nobody has ever managed it because I know Marlena better

than she does at times. I know her and still I do things that will

make her feel how she feels toward me now. I do those things, maybe

because I know her.

Even hating her for the time that I thought I did, I still knew what

she was thinking. That’s the juicy realization that I have sitting

here looking at Dr. Danby. My own epiphany. Marlena, no matter where

you go, there you’ll be. How could she forget that? She told me that.

Or I told her. Either way, it’s what has kept us coming back, keeping

us from slipping away.

She’s exactly what I expect her to be and vice versa. We didn’t

change. We’re just getting bad at being those people. So, I’m the kind

of man who would throw my fist through a window in jealousy. I’d also

hurt anyone who tried to take my children away from me.

She’s still the woman who chooses to be all things to all people,

spreading herself too thinly. She still has the body that is made for

sin, and a face that awes me with its beauty.

“So I hurt her,” I confess painfully. And it feels as if I’m holding

Marlena too tightly again when I look across the divide and see her

pained expression. “I don’t mean to make it sound cavalier. I meant, I

did hurt her but I hurt just as badly as she does mostly because I

know I’m hurting her.”

“I understand that John,” Dr. Danby says compassionately.

Why can’t Marlena find that same compassion?

“I don’t want to talk about this,” Marlena says, blanching. “This

isn’t about helping them. This is about John’s need for redemption.”

I’m grateful for Dr. Danby’s interruption. “Isn’t it? You told me that

you worried about Nicky.”

“Talking about John’s behavior isn’t helping Nicky. I don’t want to

discuss us. This isn’t about us.”

Compelled by her careless words, I look up. “Marlena.”

“He’s wetting the bed. He’s throwing things around in anger,” Marlena

reveals in her exasperation. “You’re sitting here talking about us

when it’s obvious to me that Nicky is in a lot of pain. He won’t let

me out of his sight. He’s upset with Jules because she wants you.”

That’s where her silence comes from. She’s hurting so much for Nicky

that she can’t speak about it.

“He won’t even let me call her Jules.”

Sadly, I reach across the table to touch her. She denies me and I pull

back feeling chastised.

She continues, “He doesn’t eat…anything.” She swallows hard. “I’m not

assigning blame at all but I can’t sit here and listen to you talk

about yourself or me when my son is in such pain.”

“Our son,” I correct her sharply.

“Yes, our son,” she mumbles.

“I came because I want to help,” I remind her. My children are my

life. She knows that. “I didn’t come to feel vindicated or make you a

victim. We owe them more than our petty differences.”

There isn’t anything petty about our differences but for her sake,

I’ll go with that assessment.

“I’ll tell you what, I’m going to go and talk with the children. I

want to assess them without you. Is that okay?”

We agree. “Whatever it takes,” I add, standing up for her to leave the room.

[Marlena]

“Everybody thinks that you’re right, you know,” I say pushing my chair

away from the table. The air is too thick. I need a fresh air. “They

all agree that I’m being unfair to you. So you’re not wrong if you

feel that way, I guess.”

It’s not what I really want to talk about, but it’s what is happening.

I excuse myself from the room. “I’m going to get some air.”

It’s actually too hot on the back patio for air. Humid enough to curve

my hair into curls from beads of moisture framing my face. I shrug out

of my jacket for the cooler tank top beneath.

Nicky and Juliana deserve to be in the pool right, instead of locked

in a room with Dr. Danby. They can’t see that I’m watching them from

the patio. It’s better for them. Nicky pretends to be okay for my

sake; I hate that he’s already learning to hide his feelings at such a

young age. Jules plays along with Nicky just for the sake of fitting

in with her big brother.

They’re both animated enough to bring smiles to Dr. Danby’s face. She

pulls out a fresh sheet of white paper and hands Nicky a handful of

crayons. Nicky looks unsure of what she wants. It’s the method used

for getting him to open up without words. By color choices and what he

puts on the sheet, she’ll read what his inner voice is saying.

For Juliana, she pulls out four dolls. The representatives of our

family. Jules takes the dolls happily. I want to be in the room with

them, helping them through the uncertainty. But I’m too involved to be

objective.

Dr. Danby stands up from the floor, takes both Nicky and Jules’ hands

and leads out of my sight.

No matter what the outcome, I know inside my heart that Nicky has been

changed by some degree—and I blame us all.

Even Nicky and Juliana, for making it so easy to go back to their

father after he left us a year ago. I blame me for believing I could

erase all those shallow, inconsequential things between us. We wanted

to believe that fairytales happen in real life; the only thing I

showed them is my own worse nightmare. And now conceivably theirs as

well.

“Is this going to help them?”

His voice snaps me out of my fog.

Already standing behind me, staring over my shoulder, he squints

against to sun. I wonder how long it’ll be before I stop wanting to

apologize and open my arms back to him.

That’s my weaker nature.

Looking back to the room where my children are having their first

therapy session, I remember why I’m not giving into being weak for him

anymore.

“I hope so,” I say exhaling. “It’s important to me that this goes

well, for their sakes.”

“Doc,” he starts, lying his hands on my shoulder.

I shrug away. “I’m not comfortable with…”

A pregnant pause.

“Who thinks you’re being unfair to me?” He asks, crossing the patio.

“I’m so tired of this…” my voice trails off with the connection

between our eyes. “Did it always hurt this much…I ask myself that

whenever I think of us now. Remember when it wasn’t this tough. I do.”

If I’m rambling it’s because I fear allowing him to have his say.

“These last couple of days without you has been the only time I’ve had

to think about it. I don’t want to talk about Colorado.” I finally

have the courage to look clearly at him. “Something happened there.”

He interrupts, “You changed.”

“We changed.” I remind him sitting in the patio chair behind me. Away

from him. “You locked me in a bathroom to keep me away from our kids.

You held me against my will in front of the babies.”

“I thought you didn’t want to discuss this.”

Sighing, I tell him he’s right. But then some force larger than me

digs into something else painful.

“Belle called me today.”

He looks surprised. “How is she?”

I don’t think that matters as much as what she said.

“Belle asked me why I keep hurting you?” Even saying the words to

myself is painful. “She asked me what I was doing to you? She thinks

it’s my fault that we can’t fix this. That I’m doing something to keep

you away from the children.”

“I haven’t told her…”

He can’t finish his thoughts. What could he possibly tell her? I hate

your mother sometimes that I need to hurt her. He would never say

that. It’s the truth but he would never admit it to her or himself.

“Am I wrong to be upset about what happened in Colorado?” I ask,

wanting a real answer from him. “I felt like an abused partner trying

to put the pieces back together after that night.” And even worse,

though I can’t share it with him, I felt violated.

“Marlena.”

“She asked me why I couldn’t just move on and make this work. I

wondered myself, but she doesn’t know the truth of it, does she?”

“Marlena, she wants to see us together like any child would.”

“She wants me to feel guilty for…she wants me to say it’s okay. That

you can keep feeding me all of the ugliness while I swallow without

complaint. I’ve never heard her speak to me in the tone she used.”

“I’m not alienating her.”

“You’re not telling her the truth either.”

“What truth?” He asks scratching his chest. “That I’m like Alex North?

You want me to tell her and everybody else that I’m abusing you, is

that it?”

The honest truth is I don’t know what I want from him. “Maybe we

shouldn’t talk,” I suggests, closing my eyes and leaning into the

chair.

“I’ll talk to Belle.”

“I asked when she and Claire were coming home,” I say crossing my arms

across my stomach, “after our argument.”

“I know you miss her.”

“She doesn’t want to see me. She’s not sure why I would want to see her.”

He leans into the railing, looking into the horizon. “Why would she say that?”

“Belle…that sweet girl thinks that I’m trying to keep everything about

you out of my life. She asked me why I would want to see her knowing

how I really feel. Our daughter believes that whenever I see her, I

see the guilt.”

“Hey, come on,” he says turning around. “She’s upset. You can’t take

her seriously right now.”

“Have I ruined you all?” I ask him in all seriousness. “Am I blaming

you for something that I’ve done myself?”

“Belle knows how you feel about her, and she knows how you feel about

this family.”

I open my eyes to focus on him. “I don’t know how I feel about this

family or you.” The confession is stronger than the shock registered

on his face. “I just know that I can’t live with you.” Cowardly of me,

but I hide my face. “I can’t do it…”

He doesn’t respond. We don’t say another word to each other.

Chapter 27

I must always forget how one word is able to pick

out another, to manner another, until I have got

something I might have said…

but did not.

Said the Poet to the Analyst – Anne Sexton

“He doesn’t know that I’m here,” I whisper conspiratorially. “I’m just

so tired of being alienated…from who I used to be,” is my uninvited

confession that he doesn’t acknowledge.

Thus begins my mawkish attempt at reconciliation.

Dwarfed by the enormity of the open, high-ceilinged room of the

restaurant of his choosing, it’s my natural inclination to lean across

the table while I speak, conveying my apparent secretive nature

foolishly. There is a plate of pasta in front of me, but my wine glass

half-filled with red wine gets more attention. It is a soothing elixir

of false bravery and steadiness for my shaky hands.

There are other women around me. Smiling women with adoring, handsome

men. I have to wonder if they belong to each other. If their meal, in

the supper lighting of this transparently romantic room, is a cover

for illicit meetings that take place out of the eyes of the public.

This is guilty thinking, my projecting the inner turmoil of my own

inadequacies about meeting him onto others. Their faces aren’t

guilt-ridden. I could never muster a poker face good enough to hide

what I was feeling when I was the adulteress.

And oddly enough, I’m not the wife to any man but I still feel as if

my presence in this room with him is infidelity.

For a brilliant man, he does shockingly dense things. If I were him,

after all the things I’ve put him through, I might not have been so

inclined to take my call. My midnight phone call that gave very little

detail or reasoning. I simply asked if I could see him. He didn’t

question me—he just said yes. No, he said okay, in a drawn out way

that gave me pause.

He was there when I pulled up to valet, as promised under the awning

draping the restaurant’s entrance. I chastised myself on the drive

from my house to midtown. It started before I even got into my car,

before Danielle came to fix supper for the children. It started as

soon as I hung up the phone.

I can dress myself in false confidence, but my bones still tremble.

Hidden beneath a light summer dress, my skin crawls with anxiety, my

heart signals the distress. I can’t remember why I needed to see him,

until I’m staring up into those eyes. Mossy and intense, just the way

I remember. It’s remembering in the way that a song reminds you of

frames of time. Like childhood lullabies or teenage angst-ridden

songs. His eyes remind me of lost innocence more severe then losing

childhood dreams. They remind me of the realist that he awakened in

me.

I knew him unmistakably, even without this usual full beard dressed in

a pair of khaki’s and a bright shirt that softened his face a bit,

especially with his eyeglasses resting on top of his hair. Browned

arms and face, with ruddy cheeks from too much sun.

I’d never pictured him basking in the days of summer like normal

people do. I only see him sitting behind a desk in the life-coach

role. The advice dispenser. The man who never gets enough sun because

of his devotion to helping others keeps him hidden from it.

His kiss to my cheek was fatherly, like a pat on my head for good

grades. We hugged awkwardly, shoulder to shoulder, before he ushered

me into the restaurant.

[Dr. Shalit]

One would have to be misanthropic to not admire a beauty as innocent

and rare as hers. One would also have to be blind to see that she

doesn’t understand how powerful it all is in this gift of a perfect

package.

“I’m thrilled…and shocked to see you.” I tell the woman I would’ve

gladly given away my career for. “I didn’t think we’d ever see each

other again.”

“Surprise,” she shrugs, lifting her bare shoulders.

She doesn’t look as burdened as I’ve seen her in our past. There is

something behind her golden eyes. Hurt perhaps. Indisputable pain that

she has the ability to mask.

“I am actually,” I admit scratching my temple. It’s the habit I’ve

been trying to break. There are many things about myself that I am

trying to retrain. Only doctors scratch their temples in thought,

while gauging the inner dwellings of people.

I am a student of nature, of observation. Of science. Yet, I’ve not

pinpointed what or when I fell in love with her. That moment is lost

in the sequence of many moments. I feel some sense of what it first

felt like when I realized the extent of my feelings for her. The

youthful exuberance of waiting for the next time I’d see her face. The

unkind anxiety of unrequited emotions and love.

I hoped to forget them—I tried hard. She has the power to make me fall

to my knees and lie to myself repeatedly. I shouldn’t have answered

when she called, but I felt the burden of not knowing would haunt me

for ever if I hadn’t.

This is a woman with no preconditions. No manipulations that she is

aware of. Clearly, she’s still confused. Clearly, she’s still drowning

in the tempestuous relationship between her and the brute who shares

her life.

“I’m sorry.” She apologizes, shielding her empathetic eyes behind the

bowl of her wine glass. “This is impulsive, I know. It’s beyond any

sense of reasoning but I had the urge to phone you, and I did.”

“I’m glad you did.” I say measuring the length of her mouth. Noticing

that she’s still not wearing a wedding band. “You look wonderful as

always.” She blushes, rolling her eyes coyly. “You do. You look

healthy as well.”

“I feel well.” She addresses the safe point. “You look well too. The

beard is gone,” she says, motioning against her own soft skin, “And it

looks wonderful. You look ten years younger.”

Our confabulation eases the first moments of awkwardness. She doesn’t

play with her hair as much as she used to in our sessions. I notice

though that she keeps an eye on her cell phone, prominently displayed

on the table beside her dish. If he’s keeping tabs on her, he couldn’t

possibly have known that she called me.

I hate to remember that violent beast. “You’re worried that he’ll

call?” I ask finally, plucking a piece of bread in my dry mouth.

She shakes her head from side to side, sending waves of hair over her

shoulder. “The children. They’re keeping tabs on me.” A smile is meant

to alleviate the tension of bringing up the neanderthal. “John and I

don’t have that kind of relationship anymore.”

Ignoring her blatant admission, I focus on something positive. “Yes,

there are two little ones now. I’d heard that you gave birth to a

little girl.”

Adoration lights her eyes and shades her face in the mid light above

our heads. “Yes, Juliana. She’s one.” And beautiful, I’m certain.

“Nicky adores her. We all do.”

“Do you have pictures? I’d love to see her.” I ask, hoping to touch

her hand in the exchange of photos. “I bet she has your beauty.”

“I’ve been told that I had nothing to do with her looks,” she says

pulling a wallet from her purse. It’s neatly packed with a thin

plastic picture case.

“This is her,” I say thumbing over the first picture of a little girl

with strong dark features. Clearly her father’s child. Remarkably more

him than her. “She has your eyes,” I say, relieved to find redemption

in the beautiful little girl.

“Yes and everything else of her father’s,” she says brushing my hand

to flip to another picture. “This is Nicky. He’s a little more grown

up than the last time you saw him.”

He has grown. The gaunt little boy whose face haunted my dreams during

his sickness smiles back from a picture. As with his little sister, he

resembles his father deeply. And the saving grace in the form of his

mother’s soulful eyes.

We’re sitting in this restaurant pretending that there isn’t a gulf of

feelings between us.

[Marlena]

If John were here, I can’t imagine how he’d take in this scene

especially with the last scene between us being so vividly etched in

his brain. It’s quite comfortable, sitting across from the man I

nearly ruined.

Perhaps the wine helps. Perhaps the fact that John and I aren’t

speaking helps. Perhaps the fact that Dr. Shalit hasn’t asked me to

explain myself—past and present actions—makes it easier to be in his

company.

I kissed him or he kissed me, the end result is that we both fell into

a trap of encumbered feelings that John harshly witnessed. And out of

our mutual guilt, we banished each other to trek through the dross.

“Dr. Shalit…” he stops me.

“Don’t you think it’s time you called me Steve,” he suggests, taking a

sip from his water goblet.

I chuckle. “It feels strange to think of you as Steve, when you’ve

always been Dr. Shalit.”

“I was Stephen first,” he smiles, “Remember?”

“No, you’ve always been my Dr. Shalit,” I say without the contempt

that John uses for that description. “But if you’d like me to call you

Steve, I can adjust.”

“Well, we’re not having a session,” he says tilting his head. Without

his beard, the gentle slope of his mouth is evident. There are worry

lines extending across his forehead. “Unless you brought me down here

with the intention of getting a free session out of me.”

“I wouldn’t think of it,” I laugh, shaking my head. “No, I really just

wanted to see you…” I slow the thoughts that are coming too quickly.

“I wanted to apologize for the time we spent together.”

He pulls his glasses from his hair and puts them on the table. “It

wasn’t as bad as all that Marlena. You don’t have to apologize.”

“I feel as if I pulled you into this storm between me and John…and you

didn’t deserve what happened to you.”

“Did you?” He asks.

He doesn’t know, and if he does, he’s not letting on.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean with John. I understood what that kiss was about. Classic

projecting.” He explains, propping his elbows on the table. “You never

loved me or wanted to be with me. You know this,” he says gently. “You

wanted John to be what I represented at the time. I knew that kiss

wasn’t about me.”

I have no recourse to interject because I don’t remember who kissed

who. I tell John that it was not mutual in that I wasn’t the

aggressor. Listening to Dr. Shalit, I hear something about myself that

I’d forgotten. I do really stupid things when I’m in pain.

[Dr. Shalit]

The kiss wasn’t about us, as it were, it was clearly about her

unresolved feelings towards men, more specifically John. Her

ambivalence toward John is what sparks these notions of hers. We never

had a chance to get to explore it too deeply.

What I wished then is that she would recognize that her love for John

is destructive, now I know that she still hasn’t resolved any of that.

“It was a very confusing time…I was pregnant with Juliana. It was so

much to deal with after Nicky’s leukemia and then finding out about

Rachel. It collided that night at your house.”

These recollections are painful. She was the kind of patient you don’t

want to loose because you know there’s so much more behind the walls.

But more than that, she was the woman I’d fallen in love with.

In thinking it over, after John saw us kissing, I realized—and it took

some time—that it was for the best that he had seen us. Then she could

confront her feelings toward him and maybe realize the extent of her

feelings toward me.

I loved her. I admitted it to myself then. But she kissed me and then

chased him.

“I’m not bitter Marlena. We’re adults.” I say, hoping that I sound as

stoic as I feel. I can’t let her get to me again. “And I see that

you’ve moved on.”

“I’m not with him anymore,” She says sheepishly. “I live with our

children outside of town. He has a condo near here.”

I hear her sadness. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not,” she replies almost too quickly. “It’s been a very awakening

thing to finally be on my own. Let’s face it; if I were still with him

then this would have never taken place.”

“So you’re okay?”

“I am.” She answers propping her chin atop her hand. “Are you?”

I wasn’t for a long time. “Yes, I’d say that I’m okay. I took a

sabbatical, cleared my head.”

“That’s good to hear,” she commends. “So all is well in your life?”

“It is.” I nod. I feel persuaded not to say anymore. But those warm,

golden eyes beg for it all. “I have a whole new life. I’ve gotten

married.”

She looks quickly to my hand. I show her the gold band on my ring

finger. “Congratulations.” She lifts her wine to toast. “Where is

she?”

“Teaching. She’s a professor at Salem U,” I say grinning tightly,

“She’s an Anne Sexton expert.”

Her perfectly arched eyebrows lift. “Well, there’s a woman I’d love to meet.”

She knows partial facts about Marlena. The fact that I was drawn to

her class only due to the Anne Sexton reference isn’t inconspicuous. I

told her that I was interested in helping a patient, when really I’d

fallen into such a depression after the debacle with Marlena that I

wanted to see what was so attractive to Anne Sexton and Marlena about

suicide. More than even those closed details, I wanted to feel closer

to her.

Melody, my wife of eight months, tells me that I have ghostly eyes.

She doesn’t know that ghost has a name. That after a year of wondering

about her, all she had to do was call me.

“This is absolutely wonderful,” she says squeezing my hand. Now that

there is the filter of a marriage to protect us, she’s comfortable

exchanging touches. “I wish you many years of unburdened happiness.”

She says lifting her glass against her lips.

“Thank you.” I say, holding her hand still. This is how it starts. She

comes back and asks for my help. There has to be more to this than a

simple hello-how-are-you conversation. “So, tell me about you and

John?”

“He’s exactly the man you thought he was.” She tells me unlatching our hands.

There is a story there that I want to know. I check my watch,

remembering that Melody expects to see me home in a short time. I

excuse myself to the make a phone call. It’s a patient, I tell my

wife. An ex patient who needs guidance. It’s not exactly a lie. I’ll

be there as soon as I can, I tell her. She believes me dutifully. And

I walk back to the table to the woman I’ve been waiting a year for so

that she can tell me all about her life.

Chapter 28

“A man is only as good as what he loves.”

— Saul Bellows

“The awful night in Colorado,” I begin, measuring my tone for

dramatics. The subject is delicate. This is my life I’m sharing over

wine and tiramisu, at Camuso’s still. Still sitting across the table

under the intimate lighting. Hoping to find something profound in my

interpretation through his eyes and words.

It’s an easy task after two glasses of wine. Self-medicating with

potent liquor instead of the pills that he used to prescribe. With

him, I don’t feel vulnerable about being exposed. He’s seen my worse

and tried to pin me back into the skin of my best. Heard the stories

of my illicit affair, illegitimate babies and ill-gotten love.

He waits for me to continue as his moon-shaped finger nails drag

across the linen cloth covering our table. Wiry eyebrows frame his

narrowed eyes.

A moment of silence that is clearly introspective. “Awful?” He asks

suddenly. His voice sturdy voice, even in the large room pulls me back

to him.

I tug on my lip. “It’s the children’s therapist’s description.”

Her assessment of the children included that the awful event in

Colorado and other proceeding events contributed to the telling

graphics that Nicholas showed her during their session. Dark figures,

thick black crayoned figures lurching over feeble yellow eyeless

blobs.

That’s Mommy, he’d pointed out, as John and I looked on in shame. I

was holding him in my lap, stroking his hair. My figure, a retreating

mass of yellow meant weakness, cautious. Mommy is afraid of Daddy,

Nicky told us. Daddy hurt Mommy. Daddy hurts Mommy.

He taps the table and I look into his eyes. “You don’t want to hear

this. I didn’t call you here to have a session, I really didn’t.” I

say apologetically.

He smiles. “Old habits. Besides, we’re not having a session honey, are we?”

I shake my head and try to forget that hearing him call me honey still

makes me feel uncomfortable.

He stretches his mouth into a grin. “I think we moved past the

patient-doctor relationship five minutes before we kissed.”

Tilting my head back, I laugh to myself. “Touché.” It’s the best thing

to do in this danger zone.

“Tell me,” he continues, “Please I want to know. You said that John is

exactly the man I always said he was. How did he prove my

supposition?”

It’s like confessing adultery to my husband. Telling my father of

indiscreet things that fathers never want to know. It’s not easy

unsheltering the lies that held me together, and helped me believe in

redemption for John and me.

My pendulum soul takes a hard turn. “What Nicholas and Juliana have

witnessed progressively over time is…well John and I have been trying

to reconcile for their sakes,” I explain losing my nerve with his

unyielding attention. “We separated after he saw us kissing.”

It’s the clean breast of it, albeit antiseptically.

“Actually, he left me with Nicholas and Juliana, who wasn’t born at the time.”

I know the story better than anyone. I still stumble over the details.

“You’re stalling.” He decides after watching me thumb the rim of my glass.

“I am. You’re my shrink. I would think that you understood how it

feels to admit failure to your shrink.” I acknowledge.

His wedding ring slides musically against his glass. He’s moved on

from water to wine. And I’ve slowly started to feel the effects of

mine.

“Any failure, in my eyes at least would be mostly your better half’s failure.”

“Better half,” I chuckle with a hiccup. “That’s probably the nicest

thing I’ve ever heard you say about John.”

“Please note that it was entirely relative to you.”

“Duly noted.” I say conceding with a smile.

He waits with infinite patience as I trace the stem of my wine glass.

I move my glass away from me. “The quiet storm,” I say closing my

eyes. “They should call it that…abuse. It’s a raging force of nature

that happens inexplicably. And all it takes is one element to shift a

quiet evening into a storm.”

“Marlena…open your eyes,” he directs me.

The playfulness has disappeared from his eyes. The line of his body

tightened. Without the background and pockets of conversation, I’d

forget where I was looking into his eyes.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I plead whispering. “Please don’t look

at me like that.” Like Alex’s victim. John’s victim.

“Are you….” My hand lifts to halt his question.

“I’m fine. I’m absolutely fine.” He looks unconvinced. “I should

explain what I mean.”

“Please because the picture I’m getting isn’t kind. It isn’t fine.”

“It is,” I assure him. “We’re really finished this time. I ended it.”

His nostrils flare. “Because of the awful events in Colorado?” He asks

gently. “Will you tell me about them now?”

I shrug. “I don’t know where to begin.”

At the beginning, he tells me.

And I proceed to tell him the events that have followed his forced

exodus from my life. Of the small incidents that I didn’t measure to

be important enough. Things that Nicholas and Juliana have taken deep

inside their breastbones, right at the core of who they are striving

to become.

Of the power wheel where John exerted control and dominance before he

ever touched me. Of his banishing me from his life. Of my need to

redeem myself in his eyes. Of the way my children and friends have

alienated themselves from me; and I from them. Of the intensely savage

sexual intimacies that almost always resulted in arguments. Of my need

to justify everything. Of my need to say yes.

Of wanting a family for the children. Of wanting to have a man who I

love in my life. Of needing to be happy for happiness sake. Of

pretending the shoving and yelling weren’t sure signs of abuse. Of

ignoring the instinctual need to pull away from John, sexually, that

night in Colorado.

Of finally being able to stand up for myself. Of only gaining strength

from anger and disappointment over what is happening with the

children. Of finally understanding that abuse is abuse, regardless to

what degree it is metered.

[Dr. Shalit]

She and I were never a typical patient and client. I mistrust other

doctors because we’ve all learned the same tactics and techniques. We

know how to avoid and dissuade ourselves better than anyone else. But

I wanted to treat her. I couldn’t turn her away. That was probably my

first mistake.

Marital counseling that shifted invisibly to one-on-one counseling. I

was able to get to know her, beyond the beautiful exterior. The one

thing that you hear about Dr. Marlena Evans in our circle of

colleagues is about her beauty, which is only second to the large

heart she has.

Was it ego that made me think I could save her after attempting

suicide? Perhaps. One doctor saving another is the greatest personal

glory you can have in this field. Except this wasn’t just another

doctor; it happened to be one of the most respected doctors in our

field.

From day one, I noticed the people-pleasing traits of her personality.

She is from the generation that was caught between feminists and old

ideals. She tends to trend more toward old ideals. Being all to

everybody; placating and appeasing; encouraging and reassuring.

Exactly the kind of person who Narcissistic types clamor to, the

personality that John would need in his life. The Classic narcissistic

personality. From the moment he walked in my door, I had him pegged as

well with his inflated sense of importance and a deep need for

admiration. Arrogance that told everyone that Marlena was his

possession. Rage when she didn’t live up to the picture in his mind. A

sense of entitlement where she was concerned.

She never saw the way he smiled, self-satisfied as he talked about

their intimacy for my benefit. She had the good graces to hide her

embarrassment, while he smugly pursued the conversation.

I’d be gentle with her body. I can’t think in those terms. I’m in love

with Melody.

“Did he hurt you badly?”

She ponders, clenching her fists in answer, “Not physically…no.”

The equation of pain with bruises is murky for her.

Melody’s seminar class on Anne Sexton helped me understand Marlena

enough to release my hold on her. In some ways, I became her Dr. Orne,

the psychotherapist who held Anne Sexton together enough to become a

Pulitzer prize winning poet. Challenging her to fight for another day

because the indifferences and cruelties of her world shouldn’t change

her internally.

That was Sexton; she died fighting demons. Marlena’s demon is

constant, and it’s not only psychosis any longer. It’s the man who she

doesn’t see behind the mask.

As men, we are hold prurient regards for her. She arouses the need to

protect and love fiercely. For that, I don’t discredit John. However,

in the process of being her lover and protector, he also became her

victimizer.

I don’t like being right when it means that she has to be the victim.

Narcissistic personalities believe that they’re superior to others and

have little regard for other people’s feelings. But behind this mask

of ultra-confidence lies a fragile self-esteem, vulnerable to the

slightest criticism.

“You know what’s truly telling,” I say, wanting to push clear her

bangs from her eyes. “You haven’t shed one tear since you’ve talked

about this.”

“I’m all cried out.”

[Marlena]

Mercilessly dissecting my life for Dr. Shalit has its downsides, as

does drinking wine.

“This isn’t going to cause you any problems?” He asks, following my

directions to my house. “I just couldn’t allow you to drive home after

all that.”

“I appreciate it.” I squeeze my legs together and turn toward the

window. “Isn’t it a beautiful, normal place?” I ask once we’re on my

street.

“You’ve always liked that word, haven’t you? You should have learned

by now that there is no such thing as normal.”

“I should have…but I’m a slow learner.”

“So you’ll get your car tomorrow?” He wonders, turning into the

driveway that I’ve pointed out.

“Yes, don’t worry. I’ll handle it.”

“Good.”

I put my hand on the door handle. “I don’t know…it was good to see

you.” I stammer. “I would love it if I could meet your wife sometime.”

“Of course,” he answers without hesitation. “That could be arranged.”

“Thank you for coming.”

“I’ll always come…” he says solemnly. “I hope you always know that.”

His hairy knuckles tickle the palm of my hand. “Tonight was wonderful.

Thank you. I’m not going to say goodbye.”

Patting his hand, I open the door and climb out of the car. Watching

him drive away, I feel a burden lifting from my heart. If I hadn’t

been so weak, we could have always been friends.

Nobody would understand what we’ve gone through together, not even John.

“So who’s that?” Danielle asks me when I open the front door with her

standing with Juliana.

“Hi Noodle. How’s my girl?”

Juliana curves her lips into a frown. “My Daddy.” She reaches for me.

“Talk to Daddy.” She suggest, sliding the ends of my hair into her

mouth.

“Honey.” She pouts and pushes my hand away. “It’s my hair that you’re

chewing on.” I balance her on my hip, lifting one foot at a time to

take off my heels. “What did you do while I was away?” She smiles into

my cheek and presses a wet kiss against my skin.

“Ask about D-a-d-d-y,” Danielle informs me, gathering her things. “He

called by the way to speak to them. She’s still excited from talking

to him.”

“How long ago was that?” I ask plopping down on the couch.

“Less than twenty minutes ago.”

Noodle straddles my lap facing forward. “No bye byes Dani.” She pouts.

“Yes bye byes,” Danielle says sweeping her hand across Noodle’s

forehead. “I have so much work to catch up on. I’ll see in a couple of

days.”

Noodle’s still adjusting to goodbyes.

“Tell Danielle thank you.”

She tries to mimic me, pressing her lips together for effect. “Tanks.”

“Such a kidder,” Danielle says stroking her cheek. “Her partner in

crime is in bed already. He had a little supper. And I made sure to

put a pull up on him.”

“Still no luck?”

Danielle moves her head negatively. “You know he’s a big boy with big

boy notions.”

I smile in appreciation. She loves my babies as much as I could expect

a stranger to love them. Being such an intimate part of our lives, she

knows why Nicky isn’t eating and has regressed back to bedwetting.

She’s kind enough to reserve judgment.

“That wasn’t a date,” I say, standing up to walk her to the door. “It

was an old friend.”

“It’s none of my business,” she shrugs opening the door. “I’ll see you.”

“Did you miss Mommy very much little girl,” I ask my little girl whose

draped around my waist. Rewarding her with kisses for her head

nodding, we nuzzle noses and laugh. “So, are you ready for bed?”

Confusion crinkles her forehead. “No. Talk to my Daddy.” She says,

tugging on my cheek.

“Honey I don’t know where Daddy his. Haven’t you spoken with him?”

She’s forgiving; she’s one. I don’t expect the same circumventing that

Nicholas is practicing. She’s loyal whenever she’s with him. It scares

me how much she wants to please him by not asking for what she wants.

Dr. Danby doesn’t believe that she’s processing the dangerous

behaviors in the same way that Nicky has. Her world doesn’t consist of

demons. That is left to my unfortunate son.

“Yes.”

“And yet…” I tweak her chin. “I’ll call Daddy for you but you can only

speak with him for a couple of minutes. It’s late. You have to go to

bed noodle bug.”

She reaches happily for the phone after I’ve dialed his number. She

gabs mercilessly with the phone pressed to her ear as I turn off

everything downstairs and walk with her on my hip to my bedroom.

I can hear him asking how she is. If she knows how much he misses her.

He says Nicky’s name. Noodle points unknowingly toward his room,

sitting down in the middle of my bed.

I tug my dress off and throw on a nightgown.

He hasn’t asked when they can resume their visitation.

He hasn’t really had a chance to.

After checking on Nicky, I find Noodle tucked into bed with the phone.

She’s found her pacifier on my nightstand.

“Still talking…” I ask tickling her belly. “You should let Daddy get

some rest baby girl.”

“No bye byes Daddy,” She shakes her head furiously.

I hear John telling her it’s all right to talk longer. He misses them;

I don’t envy his position.

“Okay, well I’m going to turn off the light.” Clicking off the lamp, I

readjust so that Noodle is level with my torso. “I love you baby.” I

tell her kissing her goodnight.

I close my eyes and feel her mouth on my chin.

She giggles into the phone as she curls her free arm around me. “Daddy

loves you Mommy,” She says, coached by her father.

“I know Noodle,” I sigh. “Mommy knows how much.”

Chapter 29 (NC-17)

“Dearest, although everything has happened, nothing has happened.”

–Anne Sexton

She answers on the first ring in a husky whisper. Her voice is choked

with sleep. Of course she can sleep. No doubt with Jules and Nicky

curved against her belly and spine while her arms protectively keep

nightmares from crowding their sleep. Her touch has that kind of

magic. The kind of touch that reminds them that she’s only one breath

away from each of them, even if the nightmares come relentlessly.

Nicky has nightmares, persistently; I blame myself. He’s also been

behaving aggressively towards Jules. At least Marlena tells me that

much when I call. I don’t call them enough; I know I should.

I’m afraid of their rejection—Marlena and the kids.

“John?” She moans sleepily.

My digital clock crudely reminds me of how late it is. I haven’t been

able to sleep with this thing, the impasse; the suspenseful precarious

problems without solutions. Tonight I drank scotch for a resolution to

my insomnia, to make sleep come easier. It hasn’t. The only effect is

guts. I haven’t spoken to her in two days and all I’ve been thinking

about is how much I want to see her face. Even if she can’t look into

my eyes; even if she looks at me like I’m breaking her down, ripping

her heart apart.

“I want you back,” I inform her clumsily, sounding as weak as a lonely

man who drinks in the dark should sound. A man whose life is subject

to harsh realities; the reality of me braving her rejection comes from

a belief that she can’t live without me. And so…I wait. Wait for it.

Wait for her to say it’s okay, that we’re going to be okay again.

I had happy memories of when we were beginning our reconciliation that

are fading. That’s my reason for reaching out to her. I need to make

them vivid again. Real memories of Nicholas and Juliana with satisfied

smiles because they’re in my arms and we’re back to sharing our lives

with their mother, instead of keeping her out of ours. The way it

should have always been, defining what can happen when we act

maturely. We were finally living a life resembling something normal.

And I have memories of just her. That sly grin, halo of blonde hair,

and hazel-gold eyes. All the love we’ve made since we came back

together. There were happy moments, more than a few.

It took Belle’s voice, her insistence and optimism—which comes from

Marlena—to remind me of what she calls my power over her mother. A

good daughter, she reminded me that my love for her mother is

unbreakable. Make her remember that, Belle insisted.

Be the man she’s always known, Belle said with tears lodging her

throat. She said she hasn’t been sleeping either. I like to think that

we’re that connected in this family. She feels what I feel; she hurts

when her daddy hurts. That’s the kind of connection I have with our

children.

“John, what…” She stammers after our long silence. I know she’s

sitting up and trying to adjust her eyes to the light.

“I want you to take me back,” I say clearly. My palms are sweaty.

Every nerve is aroused. “Marlena?”

“I…..” She stutters.

“I fucked…..” It’s crucial enough to me to forget propriety. It

hurts that much that I don’t care anymore about offending her. “I’m

sorry; I messed up. I don’t know how many ways to say that to you.”

She’s probably holding her forehead. She does that. “John.”

I don’t care if it doesn’t make sense to her. “I’m losing my mind

over….I miss my kids and you honey. I want you to come home,” I

offer sadly.

She sighs longer than needed. “John, I am home.”

“Home for us used to be where we both were.” I remind her. She

couldn’t have forgotten that so quickly. “I still want that.”

“I understand that but…”

“I miss you.”

Silence.

“I miss you so much.”

“Don’t…make this any harder for us.”

Darkness isn’t so bad. It’s the memories that make me cling to my

surroundings. My bedroom. A bottle of scotch. Pictures of all of my

children. Marlena’s teddy that still smells just like her.

“Doc? I talked to our girl today.”

“Belle.” She sounds cautious. Afraid of what our daughter would have to say.

I’m trying to make her get what Belle’s deal is. “She’s pissed at both

of us honey, not just you.”

“I can’t talk about Belle right now. I feel like she’s on your side.”

“We have sides now?” I find myself asking incredulously. “She has a

right to voice her opinion, doesn’t she?”

“Go to sleep baby,” she whispers to one of the children. “John, can we

deal with this another time.”

A rich idea when she doesn’t make herself available to me because she

doesn’t have to. She doesn’t have to go along with anything because I

fucked up. That’s what happens when you lose the cards, except she’s

folding on me.

“Baby, you have to stop shutting me out. I want…”

She’s insistent. “John, you don’t get to do this to me.” There’s a

hitch in her voice but no tears. “It’s not up for discussion.”

“Baby.” I answer weakly.

“No.” She tells me devoid of emotion. When she wants to hide her

feelings, she can do it better than anyone. A pro at avoidance, she

has the ability to hide within some numb chamber. I saw it with Roman,

and I was happy then that it wasn’t me that was on the receiving end

because she was giving everything.

It’s my turn on the chopping block. It’s the price you pay for loving

a psychiatrist with all their mind tweaking and emotional distance

that spills over from work into real life as needed.

“Damnit…I can’t just give up.” I pound the mattress. “You know damn

well I can’t. And I won’t.”

Heavy breathing. Maybe some tears. But no answer to my demand.

A moment of despondency. “You’re such a bitch.”

Her line clicks.

“I’m sorry,” I say when she answers again. “Okay?”

She sighs, punishing me with more sullen silence. This impenetrable

wall angers me. Another swallow of scotch soaks my tongue.

“John…I’m trying…”

“You’re not trying anything, okay? You’re avoiding me and keeping me

away from my family.” I yell, feeling fragile. Feeling the brunt of

the irony in our conversation. “I did this to you, didn’t I? I left

you. I left the babies. I hurt you and now you’re hurting me back. Was

that the plan the entire time? Get me back to pull away. Take

everything in the world that matters to me.” I asking hearing the

dejection. “How could you do this to me? You’re all I have in the

world.” I swallow another drop of brown liquid.

“Are you okay?” She asks finally displaying some emotion. “Are you drinking?”

“Am I okay?” I ask her sarcastically.

“Yes. You’re slurring. And you sound desperate. Have you taken something?”

“That’s a great question coming from you.” I charge, remembering the

horrible image of her lying in a tub of cold water with pills on the

rim.

“John, what…”

I stop the inquiry with a non sequitur. “Where are the babies? Where

is Nicky? Are they sleeping with you?” I ask knowing that they are.

“It’s after eleven John. He’s asleep.” She’s annoyed.

“Let me speak to him.” I insist. I know my little boy won’t talk to me

anyway, but it keeps her on the line longer with me.

“Talk to me for a minute. What are doing?”

“Sitting here in the dark,” I say looking around. “Alone…just the

way you want it.”

“John?”

I hang up.

She calls back.

“Don’t pretend with me. I want you so bad I can’t function. I want you….”

“John, you sound like Nicky. Stop demanding things and answer my

question…are you okay?”

“No, I’m dying here.”

“John, don’t….”

I hang up again.\

[Marlena]

My worse fear is him hurting himself because of something I did. How

could I look any of our children in their eyes without feeling great

responsibility? How could I live with the pain of knowing I caused him

to do something that he can’t come back from? He’s not suicidal. He’s

sad. It strangles every word that he’s said to me.

I hate hurting him this way, denying him what he wants I hate having

the burden of his pain on my shoulders even more.

It’s even harder to do with our babies sleeping close to me. I’ve had

them all to myself; I’ve been selfish. I know how you can feel

isolated even if that’s not the intention. I felt that way every time

they visited John and I stayed home.

Noodle blinks through her wispy bangs, through her dark eyelashes. She

stirred at the first ring and never stopped listening to my

conversation with her daddy. Absorbing the rigmarole between us, she

feels the tension and she has a need to make us better. Trying on the

parental role of comfort, my little girl strokes my arm to comfort me.

Rubbing my cheek the way I do when she’s crying or hurt.

People-pleasing is an inherited trait that I plan to break her of.

“Mommy?” She says, lowering her thumb.

“It’s okay sweetheart.” I tell her, sweeping her face slowly. She

smiles when my fingertips stop on her chin. Her lips purse forward to

catch my hand for a kiss.

“Thank you baby girl.” Bending my torso, I glance at Nicholas coiled

up behind me. His hair falls across his forehead. So much of John, so

many features and characteristics of their daddy.

I have to make sure he’s okay, for them.

I take a deep breath and try very hard to keep the apprehension from

overpowering my voice. “We’re going to see Daddy.” I announce quietly.

Noodle has a comforting smile and gentle kiss on my cheek for the

news.

Nicholas is still asleep, completely unaware of what’s happening. He’s

been having hard days, harder nights. He pulled Noodle’s hair today

when she didn’t give him a crayon that he’d determined he needed. Dr.

Danby said to expect acting out. She keeps forgetting that I’m a

psychiatrist. I don’t treat children, but I know signs of trauma. I

also know my child.

He spent time alone in his room as punishment for the bad behavior.

Ironically, he’s never been disciplined for anything. He’s always been

the sweetest little boy ever. With his father’s temper, he became

upset with me for punishing him. He refused supper and taking a bath.

I was grateful when he climbed into my bed to sleep huddled against my

back like always. I could blame John for his new aggressive attitude

but we’re both to blame. Me for allowing the John to treat me the way

he did in front of him, so that he thinks it’s okay to treat Noodle

that way.

He probably needs to be in his father’s presence if not just because

he’s the only male and that can seem like he doesn’t fit with me and

Noodle. Growing up in a house full of women, when you’re confused

about male issues like anger and maturing, is a confusing position,

even for a little boy.

“Nicky, we have to go.” I whisper lifting him from the mattress. He

slumps his head over my shoulder and hugs my neck with one arm.

Noodle’s wide-eyed and expectant after I pull on pants. “Daddy.” She

says remembering our mission. She scurries from the room while I

manage Nicky wrapped in an afghan in my arms.

“Noodle?”

She meets me in the hallway with her favorite blanket and newly

acquired pink slippers on her feet.

“You’re growing up too fast for Mommy,” I tell my proud daughter. She

nods and leads me down the hall. Toddling down the

stairs with her blanket dragging behind her, she stops to make sure

I’m still behind her.

I’ve been lucky to have her plucking me up everyday. It’s been

impossible to slump into sadness, the way her daddy has, with her

exuberant spirit keeping me afloat.

Nicky stirs when I pull him from my shoulder to lay him down in the

back seat. “It’s okay honey.”

Noodle reaches to be lifted beside her sleeping brother. “All set baby

girl.” I say after she slides into her car seat quietly. She lifts her

arms for me to lower the seat belt over her shoulders. “Do you want

Zaza?” She shakes her head happily. It’s for peace and to keep her

from waking Nicky up on the drive to John’s condo.

Pulling out of my garage, I dial his phone again. The house and cell.

He doesn’t pick up or won’t answer.

I can’t imagine what it would be to find him hurt by his own hand

because of me. I don’t want to even know what it feels like to see

that. By the time I use the key he gave me, my heart is in my throat.

Nicky’s slung over my shoulder, heavy with sleep.

Noodle is nipping at my heel.

“John?” My fear is evident. I find my steps slowly into the dark. He’s

at least been keeping his house in order. Nothing seems out of place.

He apparently hasn’t sunk that low. But I heard something in his voice

that makes me worried about the state I’ll find him in upstairs.

Pika meets us first at the bottom of the stairs. She looks at Nicky.

He usually greets her with a hug and rough rolling around on the

floor. Noodle digs her knees into the ground to give Pika the hug

she’s seeking. She barks, frightening Noodle enough to stand up and

grip the back of my knees.

Nicholas lifts his head. “Mommy.”

“It’s okay baby. Sleep.”

Noodle heads bravely upstairs, heading toward her father’s bedroom

when we touch the top landing. I turn her by the shoulders, guiding

her into Nicholas’ bedroom instead. She eyes me in confusion, watching

while I lower Nicky into his bed. He rustles under the sheets quietly,

opening his eyes at a fraction before slamming them shut again.

“Sleep with your brother,” I say turning to Noodle. She shakes her

head disagreeably with Zaza propped cutely in the middle of her mouth.

“Come on sweet girl. Climb in and sleep for Mama.”

“I want Daddy,” she whimpers rubbing her eyes.

“In the minute,” I deter her, helping her climb into the bed on the

other side of Nicky. “Now close your eyes sweet girl.”

She obeys holding her blanket tightly under her arm. Loud suckling

noises collide with Nicky’s soft breathing. She turns toward Nicky and

slides her hand into his. If I weren’t so concerned about John’s

condition, I’d climb beside them and tell them sweet stories that

would give them happy dreams.

I kiss them each of their foreheads. “I love you two. Sleep well.” I

flick the Hulk night light by the bed and take another look at them

before pulling the door up and turning to walk down the hallway.

His bedroom is dark when I cross the threshold. I’m grateful when Pika

crosses with me; it feels less lonely.

John’s dark form rolls over in the bed when my footsteps crunch the carpet.

I can make out his face in the dark as my eyes adjust to the dark.

“It’s me John.” I haven’t seen him since our session with Dr. Danby.

He wasn’t exactly pleased with me then. He can’t be pleased with me

now.

The stench of alcohol is strong. At a lost for words, I walk slowly to

the bed and sit by his side. “You’ve had a lot to drink?”

He curves away from me. “Don’t pity me Marlena.”

He doesn’t sound sad now, only bitter. “Don’t threaten me that you’re

going to hurt yourself. Hey…” I say turning him around by the

shoulder, “Don’t do that to me or your children.” He flinches away

from me. “The kids are here.”

“I never said I was going to hurt myself,” he says angrily. His face

softens. “Where are they? I don’t want them to see me like this.”

“They won’t.” I promise stroking his hair. “Have you taken anything?”

“No….what the hell is the matter with you? I’m not suicidal; that’s

your role.” He says pushing my hand. “I wouldn’t do that to you or

them.”

Hurt by his remark, I remind myself that he’s only speaking in anger.

“You sounded sort of manic on the phone. I was worried.”

He sets his eyes narrowly on me. “Don’t pity me.” He tells me again.

“I don’t…but I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

He sits up quickly. “You’re hurting me enough for both of us.”

“John…that phone call frightened me a little. Enough to come over

here with our children.” I tell him to illustrate how desperate our

conversation was. “I’m not trying to hurt you. I promise that that

thought has never occurred to me.”

Looking at a stone face that I am not accustomed to enlivens a deep

compassion for him. He’s not open to receiving it but I wrap my arms

around him anyway. I can’t look at all the pain in his face, so I

press my head under his chin and rub my hands up and down his arms.

“I want you back.” He slurs, reminding me of how much alcohol he’s consumed.

“We can’t,” I say sadly leaning back into bed with John’s soft crying

filling my ears. “We can’t but know that I’ll always love you. Go to

sleep.” I suggest kissing his chin. “We’ll settle everything.

[John]

“You’re here,” I mumble opening my eyes. Melting into her warmness, I

curl my arms around her waist, nuzzling her hair with my nose. She’s

so light I barely feel her body lying across my chest. “I love the way

your skin feels when you wake up. You’re always so warm.”

She moves against me, opening her eyes. “Good morning.” She says me, stretching.

“Hi.” She half smiles and I squeeze her tighter. I can’t believe that

she is here. “How’d you sleep?” What else is there to say? It’s

awkward enough after the conversation we had last night.

“Fine. A little tense,” she says rubbing her neck muscles.

It can’t be this easy to have her back in my bed. “I’ll massage them.”

She looks up suspiciously at me, then turns on her stomach and lays

her head sideways. Her freckled skin is soft against my finger tips

when I straddle her back and start kneading her shoulders gently.

“How’s your head?”

“Fine.” I lie. I do have an intense headache that comes from drinking

an entire bottle of scotch. “I’m fine now that you’re here.

Thank you for coming last night.”

“I was very worried about you,” she says, moaning under the

ministrations of my fingers. “That feels wonderful.”

“You are tense.” I say pushing her hair over her shoulder. “It’s my

fault isn’t it?”

“It’s not only you John. I accept responsibility for the part I played

in all this.” She moans again. “I know that it was selfish of me to

keep your children away from you.”

“It doesn’t matter now,” I tell her leaning across her shoulder to

kiss her cheek. “You’re here now.”

“I’m here because I was worried,” she sighs. “I didn’t know what else

to do except come to you.” She lifts up on her elbows. “You sounded so

depressed and I feel responsible for that.”

“I know it was desperate of me. I felt desperate last night. I drank

too much, but I wanted to tell you…”

“It was your conversation with Belle, wasn’t it?”

“What’s with us not allowing each other to finish sentences,” I wonder

lowering my hands to rub the small of her back.

“We’re afraid of what we’ll say.”

She’s right. “It was talking to Belle. And I really miss you and kids.”

“I know you do. I’d miss them too.”

“Would you miss me?”

“I do miss you,” she concedes relaxing against the mattress again. “I

miss us as a family.”

“So?”

An exasperating pause. “John, we’re going to have to come to some

decisions about the children.”

”Like?” I ask, removing my hands from her back. “What about decisions

about us? You’re not here on pretenses. You want our family back as

much as I do.”

“I can’t.” She says turning her body under my legs to lie flat on her back.

The way we’re lying so comfortably with each other is the only sign I

need. She’s not afraid of me. I was worried that she was. But she sits

up and plants her elbows into the bed, thrusting her breasts forward.

The low cut t-shirt reveals her braless breasts.

“You know that it’s hard for me…just as hard as I imagine it is for

you. But we can’t go back to being those people. We keep trying to get

something back that should probably be left in the past.”

“You’re not trying to convince me, are you? You don’t believe any of

that do you?”

“Last night, I feared that I had hurt you so badly that you’d hurt

yourself. That’s a heavy burden to bear,” she says hesitating on her

words, “and it’s always been that way between us. All we’ve ever done

is hurt each other.”

“We’ve also loved each other,” I remind her, sitting back on the backs

of my knees. “I know that this family is the most important thing to

you. Baby, I know you.”

“You do,” she says pressing her mouth together. “You probably know me

better than anyone else…possibly better than myself. That doesn’t

mean…we have to think about Nicky and Noodle now. We’ve been selfish

enough, haven’t we?”

“It’s selfish to love you?” I ask her, leaning forward to see where

these unpleasant thoughts keep springing from. We mirror each other’s

drawn faces. Her eyes are weary, shining with unshed tears. “Since

when has love ever been wrong?”

“When it’s us. When it hurts to be together more than it feels good.”

I run my thumb across her freshly-licked lips. “No, no no no. You’re

not going to tell me that.”

“John,” she slides up to press her back against the headboard, “You

know that’s not what I mean.” She pulls her legs from under me to bend

her knees at her chest. “We shouldn’t even talk about this. It only

makes it harder.”

“I want it to be hard for you. I don’t want it to be easy to leave me.”

“Visitation,” she says lowering her head. She picks at imaginary lint

on her t-shirt. “I also want Nicky to continue seeing Dr. Danby.”

“So we go back to the way it was with you and I leading separate lives

again. I don’t think I could handle that.”

She smiles conciliatorily looking up. “Don’t make this hard. I don’t

like hurting you this way.”

“Then don’t,” I say, bending forward to kiss her.

“Don’t John,” she cries in disbelief. After pulling back from my

mouth, she rubs her lips. “I don’t want to confuse what we’re doing

here.”

“You woke up in my bed,” I remind her. “You told me that you still

love me. I think you’re the one confused here.”

“Don’t misunderstand my intentions.”

“I’m not.”

It’s not that I haven’t touched her body in so long that makes me want

her physically. It’s her leaning against my headboard, her in my bed

with her sexy, sad eyes. It’s the fact that she came to me out of

worry.

I steal another kiss. She slams her hand against my chest. “Baby.”

“Don’t baby me. Don’t try this…don’t try to seduce me,” she pleas sadly.

She can’t resist. I know that by the weakness in her hand. She doesn’t

push me too far away. And she doesn’t push me away for long. It’s been

a long time for both of us.

I kiss her again, pushing past her parted lips with my tongue.

Touching every inch of her mouth with my tongue, I curl my hand around

her neck to pull her forward.

“Why do you want to do this?” She asks breaking our mouths apart for

air. “It won’t change how I feel.”

We connect foreheads and breathe each other in.

“If we do this….” My lips stop whatever she was trying to say.

“John…John…wait.” She says pulling back again.

“What?” I grunt easing her body down underneath me without resistance.

“I love you and that’s all I need to know.”

She exhales, shaking her head. “I’m not disputing that…” She closes

her eyes, allowing my tongue to dip into her mouth again. “God, what

are we doing?” She asks heaving quick spurts of air. “Why do you do

this to me?”

“It’s you that does this to me,” I say rolling the bottom of her

t-shirt up over her stomach. Her body writhes with my soft kisses

across the plane of her stomach. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

“John, you can’t do this to me.” She pleads breathlessly. “The babies

are going wake up. And then they’ll see us…we can’t confuse them.”

I touch her like a mad man obsessed with the feel of her flesh.

Obsessed with her freckles and the curves and peaks around her hips.

Very softly my fingertips trail her freckles. She shivers from the

sensual slow touching. She’s biting back a whimper. The rewards of

foreplay are plenty. Controlling myself from ripping her clothes off,

of not being too anxious brings a sultry wanton look to her eyes. I

blow behind her earlobe and watch her take slow breathes. Trailing a

line with my tongue from her neck to the top of her pants, I stop and

smile at the look on her face as I crawl back up her body.

“I can’t do this,” she cries writhing under my body. “You can’t do

this to me anymore.” She whimpers in mantra, like her battle cry to

not be taken over by arousal. “You have to stop doing this to me.”

“I haven’t done a thing to you yet,” I say kissing the lean meeting

place between her neck and shoulders. “I want to do so many things to

you.” She moans quietly when I latch my teeth to her skin.

Kama Sutra. We’ve done our share of research there. I’ve learned to

prolong foreplay by keeping my attention all on her, ignoring my

body’s cry for completion. I can’t ignore my erection pressing into

her belly anymore than she can. The secret is that if she has a

satisfying release, then my own will be more satisfying. So I hold

back, thinking of her to not plunge roughly into her body.

She starts responding with her hands. Dragging her fingernails under

my t-shirt, she rakes my stomach eagerly. I smile against her neck,

inhaling her skin, when she opens her legs wider so that I can move

between them.

I pull back and look into her face, feeling her fingers dig into the

back of my thighs. “I won’t make love to you unless you want me to.” I

warn her, feeling the tide of my own self-consciousness rise. I was

too rough with her before. “Baby, I won’t if you don’t want me to. Do

you want me?” I repeat when she doesn’t answer my questions. She’s too

lost in my touch and the slow grinding of our bodies.

She groans in frustration, crying out when I scrape my teeth against

her skin, sucking and marking her neck.

“I won’t do this, if you don’t want me to.” I promise. I don’t know

how I’d stop but if she’s not sure, I’d have to. “Do you want me?”

She cups my face between her hands. “John, I don’t know why I’m doing

this. That scares me.”

“I want to you so much,” I say touching her face. “I want to be inside

of you so badly right now that it’s killing me.”

“I’m sorry,” she says kissing me. “I want that too…” She moans cupping

the bulge straining between my thighs. “John…I don’t want it to be

like the last time.”

“It won’t be,” I say kissing her softly. “I’m going to make love to you.”

She considers my promise. “What was that before, in Colorado?” She

asks kissing me.

“You fucking other men,” I growl grinding a little harder into her.

“What?” She says confused.

“I don’t want to picture that now,” I say lifting her upper body to

pull her t-shirt over her head. She arches forward to give me access

to her breast. I close my mouth over her nipple, circling my tongue.

“I want every inch of you to be for me.” I say possessively sucking

harder on her breast. “Every thing.”

She answers whimpering, “I can’t belong to you.”

I switch breasts, burying my face against her skin. She tugs my pajama

bottoms over my hips to squeeze my rear, pressing me tighter against

her. Just the feel of her hands on me makes me want to slide into her.

But I calm the urge and continue lapping against her chest. She lifts

one arm above her head in ecstasy; the other snakes around my neck to

keep my mouth feasting at her breast.

“You belong to me. You’ll always belong to me.”

“I don’t,” she says squeezing her eyes shut. “I’m….” a weak moan slips

uncontrollably from her mouth.

“Mine,” I tell her releasing her breast. “You’re all mine.”

“No.”

“I love that little breath that you take when you’re horny. You can’t

think straight, can you?” I whisper dragging my tongue down her

stomach. “You can’t think of anything except me inside of you, right?

You want me so bad right now that you can’t stop your hips from

grinding into mine.” I plant a kiss on her stomach. “That’s how I know

you’re mine.”

“Oh god,” she cries and real tears pour from her eyes. I kiss her

again and again to make them stop.

“I want you inside,” she half begs, half cries.

“I will,” I say continuing to grind between her thighs, “only if you

want me to.”

“I do,” she says eagerly. “Please.”

“Where?” I ask, sliding her pajamas down her hips and legs. “Where do

you want me baby?”

“Here,” she says slipping her hands down the front of her pants. My

fingers follow, finding her sticky and throbbing. “Right there.”

“Are you sure?” I ask circling inside her panties slowly. Bringing her

very slowly to the brink of an orgasm, I pause and whisper, “Only if

you’re sure.”

She moans painfully.

“I want you to beg for it,” I say pulling my hands out of her panties.

“Please,” she says squirming. “I want you to…” She leans up to kiss me

with such a force that I lose my breath for a minute.

“Don’t cry,” I say thumbing her tears away when we pull apart. “I want

to make you feel so good baby.”

“You always do,” she murmurs against my mouth as she wraps her arms around me.

“Do you want me like I want you?”

“Mm hmm,” she tells me biting her lip. “I need you.”

“You say no so much that you forget how good this feels,” I say with

my hand disappearing into her panties again.

“Take them off,” she breathes against my chin.

I do as she wants and slide the slinky material off her body, tossing

them over the edge of the bed. She fumbles with my underwear until

they’re off. She slides her hand up and down my twitching shaft

slowly.

“You have to stop that,” I say grabbing her wrist. “I don’t want it to

end too quickly.”

[Marlena]

He eases between my legs slowly, into the heat and security. Gently

pushing, he slides to his hilt inside of me. Stretching me to a

fullness that I need during lovemaking, surrounding every wall and

curve.

“I missed being inside you,” he says pulling his hips back, sliding

out and then pushing back in slowly.

“I know,” I say locking my arms around his back tighter.

I incoherently hear his voice as he thrusts in and out of me. Taking

full possession of my body, controlling the pace at a pleasurable slow

rhythm as his stomach tightens.

I don’t think I’ll ever want any man as much as I want him.

I like every aspect of this part of our relationship. And yet it’s

still confusing me.

“I can’t get enough of you.” He moans, digging his hands into my hips

for steadiness. “I wish I could do this forever.”

I pull him closer. Thinking only of how good it feels to have him

possessing me, our end doesn’t matter. Never of what happens after; I

just want him to feel good in this moment.

“Harder,” I cry out grinding my hips to meet his.

He slides his fingers across my hips to the point of connection

between our moving bodies. And like an expert, he using one finger to

slide against my throbbing middle as he matches the slow stroking in

and out of his shaft. As his pace quickens, I pull his mouth to mine.

Kissing until I can’t breathe, until he’s thrusting so fast that I

feel my insides tightening around him. I fall against the pillow with

my back arched and pull my legs over his hips, locking my feet behind

him.

“Do it,” he urges softly in my ear. “Do it for me.”

“I am,” I moan feeling the explosion in my ears before my lower body

feels it. An electric tremor shoots through my body as the peak of

intense pleasure assaults my body. The contracting doesn’t end for a

long time. In my heightened senses, I feel him surging through an

orgasm that stiffens him against my body.

Moments past before I can speak again.

“I love you,” he says collapsing beside me. “I love you so much.”

My voice alarms my throat. “I love you too.”

We fall into an easy, peaceful silence wrapped around each other.

Chapter 30

I do not love you except because I love you;

I go from loving to not loving you,

From waiting to not waiting for you

My heart moves from cold to fire.

I love you only because it’s you the one I love;

I hate you deeply, and hating you

Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you

Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.

Maybe January light will consume

My heart with its cruel

Ray, stealing my key to true calm.

In this part of the story I am the one who

Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,

Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.

I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You

— Pablo Neruda

In a dream I’ve had over and over again, we’re walking together in a

crowded room. I can’t place where. Women wearing ball gowns walk along

side men inexplicably wearing jeans. The marriage between formal and

informality shades where or why Marlena and I happen to be in this

crowded room where I tug possessively at her, gripping a hand

protectively on her hip to keep her close to me. Her free hand, the

left, a gold band covering her finger, rises to acknowledge the other

people walking in step with us. I don’t recognize them; she seems to

know all. I feel my hold tightening, digging my fingers into her skin

involuntarily. She turns her head, eyeing me sadly. Hazel eyes have

never looked more miserable.

Lowering my chin, I latch my focus onto the crease in my jeans. The

dark boots covering my feet to avoid what always comes next. Her

words. She will eventually speak just above a whisper. Hearing it will

undo me; and we both know that. Waiting for her to speak, I see her

dress. She wore it once before; I’ve never seen it again. The Titan

party when we were having an affair. It becomes clearer, the jagged

differences between us. Her perfectly sculpted hair of stiff curls

falling over her bare shoulders sharpens our contrasting appearances

as if she stepped out of time from that night in the conference room.

I’ll never forget the white French tips of fingernails that clawed my

back. The evenly tanned skin of her bare arms, saturated in a soft

scent. There is no tux only a leather jacket and black t-shirt

offending the long silky yards of the dress hugging her body.

She tilts my chin up. A haunting sadness that looms across her face

takes my breath away. Even in the dream, I know it’s me who causes it.

She angles her neck to close the distance between her lips and my

ears. And as if this is a secret that could kill those who hear it,

she whispers soberly, “You have to let me go.”

I answer swiftly. “I’ll never let you go.”

A small smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. “I know.” With this

mutual understanding, a kiss of Judas touches my cheek. She pulls back

to retake her place at my side.

Realizing that it’s ending, the party and this chance to keep her

close, I cloak her in my arms. A small moment of silence clenches us

both as she lies against my chest. Holding me tightly, she delivers

her edict again, “You have to let me go.”

I untangle our bodies.

This is the confusing part, more than the clothes and unequally yoked

references. My eyes take a slow path to her face. A swollen lip, red

with fresh blood and a split dividing the skin. The curve of her cheek

is bruised and discolored. A scratch crawls from her cheek to the

underside of her chin. An odd shape frames one eye in dark purple and

blue patterns.

She doesn’t let me touch her even with my dogged fingers reaching for

her face. She backs away, smiling. The itch to run over the patterns

extends again to my fingers and I force her hands to her side as I

roll my thumb across the split lip. She doesn’t wince. It’s not the

bruise that hurts, she says without moving her lips. I hear her only

in my head.

I continue tracing every bruise and find my own face aching in the

exact places that her bruises are. Running my finger down the scratch

trailing her cheek, I lean and kiss her lips. I ask her, without

speaking, who hurt her like this.

She wraps her arms around my neck and says, “You.”

I wake up, startled. Sweaty and disorientated. Dreams are the minds

way of trying to tell you something, according to Marlena. The idea

that I’m outrunning my subconscious is unnerving.

Lying underneath her, it feels so real because I can touch her face

instead of imagining that I am. When I have this dream, I’m usually

alone. And the only sound I hear after tearing out of my sleep is my

beating heart. Now I have her soft sighs to calm the fever of fear

pelting beads of sweat down my face.

The only thing we have is concrete memories. Dreams don’t matter in

the real world. I can torture myself and lose sleep, but all that

counts is that we are significantly linked with mutual memories.

I can reach for those moments and I do so with gratitude. Most of them

are like this, me holding her, touching her greedily. I can’t think of

anything in life that is parallel to this feeling of satisfaction.

Fatherhood touches it, but even my children can’t relax my body, or

quell the formidable anxieties of my life like being with her

physically does. I’m still trying to figure out how to translate this

feeling into our lives outside of the bedroom. There we need real

work. We’ve never had a problem communicating on this front.

I can’t take all the credit for our gratifying sex life. She does her

part beautifully. A woman so free in giving her body and wanting to

receive as much as you want to give her is the basis of great physical

relationships. We’ve never had issues of trust with sex. It’s probably

because from that very moment of meeting her, right down to the second

that I saw her, my raw emotional state of no filters or

responsibilities sent sparks throughout my body. I wanted to bed her

then in a conquering king manner, and then I heard her speak. That

voice that raised above the disgruntled voices in my head to offer her

help. I eventually stopped only wanting to have her sexually because I

began wanting her to want me, and in return, I could give her the best

sexual experience of her life.

It’s not all about sex in the physical sense. Sex is a word

objectifies a beautiful act between two loving people who come

together to in a spiritual experience. With her, it’s so much more

than just making her have an orgasm. It’s the highest degree of

devotion I can give to her. I don’t take our sexual compatibility

lightly; I know everybody isn’t like us in that but I’m glad how well

our bodies have always worked together.

Taking the energy between us and using it to create an act that belies

true explanation. I know how much I love being with her. She makes me

want to work harder at pleasing her, at showing her what a treasure

her lovemaking is for me.

Making love to her entire being is the encapsulation of her life

forces—mind, body, and soul; her body making a connection with mine;

the animalistic motivation in keeping her tied to me soulfully. I make

love to her in the overwhelming way that I do to keep my possession

over her, and her body. She lies when she acts like she doesn’t know

that or that she actively participates in that. She likes being owned

in a sexual way.

There are times when I fuck her; and there are times when I want to

make gentle love to her. Even when it’s crudely termed, purity still

exists. This is the woman who never hid her sexuality, was never

ashamed to feel the deep emotions involved in lovemaking. She cries in

pleasure. She claws at my back, screams my name. She begs for more.

She has no reservations about trying new things. No indignity in

begging for me to make love to her. She has a purely unadulterated

love of being thoroughly sexed. That’s always been the kind of lover

she’s been.

I can go deeper when I fathom how spiritual our lovemaking has been—it

results in life. The idea that us being so turned one night or

interlude translates into my boy and girls being born is the only

religion I need. Creating these indestructible bonds that don’t end

with separations through these children who came from acts of love. We

can’t be separated. We’re too closely ties, knotted at the heart. I

don’t want my heart back.

I’m selfish. I believe that she’s only felt this kind of love with me.

I know it’s true of my feelings about her. I don’t know that any man

can love a woman as much as I have determined to love her. I hate that

I love her at times of my own self-doubt, but even knowing that, I

recognize that it’s still love.

I think there is purity in obsession. What woman doesn’t want a man to

sacrifice his peace of mind for the love of her?

That’s why I watch her, instead of waking her. I can admire the things

about her that I love most looking over her. It takes everything to

restrain from tracing her flushed cheeks and kissing her. Her breath

tickles my neck. Rakishly sprawled across my chest with her hair

untamed across her back, she has no idea how much I’d like to have her

again.

Barely an hour has passed since the last time I was inside her. What’s

exhaustion when she’s lying so close to me, her thigh serving as a

wall against the rising bulge between my legs. Her skin against my

skin causes heat to linger between our bodies. I remember falling

asleep beside her as I rubbing her all over. When we sleep, I usually

curl around her to keep us bonded. That’s how she ended up on top of

me with her legs entwined with mine.

Lifting the blanket tangled below her torso, I admire the small curve

of her rear and the small of her back, especially when it’s bare and

close. Her breasts rub my chest with the small breaths that come to

her in sleep. Slipping into her would be easy at this angle. Adjusting

her hips. Crushing our bodies together. I’d settle for her hand

satisfying me.

I don’t want to wake her and change the serenity of us lying together.

She’s obviously exhausted from our early morning lovemaking. But she

turns her head suddenly, gazing into my face. Her kiss-swollen lips

part to yawn. She breathes gently through her nose and shifts to bend

her arm across my chest.

“Hi.” She greets me huskily.

Instead of answering, I press our lips together and start torturing

her with my tongue. I intensify our kiss by drawing her mouth deeper

into mine. She cups my cheek, sighing contentedly into my mouth.

I pull back to see her face fully. “Hi.”

“How do you feel?” She asks, lifting up to rub my temple. “Do you

still have a headache?”

“How did you know I had a headache?”

“You were squinting.” She smiles and rakes her fingers through my

hair. “Is it better?”

“I think making love to you makes my entire body feel better,” I say,

watching her roll off my chest to lie on her back. “How do you feel?”

She lifts her eyes to the ceiling. “You have to ask.”

I run my hand down her body, flattening across her stomach. “I think

you look like you’ve been thoroughly sexed.”

She laughs sexily at my observation. “I bet I do.”

I follow her movements when she sits up, disappointed when she covers

her chest with the sheet. “Going somewhere?” She’s visually searching

the room. Caressing her cheek brings her attention back to me.

She turns and half smiles. “I can’t believe we did that again.”

“You can’t? Have you been in this relationship as long as I have? This

is us. Good or bad, we can’t keep our hands off of each other.”

Chapter 31 (NC-17)

I do not love you except because I love you;

I go from loving to not loving you,

From waiting to not waiting for you

My heart moves from cold to fire.

I love you only because it’s you the one I love;

I hate you deeply, and hating you

Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you

Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.

Maybe January light will consume

My heart with its cruel

Ray, stealing my key to true calm.

In this part of the story I am the one who

Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,

Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.

I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You

— Pablo Neruda

[Marlena]

“Can I have a shirt?” The room is actually humid but I still feel

chilly. I run my hands up and down my arms over the raised bumps

puckering my skin.

It’s a diversion. I need John not to be so close. One of us has to be

stronger than the attraction. I’m starting to believe that it is an

addiction—this inability of ours to lay together without acting on the

attraction. Our inability to say no to each other after our bodies

have demanded attention.

The problem is attraction; a mutual attraction. The sexy grin of a man

who’s been inside your most intimate parts is charming. Intimate

knowledge of what we do with, do to each other is powerful on its own.

Add to that John’s sexiness is overwhelming. His vulnerability is even

more devastating. When we made love this morning, I was trying to

purge him of all the bad feelings; I was trying to lessen my guilt. We

do this to each other so much that it’s automatic. He pleads and I

cave in to it; I show him my weakness and he gives in to me. This is

the circle of confusion and I’m watching him trying to figure out how

to end it.

Gentle eyes, a result of lovemaking, settle on my face. Considering

why I want his shirt, he brings his legs over the side of the bed and

props his elbows into his thighs. His erection strains against his

leg; I scoot nearer to the other side of his bed to wrap my arms

around my knees. Trying to make myself small, like Noodle when she’s

being mischievous. The sinewy muscles flex in his back when he bends

to pick up the panties that he discarded and tossed last night. He

places them politely between us on the bed and stands up.

His sheets are a mess. The room has a fairly potent scent of sex. And

I think of all of this to avoid seeing the obvious reaction to our

close sleeping arrangements. I’m still filled with him, still full of

his seed. Still sticky and exhausted from making love at the crack of

dawn, I lean my head back to close my eyes. How did we get here again?

His body is so perfectly sculpted, especially in the nude, especially

striding back towards me with the silky pajama top that was hanging on

his bathroom door. In his other hand is a facecloth that he gives me

to clean up. I smile appreciatively about his gesture. This isn’t a

one night stand.

He sits down in front of me and pulls my legs over his lap. “Thank

you.” I slip his shirt over my shoulders and start buttoning from the

bottom. I can feel two things: his erection and the heat from our

overly warm skin. He covers my hand at the third button, lowering them

to my lap. “I’m not Noodle, you know. I can still dress myself.” I

smirk, craning my neck to watch.

“You’re not as cute as her either,” he laughs stopping at the button

just below my breast.

I feel my own breaths slowing before I can do anything to stop them.

“I can’t take offense to that. She’s half yours too.”

“I think these are beautiful,” he says widening the slit of my shirt,

leaning forward to kiss the top of my heaving chest.

We watch each other silently for a minute, a full minute. John slips

his hand inside my shirt, fingering the spot where his lips were. I

take quick breaths and stop him from moving over the curve of my

breast. Just for a second I consider loosing myself in the kneading

warmth of his hand. It’s always too easy to do that for him—to fail

this test of wills.

“We need to talk.” I say cautiously, closing my shirt and lifting my

legs from his lap. He lifts a brow suspiciously. “Please?”

I’m surprised that he backs away so easily, folding his hands in front

of him, and looking like a good church boy with gracious manners.

“Sure, let’s talk.” He plants his feet in the carpet beside the bed.

He looks squarely my way. “Isn’t this usually how it goes?”

“This is sort of routine for us, isn’t it?” I laugh, realizing how

ordinarily predictable we’ve become with each other. “Sex, argue, sex,

forgiveness.” It all sounds pitiful coming softly like a poem from my

mouth. Sadness in that revelation slants my mouth weakly.

John nods in agreement to the merry go round of our lives. He’s

thinking something that plays in layers of tenderness across his face.

I know it without having a legitimate name for it. But mostly, it’s in

his eyes. Whatever it is, it highlights the rich blue hues, making

them explode with life. Even without the blue eyes, Nicky is a smaller

version of John.

John must’ve looked exactly like Nicky as a little boy. Eyeing me with

wonder, he looks even more like a little boy. One who still believes

that Santa Claus exists; that still believes that Mommy and Daddy will

fix things. Much like our little boy who still sees the star dust

around our heads, even with our feet surrounded by clay.

John interrupts our silence. “What are you thinking about?”

“Nicholas.” The wonder washes out and is replaced with shame. “What?

What is it that makes you look that way?” I ask him expectantly.

Memorizing the lines of his powerful jaw. Nicky will have his bone

structure. He’ll have the same blue black hair. Thick fingers and

hairy knuckles. And no more sickness, only a powerful torso and back.

Sinewy arms and legs.

“I keep having this dream,” he starts fumbling with his knuckles,

“about you.” He reaches cautiously to lay his hand over my knee when I

glance at him skeptically. “Not that kind of dream.”

A dream. I’d rather not interpret a dream. “John, can we talk about

Nicholas? And Noodle.”

He tucks his arms over each other. “I can’t believe they’ve slept this long.”

“They’re probably exhausted.” He’s still naked. Still hard. “I woke

them up to bring them here. I imagine they’re trying to catch up on

some sleep.”

John moves a fraction and the sunlight drapes his frame, causing a

halo to outline his body. I feel the same admiration I felt when I saw

his body completely for the first time. Our first time of

soul-stealing, lovemaking, making us one. I trembled then as I’m doing

now. Frightened by my reaction to him and the erection straining for

attention.

I kneel, knowing the feeling of doing things that you know you

shouldn’t do, down in front of him on the carpet. Tossing my hair over

my shoulder, I bend forward to grip his inner thighs. They constrict

sharply matching the quick gulp of air he takes. Without words to

dirty the beauty in this sexual act, I wrap my hands over the top of

his swollen head, willing him to look at me. When he looks down, I

plant a kiss right on his tip, against the vein cording beneath his

skin. Examining the length of his shaft, I move closer between the

juncture of his legs. His musky scent clouds the curls below his

stomach. It’s the same scent that lingers on the white lines of my

thighs. He sucks air harshly into his mouth when I stop milking him

with my hands to edge my tongue around his tip again. Salt and sweat

mix on the surface of my tongue as it slides down one side leisurely

and back up the other.

You don’t keep making love to a man that you’re not in love with. You

don’t use your mouth to close over him until he’s breathing your name

in the company of low grunts and the expulsion of warm liquid that

coats your throat.

He untangles the fingers that he dug into my hair as encourage and

falls heavily into the mattress, his manhood languid against his

thigh. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and I climb on my

knees into the bed and move to lie beside him.

The first I’d ever done that, loved him orally, I wasn’t exactly sure

of technique. I clumsily underperformed leaving him more frustrated

then happy. I was a mom to young twins who needed and craved my

attention as much as he did. It was a frustrating then because I’d

just gotten him back-or thought I had—and wanted to spend all my time

with him. From the start we spent many days in bed. Making love until

I couldn’t walk. In random places all over the house that we then

called home. The kitchen, on the counter while Sami and Eric napped in

the living room. Against the front door, after I’d come home from

working longer than I intended. On the floor of the basement, when we

were looking for baby clothes. The stairwell after a romantic dinner

at Wings.

He was opening me up to the idea of loving more freely than I had ever

done in my life. Confidence isn’t what I lacked. It was skill. And

before my first clumsy attempt at using my mouth to do what he had

been doing for me from the beginning, I was a little anxious. I had

never had the nerve to do it, even though I wanted to feel what he

felt like in my mouth. I’d never held any man in my mouth.

I picked an awkward moment to try it after a frustrating week of

misses that left us tense and needy. We’d both been working too much.

The kids were missing both of us as much as we missed each other.

There was never a moment to just relax. I remember feeling guilty for

wanting to be with him while taking care of Sami who was ill with a

horrible cold, and then even worse for going to him instead of being

with her. There was a night when her fever spiked but I didn’t know

until I heard her wailing; John had to pull out the small fraction of

his shaft that he’d managed in a quick attempt, as I pushed him to let

me up. The next morning in bed, I woke John up by latching my mouth

around him. Not expecting me, he sat up and assured me that I didn’t

have to. It only made me want to do it more.

It was quick. I wasn’t sure how to move my mouth or tongue. Or where

to put my hands while I moved over him. I was turned on by the feel of

him, hard and throbbing in my mouth. The power of allowing myself to

be in that submissive position, trying to please him. I sucked until

my jaws hurt, without bringing John to a climax. He patted my head and

pulled me up to fall against his chest. Embarrassed that I couldn’t do

what he did so well, I hid my face in the hollow of his shoulder. He

diplomatically told me that I wasn’t as bad as I thought.

I smile into his torso where I’m lying, stroking the arm he’s slung

over my hip. “Remember the first time I tried to give you a blow job?

When Sami was sick…and I woke you up?”

He remembers, smiling. “Don’t say blow job.” His fingers drum along my

hip. “You made love to me with your mouth,” he describes for me. “Blow

job makes you sound tawdry.”

I turn on my side, looking across the muscled plane of his chest.

“Tawdry. I’ve said much worse than blow job in bed with you.” I remind

him, leaning closer to his chin. “Does fuck me ring a bell?” I whisper

rubbing my cheek against his rough chin.

“It does.” He folds me into his arms, pinning us together. “You do

have a saucy mouth at times.”

I lick my lips purposely. Tasting him. “It’s our secret.” I fall

against his mouth and allow his mouth to consume mine. Kissing roughly

enough to draw blood from his lip, he leans back grinning. “Oh honey,

I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t bad,” he says, licking a small drop of blood. “Me in your

mouth is an unspeakable experience. Even the first time. Especially

the first time, baby I was proud of you for opening yourself up to

love me that way.”

I lean into the hand cupping my cheek. I’m blushing. “You’d done so to

me without fail. You and all your sensual moves. I used to wonder

where you’d learned all of those moves.” I laugh, but I was actually

jealous. I hadn’t made love to Roman the way that John was making love

to me. And believing him to be Roman made me wonder if there had been

someone else while he was missing.

“Believe me, I didn’t know anything until I climbed into bed with you

and started exploring.”

“Exploring,” I say, lifting my eyebrow. “You held me hostage in bed for days.”

He mocks me. “Are you complaining?”

I shake my head slowly. It was the best period of our lives. We were

innocent enough to know nothing about each other; that was heady

enough. There were babies there to take care of who also basked in the

innocence. And I was being loved, wholly by a man who truly had saved

me.

“To the man who showed me the proper way to go down,” I dip to kiss

his chest, “is that better? Going down isn’t as tawdry as a blow job.”

The playfulness comes naturally being tucked in his arms. Naked is a

vulnerability that hides nothing.

He slides a hand down the span of my leg, moving slowly across my

thigh. “You were an easy student.” I roll my eyes at the easy

reference. Maybe. It never took much for him to seduce me out of my

clothes. Being his easy student came as he taught me the joy of

multiple orgasms. I was determined to show him that I appreciated him.

I needed to reward a man who could make love to every part of my body.

I showed up at police station after taking the twins to Caroline’s one

day. I was adjusting better to being a mom and wife again. I learned

to split my time evenly with the children and him by merging our time,

and spending as much family time as we could together. Our time, I

told him would be at night, after our sweet babies were sleeping. And

the night before my visit to his job, he’d orally pleasured me for so

long that I lost my sense of time.

He was happy to see me wearing one of his favorite outfits. A short

red skirt. I don’t remember the jacket, or if there was one. I just

know he loved to slide his hand up this particular skirt. I greeted

every man in the station before my eyes rested on him. He sat admiring

the ease I had in being around a room full of men and not being

self-conscious. When I finally made my way to him, he kissed my cheek

and grabbed my wrist to pull me into his office.

I didn’t take time to lock the door. I didn’t care if anyone walked

in. In fact the power of being caught heightened my determination to

finally get the blow job right. He fell easily into his seat behind

his desk and I bent down to unzip his pants. Feeling shaky about my

abilities, I asked him to tell me what to do. He instructed me

quietly, holding my eyes as he told me how to make him come in my

mouth. And when he did, he coaxed the fear of the unknown by assuring

me that I was swallowing a part of him.

“I’m not easy. It was just easy to follow your lead.” I assure him,

relaxing in his touch. “I’ve never ever done half of the things that

we do with anyone else.”

His face makes me wish I could yank back those words and sew them back

into my mouth.

“John, it doesn’t take anything away from us because I’ve been with

other men.” I say, remembering the reference to me with other men when

we made love this morning. “That worries you more than you want it to.

Maybe we could talk about it,” I suggest rolling on top of him. I kiss

the bridge of his nose and wrap my arms around his neck. “Can you talk

about it with me?”

“Are you coming home to me?”

It’s a legitimate question. “What would I be coming home to?”

“Me,” he gripes in frustration. “I would like for you to come home to

me.” His voice is softer in his request.

“Look at me for a minute.” I pull at his chin roughly lifting it.

“Even if I came home to you, I would still be who I am. I’d still be

the Marlena with ex-husbands. Those will still be problems between

us.” He wants me to belong to him. “I’m confusing you with intimacy.”

“I’m not confused at all. I know what I want—you, the babies, a new

house, and Pika.”

I sigh sadly, propping my head under his chin. It’s cruel of me not to

answer his bid. I just don’t have one that works for either of us.

“You know,” I say in a sing-songy voice, “if we could just stay in bed

all the time, then we’d be okay. Wouldn’t we?”

He doesn’t find it as amusing as I make it sound. “I don’t only want

you in my bed. I want you in my life.”

I can’t hear myself when I tell him, “I’m in your life, just not in

the way you want me to be.” I don’t know if he’s heard me either.

“Well be that.” He mumbles against my hair. “Be my baby again, but

fully. No more of this separate shit. You come back to me and I

promise I’ll make this all right again.”

“You can’t promise me that any more than I can promise you that it’ll

be okay. We’re not going to argue about this.” I say turning around.

He sniffs my cheek, leaving wet imprints from his eyelashes. “Are you

crying?”

“No,” he lies, turning away.

“I’m not saying no,” I tell him, holding his face between my hands. “I

just don’t know.”

John crushes his mouth against my cheek, tugging skin between his

teeth. Last night, I gathered my children, our children to come to him

in his despondency. I was worried that he would do something that we

wouldn’t be able to recover from. I was worried because I knew that

the man who was drunk and bitter in my ear was so because of choices

that I’d made.

It’s not apparent that he’s marking my cheek under the guise of

kissing. He moves back to admire his work. “John?” I rub at the

throbbing skin near my cheekbone. “Did you mark my face with a

hickey?”

He grins widely.

“I can’t believe you did that,” I say incredulously, sitting up.

“Now everybody will know you’re mine.”

“No,” I sigh falling away from his body. “I don’t know why….John, it’s

not possession, loves not.” I ramble, covering my eyes with my hand.

Tears leaking from my eyes surprise me. “You can’t say you love

someone only by possessing them.”

“Don’t cry,” he says remorsefully rubbing the hickey. “It’s not permanent.”

“How could you do this?” I ask him softly. I have sessions and a

workshop to attend once I leave this insulated world. I have to live

my life outside of his shadow even if he doesn’t like it.

“Don’t I belong to you?” he posits seriously, as he leans over me.

“Haven’t I always belonged to you?”

“John…” He missed the big picture and I start to think like him when

I’ve been in our lair of sex and intimacy. No one else matters, or can

get in. That’s not true. He would rather we went back to the way were,

but we’re not that innocent anymore. “You haven’t always belonged to

me. I wouldn’t want you to. I want you and me to be who we are,

individually.”

He tips my face up. “When?”

“What?”

“When haven’t I been?”

He forgets that he slept with women, sometimes flaunting those

relationships in my face. The Kristens and Rebeccas, or the women who

got him through my loss, Isabella and Diana. Hope and Kate. And others

who I don’t know about.

“Kristen,” I say watching his eyes run away from me. “Diana. Isabella.

Kate. Hope.” I lean over his shoulder, “So, you see, you haven’t

always belonged to me.”

“My heart always did.”

Noodle’s sleepy voice echoes from the hallway. “Mummy?” She stumbles

into the room holding her blanket close. She rubs her eyes sleepily.

The sight of John lights her face. “Daddy.” He gets out of bed nude,

and meets her on his knees, as she slams heavily into his chest.

“It’s my baby.” He says, rubbing her back. “Hi.”

“I miss Daddy.” Noodle whimpers dropping her head to John’s chest.

“Daddy’s pee pee.” She points, reminding us of her precarious age and

knack for pointing out the obvious.

“Oh honey, come give mommy a kiss,” I say, giving John time to slip

into some boxers. She comes to me without the same excitement she had

in seeing John, but she hasn’t seen him in so long.

“Daddy?” She sweeps her bangs from her forehead in exasperation. “I

want kisses.” She demands puckering her mouth out for her father.

Giggling when her daddy comes back to kiss her, Noodle climbs into his

lap and snuggles against John’s chest.

I tug on Noodle’s ear to get her attention. “Remember me…are you hungry?”

She shakes her head. “I want Daddy.”

“Okay. You can have daddy then,” I assure her, nuzzling her nose.

She wraps her arms around me from John’s lap. My face is a breath’s

space away from John. He takes advantage of the proximity to kiss me,

to Noodle’s delight.

“Kisses daddy. Me-Me.” She lifts up to accept another kiss from John.

“Daddy loves you so much.” Noodle nods in agreement. She’s too young

to know what questions to ask. Why aren’t you with us? What did you do

to make Mommy keep you away?

Instead, Noodle babbles happily to John about Sailor Moon, her latest

cartoon obsession. He twists her hair as she talks, watching her

attentively. Every word punctured with widened eyes. He smoothes back

her hair to kiss her face. She stops chattering and throws her arms

around him. I love that she loves her daddy, even with pangs of

jealousy darting my chest. I’ve had them for too long. She and Nicky.

I interrupt her, “Where’s your brother? Did you leave Nicky sleeping?”

She stares at me as if she doesn’t know what I’ve said. Her little

pointer finger rises and she points to my cheek. “Boo boo?”

“Yes.” I huff, shooting John an annoyed look. “It doesn’t hurt.” I

assure her as she inspects it.

John turns Noodle back to him. “Where is Nicky, baby?”

She thinks for a moment before plugging her mouth with her thumb. She

shakes her head slowly.

“No?” I ask, buttoning my shirt completely up. She is usually very

talkative when spoken to directly. “He’s awake?”

“He’s sicky Mommy.” Noodle announces yawning and falling back into her

daddy. She rubs her stomach. “Tummy.”

“Nicky’s tummy hurts?” I’m on my feet immediately. Sickness with Nicky

isn’t like sickness with other kids. He’s had leukemia. I have to be

vigilant about sicknesses because of that fact.

Nicholas is sprawled out in the middle of his bed with covers strewn

around his ankles. His hand pressed firmly against his lower belly.

“Hi baby. I hear you have a mean old tummy ache.” I lay the back of my

hand across his forehead. He’s not particularly hot. He looks

relatively fine. Pupils and skin.

“I’m sicky,” he cries sadly, reaching for me to pick him up.

“Can mommy see first before I pick you up?” He lets me examine his

stomach. He register any significant response when I poke on his belly

and push against his abdomen. “Does it hurt here?”

He shakes his head.

I move to his left side. “Here?”

“No mommy.” He pouts, reaching for me again.

I lean across his bed to help him up. “Where then sweetie?”

He closes his arms around his stomach. “All over.”

“I’m going to get daddy,” I tell him, wondering why he isn’t with me anyway.

Nicky shakes his head quickly.

“Baby?”

Nicky drops back to the mattress, crouching over, he starts howling,

holding his stomach as he does. He cries louder when John runs into

the room with Noodle in his arms.

“Baby, what? Tell Mama where it hurts,” I cry, feeling his screaming

in between my bones. “Baby, where?”

He holds his belly and turns to the wall to cry.

John hands me Noodle quickly. “I’m going to get the car, we’ll take

him to the hospital.”

Chapter 32

“The purpose of life is to be defeated by greater and greater things.”

–Marie Rainer Rilke

Silent can be a peace stealer. Words jog around my mind. Some

significant, other’s not as much. No intestinal blockage, he says. No

lactose intolerance or constipation. No upper respiratory illness.

He’s still in remission.

Noodle. Where is Noodle?

They all have tremendous sympathy for us. I can call each of their

names familiarly because of the time that we spend here. We all

know—we look away for knowing it. Sickness in a child with leukemia is

sickness that can lead to death.

John. He can’t handle seeing Nicky in pain. I can’t handle him being

distant with him. Nicky recoiled from his touch in the car. It hurt

John; it was written all over his face. I had Nicky wrapped up in my

lap, whining quietly against John’s shirt. He reached over to rub his

back, and Nicky whimpered louder. He stopped trying. He left us with

the pediatrician while he examined Nicky—something about Juliana not

needing to be in the room while Nicky was having such a hard time. He

was happy to get away. It was easier not to hear his crying. He took

her down the hall where I can’t see them inside of Nicky’s room.

Exhausted from crying, he’s slouched over my arm with his head curved

against my stomach sleeping. The numbing of fear starts in my fingers,

stroking through the silky depths of Nicky’s hair. It’s all still

here, his steady progress away from disease. If that’s true, then why

are we here now? Nicky’s breaths are reassuring. His shirt rising to

expose his belly with each one. I trace the small swell of his belly,

checking again for the cause of his torment. With a doctor’s

precision, I feel for bumps or bloating under his skin. Nothing. He

pushes my hand away sleepily without opening his eyes. I lift his hand

to press a kiss to the back of the tender bones framing his fingers.

The ridges of his knuckles are so tiny against my lip. In this big

world, my small baby has to thrive. I don’t feel adequate enough,

large enough to keep him safe. And that’s what I fear most.

An hour, maybe two have passed.

I held this little boy in my womb. He came from me and I’ve done

little to protect him; it hasn’t been a lack of trying. I want to keep

him safe; I want to keep all of them safe. Mother’s guilt gnaws away

in my fragile state of mind. I wonder, with Nicky lying in a hospital

bed how much of this stays with him. Barely two, he can hardly recite

a complete sentence. Yet, I know that memories linger through the ages

longer than we’d like sometimes. I wonder if he feels my fear. My

guilt. The incompleteness of the relationship I have with John. This

is all unhealthy to dwell on—I realize that. But my mind does

backflips whenever I feel him being torn away. It’s mother’s guilt.

You never think anything that you’re doing is enough. You’d risk your

life to save his, but you hope that never have to prove that. You’ll

suffer through torment just to see him smile, even as it kills your

soul.

The nurse comes to check his vitals. Rachel’s not on duty. The scene

seems unbalanced without her. She’s always here when Nicky needs her

to be. I know that it’s not her duty to nurse her sick brother every

time he’s sick. I am the mother to both of them. I’m responsible for

him, even if his father can’t be right now, for whatever reason.

I know why he’s hiding. Our level of guilt is probably even. Except,

I’ve hurt Nicholas in ways that I pray he won’t remember. John’s hurt

hasn’t been so invisible. It has been so viral that the little boy who

worshipped him last month, fears his touch now. The loud voices and

frightening moments have crystallized the abject feeling that Nicky

isn’t sophisticated enough to name. That’s not the kind of childhood

he and his sister deserve.

The nurse tells me that she’ll keep an eye on Nicholas while I step

out of the room. I thank her, and slide from under Nicholas’s sleeping

body. He struggles in his sleep before settling in the middle of the

bed. I kiss his neck so that I can inhale him, leaving an imprint of

my love on his skin.

I envy the mother walking down the corridor with her precious baby

girl tucked safely in her arms. A young, vivacious mother with her

husband and son walk past and my heart tightens when the husband holds

her by the small of her back, guiding her toward the elevator. I envy

that peace.

Noodle’s preoccupied with the Dora the Explorer video dancing across

the waiting room television. Perched at the children’s table with a

crayon in hand, she does her best to follow Dora’s instructions.

Huddled behind her, John tucks her hair behind her ear as she shows

him the picture she’s been working on. He lifts the dark locks from

her head, sniffing the strands.

“Marlena.”

I turn around, facing Dr. Moody, Nicky’s pediatrician, searching his

face for something that isn’t there—dread. Dr. Moody beckons me toward

him. “Did the tests show you anything further?” I ask before I get to

him.

At my requests, Dr. Moody did extensive testing to rule any and every

possibility out. I ordered them after his initial diagnosis of nothing

alarming.

“The reality of the situation is there is nothing physically wrong

with Nicholas,” Dr. Moody explains holding Nicky’s chart to his chest.

“I know you’re worried about his prior medical condition being the

issue, but it’s not the case here Marlena.”

“It’s an ongoing case,” I remind him, looking through the glass window

separating the hallway from Nicky’s room. “Remission is a tentative

condition Dr. Moody.”

I feel John move behind me. He grabs my elbow and I turn toward him.

Shaking his head, he tells me, “Let’s not go there honey. Dr. Moody?”

He wants Dr. Moody to call me back from the edge. To extinguish the

dread before it builds unnecessarily. “You said he was fine? All the

test…they were good news?”

“Yes.”

I know that tests are conclusive, but I also know that Leukemia is a

tricky disease. Rapid and malicious in its form, it can very quietly

diminish a person to nothing. And I’ve been waiting for this unwelcome

visitor to return. It’s an irrational fear, but I’d rather err on the

side of caution.

Dr. Moody touches my shoulder. “You trust me.” He says sincerely. “It’s fine.”

“Well then what could it be,” I asked. “You didn’t see the way he was

crying, bent over in pain.”

John hovers so close that I can’t catch my breath. He’s gripping my

arm, looking at Nicky through the window. My skin actually feels as if

it’s crawling from the contact. He bends and kisses the back of my

neck. Dr. Moody looks at me uncomfortably. I unconsciously draw my

hand to the place his eyes are examining. My cheek.

“Psychological.”

The word hits me like a bomb.

John sighs into my hair.

The sound of silence is a peace stealer.

[John]

She stiffens. That’s what my touch does to her. She holds her neck

away from my lips and turns around quickly. Her eyes just about kill

me. An accusatory glare that lowers my hands from her arm.

She walks away from Dr. Moody and me, towards Jules. My daughter’s

smile widens when Marlena lifts her from the table and wraps her legs

around her waist. She sings her mother’s name into her neck.

This is the price men pay for love. I’m still trying to figure out why that is.

“Nicholas will be fine.” His doctor assures me, shaking my hand. “I’ll

release him today.”

“Thank you.”

When he was born, all I wanted to do was protect him from his mother.

It wasn’t because I didn’t believe that she loved him; I knew that.

What she did to him, to me and herself, hurt me in places that I

didn’t know I could hurt in. I didn’t know that love could be that

painful. But I’ve loved him ever since I knew he was inside her. I was

his greatest advocate. I took care of him when she couldn’t. I loved

him enough not to love her, when it hurt him.

He used to fit in the curve of my arm.

He still feels the same under my hand. It’s amazing how he was inside

Marlena and now he’s in the world. That’s my son in that bed, looking

angelic.

I told him on the first night that he was born that I would always

protect him. I lied. I didn’t protect him from me.

[Marlena]

Noodle whispers her brother’s name into my chest. “Nicky?” She’s

wrapped around me, legs and arms. Bubble gum shampoo and baby lotion

greet under my nose. “Nicky Mommy.” She says with questioning eyes.

“He’s sleeping baby girl.”

“Daddy?” Hopeful, she looks up from my chest and runs her hand up my

cheek. The hickey on my cheek catches her eye. “Boo boo Mommy.” She

asks tracing a circle on my cheek.

“No,” I whisper pulling her hand back to kiss the tips of her fingers.

“It doesn’t hurt at all.” I assure her, convincing us both of this.

She wipes the tears from my cheek.

I hate being weak.

I hate being this woman.

I promised myself that I wouldn’t be her anymore.

Chapter 33

“Once you make a decision, the universe conspires to make it happen.”

Ralph Waldo Emerson

“I’ve left you many messages,” Andi informs me, waving her index

finger, standing on my front porch. “Are you avoiding me?” The corners

of her small mouth lift into a warm smile.

She has so many layers that I’m never sure how I should receive her.

I’ve been licking my wounds, avoiding her—avoiding everyone really.

She’s not offended by that, obviously. Instead, she’s standing in

front of me holding a candle. Lavender for peace, she says smiling.

The smile makes her prettier. Her features are less severe, less

disarming. Lawyers need to disarm in the courtroom, but in my house,

this small fraction of our combined world, she’s just Andi Landry, my

neighbor.

She looks youthful with her hair pulled into a high ponytail. Colton’s

fair skin and mossy eye color are her attributes. A small bone

structure. Pretty, not delicately but powerful, and serious.

“Hi Andi,” stepping back to welcome her in, “it’s been a long time.”

She steps inside, hooking our arms together as she walks. “I’ve been

home for a week and we have yet to talk. I hear that you and the ex

have reconciled.” She lifts a sharply arched eyebrow at me. “I’m in

need of spicy conversation and all the details.”

She watches me suspiciously after we settle on the back patio with

freshly poured glasses of ice tea. The sun is blazing overhead. It’s

mid-afternoon and she’s perfectly put together. Make-up and nails

shaped with white tips, and an expensive looking summer dress. I used

to be her at one point in my life.

She causally hints at John’s absence sayings things that sound as if

they are questions. He hasn’t been around, which probably confuses her

and her curious husband.

I answer cautiously, “It’s been a busy couple of weeks.”

A prim grin graces her glossy lips. “What a poker face you have Dr. Evans.”

I laugh, taking a long sip of my tea. She is amusing. I like her sense

of humor more than her straightforwardness. “It’s true.”

She watches me expectantly over the rim of her glass. I don’t know

exactly what she wants me to share with her.

What exactly would this near stranger like me to say about my complex

relationship with John?

I’ve been hiding away from the world. I’ve been trying to figure out

how to live with losing my best friend, again. I’ve been trying to

decide if I’m a battered woman or if I’ve battered John’s soul. I’ve

been the one nursing my sick son’s emotional wounds. All of it in

private because I have a need not to be any one’s victim any more. No

more pity for me.

A lot has happened. Too much, and not just since she’s been gone, but

since before she ever knew me. Andi is a great woman, but I don’t know

what kind of friendship we could have. She often regards me

circumspectly, cattily at times when sympathy suffices, and I don’t

know how to take her observations.

I am guarded now, more than I was even before with people. It’s my

defense mechanism. I trust humanity to do cruel things, but I don’t

enjoy being so skeptical. With Andi, who doesn’t know the extent of my

relationship with John, I have to protect our image. How could she

ever understand what we’ve become? I don’t understand it. I also don’t

have anyone to figure it out with. I can’t talk to the person who

usually does that with me. All my feelings are wrapped up in him.

I haven’t been able to confide in anyone in so long that I’ve

forgotten what it feels like to have close friends. When I give all my

truths to John, it hurts more than it helps. When I started to believe

that Dr. Shalit was my friend, I turned John against me. I haven’t

made a true friend in years.

Except, I feel like Andi’s seeking friendship, but I don’t know if I

trust that. I don’t trust my judgment.

“James must have filled you in on the amount of time that John spent

here while you were away,” I ask, watching for evasion. “There were

some interesting situations.” Her husband watching me and John

together in the pool.

“James, who I think has a thing for you,” she says with a surprisingly

straight face, “told me all about you and John’s midnight interludes.

Cheers to reconciliation.” She lifts her glass for a toast.

Addled slightly by her admission about her husband’s interest in me, I

roll my hand around the rim of my glass. “It’s not so black and

white,” I say, joining our glasses together.

Andi lowers her glass and leans back, loosening her shoulders against

the chair. Her pale skin is sun-kissed from her Texas vacation. She

seems relaxed, removed from the obvious anxieties of her life. Like

any mother who’s losing her baby to life, she smiles sadly when

talking about her daughter Emma and leaving Colton with his

grandparents. I’ve heard her discontent with her marriage in past

conversations. She’s not guarded about her life at all.

“What life is?” Andi ponders sliding a finger down the sweating glass.

She’s worlds away from our conversation. And then suddenly, a quick

flash of recognition lightens her face. “I want to live vicariously

through you Marlena. I’d love to have the kind of relationship that

you have with John.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” I warn. She’s reaching. Hoping for

something that I’m not comfortable giving her. “What exactly did James

tell you,” I ask, curious of that kind of dialogue between husband and

wife. If maybe James has openly admitted that he has a slight interest

in me.

She chuckles lightly, awkwardly. “You’re an extremely guarded person

Marlena. Are you afraid of being disappointed by people?”

“I’m afraid of things that have never bothered me before,” I admit

rubbing the cheek where John’s love bite has faded. “I didn’t used to

be this way. I used to love great girlfriend talkfests until my life

nosedived. Now, it’s not so fun to dish on the ugliness.”

Andi shrugs knowingly. I can’t imagine what a woman like Andi is doing

with a man like James. She’s bright and intelligent. She has

self-confidence that belies the sadness in her eyes. I had her pegged

from our first conversation as a woman who went for the I-want-it-all

lifestyle. A career and family.

They told us we could have it all; we’re just learning that we can,

but not at the same time.

Measuring her reaction, I lean forward to convey openness. “I’m not

with John again. We’ve been flirting with reconciliation but it’s not

going to happen. There is too much between us.”

She smiles appreciatively. Reaching across the table, she grabs my

hand and squeezes it gently. “James told me about hearing you and

John.” She graciously doesn’t actually say the word sex. Some things

are sacred. “He got such a kick out of it, but it drove me crazy,” she

says rolling her eyes. “He doesn’t realize it. I came over here to

check out my competition. I haven’t seen John’s car. I’m guilty of

being a jealous wife and eve worse, a catty female.” An exasperated

huff escapes her mouth. “But it’s so damn hard to dislike you.”

“That’s good to know,” I say, trying to relieve the tension with a

small smile. “Honey, I’m not interested in your husband. I hope you

know that.”

“I do,” she allows, crossing her arms over her chest. “He’s interested

in you and I’m sure that you’ve done nothing to encourage him.”

“I’m sorry,” is the sad response to her admission. No woman wants to

admit her husband’s imperfections to perceived competition. I don’t

know what it would do to me if I had to admit that about John to

anyone.

“Don’t be. James’ name in college was hound dog.” Clicking her teeth,

she tilts her neck conspiratorially, “And I married him knowing that.

I married the eternal frat boy.” Her tawny lashes brush her cheek when

she blinks back unshed tears. She wouldn’t give me the satisfaction of

seeing her cry. She’s too strong for that; I know that much about her.

“He’s never been satisfied with one woman.”

As a woman, I want to scream then why don’t you leave him? But in

relationships there are no easy solutions or simple answers. If it

were as simple as those options, I’d have moved on from John before

Nicky and Noodle were conceived. The connections that are created in

intimacy are eternal.

“How do you live with knowing that about your husband?”

I’ve been cheated on; I’ve been the cheater. I’m not comfortable with

either role.

“I don’t,” she says gazing over the fence that separates our houses,

our lives. “I took Colton to my parents and visited Emma in Texas.”

She digs her fingers into her arms until there are white spaces

beneath the pads. “And I met a man that I’ve been having an affair

with for a weekend in Arizona.”

Stunned into silence that isn’t laced with judgment, I cover my mouth.

I didn’t expect that confession. My reaction garners a grin from her.

“Shocked?”

“A little.” I admit.

“Don’t be. I love James. I’ll never leave him.” She says solemnly.

“Of this you’re certain?”

Andi’s ponytail bobs with her nodding. “I would never take my children

away from their father because of something I did. It’s not fair to

either of them. No matter what else James is, he happens to be a

wonderful father.”

I acknowledge her wordlessly. Believing that I’m nodding because of

her, she shrugs and laughs. I’ve done exactly that to John more times

than I can count. I’m doing that to him now.

“He is.” Andi assures me. “And I still have a wonderful intimate life

with him. He’s just an asshole that I haven’t learned how to deal with

positively in 20 years.”

“I’m not judging you. I’m…my life isn’t an example of what a

positive relationship should look like. I am by no means perfect.”

“The night that you and John were over, I was fascinated by your

interaction. As a lawyer, I’m trained to notice all types of things

about people. You know—the liars and cheaters. Everyone could see how

much that man is madly in love with you.”

I’m tired of mad love. I crave gentle, normal love. We don’t have

that; we’ve never had that. We fell so intensely in love that we’ve

never recovered from the feeling.

“I feel the same about him.” I can admit freely. I can admit it to

John as well. Andi’s own complex love for James makes me think she can

sympathize with my situation.

“That’s obvious. You’re a different person when you’re with him.” She

lifts a hand to dodge the curious look I throw at her. “A good

different. More open. Smiling and happy. You two have an easiness

around each other.” She looks amazed by the memory. She would never

guess the argument we had after we left her house. “Yeah, we were all

very envious of you, especially after seeing you together and talking

with him. He’s a charming man. I’ll admit this to you now, since we’re

going here. We’d wondered privately what kind of man you would have

divorced. I mean, we’re women. We’re catty. We saw this beautiful

woman with toddlers move in without a father. It was intriguing.”

It always astounds me the gulf between self-perception and

public-perception. And how women can be more intolerable of each other

than men.

“I’ve been worried since I saw the moving van. I may be unfaithful to

James, but I don’t like him being unfaithful to me.” Andi looks sadly

away. “So from the beginning, I’ve had niggling thoughts where you

were concerned until I saw you with John. You’re exactly the kind of

woman James would fall for. You’re the kind of woman men fall for in

general.”

“I’m not.” I say self-consciously. “I’m not that woman, I swear.”

“Honey, you’re drop-dead gorgeous. We won’t argue that point. You’re

also apparently very good in bed. Men love that kind of woman. You

happen to be a great mother and you have an independent streak. How

could women not hate you?”

“I thought this was about men loving me,” I joke, appreciating her

honesty. “Thank you by the way.”

She tips her head forward and veers her eyes toward me. “So tell me

what happened between you and John? Is it over?”

“I don’t think you have enough time for that,” I say, allowing myself

to become open to her. “Believe me, we’re nothing to envy. It’s

complex and heartbreaking. I can assure you that who you think I am,

is far from who I truly am.”

What I’d like to tell her is that I have two children who need their

daddy more than I want a husband. What they’ve seen in me is a lot of

work and self denial. When I moved into this neighborhood, I’d never

been more convinced of my independence. But if I’m honest, I’d tell

her that it was only a reaction to John’s shutting me out of his life.

The woman that she envies has no more structure or stability than she

does.

I’ve kept my son away from his father after his hospital visit. I have

no right to do so. I have no qualms about admitting how wrong it is,

but Nicky is my primary concern. If he’s not ready to embrace John,

then I’m not willing to force him. I’m trying to do what’s best for

them. Noodle is spending her weekend with John; Nicky is napping

upstairs.

I’m confused a thousand different ways of what I’m supposed to do next.

“There’s nothing about my life that you have to envy,” I repeat.

“So, that’s it?”

“We’re parents. We’re Nicky and Noodle’s Mommy and Daddy. That’s it.”

“You have to give me more than that after my confession.” She demands.

“You’re incorrigible Andi.”

“I tell you the biggest secret of my life and you tell me that you’re

parents. I don’t think so my dear.” She says winking.

“I’ve decided to move on.”

“You? You alone,” she says surprised.

“He’s not happy with that decision.” We argue daily over the phone

about my decision. I’m being selfish, he says. It’s not only about me,

he keeps reminding me.

“He must’ve done something terrible to you.” She says in a questioning

tone that doesn’t beg to be answered.

I feel the trepidation tighten in my face. It’s not him; it’s what we’ve done.

I offer her a tiny glimpse into my life with John. I tell her about

the affair that brought us together, because in my mind that was our

beginning and we’ve been trying to outrun it for years. She does a

good job of not showing any emotion as I relay what happened when we

finally got together, leaving out the extramarital affairs and babies

that we didn’t share. I talk about Nicky’s leukemia and the frame of

mind I was in when I betrayed John’s trust with my therapist. I don’t

tell her about my suicide attempt. I tell her that John was the

perfect husband to help me through a period of darkness. Then I share

that after Noodle’s birth, I realized that he’d finally given up on us

and I had to do so as well.

To hear your choices while sitting across from a woman who envies you,

gives those choices new perspective. She nods graciously at my words

as if she’s been beside me making the same decisions. On some level,

women share guilt and responsibility without judgment.

I can tell Andi that John has been acting aggressively towards me

because it’s not to demonize him. It’s to illuminate my decisions.

“You’re doing this for your children,” she concludes after I stop

speaking. “I knew you were an amazing mother. Now I have even more

reason to hate you.” She offers me a smile that sends warmth through

my chest. Our relationship has taken on a new component. Confidant.

“I’m doing this for all of us.”

“You need to date.” She declares her eyes wide with excitement. “It’s

the easiest way to muddle through this.”

“I don’t need to date,” I say, shaking my head. “I don’t date.”

“So you’re going to sit at home and become an old maid, I take it.”

“I’m going to spend time with my children.”

“And when they’re not home?”

“I have my work.”

“And when your bed is cold at night?”

“An electric blanket?” I say laughing.

“No, a man my dear.”

“Andi, I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

“Then let’s think about it Marlena.” She looks at me circumspectly.

“You do know that I’m doing this as a way to keep you out of my

husband’s bed, as well.”

It’s impossible not to laugh at her honesty. “Thanks but no thanks.”

“I have just the person,” she says, tapping her chin. “My brother

Michael has been asking about you.”

I chuckle, “Are we in high school?”

“No, we’re in middle age. The field is narrowing for us….you.”

“Andi, I don’t think…”

“Please?” Her pout is pure Colton.

“I’m not ready to do that yet.”

John’s not ready for it either. My children are another story.

“Believe me, the sooner you move on the easier it will be for John to

do the same. My male clients openly admit to me that their feelings

are reversed when they consider that the women they love have moved

on.”

“That’s a small percentage,” I say, knowing statistics that prove

otherwise. “And those men aren’t my ex-husband. It’s a bad idea right

now.”

“Let me do this for you.”

“No,” I say shaking my head amused. “I can’t.”

“You need to have dinner with someone that you don’t share baggage

with. Believe me, it does wonders for your self esteem.”

“Andi,” I sigh in exasperation, “I can’t.”

“You can. And you will,” she tells me compellingly. And I admit, I

want to believe her.

[John]

She changes everyday. Discovers parts about herself, learns new words

and what she likes or dislikes. Children do that without asking if

it’s okay. It’s not okay with me as her daddy. What father doesn’t

want his little girl to stop aging, to stop being this adorably

innocent? I’m no different. I understand that with her innocence, I

can keep winning her over because Daddy’s are heroes, until they stop

being so. Without her innocent, naive understanding, I’d spend bitter

days alone, without the family that she’s growing used to being apart.

She’s unafraid of her daddy-she doesn’t know any better. Her brother

unfortunately does.

I believe Marlena when she tells me that Nicky isn’t ready to see me.

Terror that I’ve seen in his face when he’s around me isn’t

manufactured. And I know—I hope—she wouldn’t use Nicky or Jules

against me.

Dr. Ashton’s helpful input enables me to have a more diplomatic change

of view. Marlena believes what she is doing is right for Nicky. And

out of my respect for her role as his mother, and because I’m learning

to be responsible for my actions, I don’t won’t push her on Nicky—yet.

I have to believe that she’s right about Nicky.

Dr. Ashton came about because I didn’t know if Marlena was right.

Confusion pisses me off. I’ve heard Marlena espouse the positives of

therapy for years. I’ve watched her cure the mental ills of many

patients, in total awe of her abilities. That leaves me to believe

that dark forces exist only as much as I allow them to exist. There

isn’t anything wrong with self-awareness. Dr. Ashton is a result of

those personal realizations, and my own personal digging. But more

than anything else Nicky needs me to do this for us.

The look in my son’s eyes when I touch him or his mother tells me all

I need to know about myself. I’m faulty. I’ve been pretending with

myself for too long that I’m all right. That I haven’t been pissed off

at Marlena and the hurt that I feel she’s caused me and our family.

That I could love us past the pain, and love her flaws without

addressing them.

Nicky’s reaction to our situations requires me to admit my flaws. I’m

an angry man. I’m a dangerous man. Real men know when to seek help. I

pride myself on being a real man. As a father, I’m admitting that I

could use help.

I found a Dr. Ashton in another part of town, far away from the

psychiatric community that Marlena is well-respected in because I

wanted an unbiased, objective point of view. I found Dr. Quinn Ashton,

specializing specifically in male aggression and licensed in marital

counseling, in a small hospital on the other side of Salem.

Nicky’s hospital scare provoked this self-reflection. I turned the

mirror to me. How could I not try to fix what is obviously broken

within me before I can address anyone or anything else? The decision

didn’t come easily. Self-defeat has its power. Feeling sorry for

myself worked for a while, after I’d dropped my family off at “their”

home, I dwelled on my bitterness for about two days before I reached

out to Dr. Ashton.

Ironic as it may be, it’s my secret. Marlena has wanted this for me,

for me to get help. I’m doing it, selfishly. I’m doing it without her

knowledge. And it’s been a slow, nice journey. Nothing too intrusive,

even if my first meeting was me rambling about all the strife in my

relationship with Marlena. She allowed me to get all of that off my

chest and then told me to take a breath.

A moment to recover and see myself through someone else’s eyes, unfiltered.

Stay in the moment, she advised me. Stay clear of angry confrontations

and situations. Focus on the positive aspects of my life. Focus on the

reason that I sought her help. My children, we decided, deserved the

focus right now. Not Marlena and the sordid relationship we have. Not

the sexual interludes that mean nothing to her. Only Jules and

Nicholas because they are being affected more than anyone else.

I told her that the most wonderful part of my life with Marlena had

always been sharing children with her. It’s that that I miss most. My

children are the ultimate pleasure and positive in my life. She said,

start there. I do every Friday when Jules is here until Sunday, when

she leaves.

Jules is my breath of fresh air in a stale week of loneliness. I take

relief in our weekends visits. Having the attention of my baby girl,

spending time reveling in her learning and love. Without Nicholas, who

I knew first, who I loved first, I need everything that Jules gives in

those three short days. It’s ironic that it is Jules who still wants

me, and not Nicky. I wasn’t there to nourish her as a baby. I did what

I could as the parent who didn’t live with her, but she was

shortchanged. Nicky was shortchanged by Marlena as a baby as well. And

now we’re on divided sides of our family with respective children in

our corners. I owed Jules more as a baby, but I didn’t know how to

reconcile her mother’s betrayal with her birth. Hard things that I’m

not proud to admit. And they are in the past. Ashton, I call her that,

doesn’t believe in dwelling. What counts is that I’m here now. I’m

with Jules in the now.

And on days when she’s feeling charitable, Marlena picks and drops her

off at my house. The positive in that is I still have an emotional tie

to Marlena, miniscule as it may be, and I look forward to seeing her

car pulling into my driveway knowing that Jules will be in the

backseat waiting for me. Of course I feel Nicky’s absence as well,

knowing that he’s not in the car with Jules. Not even Juliana’s arms

wrapping around my neck can lessen him not doing the same thing. They

don’t replace each other in my affections. I want them both.

It’s Sunday, and Jules is having her usual mommy-withdrawal. It

usually sets in about this time, after lunch, after the phone call

from Marlena promising to be here to pick her up because I don’t go to

their house anymore.

She’s torn between two parents, she misses her brother. She’s a baby

with a lot of emotional responsibility. As young as she is, Jules

already knows that she doesn’t like to disappoint people. It’s funny

how it manifests. She starts the weekend without mentioning her

mother. And Marlena is diplomatic enough not to call on the first

night and sometimes even the second. This is only since this new

weekend visitation arrangement. We don’t believe in going to bed

without speaking to the children. It’s an unspoken rule. But to make

it easier for Jules, she doesn’t. By night two, Jules wants to hear

her voice. She wants to talk to Nicky but out of some sense of

loyalty, and I don’t know where she gets the understanding of this at

one, she doesn’t ask for her them. It’s only Sunday morning when she

begins to ask when Mommy’s coming. And the little selfish piece of my

heart breaks.

“There’s mommy,” I offer as a pitiful consolation. The hallway of our

family pictures. The proof. The truth that pain can’t stamp out.

Marlena’s radiant in the frame that I unlatch from the wall. “Your

mommy is beautiful, isn’t she?”

Juliana pauses to consider that. A gesture of a raised eyebrow and her

small hand sweeping across the glass and she agrees smiling. “My Mommy

beautiful.” She manages to repeat exactly.

It’s true. Her radiance isn’t confined to life, it’s so vibrant that

film can’t distinguish it.

There’s Nicky, she reminds me pointing to her brother’s sleeping body

framed on the wall. She tucks each picture under her arm before

toddling down the hall.

She seems to grow taller every week. I’ve started penciling her height

on the bathroom wall. Hanging pictures that she deems art. Counting

the hours until she’s Belle’s age and far away from her old man.

I’m not allowed to dwell or grieve for what hasn’t happened. Deal with

what is—another maxim of Ashton’s.

In an hour, Jules will be back with her mother and brother. Cheerful

as I can manage under the strained circumstances, I sit across from

Jules on her carpet and listen to the barrage of questions. She’s

becoming a curious child.

Without deference to her dark hair, pinned back in curly ponytails on

either side of her head, she reminds me of Marlena. Painfully because

I recall how Marlena looked when I left what would become Jules inside

her body. A picture of innocence, eyes brimming with hope and

optimism, believing then that I could do anything. I was her hero; I

am now Juliana’s.

I’ve adorned her with jewelry much in the way that I have Marlena. A

gold bracelet inscribed with my adoration for her. Diamond studs in

her earlobes. A thin chain circling her neck with a St. Christopher

medallion.

Brown pools of warmth, acceptance focus entirely on me. She crosses

her skinny legs into a pretzel and sets her pictures down in front of

her. She pulls the edges of her light pink sundress over her knees and

gazes up at me.

“Story?” Her voice hopeful, matching her eyes.

I understand that even children have internal alarm clocks. Try as I

may not to, my children pick up cues from me. Jules’ awareness of our

time being short used to amaze me until I learned that she’s as torn

as I am. Only she can’t express it, she doesn’t have the vocabulary to

do it. So instead, she seeks bonding experiences that she can savor

until we’re together again.

I’ve learned that in therapy.

I’m beginning to have more understanding about my children. I bring

Marlena up; I have tried to explain away our separation but Dr. Ashton

believes I’m too raw to go there. And the most important thing is my

relationship with the children.

“What do you want to read baby? Princess?” I ask, reaching for her to

climb in my lap.

She crawls over my legs, shaking her head.

“Dora?”

“Bears.” She decides astutely. A story about a family of bears on an

adventure. Her favorite after the big pink Princess on her bookshelf.

“I get bears.”

“Daddy got Mama?”

“My mama?”

Her face is a contrast of soft angles and chubby slopes. She’s

studying the picture of her mother. “Mama.”

“You look a lot like your Mama Baby. Beautiful,” I say tracing the

curve under her cheek. “Your Mama is the most beautiful woman I know.”

She has no choice but to agree nodding. Smiling. Opening the book in

her lap, she points to the picture of the bear family. A complete

family with babies and parents who live in a tree house. At peace, not

destroying each other.

“Papa Bear loves Baby Bear,” the story begins and I read it with as

much enthusiasm as I can muster under the circumstances. Those being

the fact that she’ll be leaving me to go back to the life that I’ve

been shut out of in too short of time.

I always wanted to be there for my little girls. All of my children

really, but little girls especially need a dad to steer them the right

way. Mothers have their place and my daughters have an excellent

mother in Marlena. But fathers, they have a job to do. They must show

their daughters what love is supposed to be like. Daughters love their

daddies first, before any other man can come and break their hearts.

I was too stubborn, or was it that I allowed Marlena’s stubborn

rejection of me to keep me away from Belle when I found out that she

was mine. I was there, but in such small ways that now I know she

suffered not having a dad living with her. When we finally did get

ourselves together to create our family, Belle and Brady flourished. I

know it was because they were witnesses to the way I felt about

Marlena. It’s important for children to know that their father loves

their mother unconditionally.

I almost came home when Marlena was pregnant with Jules. I almost gave

up my pride. It wasn’t that I ever wanted to be away from her, I

wanted to be away from Marlena. I nearly drove to her house, after I

heard that she’d moved in, and asked her to take me back. I wasn’t

happy that she decided to move so far away from me and our life in the

penthouse. But I understood why, and I accepted it. I never should

have let her think that I didn’t care. I cared.

I was pissed when she took my children, especially the baby inside

her, and moved away. Her buying a house didn’t make me feel good. I’m

the man who is supposed to take care of her. But I couldn’t stand to

look at her. She’d done this awful thing that felt like we couldn’t

recover from. That was my little girl, a new life that I’d given her

and she took her and that new baby away.

Martha called me to ask me what I was thinking. She’d come to help

Marlena out with Nicky and the baby. Taking my role, the one I was

refusing to play. I let my pregnant wife—my wife in every way that

counts—move and I did nothing to stop her.

Was I really that pissed?

All I know is that I saw her one day, and she never knew. She was

picking up some small thing from the penthouse. I hid when I heard her

voice. I had been seeing them regularly when they were in the

penthouse; that stopped when she moved away.

She was, is a beautiful pregnant woman. Every cliché ever written to

describe the state of a pregnant women works in conjunction with her.

She was full of life, even heartbroken. Beautiful. Round with my baby.

Maternal and nurturing, her hand covering her belly. A swollen face

and wry smile. My son holding her hand while she scoured the living

room for whatever it was that she was looking for.

My heart shattered just to see her. So full of life and moving on. I

watched and waited and waited, waiting until she turned and walked

away.

She was carrying my child, and that hit me hard. I didn’t want to be

an asshole to her. I wanted to be there to rub her back and feet when

she hurt. To give her baths and rub lotion on her stretched skin. I

wanted to be her husband again. For those thirty minutes. I wanted to

be hers again.

But I didn’t go to her. I let her do it alone. And now with the

evidence of how well she can do things alone in my lap, I regret that

I didn’t come to my senses sooner. I regret being the asshole that

made her choose to move on.

Chapter 34

“You are free and that is why you are lost”

-Frank Kafka-

[Dr. Quinn Ashton]

“All pain is the same; the only difference is how one deals with that

pain and how it’s expressed. Intellectually, we can grasp the idea but

conceptualizing that into a greater understanding, a greater

compassion for others does not often happen as a result.”

I chose this branch of therapy for cases as complex as Mr. Black’s. I

chose male aggressive because I had an aggressive father, who battered

my mother; I also went on to marry an aggressive man who battered me.

As a doctor, you repair the broken pieces of others so that you find

healing in their healing. Peace abides strongly when I stop someone’s

mother or wife from living through the hell of the secret lives of

battered women.

“Marlena’s pain is my pain,” he says, “because everything she feels, I

feel it probably deeper than she can. I love her that much.”

Too much. I’ve only been his doctor for two weeks and I’m willing to

make that grand assumption. John Black is that mystery, wrapped in a

mystery, inside a riddle. Difficult to solve and even more so to

define.

This is the man presented to me in our first meeting.

A middle-aged man, separated from his wife and children, who has

exhibited some characteristics of a batterer. A millionaire with all

the lavish gifts that money can provide but with little happiness

coupled with it. A man, whose fierce love for his wife was shattered

by her infidelities. A father, whose mortality and fulfillment rests

in his children’s eyes.

And the picture keeps evolving. The shades of his better nature twist

darker or lighter depending on his mood after recollecting how he

found himself here.

My modus operandi is to chip away at all that was true in his mind,

all that he perceived as truth, in order to re-educate him, to reshape

and make aware his coping mechanisms. To find the inner batterer and

flush him out, if not for the sake of rekindling his marital

relationship but also to help him live a fulfilling life.

As a therapist, I know that my patient’s point of view has to be taken

as unreliable. If in his mind, his wife was unfaithful and she wasn’t,

then clearly I have to approach solutions evasively. As I said, this

man is a mystery.

An orphan by admission, his foundation took shape in the arms of his

wife. In his words, my life had no meaning until she told me how much

she loved me. That could be true or false, but it’s what we have to go

on. It’s also the crux of the problem. He can’t separate himself from

her. The attachment is so strong that he has a natural fear of her

rejection that is exhibited violently.

“John, pain is the same but that’s not saying that you share Marlena’s

pain,” I tell him, “because pain is intensely personal. It is a

universal emotion and that’s what you share.”

An unwilling patient doesn’t like that kind of reality, not this early

in the game but John Black is different. He has lived with a

psychiatrist for years; he has no qualms about being opened up for

this introspective digging. He told me on day one that he was ready to

understand why he couldn’t keep himself from hurting the woman he

loved. I haven’t yet explained that it’s because he’s hurting, but I

suspect on some level that he understands that but isn’t ready to

acknowledge it.

His face is a mask of confliction and pain. In gentler times, I could

see why women would find him attractive. I’ve seen the charming,

intelligent man who functions successfully in the business world. I’ve

also seen the little boy lurking just at the surface. The clenched

fist drawing line across his legs, especially at the mention of his

wife. The drawn, tight-lipped mouth of introspection. The sad eyes

peering directly into mine. He’s not like other batterers I’ve seen.

He doesn’t hide behind his face, like others do. Masking the true

nature of their aggression. Hiding behind genial words and

half-admissions of guilt. John Black clearly understands that he’s

hurt his wife. The openness of his body, loose arms with his knees

widely stretched apart convey that although painful, he’s willing to

go inside.

Clear blue eyes that reveal his many facets. I just haven’t gotten to

which face belongs to him more often than the others.

“When she tried to kill herself, it was like I took those pills too. I

stopped eating, caring really about myself. She became my life line.”

He doesn’t hear what he’s saying. I stop him and ask him to repeat

that line again.

“She became my life line,” he says, smiling perceptively at me. “She

is my life line. I told you that.”

“She was the one who attempted to take her own life,” I reiterate

firmly, “and you needed her life line. I think what you’re missing is

that you became her life line.”

Shaking his head swiftly, he fumbles with a wedding band on his

finger. “She was lost and I didn’t do anything to help her. I let her

doctor become her hero,” he admits wrenching his jaw between his

fingers. “I was so fucking…excuse me, I was so pissed off at her for

trying this, for trying to hurt herself and Nicholas that I couldn’t

really stand to look at her.”

“Why?”

“She tried to take her life,” he says slowly. “She almost killed

herself and Nicholas.”

“And she almost left you behind.”

He agrees quietly with a nod. Not quite the reaction I wanted.

“You said that you were so upset that you couldn’t look at her. You

allowed her doctor to rescue her.”

“That bastard did more than rescue you her,” he quips taking a harsh

breath that straightens his posture.

Avoiding that particular discussion, the unethical relationship

between his wife and her therapist, I cross my own knees and arms.

That has to come at another time. He changes immediately at the

mention of the doctor. Once the anger sets in, he moves away from

self-reflection.

“Your wife’s suicide attempt was frightening for you, wasn’t it?”

“I’ve said that.”

“You’ve said that she became your life line.”

“Right,” he affirms letting his hand fall back to cover his knee. “I

needed her to be well again for all our sakes.”

“What about your sake, especially? What about what you haven’t been

able to say? How did it make you feel when she tried to swallow her

life whole?’’

“Pissed off,” he mutters flatly.

“You don’t sound pissed off.”

He shrugs. “It’s the past, I was then. I was determined not to loose her.”

“But you said that you didn’t want to see her. You didn’t help her.

You’ve only admitted that you became depressed and had a hard time

functioning without her.”

“I had a couple of hard nights over it.”

“So what did you do? What was your reaction?”

He hesitates with his answer, pressing his mouth closed altogether.

“What did you do John?”

“I survived,” he answers stubbornly, “because that’s all I know how to do.”

“You did survive,” I allow him that gift of self-will. “You also

couldn’t look at her in all that pain. You survived by hiding behind

your anger. You survived by maintaining the face that you just showed

me. Stubborn will. I’m going to do this because I’m John Black.”

“What’s the alternative? Lie down and die too?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

He’s said that he would die for his wife and children because men

instinctively protect their family. What would happen if that were

actually true? Would men really die for their families? Would he

really?

“Are you asking me if I was suicidal?”

“No, I’m asking you to admit that your wife was indeed in pain but so

were you. Yes, you empathize with her pain and at times it hurts you

so much that you can probably name where it comes from, but that is

only her pain. It’s central to her. What I want you to do is learn how

to embrace your own pain and leave others behind for now, even if you

just do that in here with me. I’m not asking for you to give me what

you think your wife’s pain was about. I don’t know. I don’t know her

but what I know is that when she tried to take her life away from you,

that pain nearly killed you. You compartmentalized it as your own

instead of embracing your pain. So when I say that all pain is the

same pain, I’m saying that you can’t make this therapy about healing

your wife. You have to make this about healing yourself.”

[Marlena]

I admit to making life harder than it is. I should learn to smile more

and take things in stride. That’s probably the margaritas speaking,

just to be sure. It’s probably the spirit of independence and all the

people milling about my backyard. Celebrating—life and the freedom of

living it unrestrained.

The only thing I owe John in terms of loyalty is to be a wonderful

parent for our children. I don’t owe him my heart anymore.

“A penny for your thoughts?”

Michael Moretti is a thoughtful man. I’m terrified of thoughtful man.

Thoughtful man with wounded, brown eyes and a gentle smile. What’s so

terrible about a gentle smile? It has an uncanny knack for hiding

things. It’s so gentle that it barely reaches his eyes.

“My thoughts,” I say smiling genuinely at him. “I’m just enjoying the

day.” And wishing that Noodle wasn’t with John this weekend. “Are you

enjoying yourself?”

“I am. Thank you for inviting me.”

“I don’t think I had much choice there,” I laugh, finding Andi in the

crowd. “Your sister was adamant about our meeting.”

“You can blame me for that.”

“That’s sweet,” I blush. Flirting is a foreign concept. I don’t know

how to react to it. He has his sister’s forward nature. “I’m just glad

you could make it over. It was short notice.”

The picnic came together suddenly after a night of chatting and

drinking with Andi. Before I knew, I was agreeing to have the Fourth

of July celebration at my house, instead of Andi’s as they’d always

done. Convincing me that my neighbors need to meet me, the real me.

“Hey stranger,” a voice calls from behind me.

Someone who knew me enough to call it love. Don.

“What are you doing here?” I say hurrying to wrap my arms around him.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming? How could you do that?”

“Slow down,” he says holding up his hand. “I wanted to surprise you.

By the looks of it, you’re surprised. I love that.” He pulls me in for

a small, friendly kiss. “You look beautiful.”

“Don’t you start,” I tap my finger against his chin, “because I’m just

a regular mom in regular clothes.”

“Regular?” He takes my hand and twirls me around. “Regular my sweet

ass, Baby. You’re still a knockout with a knockout body.”

Blushing, I notice Michael’s acute attention to the familiar

conversation. “I’m sorry Michael Moretti, Don Craig, my ex-husband.”

They shake hands stiffly.

“Isn’t she a knockout Michael?”

Michael agrees, perusing me over. The yellow sundress feels too light,

and too short as his eyes cast over it. My arms and neck, too bare.

“Beautiful.”

“I need a beer honey, what kind of host are you anyway?” Don says

taking my hand to lead him to the beverages.

“An email…that’s all it would’ve taken, you know.” I hand him a beer.

“Marlena, I’m headed to town. I’ll look you up.”

“Is it a bad thing that I’m here? Will your new boyfriend be upset?”

His denseness is always humorous. “What new boyfriend?” He glares at

Michael across the yard. “Michael…whom I’ve just met today, he’s not

my boyfriend. He’s not even a friend. I’ve just met him.”

“You’re still surprisingly gullible dear.” He leans to press a quick

kiss to my chin.

“Mama.”

Turning to Nicky’s distressed voice, I notice Danielle struggling with

him near the pool, where he and Colton have been playing. His eyes are

swollen and big tears are rolling down his blotchy cheeks.

“Honey.” He runs from Danielle to my opened arms. “What’s wrong with

Mama’s little boy? Tell me?” Mumbling into my chest, Nicky wraps

himself around my waist. “I don’t understand.”

Danielle walks Colton over to us. “He kicked Colton and I asked him to

apologize.”

Pulling him away, I tilt his chin up. “You hit Colton?”

Colton slides his eyes to the ground when Danielle bends down beside

him. She asks the little boy to tell me what happened. He shakes his

head and looks around for his mother to rescue him. Danielle points to

the red mark on Colton’s shin, explaining that Nicky became upset when

Colton asked to play with his Hulk.

“Nicholas, I want you to apologize to Colton.”

“No,” he defiantly shakes his head, snatching away from me.

“Nicholas, you apologize to Colton and tell him that you will never

kick him again.” I warn sternly.

“Mrs. Evans, I want my mommy.” Colton tells me, looking around frantically.

“It’s okay honey, you didn’t do anything wrong. I’m sorry that Nicky

hurt your knee.” I kiss his shin and offer him a hug. “He is very

sorry for that.”

“S’Okay,” Colton says smiling. “I’m not mad.”

James notices us and walks over. “What’s wrong buddy?”

“We had a little flair up,” I explain, taking Nicky’s hand and

standing up. “Nicky kicked Colton. There’s a little bruise. Accept my

apologies.”

“They’re little boys,” James says, checking his son’s leg. “Boys will

be boys. You’re alright buddy? Right? My big boy?” Colton nods at his

father obediently. “It’s fine. They’ll be back to being inseparable

after a minute.”

“Well, I need to talk to Nicholas first,” I say excusing us.

“Need help,” Don asks as we pass him.

“Nope, I can handle this. I’ll be back. Mingle,” I say over my

shoulder as I continue toward the house.

Nicky’s remorse breaks through after he’s sitting across from me on

his bed. The stiff lip and folded arms fall away and he starts crying

again. I’m powerless over his tears; I’m powerless over his anger and

acting out. On one hand, it’s not his fault that he reacts to the

separation in the way that his father taught him to express anger. But

on the other hand, I can’t allow his anger to continue in that vein.

He’s not going to be a little boy who uses his fists to fight, or hide

behind.

“You’re sorry,” I tell him rubbing gently on his trembling back. He

lowers his head in my lap. “I know you don’t mean to hurt Colton. He’s

your friend,” I remind him playing with his hair. “You love Colton. I

know that honey.”

“I’m bad,” he mutters miserably.

“No, you’re not bad at all. You were upset.” Lifting his head up to

kiss his forehead, I whisper in his hair, “You’re my baby. Sweet and

gentle. Right?”

He nods sadly. “Not bad like Daddy.”

Those words slice into me. “Daddy’s not bad Nicky. He’s just like you.

He’s sweet and gentle but he gets angry, just like you. You have to

learn how to say what you feel and not show it with these,” I lift up

his hands, “or these. Your feet belong on the ground and your hands

are for love. Okay?”

Nicky wipes his cheek with the back of his hand. I press my lips

against the back of his hand to show him that love is better than fear

and anger. He falls into my lap again and I rock him until he’s

asleep.

It’s exhausting to carry the weight of the world on such tiny

shoulders. I shudder to think of all the worry that he can’t voice

because of his lack of sophistication. He misses his Daddy and his

sister. He misses me not falling all over him to make sure he’s fine.

Leaving him with a kiss, I head back into the party that I promised

would cheer me up. Into the vortex of unfamiliar territory, of

neighbors and old friends. Hope and Bo accepted my invitation, as well

as Maggie and Caroline, and they’re arriving as I’m walking from the

patio. A familiar face is sometimes better than anything else in life.

I hug each one of these people close, for more than a second. I’ve

kept them at bay but I’ve also missed them. I introduce them to Andi

and James, and she proceeds to introduce them to the other neighbors.

Karen and Jack Delson, the young couple with four kids. Will English,

the single man of the neighborhood who brought a date. Others who I

know by face, and not particularly name.

“So this is the new Marlena,” Hope asks popping a chip in her mouth

when we’re alone. “I love the house. It’s beautiful.”

Wrapping my arm around her waist, I rest my head gratefully on her

shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

She narrows her eyes. “Why? For hiding away in this cul-de-sac?”

“Yes,” I admit sheepishly. “Yes, for exactly that.”

“Well don’t be sorry. You needed to heal and get away after all the

bull shit that happened. We miss you, but we understand that.”

“There have been discussions,” I ask lifting my head from her shoulder.

“Of course,” she grins. “But mainly because we miss you honey.”

“I miss you too, but you’re right…I had to get away.”

“And get away you did.”

We’re interrupted by Sami’s family entering the backyard. Will and

Lucas at her sides, looking the picture of a strong family. She comes

and hugs me instantly, nuzzling her nose in my hair the way she did as

a little girl.

“You smell so good Mom,” she murmurs into my neck.

“I love it when you say that,” I tell her remembering the feel of her

bony toddler elbows and strawberry shortcake perfume. “I’m so happy to

see you. How are you feeling?” I ask laying a hand over her belly.

“You’re still not showing too much.”

“Morning sickness sucks Mom,” she rolls her eyes. “I don’t remember

all that when I was pregnant with Will.”

“Oh, it’s not fun baby girl. Not at all.” I give her hand a gentle

tug. “But just think, they grow into trees like my grandson.”

Will bends low to hug me. My first grandchild that’s turning into a

man, a giant man before my eyes kisses me sweetly. His father follows

suit.

“So we’re starting new traditions?” Sami asks eyeing the building crowd.

“Yes, we’re starting over.”

Hope and Maggie shoot curious looks my way when Don emerges from the

crowd and whips them into bear hugs. He regales them with his charming

banter while I watch it amused. He always could make me laugh. It’s

easy to love charmingly funny men.

It’s tough to love someone who doesn’t want to be.

Keema and Rachel enter the backyard side by side, ironically. They

walk awkwardly to me, the only familiar face they know, to say hello.

Warmness settles over my heart at the sight of both of them. Keema,

who I’ve been remiss in not keeping up with, waddles nervously away to

find the bathroom that Sami offers to show her.

Rachel stands quietly at my side. We barely ever know what to say to

each other. We’re better at rescuing each other.

“Where’s Nicky?”

“Napping. He had a bit of a tantrum before you came. I can show you

his room and you can see him if you want.” It’s strange that my

daughter hasn’t been inside my house to see where her brother sleeps.

Tossing her hair over her shoulder, she peers around the yard. “Maybe

later. Isn’t that your ex-husband over there?”

“Don,” I nod. “He surprised me. Would you like to say hello?”

She shakes her head negatively.

“Okay.”

“Is Juliana napping as well?”

“She’s with John,” I say praying that she won’t ask about that. “I

wish you could’ve seen her today.”

“Me too,” Rachel tells me, looking up glumly. She waits for me to look

into her face before speaking again. “Look, I don’t know how to do

this. I haven’t had a mother since I was 16 years old. I’ve forgotten

what it’s like.” Biting her cheek, something I find myself doing,

Rachel turns solemnly to me. “It’s not that I don’t want to be close

to you; I just have no idea how. So give me time, please?”

“I have all the time you need baby girl,” I say kissing her

discreetly. “I love you.”

“I know. I really appreciate knowing that.”

“Good. Now let’s just have fun,” I insist taking her hand.

In this sea of people, two people’s absences are felt the hardest. Of

course Noodle’s is the deepest. My joy is light when I look around and

see the little girls in summer dresses toddling around each other. She

should be allowed to enjoy this freedom too. But then I also think

that John doesn’t have to be alone to suit my jealousy. She is his

daughter too. And I have numerous hours with her that he can’t speak

of having.

I look around and feel somewhat happy, normal. I like that. I need

that to lasts. I need the happiness to keep me level and buoyant.

Maybe I’m not as lost as I feel.

Feelings aren’t facts.

Chapter 35 (NC-17)

“Happiness is achieved by the conscious pursuit of happiness; it is

generally the by-product of other activities.”

–Aldous Huxley–

Summer has its way of bringing the spirit of forgiveness forward. I

remember that quote from a poem Marlena read to me once. I used to lie

in bed playing with her hair, loving the sound of her voice, tracing

the curves of her body while she fed me lines written by masters of

love.

Now that I don’t have her, I live on those memories. I’m following

Ashton’s suggestion to not ask too much of Marlena. I’m giving her

space; it’ll benefit us in the end. So for now, I have memories.

We used to spend every Fourth of July in bed climbing all over each

other, losing ourselves in the exhaustive lovemaking that is

responsible for the dark-haired beauty clutching my hand. Her chubby

cheek is vividly decorated with a bright sunflower painted. She’s

stuffing pink cotton candy into her mouth, giggling when it melts

against her tongue. She’s never been to a carnival before. She watches

everything fascinated, taking snapshots for her dreams tonight.

I know something about fascination. About creating fireworks between

my body and Marlena’s, stealing the moans and my name with kisses,

sinking my teeth into her skin until my body resembles itself.

Fascination that leads me to remember her now and to remember what we

could do for one another emotionally and sexually.

Before we had new babies, we had years of quiet mornings and

suffocating evenings. Electric holidays and worship-filled birthdays.

Days that I remember in this circus of holiday activity. And sadly I

have to wonder where they’ll spend their Christmas and Thanksgiving

when autumn arrives. Who’ll get that pleasure of watching them tear

into gifts that we’ve wrapped and placed under the tree? By then will

Nicky even want to be around me? Tough thoughts for a man like me.

Heal myself, Ashton keeps advising me. It’s only advice.

If I open my eyes again in this turmoil, I won’t need to heal myself

because it’ll be beyond me. I’ll be sucked into the darker part of my

soul and nothing will matter. I can be stubborn and bent on

destruction. Marlena responds to that; she can’t live allowing me to

live broken. She has never been as cruel as that.

In the past, in a time before anyone came between us, I snuck her away

from the rigidness of our work. I’d been spending too much time at the

office with Kate, before I ever touched Kate and before I lost her.

She was deeply engrossed in a case that sent her to bed with shadows

ringing her eyes. Lost in mundane efforts to be accountable human

beings.

Sometimes I liked being that person; and other times I just wanted to

be selfish John making love to my beautiful wife.

I kidnapped her with permission but without her knowledge to the Greek

Island of Mykonos.

“You do know that I can have this plane turned around,” she whispered

against my neck. I’d been fighting my plan not to touch her until we

were firmly planted inside the house I’d rented overlooking the

Aegean. “Do you want to tell me where you’re taking me?” Her hand

traveled a dangerous path from my chest, down my belly, stopping

noticeably at my groin.

I grabbed her wrist and stepped back from the cloud of her perfume.

“You’re very impatient Mrs. Black. I never knew that about you,” I

smiled, feeling every muscle in my body ache. “Have a seat.”

She complied pouting adorably. Using her knowledge of my love of

visual stimulation, she propped her feet across the couch, baring the

expanse of her stocking clad legs. I didn’t give her time to change

out of her suit. She used the short skirt to her advantage, hiking the

hem to the very tops of her legs while pretending to read a book.

“I know what you’re doing,” I warned, consciously taking the seat

across from her. One touch of her inflamed skin and my promise of

sustaining would be forgotten. She was hoping for that by the sexy

look on her face.

“Me? I’m reading honey,” she said, wetting her lips. “You want me to

behave and I will. I promise not to touch you.”

“Oh, you promise that?” My mouth felt dry imagining her doing what

she’d just promised not to do. The last time we’d made love had been

two weeks before. A quick motion of thrusting in the shower before we

both disappeared into our daily roles.

“I do,” she nodded, dropping her hand to slide slowly up her thigh. “I

absolutely promise not to touch you.”

“Good,” I swallowed hard. I watched her lift a leg to bend her knee,

revealing the dark fabric of her underwear underneath the skirt. She

bit back a smile when I crossed my legs anxiously.

“I won’t touch you,” She said, lifting her hips to roll her stockings

down her legs slowly. Watching me, she asked, “Aren’t you hot in

here?”

“A little,” I said, following the garment with my eyes to the corner.

“I can ask them to crank up the air conditioning.”

She laughed, throwing her head back. “No, I don’t think you have to do

that. I can just take some clothes…” her voice trailed off as she

unbuttoned her jacket, shrugging it from her shoulders and tossing it

away from her. “Do you mind?”

I shook my head and watched her play up the slow undoing of her shirt.

She brought her legs around to the floor, and pulled the bottom of her

shirt from her waist. Opened to the black bra with a front clasp, her

breasts rose with her arched back.

“Does me not touching you mean that you can’t touch me?” She asked

spreading her legs. “Do you actually remember the last time you

touched me?” Her hand disappeared between her legs and she flinched at

her touch. The intimate knowledge of her hand rubbing the shrouded

mound under the skirt gave me an instant erection. “You want to help

me?” She asked pulling her hand away. “You’re so much better at this

than I am.”

Speechless, I shook my head and did everything in my power to stay in

my seat. She smiled and put her finger on her mouth.

“Okay,” she said, giving up easily. She buttoned her shirt back up and

pressed her knees together. Turning away, she propped her book on her

knees and started to read.

“The Greek Islands…oh honey, you’re so good to me,” She told me, as I

ushered her through the airport toward our car.

She held my hand like an innocent school girl, worlds away from the

vixen she’d just tortured me with on the plane. It’s her secret sexual

wantonness that turns me incredibly on. She doesn’t play that role for

anyone except me. The fact that she’d touched herself to get a

response from me and her mini-striptease. It was all I could do not to

take her in the car.

She pointed out the beautiful architecture of the magnificent island

as we drove along. She leaned out of the window, revealing the

underside of her backside. I groaned inwardly and smiled. She would be

putty in my hands, I decided, once I got her into that house. I could

do nothing but imagine provoking her best orgasm yet. I played it

carefully. I wove our fingers together to stop her from touching my

leg. I avoided looking directly at the swell of her cleavage through

her shirt. I even stopped the sweet kiss she gave me when she glimpsed

the house on the Aegean.

Once inside that house, I dropped the bags on the floor and bumped

heavily into her, curling over her back. She whimpered in slight

protest, and I turned her face to see if she was okay. She bit heavily

into her lip and kissed me, whispering that she was fine.

Without need for conversation or directions, I bent her over the

nearest surface, a high table.

“Did I do that,” she asked breathless as she reached between us to

feel the straining between my thighs.

I answered with a kiss to her neck, nipping her skin with my teeth.

She grinded her rear into me expectantly, closing her hands over the

breast that I cupped. Rarely has she allowed me to take her from

behind without being unbearably aroused first. I reached into her

panties to find that she’d been keeping her own need quiet. I pulled

back wet fingers.

She lifted her hips to me, silently begging for me to fill her.

“It’s been two weeks,” I whispered, unbuttoning her shirt with one

hand. The other massaged her flexing thighs. “The last time I was

inside you was in the shower,” I reminded her, sliding her shirt down

her arms. She moaned acknowledgment as she undid her skirt and slid it

down. “I didn’t think you were going to stop convulsing,” I said

against her shoulder, hooking my finger inside her underwear, “or

crying my name.”

She took a deep breath. “I didn’t think I would either. We work too

hard,” She said helping me yank the flimsy panties down. She squirmed

as I reached between her breast and removed the last stitch of

clothing on her body. Quiet and desperate for my touch, she stood and

grabbed my member between her fingers. I winced, holding her wrist at

her side.

I felt her legs quivering against my knees as I pushed her back over

the table forcefully. The sight of her delectable backside squirming

in front of me made me pause. Something powerful about being behind

her to give and take what we both needed. I bent low to get a better

look at the flower between her legs, ready and glistening for me. I

took a quick taste, squeezing her thighs as I darted my tongue across

her again and again. In that position, it was easy to forget that she

was a doctor or Belle’s mother. With her legs spread wide for me,

moaning against the table, she was the person I needed to dive into.

I stopped tasting and stood back over her, rubbing her back. The

position didn’t look comfortable but it wouldn’t last long. She was

whimpering for me to finish what I’d started when I slid up and down

the swollen folds between her legs. She jumped when I finally

penetrated her. Startled, I stopped and leaned over her back.

“I’m not hurting you, am I?” Just the thought had me rethinking how I

was making love to her.

“No, no…I’m okay,” she said clutching both hands against the backs of

my thighs. “Go ahead baby, it’s just you.”

With her permission, I started thrusting my pelvis against her round

curves slowly. I listened for signs of pain, but they never came from

her sweet mouth. The only sound that escaped her lips was sexy moans

that made it difficult for me not to thrust harder and faster. To hold

off from a quick release, I stopped to run my fingers between her legs

to get her where I wanted to take her. When she started breathing

faster, I started moving again, loving the feel of her fingers digging

into my thighs.

“Now John,” She begged and I knew what it meant. She braced herself

against the table for the harder thrusts. I started pumping faster

with my hand on her belly to hold her in place. “Oh baby,” she cried

when she climaxed stiffly. She fell into my chest, and I realized that

I hadn’t taken off any clothes. I held on to her, feeling her muscles

clenching down on me, pulling my release from me. She milked me empty

and I finally stopped moving inside her.

An hour later, at sunset, we were laying in each others arms naked. I

was drumming fingers across her back and playing with her hair. It was

easy at the position she’d collapsed in after giving me ten minutes of

oral sex. Sprawled out across my torso, her hair was wild against the

sheets. Her skin was still red from the love we made on the way to the

bedroom.

She lifted up lazily on her elbow, and propped her chin on my stomach.

“I miss you,” she told me pressing light kisses to my chest. “Where

have you been for the last two weeks?”

I laughed and ran my thumb along her swollen bottom lip. “Working just

like you honey. I’ve missed you too. We have to stop meeting like

this.”

She shot me a serious look. “No, we should meet more often like this.

Thank you for bringing me here, it’s beautiful.” She said gazing over

the bed to see the Aegean clashing against the rocks. The Greeks have

the right idea about bed placement. There’s nothing sexier than making

love with an open window in front of you with the sun and moon as the

only audience.

“I don’t like being away from you either but it’s the daily grind,” I

reminded her, “that comes with the territory.”

“I heard that you were a millionaire,” she smiled, dropping her head

to laugh into my stomach. “Millionaires don’t have to work.”

“I can stop working if that’s what you want. I’ll be a stay at home

husband. We have an empty nest. Why don’t we have more babies,” I

asked raising my head to see her face clearly.

“Oh honey please, you don’t want to sacrifice this for more babies.

There wouldn’t be anymore trips like this, and no more of our

showers…definitely no more of those. I’d be tired all the time and

maybe cranky.”

“You would be the most beautiful creature that ever walked this

Earth,” I said sincerely.

She flashed one of her killer grins that unpretentiously blend sexy

and vulnerable. “You’ve already had me over a table and had

wonderfully glorious fellatio. You don’t need to be charming anymore.”

“I love it when you say fellatio, so clean when I know you have a very

dirty mind.” She giggled when I cupped the underside of her rear. “Say

it again.”

She shook her head naughtily.

“Say wonderfully glorious fellatio,” I said as I slid on my side and

climbed over her. Her breasts have hypnotic powers. Or maybe it was

the island. I made love to her again, this time climaxing so long that

I though I was having a seizure.

When the sun woke us up by kissing our skin with its warmth, I crawled

under the cover and pulled her legs over my shoulders. For breakfast,

I had her wonderful womanhood twisting and straining against my mouth.

For lunch, I took her shopping for clothes that she would wear when I

took her to dinner on the island. We ended up taking a couples’

cruise, touring the surrounding islands with other tourists. Her gauzy

summer dress did little to hide her erect nipples when I slid a hand

between her legs to pleasure her on the deck of the boat while other

couples weren’t watching.

Before taking a shower for dinner, she climbed into my lap to thank me

for the fantastic day we’d had. She ended up straddling me in the

chair naked, and sinking down onto me for very erotic lovemaking.

When I tried to join her in the shower, she swore that her body

couldn’t take another encounter. She was walking noticeably awkward

when she reemerged in the red dress that I’d bought for her. Low cut

in the back; it showed her freckled skin. Swelling cleavage edged at

the low front. The hem of the dress stopped where her thigh and knee

met.

Throughout dinner in a small bar haloed in red light, she watched me

perceptively. She nibbled lightly on the fish and vegetables. Over the

strong aroma of food, I could still smell her scent. I wanted to touch

her but she wasn’t allowing that, so I asked for a dance instead.

“Are we okay?” She asked after we’d found the center of the dance

floor. “You seem distracted.”

“I’m distracted by you,” I murmured into her hair, grinding my hips

into her. “I want you about as bad as anything right now.”

“John, I’m tired,” she said angling her forehead against my chin. “My

body can’t take anymore of your amazing love.”

“Okay.”

She raised an eyebrow, “that’s it?”

“What do you want me to force you?” I laughed, feeling awkward even saying it.

“No, of course not.” She moved closer, pulling my arm to wrap around

her waist. “It’s just that I wonder if you’re attracted to Kate.”

“What?”

“Are you?”

I stopped moving. “Am I attracted to Kate?”

“Why are you answering my question with a question,” she said looking

defiantly into my eyes. “Are you?”

“No,” I said holding her tighter and moving again. “She’s my business partner.”

“And I’m your life partner. I miss you at home. She’s been getting

more of you than I have. And then you haven’t touched me for weeks.

You bring me here to this island and make love to me with such force

that I wonder what it’s about.”

“Baby, I’ve never thought about her or any women in that way. I

brought you here,” I pressed my forehead to hers, “to reconnect. We’ve

both been too busy. Not because I’m guilty.”

“I didn’t think you were,” she whispered. “I just don’t want to lose you.”

“You’re not going to loose me.” I grabbed her hip and removed any

space between us. “You don’t have to worry about losing me.”

She led me from the floor to the small hallway of the bar. The

desperate look on her face broke me in half. I kissed her until it was

gone and then she dragged me down narrow steps into a back closet

where she backed against a wall and wrapped legs around my waist.

“Mommy.”

Her faint voice is enough to break the moving images of my memory.

Jules tugs at my leg with sticky hands.

“Mommy’s not here sweetie.” I say, wiping at her hands with the wet

ones in her book bag. “You’ll see her tomorrow.”

Her head shakes solemnly as she looks up at me. “Nicky and Mommy.

Now,” she insists with a hopeful shine to her face.

“Aren’t you having a good time with Daddy,” I ask optimistically.

She shakes her head again, this time negatively. “My Mommy.”

[Marlena]

“I didn’t realize that you’d been married more than twice,” Michael

says sitting down beside me. He’s been circling me and I’ve been sadly

avoiding him, to the ire of Andi. Now I’m trapped watching Nicholas

swimming in front of me. Perched at the edge, I keep my legs in the

water in case I have to dive in to get to Nicky. He’s wearing his

floaties and there are other adults around, but I’m cautious about

leaving him.

“Yes,” I say, trying to stave off the number that will undoubtedly

shock him. “I’m a seasoned pro at marriage.”

“Maybe not,” he decides smiling.

“You’re probably right,” I admit smiling at Hope and Ciara wading

around Nicky in the pool, “but it’s not something that I’m going to

talk about today.”

“I understand. I don’t like talking about my divorce either. You also

have a wonderful group of children.”

Feeling as if I’m being interrogated, I take a pot shot. “Yes, and

there are many of them. You’ve barely met them all. Apparently I like

marriage and babies, Andi forgot to tell you that.”

“I wasn’t judging,” he says shrugging his broad shoulders. “I’m trying

to get to know you Marlena. I think you’re a pretty terrific person.”

I have to fight to not roll my eyes. He’s known me for all of three

hours. “I’m generally bad at this sort of thing; I don’t recall how it

works. Are you supposed to charm me into dinner or something?”

He puffs his chest out. “I hope I’m that lucky.”

“I see,” I say feeling trapped.

“Can we have dinner sometimes, when there are less people and we can talk?”

Not wanting to be utterly closed to the idea, I nod and roll my

shoulders forward. “We’ll see.”

“Good. That’s all I can hope for pretty lady,” he says kissing the

back of my hand.

Only John calls me pretty lady. It doesn’t sound correct coming from a

total stranger. Michael moves along to Andi, who is obviously waiting

on his update. I wrinkle my nose at her and focus on Nicky wading

across the water.

“See me Mommy?”

“I do,” I say blowing kisses, “and you look like a little fish.”

“How do you do that?” Keema asks timidly, waddling to stand at the

edge of the pool.

“Do what honey,” I say looking up.

“Be a mother like you are. It looks easy when you do it,” she says

lowering her intense glare to me. “I’m never going to be that kind of

mother.”

I pat the ground, grabbing a pillow from a chair for her to sit on.

I’m glad she came. I actually offered all the girls an invitation but

she’s the only one who didn’t have plans. Her body is shifting into

heavy pregnancy. Swollen feet and ankles, a tight itchy belly that she

scratches angrily at. Her nose has spread.

“How do you know what kind of mother you’re going to be,” I ask

smoothing her sandy colored hair down. She has it tied in a tight

ponytail. For once, she doesn’t flinch from my touch. I wrap an arm

around her back, encouraged.

“I never had it. I don’t know how to do that. You know,” she points to

Nicky, “care that he’s okay all the time. Make sure he’s not getting

into trouble.”

“Well honey, for the first year of his life, you don’t really have a

choice. The baby will be so attached to you that it’ll be natural for

you to care. The baby will depend on you for feedings and baths, and

to be held and comforted when it has no other way of telling you that

that it needs you.”

“But how will I know what to do,” she asks looking puzzled. “I don’t

think it’s natural. My mom didn’t stay around long enough to give me

my first bath. Grandmommy didn’t watch to make sure that I was okay.”

She looks away quickly, seemingly trying to hide the pain that I read

in her eyes.

“Honey, you’re going to be a great mom. All you need is love.”

“And money and a house,” she tells me pragmatically, “and I don’t have

none of that.”

I pause to see if she’ll offer more. If she’ll ask for my help.

“Maybe I should think about giving it up,” she says dejectedly, as if

it’s never crossed her mind to do so. “That would be good, wouldn’t

it? Then I could go to school and get a place…” she realizes how

impractical the plan is, “but they wouldn’t give him back would they?”

“He?”

She nods with a small smile.

“A little boy. Awe sweetie, you have time to think this through. We

can talk to Corey or someone else about this. You don’t have to make

any decisions.” I say, thinking that maybe an adoption is the best

solution for Keema and the baby.

“You have a pretty family,” she adds rubbing her belly in circles,

“and they all look like you.”

I feel the blush in my cheek when I slide my hand against Keema’s.

She’s warm to touch and a lovely girl whose eyes always look haunted.

Hazel eyes. I wish I didn’t want to be the great white hope for her, a

privileged but well-meaning white lady trying to rescue a black youth.

That’s not what I want to be, but the mother in me can’t let this

child who I know is in a terrible place just fall into the cracks. I

would never do that to any child who needed my help.

“I’m going to promise you something,” I whisper close to her ear, “and

it’s not pity honey, so don’t take it as that. I’m always going to be

here for you just as long as you need me to be. Do you understand?”

She stares at her lap. A tear hits the back of the hand propped there.

“If nobody has ever let you know, you are loved sweetie. You are

special and wonderful and you have so much to offer the world.” I say

biting back tears. “Don’t ever let anybody tell you differently. Do

you hear me,” I implore firmly.

“Marlena,” she says wiping her eye free of tears before turning to

look at me, “nobody has ever told me that they loved me.”

My heart is a victim to that statement. It clenches and beats before I

actually feel it torn apart. “Keema Carter, I love you.”

She presses her mouth closed.

“I love you,” I say again, rubbing her back the way I do to comfort

the children.

“Thank you,” she mumbles allowing me to pull her into a half hug that

enables her to curve against my neck.

“I want to ask you something, and I want you to tell me the truth.”

She nods against me.

“You don’t live with your grandmother, do you?”

She shakes her head.

“You don’t have anywhere to go,” my voice strains.

Another sad no.

“Have you been telling us the truth about the father?”

No.

“Who is the father?”

Shrugging shoulders.

Lifting her shaking frame to look at me, I grab her chin. “Who is the

father honey? Were you raped?” I remember what she said and keeps

saying about not being protected.

She shrugs, falling apart in my arms. I feel awful doing this too her

in this environment. With all the people laughing and joking with

their happy lives while she’s been living in hell. But that doesn’t

stop me from continuing to seek the truth.

“It’s really okay now,” I tell her soothingly. “You can tell me

anything honey. I just want to help you. Who is the father?”

“I don’t know,” she mumbles into her hands, “I’ve been on the streets

since school let out. I had to leave…my uncle…his friend.”

“Breathe honey. Take your time.”

“I don’t know whose baby it is. I was tricking for cash to survive,”

she saying crumbling.

I motion for Hope to keep an eye on Nicky; she’s been watching Keema’s

breakdown in silence. I lift her by the shoulders and we walk with her

leaning heavily into my side, straight into the house. I hold off the

concerned looks on Don and Maggie’s faces.

“I know that was hard to admit,” I say leading Keema’s tired frame up

the stairs, “but I’m proud of you for being so brave.”

“Where are we going,” she asks through her haze of tears.

“You need to lay down honey. You’re exhausted.”

“I can’t,” she cries harder. “I don’t belong here.”

“You do now,” I say opening my bedroom door. “Here, get into bed,” I

tell her after pulling back the covers. She’s standing in the

doorframe looking dumbfounded.

“You’re bed? You don’t know like that…not to sleep in your bed.”

I hold out my hand to her. “Honey, come here.”

“Why do you care about me,” she asks, walking to me. Her voice is

laced with disbelief. “Nobody else cares about me, why do you?”

“I told you,” I say helping her into bed, “I love you. I’m not going

to stop either. I don’t make promises that I can’t keep. You climb in

there and get some sleep. I’ll wake you up, okay.” She looks at me as

if I’ve descended from heaven, in disbelief and amazement. “Go to

sleep sweet girl,” I say kissing her temple. “You deserve to be taken

care of.”

“You’re too good to be true,” she whispers turning on her side to face

away from me.

“Believe in me, I’m real.” I say rubbing her hair. “Sleep honey, it’ll

be after this.”

Only for a minute do I question myself, wondering if I’m saving her

because I can’t save my marriage or because of some incompleteness in

my life. I’m doing this because I do love her and because if it were

any of my daughters, I hope someone would do the same for them.

I stare at her wrapping my arms around myself. I don’t move until

she’s asleep and breathing heavily.

“Is she okay,” Hope asks meeting me at the door with Ciara and Nicky

wrapped in towels. She lifts Nicky for me to take him and she grabs

Ciara.

“Thank you for getting him out of the pool. She will be,” I say

leading her to the bathroom in the hallway. “She’s had it rough.”

“How far along is she?” Hope asks toweling Ciara off quickly. The

little girl has her father’s chin and Irish eyes, and a little of

Claire, which makes me miss her.

“Oh I’ve lost count, soon though.”

“She’s so young Marlena.”

I agree trying to towel off Nicholas who squirming to hide his bare

bottom from Ciara after I discard his swimper. “Mama…no.”

“She’s not looking at you Nicky, come here.”

“Oh, you’re shy are you?” Hope says tickling under Nicky’s underarms.

“Well we’ll give you some privacy.” She winks and carries Ciara out of

the room in her fresh clothes.

“Nicholas, you are turning into a stubborn little boy,” I say smiling

at the way he tries to cover his little manhood. “Honey, I gave birth

to you. Mommy’s seen your pee pee. Now come here so that I can dry you

off and get you into dry clothes.”

Nicholas stands still and I dry him and pull his Hulk t-shirt over his

head. “I do it,” he snatches his bottoms from me and plops down to put

them on.

“You don’t have to be so rude little boy,” I say tweaking his nose.

“Now, you’re going to eat a hot dog for Mommy without arguing.”

“No.”

“I’m going to ban that word in this house,” I mumble. “Some corn?”

“No.”

“What then honey, you need to have something.”

“Ice cream,” he decides smiling impishly. He’s got my card. “It’s not

food, but it’s a start.”

“How about a bite of a hotdog and a bowl full of ice cream? Is that a deal?”

He nods in agreement and high fives my opened palm.

“Mom,” Sami calls out, poking her head into the bathroom.

“Do you have to go again?” I laugh, having seen her numerous visits to

the bathroom.

“No,” she says shaking her head slowly, “it’s John.”

“Why are you looking so gloomy?” I say trying to hide my surprise.

“It’s just John.”

Nicky hugs the back of my legs. “Daddy?”

Sami looks from Nicky to me cautiously. “Mom, Rachel told me about Colorado.”

“Oh honey…”

“You should have told me,” she says taking her brother’s hand. “Do you

want me to keep him here?”

“I want you to remember who John is to you,” I whisper so that Nicky

can’t hear. “What happens with me and him has nothing to do with your

relationship. Remember that,” I add kissing her. “Now do me a favor,

Keema’s upstairs in my bedroom. Make sure she’s okay and take Nicky

into his room.”

I bend to Nicky’s level. “You want to play upstairs?”

“I want you,” he says sticking his finger in his mouth.

“Buddy, you don’t want to show me all the cool toys in your room?”

Sami says bending down. “Come one, I know you have a new Hulk guy that

I have to see.”

Nicky looks to me uncertainly. “It’s okay baby, go with Sami. I’ll

come right up.”

“Mommy?” He regresses right before my eyes. The finger sucking and

hopping from one foot to anther. “I want you.”

“You don’t have to see Daddy,” I promise him lingering against his

cheek. “Go with Sami. For Mommy? Please?”

“Come on buddy.”

Watching him walk away steals my breath. Regaining my composure, I

walk back outside stoically. I see him before he sees me. He’s smiling

and talking with Caroline with Noodle draped around his waist. Don and

Andi’s eyes follow the slow path I take toward John. Even James stops

to watch what they think will happen.

“Hi Noodle,” I say taking reaching out to take her from John. He loses

his concentration, stumbling over whatever he was telling Caroline.

“Baby what’s this?” I point to her painted cheek.

“Flower,” she tells me turning so that I can admire it.

“It’s beautiful. I’m so glad you’re home Noodle.” Nuzzling into the

silky nest of her hair, I smell John’s cologne in the strands there.

“Why didn’t you call Mommy to tell me you were coming home?”

Careful of Caroline, John glides his hand down Noodle’s back. “We

called and got your voicemail. I didn’t know you were having a picnic.

I would’ve let her stay with you this weekend,” he pauses, remembering

that we have company who doesn’t know what’s going on between us. “She

wanted Mommy and Nicky.” He barely says our son’s name.

“I’m going to find Maggie,” Caroline excuses herself from the obvious

tension in our conversation.

“What are you doing here John?” I ask suspiciously.

Chapter 36

“It’s better to be unhappy alone than unhappy with someone – so far.”

–Marilyn Monroe–

“If I’m interrupting your party, I’ll go,” I find myself telling her

pitifully. Absolutely sincere in my promise to turn away and leave her

world. She reacts opposite of how I thought she would, of the way that

she’s been acting. She wavers in uncertainty. This is where I start to

wonder: What if. Because instead of telling me that I should go, she

struggles to ask me not to by toying with Jules’s bracelet and moving

her hair nervously behind her ear. She whispers indistinctly into

Jules’s hair and I lean forward to hear the words hidden in her

softened voice. “What?”

She mirrors my uncertain, narrowed gaze as concentrated breathes

expand her nostrils. “You don’t have to go,” she says in a petal-soft

voice, child-like and self-conscious. Softer than even Jules whose

chattering indistinctly between us. Her sun-browned arms peek through

her sleeveless lilac dress draping over her mother’s bare shoulders.

Marlena’s mouth curves into a smile at the wet kiss that Jules leaves

along her jaw. Her hand glides over Jules’s bottom to tap it

affectionately.

“You can stay and have a bite to eat with Noodle. Would you try a

hotdog with Daddy,” she asks Jules, who scrunches her face in

disapproval. “No? Not even for Daddy.” She offers sweetly with no

chance of a deal. “Maybe Daddy can change your mind.”

Warmth spreads through my chest at her consideration. Too much maybe,

considering the intensive therapy I’m undergoing to deal with my

intense need to please her and to have her forgiveness. Ashton warned

me: don’t try forgiveness too soon; don’t try to give forgiveness. It

never lasts pass the next round of accusations that change the

boundaries of our relationship. The goal was not to be distracted by

her any more than is necessary.

Except she smiled at me this time, and didn’t look at me like I only

have the ability to hurt her.

The next time that she stops smiling, that is when the emptiness

returns. So I ask myself watching her, what will her consideration

cost me?

What else did I think would happen when I came here with Juliana,

needy and hungry for our mutual attention? That she would force me to

go and cause a scene, neglecting our daughter’s wishes. The mother in

her couldn’t do that to Jules, and admit that I knew that, that I used

that as my way in. She also couldn’t and wouldn’t cause a scene with

the audience congregated in her backyard. She’s never liked being made

a spectacle of; she’s always hated being the subject of malicious and

petty gossip. No, instead of inciting those kinds of looks and rumors,

she swallowed her pride and gave me that rueful smile and asked me to

stay.

I should’ve followed my instinct and dropped Jules off at the door,

but I couldn’t just do that for obvious reasons. Drawn in by the new,

unfamiliar noises of her life, I swallowed my apprehension at seeing

Nicky; I decided that whatever way he chooses to react to me today,

I’m the father. I’m the adult who should set the tone, but I was

admittedly scared of what would happen if he didn’t react positively.

So, I took concentrated steps into that gate, down the trail to find

Marlena winning over people with the magnetic personality that endears

people to her. I think I wanted to see if she could extend a little of

that to me because I knew—I lie when I say otherwise—that she wouldn’t

be able to turn me away.

She circles Juliana’s belly with her index finger, asking her if she’s

hungry. Marlena dips her chin to rest on Jules’ forehead. She sniffs

her hair and looks up smiling at me. I can imagine how much she misses

her. Jules tugs the bottom of her shirt up to show her mother that’s

she eaten.

“She’s probably had enough to eat,” I say, reaching to pull Jules’

shirt over her exposed belly. “We went to a carnival. She’s had cotton

candy and French fries.”

“Why am I not surprised,” Marlena asks nuzzling against Jules’s cheek,

“that you ate only junk food. Can I get you anything?” She turns to

me. Her voice has returned to normal, like honey, rich and thick.

I nod at her and chide myself to keep my expectations in check. One

tip that I like of Ashton’s is knowing when to fight and when to walk

away. When to take control of my emotions without holding Marlena’s

hostage.

There are days, moments really, when I can still look at her and know

exactly what she’s thinking and I think that’s true of her with me.

But along the jagged edges of our separation, I’ve forgotten how to

communicate what I want from her; and I’m learning that I don’t listen

very well when she tells me what she needs.

So my expectations have to start with the creed to heal myself, not my

relationship. This is the part that nobody, not even Marlena seems to

understand: I am only John Black because Marlena Evans told me it was

true. I am only a father because Marlena showed me I could be. I am

only me because of what she’s given me. And now I’m not supposed to be

that person or expect her to be what she’s always been in my life.

I never should have left her. I never should have showed her how easy

we could separate our lives. That’s the mistake that I haven’t figured

out to change. I can tell at this point, she isn’t ready to forgive

that mistake. For that she’s had to plan birthday parties without me,

take care of toddlers who wonder why I’m not with them anymore, and

carve a life that has no bearing on mine.

I don’t know why I’m torturing myself like this.

I know why. She’s right here. All it takes is for me to be where she

is, where I can see her and read her faces.

I’m staring noticeably and very intently at her. Enough to cause a

tightening around my temple, straining the muscles near my eyes to see

past the façade. I like her in yellow. It brightens her skin and face

up. It’s also a very Marlena dress. Short and low. The epitome of a

fuck-me dress—where the possibilities for sex are many because of its

accessibility.

I keep telling Ashton that as long as I don’t see her, I’m good. I can

pine away in my condo and look at pictures. But when I see her, I have

to touch her in some way. Innocently this time when I pat Jules’s

back, brushing up against her hand. Seeing her creates this energy

that thrives between us. Looking away and avoiding it are pointless.

Because at some point, we come together.

These days it’s either to fight or to have sex. At this point, I’d

take either one just to be near her.

A meandering, weak school boy with a crush—I’m pitiful. We’re both pitiful.

I don’t know why she makes this so easy after being such a hard ass,

but she does. I can distance myself from bitchy Marlena, not this one

who smiles and holds my baby girl pressed firmly against breasts that

nourished her. This is why I shake my head and hope that my little

girl doesn’t have a confusing relationship like her parents. The only

good thing about confusion is that there is an end and I hope that by

then I won’t be living at the ends of her life still trying to figure

out how I got there.

Seeing the satisfied look on Jules’s face is confirmation that this

wasn’t really about me trying to stomp into Marlena’s life. She really

missed her mother. Her chubby hands take liberties across Marlena’s

face and neck, inspecting her hair and ears. Freckles dot both of

their arms and necks but Jules’ traces a triangle those that mark

Marlena’s shoulder. She is in love with the idea of her mother, of her

beauty. I’ve spied her playing with dolls that have golden hair being

portrayed as Marlena; it’s how I know how much she misses her when

she’s not with her.

Marlena lifts her hair to show Jules’s the gold hoops looping her

ears. “Me?” Jules shows her the diamonds studding her ears. “Me

Mommy,” she asks trying to remove one of the hoops.

“No little miss me-me, these are Mommy earrings,” she says prying our

daughter’s hands from her ear, “and these are baby girl earrings.” She

touches Jules’s diamonds with a kiss.

“She just wants to be like her Mommy,” I tell her, leaning to kiss the

back of Juliana’s head. I delay backing away. Sniffing softly, I turn

to Marlena, “I’ve always loved that smell on you.”

Her mouth curves into a playful smirk before she steps back. She

whispers to Juliana as she gazes around the backyard. I wonder where

this cautious look springs from, and why she cares whose watching us.

Looking around, I see some evidence of why, noticing that I’m not the

only ex-husband here. Don is leaning comfortably into the fence with a

guy who seems as interested in my presence as Don is. They’re bent

close, heads craned at an angle, discussing whatever happens to have

them so animated. Marlena looks up interestedly, watching me spotting

Don.

“We have steaks and burgers on the grill. Beers are in the cooler over

there,” she points in the area by Don. She tries to hide the

uneasiness in her face by pulling Jules’s face against hers. “Bo’s

around here as well.”

Try as she might, she can’t just leave Salem behind. Faces our of life

together are a comfort for me because she’s not cutting us all

completely out. The people who’ve known us through our best and worse.

Like Maggie, who I wave to on the patio and Rachel by the grill. Andi

and James at the picnic table sitting with one of the couples I met at

their place. I smile tightly in their direction before glancing back

across the yard, where Don is.

“Who’s that with Don?”

She answers without looking to see who I’m talking about. “That is

Andi’s brother Michael.”

Remembering that she responds in accordance to my reactions, I try to

loosen up my face, careful not to clench my jaws or glare in that

direction. I’m not here for disruptions. I leave her side to enter the

lion’s den of hungry men sniffing around my wife. Don’s smug smile

greets me when I walk to him and take his proffered hand.

“It’s good to see you again, John.”

“You too,” I say reaching into the cooler for a beer. “I didn’t know

you were in town.”

“Neither did Marlena,” he watches her across the yard helping my

daughter drink from her cup. “I surprised her. I had some business in

town and figured this was as best time as any to see her.”

“Yeah.” I sip long and hard on the cool beverage, enjoying the cool

rush down my throat. Swallowing the jealousy over him being here, over

him being here without baggage. Marlena’s back is to me. It’s probably

best.

“This is Michael,” Don introduces the quiet man at his side.

Michael extends his arm and I shake his hand firmly. “You’re Andi’s brother.”

“I am,” he says, flashing a pretentious smile, “and you’re Marlena’s

ex-husband.”

Don chuckles. “One of them anyway. I was just telling Michael about

our wonderful ex-wife. His sister is trying to set her up with him.”

Unsure if Don’s toying with me, I grip my beer tighter and force a

smile. “It’s a good thing you’re seeing all of us now then.” I

surprise myself with how well I’m taking this.

Michael laughs awkwardly. “She’s a wonderful woman from what I can

see.” He visually measures her up and down. My jaw flinches, but it

doesn’t clench. He’s checking out my wife while she’s bending over my

daughter. I grip my beer to keep from gripping his neck.

“That she is,” Don contends squeezing my shoulder. “Look at her in

mother form. Is there anything more pure than that?”

I sigh and shake my head, eyeing them both calmly. Don’s been trying

to get under my skin since I met him. It’s probably the same

proprietary urge that I have in me for her. As her ex-husband, I can

almost empathize with him. But after decades, it might be time for him

to let her go. Marlena’s not interested in Don and he knows it. What

better way to upset me than making snide remarks? “She’s sexy as

hell,” I play along, “and she knows it too.”

Their eyes move quickly to her. The fact that I was the last one

climbing between her legs adds just the weight I need to flex. Yes,

I’m in a pissing contest but I’m going to win it. I could run circles

around them in how great we are in bed together. How something

unnatural and beautiful happens every time I’m inside her. Michael

might want to be there, to be me, but it’s not going to happen.

“She’s uncontrollable in bed,” I say sipping my beer. “Just last week,

I…” I pause smiling inwardly at Michael’s discomfort. “I’m sorry man;

I think I’m sharing too much.”

“I think so,” Michael swallows, flinching from my slap to his back.

“You were with her last week?”

“I don’t kiss and tell,” I smile.

“Calm down fellas, no time to duel it out.” Don nods toward Marlena,

who’s quickly striding over to us—the three guilty musketeers.

“You all have met,” she asks hitching Juliana to her hip. “Are you all

behaving?”

I grin, shaking my head. Michael hasn’t recovered. He blanches at her

question and strains a yes. Don shrugs sympathetically. Marlena’s eyes

settle on me and my confident attitude. Why am I being embarrassingly

arrogant? Because you’re standing in front of me with a man whose

trying to get into your pants.

“John, can I speak with you in private?” The mother voice is a little

condescending.

“Sure,” I smile, following her.

“Noodle, can I talk to Daddy for a minute?” She asks lifting her chin.

Juliana hasn’t left her arms since she took her from me. “Danielle has

missed you terribly. She’s over there.” She points to Danielle who is

leaning by the pool. “Can you go with her for just a minute?” Marlena

makes Danielle aware of Jules who toddles happily into her nanny’s

arms.

“So you’re dating,” I start before she has a chance to ask me

anything. “Andi’s brother? He doesn’t look like your type,” I smile

purposely. She has never been able to resist it.

“John, don’t make a scene.” She mutters peeping nervously around.

“I won’t,” I say sincerely. “Micheal though?”

She takes a deep breath and watches me for a minute. I don’t look

away. “I haven’t agreed to anything yet. I’m just getting my feet

wet,” she explains.

I laugh quietly at her explanation. “Who are you convincing baby?”

“Don’t call me that,” she warns, “and don’t look at me like that. I

didn’t even have to tell you about it.”

“You didn’t tell me,” I remind her. “Don did and he loved every minute

of it. What’s he doing here anyway? That guy can’t get enough of you,

can he?”

She laughs uncharacteristically, tapping her chin the way that she

does. She rolls her shoulders back and opens her hands at her sides.

“Why do I try to reason with you? I must be crazy to think that we

could have conversations like this. It’s really none of your

business.”

“You didn’t tell your date that you made love to me recently, did you?”

A healthy blush fills her cheek.

“You do remember that, don’t you?”

Tracing the goose bumps on the back of her arm, I hear her breath

hitching in her throat.

“John,” she shakes her head moving back. “I didn’t…”

I cut her off, “I told him.”

She swallows hard, pulling my attention to her mouth; it enthralls me.

Her lips purse nervously as she licks them. I’m not supposed to make

sexual advances. Think with your heart and not the head in your pants.

Ashton’s not a man and she doesn’t know how good it feels to have

Marlena’s mouth on me.

“Don’t ruin things for me,” she pleads timidly.

“I’m not.”

“I want to talk about Nicky,” she says shifting unexpectedly. “He

doesn’t want to see you,” she whispers, lowering her eyes to the

ground, “but I’m starting to have a problem with that. I think this

has gone on long enough, don’t you?”

“I never wanted to not see my son,” I remind her. That was her choice,

colored by Nicholas’ reaction to our fight in Colorado. “But I don’t

want to push him.”

She clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Isn’t it you who

kept reminding me that Nicholas is only a child.”

“A child with deep feelings of hurt.”

She winkles her forehead. “You sound like a therapist. Are you telling

me that you don’t want to see him?”

“I’m telling you that I can understand if he’s not ready.”

“What if he’s never ready?”

“He will be.”

“John…”

“It’s neither the time nor the place to discuss this,” I say bringing

her attention to all the onlookers. “We can discuss this over dinner.”

“I can’t have dinner with you,” she tells me shaking her head. “I

mean, I won’t have dinner with you.”

“But you can have sex with me,” I say provokingly.

She sighs and takes off in the other direction. I shrug at the brave

few who keep their eyes locked on me.

[Don]

I had the damndest time handling a woman as confident and independent

as Marlena. I needed someone to stay home and tend the nest, have my

babies. She wanted to work. She didn’t like that role then. She was

too young to understand and we were ages apart in the feminist

movement.

But here she is, years later, with more children than I can keep up

with. And she’s an amazing doctor and still a wonderful daughter to

her parents. She hasn’t fared so well in the love department but who

has.

She’s a tiger in bed, unashamed about her sexuality. Sexiness that’s

raw and not pulled together. If I were John, I wouldn’t give her up to

this prick Michael either. I don’t have a chance in hell. I wish I

could persuade her to take me up on a weekend rendezvous but she has

too many damn commitments. Two children barely out of diapers. An

ex-husband that forgets the creed of divorce: go your own way.

She looks trapped—beautifully—by inner dilemmas. She shares some

through our electronic communication but I’m sure I’m not privy to all

that bothers her. I know that it has a lot to do with John. She went

from mentioning him a lot to not at all since the anniversary party.

Her focus is mainly about the kids.

I have an offer that will either make her happy or further conflicted.

I’ve always known how brilliant her mind is. Some of my colleagues

agree. The job offer to teach at the state college is one that should

free up some of the nervous energy she’s known for having. And because

I still feel like I need to protect her, I want to give her something

to look forward to that isn’t a fight or custody battle with her

husband.

She does a wonderful job of hiding her turmoil from those who don’t

know her. She’s been avoiding John since their private conversation.

He’s cocky enough to have told her that he shared some details about

her love life. She’s a tiger but she’s also very conservative about

keeping details between lovers. When she catches him watching her, she

turns away disgusted.

With their daughter climbing all over her lap, she calms the child

down while in the middle of a conversation with Hope. And the child is

such a replica of her mother. The hair is what makes others see John

in her. But the innocence and purity, and those sweet hazel golden

eyes are all her mother’s. The button nose and freckly skin. Marlena

settles the little girl against her chest and starts rubbing her back

for an apparent nap. I’m jealous that its John’s little girl and not

mine. I’m jealous that she still belongs to him, even separated.

[James]

She is by far the sexiest woman in this group of prudes, including my

wife. From day one, I’ve been a fan of her lovely chest. Has there

ever been a more beautiful rack than on Marlena Evans. She’s sexy

because she isn’t overt about it.

She’s not trashy or whiny. She’s just her. I know why Andi’s jealous

of her, hell if I were these women I would be too.

She’s living single in a neighborhood filled with unhappy men who

would willingly risk their marriages for a tumble in bed with her. I’d

be the first in line.

If it weren’t for her ex-husband always sniffing around, I would’ve

made my move a long time ago. I bet she’s never gone to bed with man

like me. I’ve never had a woman like her. The things that I bet we

could do to each other would probably make me an addict for her.

I’ve heard her having sex and I admit that I’ve had to handle things

with my hand afterwards. She’s not like Andi, who’s afraid to try new

things and be sexy for me. She stopped doing that when we got pregnant

with Colton. Oh, she doesn’t deny me but who wants to have sex with

someone who keeps looking at the clock while I’m trying to pleasure

her.

Not Marlena, I know. By the sounds of it, she’s completely into it.

Her sexy moans would be music to my ears. I’d love to see what those

lips of hers can do. I’d love just a chance to prove that I could be

better than John and that prick Michael.

What the hell was Andi thinking trying to set her up with her weak

brother? From the looks of it, Marlena needs a strong man.

But that man is obviously John. She’s been fidgeting nervously around

ever since he arrived. She pulls at the hem of her skirt like she’s

hiding from a Catholic nun. She stutters in conversation when her

attention falls to him, lurking around the yard.

He’s a lucky bastard. They obviously have a strong connection or she

wouldn’t be so visibly shaken by him being her. She probably wants him

to make her cry the way he did the night I heard them. He hasn’t been

around much, but I know that he’s always in the picture.

Andi said no; I’m a man who knows differently. That’s a man who isn’t

giving up on his wife.

[Bo]

I’ve been trying to figure out what’s different about Marlena. I

haven’t seen her much in the past year, not since she had a baby and

moved out here to the suburbs. I see more of John. I know what his

deal is. But ever since we got here, I’ve been trying to figure out

why it is that she doesn’t seem the same to me.

I’ve got a pretty good compass to judge by. She’s been in my life for

a helluva lot longer than most people I know. A great friend, even

more than that she is my sister. She is family. But for the life of

me, I haven’t figured out why it is that she moved away from her life

in Salem and none of us asked.

It’s true that she’s allowed to do as she pleases but we Salemites are

tight. We don’t fade out of each other’s lives without explanation. We

don’t shut each other out without reasons. There were reasons before

that made it easier to stay away, but not now.

We’re all healed from that madness. I’ve got my wife and my children.

We share a granddaughter; our kids are married. We should be closer

and we let her slip away like a stranger.

She still smiles and has a witty, wicked sense of humor. She is still

pretty, loves those kids with everything in her. But there’s something

missing.

Ma thinks she’s heartsick. She has been through a lot with Nicholas

and the separation from John. And then there’s the fact that she shuts

Roman out when they were great friends before. Something is different

with her.

The one thing that remains the same is the way that John looks at her,

and when he’s not looking, the way she stops to find him.

It’s clear to everybody that they are in love. And what’s not clear to

everybody, including me is why they live so far from one another. Why

aren’t they together when we know that it’s what they both want?

[Marlena]

“So I have a proposition for you honey.” I turn around and fall too

easily into Don’s chest. “It’s not that kind of proposition Marlena.”

I slap his chest laughing. “You’re such a menace. I’m just exhausted

and you looked steady enough to hold me up. What was I thinking?”

“You’re exhausted from all the eye hockey going on between you and

John,” he tells me, stroking my chin.

“No, don’t think that’s it.”

“I don’t know; it’s been pretty intense around here. The latest love triangle.”

At times his humor escapes me. “That’s not even remotely funny Don.”

Considering that I have been involved in twisted relationships where

the fear of choice keeps us from making them. “I’m not involved with

anyone except that little Princess over there and her brother.”

Nicholas and Noodle are sitting together on a blanket spread over the

grass, waiting for the fireworks to begin. Rachel’s kneeling behind

them stroking their hair and talking to them about the upcoming

fireworks.

“You know I never thought you had it in you,” Don says looking at my

children mysteriously. “I’m not kidding honey, you’re raising well

adjusted children over there. You’re grown children could use a little

work but those two are angels.”

“Isn’t it just like you to compliment with one hand while slapping

with the other. Sami is just rough around the edges. She’s grown,

believe me. But thank you. I appreciate that coming from you.”

“And what you’re doing for that girl,” he glances at Keema, surrounded

by Sami and Maggie in lawn chairs. “If you’re applying for sainthood

you are well on your way.”

I look down embarrassed. “I’m not. I just want to do everything in my

power to help her.”

He tilts my chin up, “You are. Don’t ever stop being you baby. You’re

the best thing I ever knew in my life.”

“Are you trying to seduce me,” I ask with the intent to infuse humor.

I brush the tears from my lashes and squeeze him. “I need to hear that

sometimes. It’s hard to know these days if I’m doing it right.”

“You are.”

“Well, what’s the proposition?” I ask remembering his original

question. “No, I will not marry you.”

“You’re a kidder,” he laughs. “You know that? Of course you would if I

asked, first of all.”

“Don.”

“The proposition. How would you like to become a teacher, a professor?”

“That’s the proposition?” I question him bewildered. “I’m a

psychiatrist, not a teacher.”

“You’re also Women, hear you roar…right? You can do anything. And

besides they want you.”

“Who?”

“Details will come later, but for now just think about that. Okay?”

“Don.”

“Shh, the fireworks are beginning.” He says lifting his eyes to the sky.

I slide beside Rachel and prop Noodle into my lap. Tired from her long

day, she drops her head heavily into my chest. Nicholas is happily

straddling Rachel’s legs while holding his Hulk in hand.

“Wan my daddy,” Noodle mumbles against me after the first explosion of

color ripples in the sky. She startles forward, looking around for

John. He’s gone. He slipped out after Nicky and Sami reemerged from

the house. One look from Nicky and he knew that he wasn’t ready. “Wan

my daddy,” Noodle says more frantically, clutching my arms to make

sure that they’re protecting her.

“Baby girl, it’s beautiful. Don’t be afraid,” I whisper into her hair,

stroking the downy stands hiding her face. “Mommy’s not going to let

anything happen to you.”

“She’s afraid,” I say in the way of an explanation to Rachel. I lift

Noodle squirming against my body and haul her quickly into the house

to try and calm her down. “Noodle…shhh, it’s okay,” I try consoling

her as she kicks against my legs to be put down.

“Daddy,” she cries out, turning her head frantically around to see if

he’s there. “Wan my daddy.”

“Juliana please…honey.” She shakes her head as if trying to drown out

my voice and the explosions in our backyard. “Daddy’s not here.”

She cries out his name repetitiously. Finally managing to kick me hard

enough for me to let her slide down my legs to the floor where she

dissolves in a puddle. I’ve never seen this magnitude of a tantrum.

But she’s never seen or heard the chaotic sounds of fireworks. And

when she’s especially afraid, it’s usually her protective Daddy that

would be holding her.

I crouch and grab her flailing arms to control her from spinning

around on the floor. She’s crying enough to force hiccups from the

back of her throat. I press my face to hers and whisper against her

lips. She screeches, startling me back from her face. The explosions

grow louder overhead, rumbling the house and she screams. She balls

herself into a fetal position to hide her face.

“Noodle.” She flinches back from my touch. The eruptions and her

crying are battling for supremacy. “Honey you have to calm down,

you’re scaring me…baby girl, you’re scaring Mommy,” I tell her trying

to pull her face from the cocoon of her arms. “We’ll go upstairs and

close the door and turn on your music.” She’s crying too loudly to

hear me clearly. “Noodle, listen to Mommy. It’s okay. Nothings going

to hurt you. I’m here.” I plead feeling the weight of tears. Nothing

is worse for me than not being able to fix what hurts her. “Noodle,

can Mommy hold you.” She kicks at the suggestion, turning her body

away from me again. I bend, undaunted by her forceful blows, and say

her name quietly against her ear.

“Daddy,” she mumbles through her ragged breaths. Her tear-stained face

is red and blotchy. “Wan my daddy.”

“He’s not here,” I tell her sadly. “Mommy’s here…let me hold you and

make you feel better. I can make you feel safe if you let me. Do you

want ZaZa?”

She shakes her head and continues crying, continues squirming with the

oncoming booms, continues denying me. The sunflower on her cheek is

partially smudged. The beautiful little girl who came home to me

because she wanted to see me doesn’t want me right now. She wants her

daddy and as much I hate that I can’t heal her right now, I know that

whatever it takes at this point is more important. At the rate that

she’s going, she could hyperventilate or worse.

Pride aside, I scoop her up, bracing against her angry arms and

kicking legs, and in a cloud grab my car keys. She makes her body dead

weight as I carry her to the garage and put her in the car.

We drive away from the house with her still crying and pleading for

her father; I call John immediately. Frightened by the force of her

screams, I put him on the speaker phone and let him hear her.

“I’m bringing her to you.” I tell him simply.

“I’ll meet you in the middle.”

And we do, in a parking lot somewhere between both our houses. He gets

to her as fast as his legs allow, pulling her into his body to the

safety that she needs, that she believes that can only come from him.

“She’ll be fine,” he assures me rocking her gently. Her face is buried

in his chest, her arms clutching his neck. “Daddy’s not going to let

anything happen to you baby.” He promises and I believe him. He

doesn’t ask why or what happened. He doesn’t care. He focuses on

comforting Juliana, pacing the parking lot between our cars until her

crying has tapered off into whimpering. “What happened?” He finally

asks, stopping in front of me. Juliana is calm, hiccupping but calm.

“Fireworks,” I swallow, “frightened her and she started having this

tantrum. I’ve never seen her like that.” I say recalling her small

body wracked with fear and sobbing. All the screaming and denials to

me. “She wouldn’t settle down. She just kept asking for you.” I reach

and touch her chubby wrist to untangle her bracelet.

“Are you okay?”

I bite my lip. “I’m fine. I just want her to be okay. I don’t like

seeing her like this. I didn’t know that she’d be terrified of

fireworks,” I explain, guilty for my part in Noodle’s meltdown.

“You couldn’t know that,” he reminds me gently, “because she’s never

seen them. It’s okay. She’s fine now.” He pats her back. “My baby is

just fine.” Soft purrs have replaced the whimpering; Noodle’s fallen

asleep. “She’s good now. Are you okay to drive?”

“I’m fine,” I tell him firmly. Tired of feeling so helpless.

“Do you want me to put her in the car?”

I can barely say it but I manage. “I guess she should stay with you

tonight. She seems to want you,” I say sadly, realizing that if I

hadn’t made her choose, she wouldn’t need one of us. She’d want both

of us to reassure and comfort her. Feeling insecure, I kiss Noodle’s

clenched hand and whisper good night. She never turns away from her

father’s strong chest where she is burying her face.

“I’ll call you tomorrow.” He says watching me climb back into my car.

I wait until he has Noodle settled in his car. We wait, I’m holding

back the tears; he’s waiting for me to leave. Before I go, I blow a

kiss to Noodle, who doesn’t see it.

Chapter 37

“Become a stranger

To need of pity

Or, if compassion be freely

Given out

Take only enough

Stop short of urge to plead

Then purge away the need.”

–Expect Nothing, Alice Walker–

I’m prepared to hear the voicemail, not her voice. It’s been so long

that I almost barely recognize that it is truly her, my little girl

and not the perfunctory message I usually get. The little voice that I

awoke to many nights, with her standing at my bedside seeking comfort.

So soft that in preschool, teachers feared that she was too shy to

participate in learning. So gentle that she would have to lean close

when asking for anything, be that her blankie—yellow and tattered from

years of dragging it around behind her; a drink of milk before bed to

fill her “angry” belly she’d describe with a pointed frown; her daddy,

who didn’t live with us then; and me, when I had to leave her for

work.

It’s this voice that would call me at work, after she’d been picked up

by Chelsea from school to tell me about her day. To hear her voice

then filled me with two things; guilt and joy. Mothering for me has

always been an unbalanced work; something that I never really felt

adequate at, but gave my best effort anyway. I have to be honest—every

mother would admit this if given an honest opportunity. You never feel

up to the challenge; you have this sinking feeling following you

around that you’re not doing enough to raise healthy happy children.

You always feel like you’re one step away from chaos and madness. You

have moments of sheer terror about the things—invisible things—that

you’re doing to your child.

But there are also moments when they’re at peace, safe in your arms or

asleep in their beds. Moments when you hold them and they believe that

everything is right with the world because the only world that exists

is no further than the span of the arms holding them. Moments when a

kissed knee, warmed milk, and shared bath are enough to bring them

back from the brink of utter crisis. Moments when Mommy is all that

they need and want. I’ve had those with Belle before this crisis of

confidence that I’m going through with her now.

“Mom,” her voice intrudes my soft memories, laced with an unnamable

quality. When does Mommy start to seem not adult enough; when does

Mommy become stoic, staid Mom. I remember the moment it happened. She

fell in love, and I became an afterthought. “Mom, are you still

there?”

Somewhere between the expectation of not hearing her and being

surprised that it really is her, I lose my nerve. I only wanted to

leave a message. “Hi sweetie,” I say tremulously, “it’s great to hear

your voice.” Even as tightly wound and awkward as it sounds. “Thank

you for picking up,” I add quietly. Truly grateful.

She sighs and I wonder if it is in exasperation and frustration. “You

don’t have thank me for that Mom. It’s been awhile. Claire-bear has

been asking about you…about all of you really.” She stammers and my

heart pounds because it seems dishonest. That was always my surefire

way of catching her in teenage deceptions that weren’t meant to hurt.

Like saying she was at Mimi’s house when she was with Shawn elsewhere.

The stammering that comes from a person who is innately honest.

Never the less, it’s something. I’m starved for her attention so much

that I haven’t had and my eagerness flows like hot lava from my

throat.

“How is she? How is everything? Are you eating okay? Is Claire

adjusting to being on the water?” I ramble nervously because the

chance to ask her these questions—motherly and intrusive—hasn’t been

there. “Are you feeling homesick yet,” I ask hoping that she is and

that she’s ready to come back to me. Not just Salem, but to me—back to

my arms. But when you’ve hurt her as she feels I have, my arms are the

last place she wants to be. When I hurt her daddy, her hero and the

only man that she’ll ever accept in my life, I clearly hurt her.

Unfair and judgmental, but what more can I expect from a girl whose

only memories have been of John and me—together.

She laughs, not uneasily. It washes over my skin sending a warm

sensation throughout my body and the tight feeling in my chest loosens

and my heart slows down, bringing a smile to my face. I can mirror her

smile because I know it intimately. The smile that makes her look more

like me than John.

“Mom, one question at a time…really, it hasn’t been that long.

Claire is fine. Everything is great. Claire is a natural sailor. And

not feeling homesick yet.” She reports cheerfully without missing a

beat.

I love you honey—I wish I could say that and make it mean more than

idle words. Instead I hum, “Good.”

Claire is giggling. Belle voice trails off after her baby girl. When

she comes back to the line, she apologizes then asks, “How are you?”

Dreadful. I can’t tell her that. Belle isn’t the gloating child; but

she would agree that I am in a situation made of my own volition. “I’m

well…we all are,” is a complicated half-truth that slips through my

lips. And then what else can I say…I don’t know. Our conversations

have never been this tenuous; I’m not used to struggling to find safe

things to ask and say. “How’s Shawn?”

“He’s the captain,” she laughs. A genuine laugh that I can picture.

The delicate turn of her mouth, the wrinkle in her nose. “There is

nothing that Shawn loves more than being captain.”

“I can imagine he would, growing up with Bo for a father.” He was a

cute little boy in sailor attire, trained for duty. Dark hair that

brought out his soulful eyes—Claire has many of his very soulful

features.

“Yes, he has Claire doing all the little sailor duties. It’s so cute Mom.”

I imagine Shawn’s mini-me following her daddy around in hero-worship

much in the way that Belle tried to become John’s shadow as a toddler.

“I bet. I miss her…I miss you all so much.”

A pregnant pause that lends itself to the distance between us. I don’t

know where she is; I’m afraid to ask. I don’t want to know how far she

had to travel to get away from me.

“We miss you too Mom. I miss you,” Belle confesses softly. I think

she’s crying, sniffling. “I want you to know that I’m not upset with

you. I just need some time away.”

It’s unfair to cry and make her feel guilty. “It’s okay.” I pin back

the heavy emotion like a curtain that will drop when the show is over,

when it’s all said and done.

“No, it’s not you. It’s all of it…” she sighs, pausing to weigh her

words or to see what my response will be. With no answer from me, she

continues, “I know I left things up in the air between us. I’m sorry

about that, but I don’t know what to say to you right now.”

“Baby, you don’t have to explain.”

“I do Mom, because I’ve been talking to Daddy. And I can’t…I don’t

want to be in the middle of it.”

“You’re not,” I assure her. “This thing between Daddy and me isn’t

about our children at all.” It’s the first time that I have to admit

that. I’ve been using Nicky and Noodle as buffers and excuses. But in

truth, it’s not about any of the children; I was with John before

their births. I’ve been dealing with him a great deal longer as a

lover than I have as a parent.

“Mom,” she whispers. Do some words hurt that much that whispering

helps? It feels so when she calls me Mama quietly, as if she has no

right to speak it loudly.

“Say it baby,” I encourage, feeling the unmooring of our emotions on

separate continents.

“I can’t,” she crumbles. Shawn is there asking if she’s okay. “I’m

fine,” she mumbles to him before asking him to take Claire to the

bathroom. “He’s so much like Daddy. It’s one of the reasons I’ll

always love him. He also loves Claire-bear to death Mom. He’s great.”

“I know,” I say feeling strangely. Shawn and her Daddy. Two men that

have been hurt by both of us but they’ve never stopped trying to make

amends. “Honey, it’s okay.”

“It’s not. I’m so pissed off at you,” she admits softly, belying her

earlier confession. “I am. I’m so mad that you and Daddy haven’t

gotten it together yet. I’m upset that you cheated…that you made Daddy

feel insecure enough to leave you.”

She stops her gentle assault and I take my turn. “I didn’t cheat. I

wouldn’t do that to him and you know that. He knows that as well.” The

urge to tell her that what happens between her Daddy and me in the

bedroom or in regards to any aspect of our fidelity is really none of

her concern. But it is. I teach her how to become the wife and mother

she wants to be, even if she doesn’t want to learn from me. Lessons

happen uneventfully. She’s been watching my missteps for too long.

Maybe that’s why she’s pissed; I’ve torn down the idol worship that

she used to have of me.

“You have a new daughter,” she charges sadly.

A sharp pain strikes my chest in the place where my heart rests.

That’s a tough one. I do have a daughter who never had me. For that,

Belle should always be grateful however I have no right to tell her

that now. “She’s not new honey; she’s always been there. I just forgot

about her.”

Disregarding Rachel’s presence, she tries a different vein. “Mom, if

you don’t love Daddy…I don’t understand how you couldn’t love Daddy.

He’s been there for you through everything. He’s never gone away.”

She’s always been her father’s biggest defender. “Mom, don’t do this

to him.”

I swallow the truth that children don’t know about their parents. We

don’t have magic wands to make everything all right. I swallow the

tears and anguish that Belle’s words tie inside me. Even in her

childish, impulsive declarations I can empathize with her. I know that

it’s a symptom of fear. She’s afraid that the family that she created

with Shawn won’t survive if the family that she was born into doesn’t.

In her childish way, we still—our family—belong solely to her. Without

regard to her newest siblings, she has always felt like the glue that

held us all together. I allowed her to do that. She brought me and

John closer; she kept us connected when we weren’t together. That’s a

big role for such a sensitive little girl, a sensitive woman.

“Belle, Daddy and I love each other. That’s all you need to know.

Nobody is going to take him away from you. He’s not going anywhere and

neither am I. Everyone is safe and settled. You’re not going to lose

any one of us. That’s all that matters now. Okay. We’re not that

family that we were when you were a little girl. Things change.”

She sniffles. “You changed. We’re all the same.” She and John really

believe that; they’ve both told me that now. “Daddy wants you back.”

“Belle.”

“Mom, if you leave him I won’t forgive you…” she whispers uncertainly.

Letting that marinate and take hold of my heart she breathes, taking

my thoughts and breath with her. “I mean, I don’t know if I would be

able to do that. I don’t like you being in your house and Daddy being

in his. It’s not fair that I’ll have to choose.” Claire’s back with

Shawn asking for her mother. “Mom, don’t make us choose.”

“I won’t make you do anything,” I say sliding the back of my hand

across my cheek to clear away my tears. “I can’t make you do

anything.”

“Claire’s back. Would you like to talk to grandma,” she asks pulling

the phone from her mouth. Claire’s buoyant voice comes across the

line. I talk to her until she tires of her magnificent stories of

being at sea. Her endearing little laugh tickles me, warming some of

the places that feel too cold from her absence and her mother’s

condemnations. She has missed me. She asks about the kids and Pika—and

Poppy. She reminds me that she loves her Poppy. She loves him as much

as Belle does. My heart hurts to hear that. Not because of misplaced

jealousy or anger but because she can’t come to a single house to be

with Poppy and Grandma. She has to choose, and Belle hates that. A

kiss to the phone ends our call; she declares her undying love for me

and hangs up before I can ask to speak to her mother again.

Five days later, I find myself at my vanity drawing a thick black line

on my lower lid. Heavy and too seductive—I don’t want to be seductive.

I rub at the thick line with a tissue, smudging a smoky shadow under

my eye. I have an audience of three behind me. Sitting with her knees

tucked under her, Keema is leaning against the footboard of my bed

with Juliana sitting on the edge of the bed with her legs thrown over

Keema’s shoulders. Noodle’s busy hands twist and snarl Keema’s sandy

hair with barrettes and hair ties. With studious concentration, Noodle

pulls a long strand of Keema’s hair and wraps it around her finger as

if she’s braiding. Keema has been trying to teach her how with her

dolls but Noodle enjoys her live model more. When Noodle twists too

tightly, Keema lifts her hand to gently pry her hair out of Noodle’s

hand. A kiss of apology lands on top of Keema’s head before Noodle

starts twisting her hair again. Nicky is sitting quietly occupied with

a large foam puzzle next to the vanity. Checking my reflection, I

watch him try to fit a piece into place. He twists the red and yellow

shape into the jagged edges until it fits. When it falls into place,

he smiles proudly.

“Juliana Nicole, don’t pull Keema’s hair,” I say noticing Keema’s

scrunching face. “You’re hurting her baby. Be gentle. She’s not a

dollie.” Promptly rewarded with dogged frown, Noodle turns Keema’s

face toward her.

“I hurt you,” she questions in confusion. Disbelieving that she could

hurt Keema, who she’s fallen in love with.

Keema adjusts two fingers in front of Noodle to show her how little it

hurt. “Only that much J,” she assures her with the new nickname that

she’s given to her shadow. “Don’t pull so much. My hair hurts.” She

rubs her head for effect, squeezing Noodle’s cheek after lowering her

hand. “Really J, it doesn’t hurt.” She looks up to assure me that

she’s fine.

“You hair hurt…baby,” Noodle wonders leaning forward to rub the swell

beneath Keema’s tight cotton t-shirt. Keema shrugs, covering Noodle’s

hand so that they can rub together. “Itchy.” Noodle says remembering

that she helped Keema rub aloe vera and cocoa butter on the lines

stretching Keema’s skin.

“A little bit.” Keema wrinkles her forehead, laughing when Noodle

mimics her move. “You’re my little twin huh?” She turns to tickle

Noodle who’s fallen back to the bed to avoid Keema’s ticking fingers.

The easy relationship between them helps Keema feel more settled in

our house. She’s not completely at peace. I’m still afraid that she’ll

run away when we’re all asleep, taking all the hope I have in her with

her. But she’s been here since I asked her to stay, spending more time

bonding with the children then with me. Talking to them instead of

allowing me to delve into her family history anymore.

“What’s Nicky’s name?” Nicholas asks looking up from his puzzle.

Confused, I lower my hands from smoothing my hair. “Nicky’s name? What

do you mean honey?”

Nicholas glances at his giggling sister. “Like Joy, Juliana

Nicole…what’s Nicky’s name?”

“You want to know what your full name is,” I provide, turning around

to face him. He nods eagerly. “Well honey, your name is Nicholas Ethan

Black.”

“Ethan…” his tongues stumbles on the name that I use only when he’s

misbehaving. It’s a novelty for him. “Nicky Ethan,” he repeats looking

pleased with himself.

“Yes honey. It’s the name that your Daddy chose for you,” I tell him,

watching to see the reaction to a John reference. The smile widens

instead of collapsing into a frown. Reading his face, I see that he’s

happy about learning this piece of his history, even if John is

included. “It’s a beautiful name for a beautiful boy.”

“I’m Ethan.” He decides. Looking around the room for agreement from

Noodle and Keema. He jumps up to slam into my knees. “Ethan Nicky.”

“You want Mommy to call you Ethan instead of Nicky,” I ask stroking

his soft cheek. “What about Nicky? I think that’s a perfect name for

you.” I pull him onto my lap. “Nicholas means victory.”

“Victory,” he scrunches his face questioningly.

“The winner. When you play games and you beat Mommy at them,” I

explain stroking the back of his hand with my thumb. “You always win,

don’t you?” He agrees rocking his head back and forth. “See, so Nicky

is a better name for you.”

“I like your name Nicky,” Keema says helping Noodle up from the bed.

She sits back down in front of the bed with Noodle straddling her

legs. “It’s a good name for a little kid like you.”

Smitten with Keema, Nicholas yanks his hand away from me to jump down

from my lap. “I can see when I’ve been replaced,” I laugh, shaking my

head when he plops down at Keema’s side.

“You like Nicky’s name,” he asks Keema solemnly. I don’t know who has

the bigger crush, Nicky or Noodle.

“I love it. It’s special because you and J share it. She’s Juliana

Nicole and your Nicky. Like your twins,” Keema explains tousling

Nicky’s hair. Juliana, feeling the shadow of Keema’s attention leaving

her, shoots an unmistakable scowl Nicholas’ way.

Noodle and Nicky’s day has been full of alone time with Keema. Trying

not to be overly cautious of her, I allowed her to baby sit them with

Danielle in the house while I ran a few errands. I trust her

implicitly; however I can’t risk Noodle and Nicky in that trust. They

were a bit skeptical of her at first, but have taken to her as if

she’s always been here. And I have a feeling that being here is good

for her and them. With something else to focus on, all three of them

are less anxious. And in all truth, I’m enjoying mothering a teenage

girl like Keema. It feels good to have someone else to look after. She

needs me in ways that my other children don’t. More than me, I think

she needs Nicky and Noodle; they have been good for each other.

“How’d you come up with J’s name Dr. Evans?”

I smile, remembering the dream. She was already inside me and I didn’t

know it. This tiny fiber of being wrapped up inside a cocoon of

protection. Never had I seen a face so clear and vivid in my dreams

until I saw Noodle’s. The same dark hair and reflecting golden eyes

that graze at me, waiting for me to answer Keema’s question.

“A dream,” I say staring at the three curious faces listening to me.

“I dreamed of a little girl named Jules. Nicky was in the dream and he

called her Jules.”

“Nicky?” Nicholas asks poking himself in the chest, looking intrigued

at the prospect of being in my dream.

“Yes, you Nicky. You were in Mommy’s dream. And when Noodle was born,

I let Nicky choose between two names, one of which was Juliana.”

“Me-me,” Juliana gasps.

“Yes, you little miss me-me,” I say shaking my head.

“It’s a pretty name.” Keema’s word is all Juliana needs to agree. “We

like it, don’t we J?”

Noodle nods again.

“Oh, it’s almost time for you to go Dr. Evans,” Keema reminds me

pointing to the clock.

“You’re right.” I turn back to my vanity to complete the

transformation from Mommy to Marlena. Neglecting my appearance for the

sake of getting into the floor with my babies, I relish getting

dressed up again. Even if my stomach churns nervously.

“You look very pretty, doesn’t she J?”

“Thank you honey,” I smile realizing that it’s exactly how I want to

feel and look.

“Look Mommy,” Nicky calls from the puzzle he’s returned to. He puts

another piece successfully into place.

“You’re so smart baby,” I congratulate, looking over my shoulder.

“Look how good you’ve gotten with that. Mommy’s going to have to get

you some more puzzles that we can work on together.”

He shakes his head, causing his hair to fall over his eye. Frustrated,

he pushes it back and looks up at me again. “You help now?”

“Mommy’s going to dinner,” I remind him a third time. “Remember, I

told you that you were going to stay here with Keema and Danielle.”

Watching for any reluctance, I’m disappointed. He shrugs instead and

smiles at me.

His eyes bright and energetic. The withdrawn little boy isn’t

completely gone; that little boy emerges when Nicky feels the need to

crawl into my lap to be rocked. Dr. Danby’s work with Nicholas,

rebuilding his confidence and allaying his fears about John has been

working well. There are moments. He’s still not comfortable enough to

go with John for the weekends with Noodle. I explained to John that

it’ll take time. I’m just as frustrated as he is with their separation

but I can’t push Nicky. I’ve tried to push, unsuccessfully.

“I forget Mommy,” Nicky tells me adorably.

“I know,” I chuckle turning back around to finish my makeup. “Mommy

knows how forgetful her little boy is. Try that piece,” I instruct,

pointing out a smaller piece for him to work with.

“I think that’s Danielle.” Keema stands up, holding Noodle’s hand at

her side. “She’s got pizza,” she tells the kids widening her eyes.

Noodle shifts quickly from one foot to the other while jumping up and

down.

“Do you have to go to the potty?” Noodle shrugs with a small smile

turning the corners of her mouth. “Would you like to go to the potty?”

She pats her Pull-Up covered rump to check, shaking her head

affirmatively.

“I’ll take her,” Keema offers, “and then I’ll take them to get pizza.”

“Thank you.”

They follow her dutifully from my bedroom and I focus on myself again.

After drawing another line smudged to shadow under my eye, I brush a

vibrant shadow over the folds of my eyes. Some blush over the curves

of my cheeks and pale lipstick on my lips. I lean closely to the

mirror to check my face for flaws. Finding only one: the lifelessness

in my eyes. The sad, uncertainty in what I’m doing.

Why put on the show—the flawless made-up face, my gauzy summer dress

that dips low on my back and across my chest, and small gold hoops and

bangles. Why go through the motions without making it a production? I

slide on the Ferragamo strappy sandals with an ankle tie on. Tighten

the halter straps around my neck. Sweep hair behind my ear, pinning it

with a diamond clip. Smooth down the bodice of the soft dress. I

spritz my wrist and neck with a light scent.

“Mommy?”

I turn away from examining myself in the mirror to Noodle standing in

the doorway with Zaza in one hand and a green sippie cup in the other.

She rubs her eyes sleepily before inching slowly toward the vanity.

She’s upset. Her lower lip is pointedly pouting. Pizza sauce forms a

splattered design on her yellow top. The embroidered butterfly’s wing

is tinged in red paste.

“Noodle,” I pull her into my lap and inhale the fruity shampoo smell

after she lies against my chest. “Tell Mommy what’s wrong.” She shakes

her head defiantly, burying her face in my chest. “You know what I

think Noodle, I think you’re sleepy. You didn’t have a nap today.”

“No sleepy,” she pouts, bringing her sippie cup filled with milk to

her mouth. She sips, replacing Zaza when she’s finished drinking. I

tweak her soft eyebrow when she leans back from my body. “No bye bye

Mommy,” she whines.

“No?” I ask tilting her head back so that I can look into her face.

“And why not little miss.”

“I love Mommy. I miss you.” She coos wrapping her arms tightly around

my back. “No bye bye.”

A kiss to her forehead keeps me from allowing her pouty face to sting

me enough to cry. She’s getting so good at invoking guilt. An

overturned mouth and narrowed eyes are her best imitation of a puppy

dog face. A pitiful look that makes me smile and sad.

“Mommy go eat eat,” Nicky explains from the doorway, diplomatically to

Noodle. “We play with Dani and Kee.” They both shorten Keema’s name,

but it was Nicky who did so first. “We play Joy. Stop crying.” He

admonishes gently. “I play with you.”

Noodle scowls at her traitorous brother. I bite my lip to keep from

laughing at her adorable anger. “Mommy?” Her voice tugs at my resolve.

She lifts her eyes to my face. “No bye bye.”

I check my wrist. “I’m not leaving just this second,” I tell her,

knowing that I have to leave the house in ten minutes so that I’m not

late. “What about a story in Mommy’s bed?”

“Sleep?” She slides Zaza between her lips as I lift her up to carry

her to my bed.

“I’ll stay with you until you fall asleep,” I promise, pulling the

blanket back and snuggling her into it. She won’t have a bath tonight.

It’ll be enough if I can get out of the house without a full-on temper

tantrum. “What do you want to read baby?” I dig through the small hill

of books beside my bed that we’ve read and yet to read.

“I go away,” Nicky declares scurrying from the room, uninterested in

his sister’s sleepy tantrums.

Choosing the largest book in the pile, Noodle slides over for me to

climb into bed beside her. I prop pillows at my back and open the book

as Noodle lays her head on my hip. She hands her sippie cup to me at

my request and sucks eagerly on Zaza as I let my voice lull her tired

body to sleep. Reading until I hear her soft breathes turn into

purring; I close the book and press a kiss to her forehead. Zaza

tumbles from her mouth and I put it close to her so that she won’t

look for it when she wakes up, if I’m still away.

Slipping from under her, I prop her head on a pillow and bend over her

to kiss her temple. “I love you very much Noodle.”

Chapter 38

“This is the miracle that happens every time to those who really love:

the more they give, the more they possess.”

–Rainer Marie Rilke

Quinn has a theory, many theories really about the nature of my

relationship with Marlena; lofty terms that belong in psychology

books, not in the real world of love and relationships—not in

reference to Marlena and me. They are ideal, succinct ideas of love;

theories of why we are what we are—why I love as I love.

Obsessive love: being emotionally obsessed with one…no; love

addiction: the unhealthy, dependent love of another.

Maybe—who’s really to say either way? Outlined for me by my

well-meaning doctor is an approach that will lessen the dependence on

Marlena. Stop pushing for more than she’s willing to give. In any

other circumstance, I could fall in line—except when it comes to love,

to Marlena. Love in the purest element of the idea is doing what you

know you shouldn’t.

Yes—I asked her to dinner. Yes—I used the children to get her

acceptance. Yes—I blackmailed her emotionally to come.

She’s here. Unaware of the way my heart charges at the sight of her in

the doorway, of my inability not to watch her effortless, sexy stride

from the hostess’ podium to our table.

Goddamn, she’s beautiful. That sharp pang of lust stabs all the wrong

places. The collage of moments when her legs have been wrapped around

me urging me closer than is possible kidnaps my concentration. And the

soft purrs that fall from her mouth ring true in my ear. The

crescent-shaped indentions that tattoo my arms. The sweet smell of

vanilla and baby lotion.

“John.”

And her skin fevering against my body. In her dress, all loose and

revealing, she shines with too much innocence and sexuality. How do

those combine? How can I want her to this pristine thing in public and

still love that she’s not a lady in bed. That she plays the role of

seductress very well.

“John…are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I lie, coming out of my fog. “Hi. I’m sorry, I was

thinking…” I trail off and offer her seat instead. “You look

beautiful…but then you always look that way.”

Her cheeks glow scarlet in embarrassment. “Thank you. Have you ordered?”

“No.” I lean back to stiffen my back against the chair. The closer I

sit the more cleavage I see. The more temptation I fight. “I wanted to

wait for you. You haven’t eaten?”

“No, and I’m sorry about being late. It was Noodle wanting a story and

then Nicky,” she explains, sighing in obvious exhaustion.

“What about Nicky?”

She angles her mouth into a shape that I’ve never seen. Something new.

“He’s so independent now,” she lets herself smile, “and then he’s my

little needy baby again. I put Noodle to sleep in my bed after a

little tantrum about me leaving her.”

“She doesn’t like people leaving…” I speak lowly, measuring her face

in the dimness.

“Separation anxiety…or just bad parenting,” she laughs quietly.

“Maybe both,” I add lightly. We need to laugh at these things. “She is

only one. That’s normal for her age, I think.”

“It is. I hate it but she is acting normally. It just feels so damn

bad when I have to tell her goodbye and those little eyes well up…”

“And the lip comes out.”

“Yes,” she says shaking her head.

“She’ll be all right.”

Turning away, she asks, “Will she? I think so but I don’t know. This

has been a tough time for her…and for Nicky.”

To tell her that she’s telling me things that I’m aware of would be

cruel and unnecessary. I’ve gotten tired of being unnecessarily cruel

to her. Before I could do something, say something that made her so

upset that I could get a reaction from her. Anything. Now, I get quiet

resignation. So I don’t tell her that I know that the kids have been

through hell. That’s not what this night is about.

“Did you get her to sleep before you left?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t. She’s very demanding your daughter is.”

“And I bet she gets that from me?” I flash my charming grin and she

leans across the table to slap my forearm. The feel of her touch lasts

long after she’s back on her side of the table. “And what about my

boy? What did he do to prolong you’re journey?”

“What didn’t he do? He’s absolutely enamored with Keema, and he

follows her around like a puppy. It’s the cutest thing.” Her hand

covers her throat when she tilts her neck to laugh. “He was painting

her a picture…on my walls,” she tells me chuckling. “I wanted to ring

his little neck until he climbed into my lap, paint covered hands and

clothes, telling me that he was sorry.”

I picture my little boy sweet talking his mother out of her anger.

Smiling and rubbing her face the way he’s learned from her. I miss him

more than I can say.

“It was as adorable as you can imagine…except I had to go and change

my dress. By then, he was very interested in where I was going.

Before, he was okay with staying with Keema.”

“They’re alone with her,” I ask accusatorily.

Clutching her neck tighter, she eyes me cautiously. “No. Danielle’s

with as well.”

“I’m sorry, that probably didn’t come out like I meant it to. I just

mean that she’s pregnant and the kids are a hand full.” And we don’t

know her—I don’t know her.

“Are you sure because you sounded more accusing than concerned?”

“No,” I lie easily, sliding my hand across the table to cover hers. “I

don’t know her well; I trust that you wouldn’t leave them with anyone

who will harm them.”

“No,” she pulls her hand back, lowering it to her lap, “I wouldn’t.”

Before tension creeps in, I order wine.

“I’ve always loved it here,” she says eyeing our surroundings. She

looks beautiful in the red hue of the club, the lush fabrics that

cover the chairs and walls. “Did you want to come to Maggie’s place to

remind me of better times?” A wry, sexy grin sharpens when she tilts

her head, revealing the long column of freckled skin.

“It wasn’t all bad,” I remind her, peeling my eyes from moving over

the bare throat to her heavy swelling cleavage. “People were starting

to think you didn’t like Salem anymore,” is my other false

explanation.

Of course it’s because we had wonderful times in this place. I’ve

taken her to the bathroom, locked the door behind us, and satisfied

aching urges that threatened to make for uncomfortable nights. We’ve

celebrated anniversaries, birthdays, engagements, and life in this

place. Before our mid-life surprises, we had a relatively easygoing

life. Not that I’d give up having Nicky and Noodle, but life just

seemed simpler when it was only me and her.

“People really think I don’t like Salem…” she ponders aloud, tracing a

line down her neck. “It’s not the place, so much as it’s the people.

These people,” she gestures around the room with her heavily lined

eyes, “know me…they know the tragedy and the misery. They know what

became of our lives.” Listening to her voice would be enough because

she’s speaking in that soft tone that she uses when we’ve had great

sex that has tired her to the point of collapsing against my chest.

But I don’t just listen. I watch—I stare like a hawk desperate for

prey. “It’s like I stopped being in control of my life and I felt like

everybody around me knew it.” I hang on her words, sadly in dogged

desperation.

The waiter brings our wine and I pour us each a glass. Raising my cup,

I wait until she meets me. “For the good times.” She nods and touches

my glass with hers, stopping before bringing it to her lips.

“And for understanding in the future,” she adds clinking our glasses

again. She sips delicately, watching me do the same. “Sometimes it as

if I weren’t even living my life; it was as if it was being written

for me and I had no choice but to act in it.”

The openness is alarming. I feel my heart racing. My mouth going dry.

She’s giving me pieces of herself again. I’ve always handled them with

such care. I deserve them.

“Do you understand?” She asks after I’ve been staring too long.

“No,” I say, wanting her to keep talking.

“It started with Alex. I didn’t have control then, of course but even

after I came home to you I still felt out of balance. And then the

avalanche of motherhood rolled us over and you were wonderful for me.

I don’t know what I wouldn’t done if you hadn’t been there for me.”

She looks down. “I’ve never thanked you properly, have I?”

Unable to stop my eyebrows from rising in expectancy, I cover my

forehead smiling. “You don’t have to thank me.” Being properly thanked

in our past meant a substantial go around in bed. “I did what any man

who loves his woman would have done.”

“No John, you really stepped up to the plate when I was completely out

of sorts. You were great for Nicky. You really became both his

parents. I can’t thank you enough for doing that for him.”

Choked up, I whisper not to thank me. Sipping and propping an elbow on

the table, I take her face in again. My daughters each have a face

like that; her daughters do too. A marked innocence in soft angles and

curves. The soft baby fine hairs that border Jules’ face border her

mother’s. Her gentle eyes, filled with passion and spirit.

After taking a sip of wine, she leans forward. “You’re still in love

with me.” I nod and press my hand to her cheek. “Why?”

Confused, I pull back and look into her eyes. “What do you mean why?”

“Why?”

“You want the simple answer?” It’s her turn to answer nodding. “Because I do.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“That’s all I have.”

“I came here because I want you and Nicholas to reconcile.”

Sliding my hand down my face, I take a deep breath. This can’t just be

about the kids. Not when she’s been so open to me. I saw glimpses of

my old Marlena. The wall was down and she felt safe with me again. We

weren’t those people who hide away to protect ourselves.

“I came here to try to make a go at that, but also to try to get you back.”

She laughs, her shoulders roll back and forth. “You never lost me,”

she whispers touching her mouth like she wants to keep herself from

saying more.

“Then why….”

“Don’t misunderstand me John, you haven’t lost me. I lost myself and

I’m finally getting back to me.”

“Good, now give you back to me.”

“John,” she murmurs choking back the tears that spring so easily to

her eyes. “Nicky needs his daddy back. I’ve been letting what happened

between us get between you and your son. I want you to have him and

for him to have you.”

“I want that too. I’ve been in agony…agony,” I say clenching my jaw in

anguish, “with what I’ve done. That wasn’t me in that hotel room. I

would never hurt you.”

“Then it wasn’t you all the other times either,” she winces.

“No…it wasn’t. The man that loves you would never hurt you like that.”

“I know but the man who loves me did hurt me.”

“I’m sorry,” I say sincerely, feeling my own tears welling in my eyes.

Unashamed of that raw emotion, I let them fall. “I’m so sorry that I

ever did anything to hurt you in that way.”

“Don’t cry,” she says, leaning to wipe my face, “because I can’t take

your tears. I’m bad with tears. Please, we’re putting it past us.”

“No, baby I know how much I hurt you.”

“John, I don’t want to talk about this. I want to talk your son. I

won’t allow him to be angry with you anymore. He’s just as stubborn as

you,” she laughs through her tears, “but he misses you. And he misses

Noodle when she’s away and he’s home. That’s not how we’re going to

raise them. They belong together when they’re spending time with us.”

“What about spending time with all four of us again? As a family.”

“We can talk about that.” She draws back from the table. “We should

spend time as a family.”

“We should be a family.”

“We are a family.”

Charged by her declaration, and her emotion, I swallow the last of my

wine and look directly into her golden eyes. “Marlena, marry me.”

Her shoulders start shaking from the force of crying. “John….”

“I mean it. I’ve been wanting to do this since before Nicky was born.

Marry me and I promise that everything will be all right again.”

Her eyes close and she wraps her arms around shoulders.

“Did you hear me? I want you to marry me.”

“I can’t,” she cries softly.

“Marlena.”

“John, I want to move on…” she whispers.

Painful as it is, I ask, “With someone else?”

She nods.

“Is there somebody else?”

She pauses too long, too painfully.

“Is there?” I ask calmly.

“No, but I want you to know that eventually there will someone there.”

The autopilot kicks in and I slip into a nicer persona than I imagine

isn’t really me. I promised not to hurt her.

“You want to have a new relationship?”

“Eventually,” she tells me biting nervously into her lip.

“A new man…around the kids.”

“Yes.”

“Michael?”

“No.”

“Don?”

She rolls her eyes exaggeratedly.

“Then who?”

“Whoever comes into my life.” She closes her hands around her arms.

“There isn’t anyone; I’d tell you, I swear.”

“I…I don’t know what to say. I…”

“Tell me that you understand and that you want me to be happy.”

“I don’t,” I admit freely, “I don’t want you to be happy without me. I

want you to feel as miserable as I do. I want you to feel as badly as

I do.” My voice is vulnerable and weak. “I want you to want me back,

not other men.”

“I wish I could give you what you want.”

“I only want you,” I mumble.

“You have me but in a different way. I didn’t come here to play with

your heart John. I love you; I only want the best for you. If your

happy than my children are happy. I don’t like making you miserable.”

“Then don’t tell me that you want to have a new life.”

“I want a new life for both of us, separately.”

“You want me to be okay with you falling in love with another man.

Sharing your life, my kids’ lives with someone else. How do you think

I can live with that?”

“It’ll get easier. And we’ll still be a family.”

“Honey, I’m not the kids. Don’t treat me like one of them. I

understand what this means.”

“Then give me your blessing.”

“My blessing,” I say incredulously.

“Your blessing. Let me go…”

She has the last word. I can’t condone, or bring myself to say it’s

okay. To crush my dreams and then ask for freedom is a harsh sentence

to pay. I don’t wish it on any man. Not watching this woman I love

with everything ask me to let her go and be with someone else.

Chapter 39

“Long live the rose that grew from concrete

when no one else ever cared.”

–Tupac Shakur

Keema

I don’t know what he did—it must have been awful for her to keep him

away the way she does. He must be a bastard who hurts her. This chick

is too smart to keep a good man away. I don’t really believe that—that

there are good men in the world. He has to be like all the others.

I hope he doesn’t notice that I’ve been staring at him ever since he

walked into that front door with Dr. Evans. No man has ever looked

finer in a pair of slacks and button down than this one. The bastards

have a way of blending in well with the normal, half-decent men. I’m

good at telling the difference. I learned on the track. You have to

know which men are there to pay you from the ones who are there to

hurt you. Grandmommy said, always look a man in his eyes to see where

he is coming from. The eyes never lie. They can’t. Any man that has

ever hurt me has had the same look—there was nothing there. He has

something burning in his eyes; and it’s not frightening. I blush at

his acknowledgment. A real smile and hand shake. They don’t notice me

blend into the background, gathering up the toys that J and Nicky were

playing with before their parents came home.

On the outside, they seem like they could, should be a normal family.

They have everything. Nice cars and clothes. Dr. Evans is nicer than

any person, white or black that I’ve ever met. Her house is a home;

it’s warm and comfortable. There are meals three times a day. She

spends as much time with the kids when she’s not working. Playing with

them, on her hands and knees—I didn’t expect that of her. She lets

them be kids in ways that I never knew how to be. I never knew the

kind of freedom that her kids have. Through them, I’m sort of living

the kind of childhood I wished I had.

All I wanted as a little kid was for my mother to come back to find

me. It wouldn’t have been too hard; she knew exactly where she’d left

me. I mean maybe she thought it was a good idea. Sixteen year olds

dropouts aren’t known by their great decision making skills. She had

me, 4 weeks later she left me with Grandmommy. Abandoned by my father

before birth and too soon after by my mother. When I pray at night, I

thank God that Nicky and J don’t have a mother like that. I thank God

that we all have Dr. Evans.

Danielle is the nanny but it’s Dr. Evans that both of the kids call

when they’re hungry or grumpy. She’s there even when she’s not. She

calls in to check on them, and me. She rubs my back when it hurts. She

gives J baths and washes her hair. She lets Nicky be a little boy.

Being with them has made me feel as if I raise my baby—they make me

want to raise it with all the love that Dr. Evans is giving us.

Now I don’t feel like I have to give my body to people who don’t love

me. That’s not the kind of love I want or need anymore. I need this

kind of love—the kind in front of me. Dr. Evans smiling because her

ex-husband is in her living room with his children trying to fix

whatever it is that he did to her. I’ve never seen her look more

beautiful. I think he has a lot to do with that.

I thought Nicky looked a lot like his mom until this I saw this man.

That black hair and nice handsome face. He’s gorgeous. Not very

talkative but nice enough. Warm. He doesn’t seem like he wants

anything from them. Every men I’ve ever known has wanted something

more than I had to give. He looks happy having J climb all over his

lap, telling him all kinds of useless things about our day. One thing

is for sure—he and Dr. Evans look at those kids with the same look of

love. Like devotion and love isn’t enough. Like they’re the only kids

that ever walked the planet. That’s the kind of parent I want to be.

Nicky hangs back. I know he sees a doctor every week. Dr. Evans thinks

I should too, but I keep telling her that nothing will help what’s

already happened. What’s happened can’t be erased by any session or

well-meaning doctor. Living with her is enough. I know she doesn’t get

this but she’s saving my life. She’s giving me the only thing I never

had—a family.

Strained and dysfunctional as this one is, it’s still tight. Nicky’s

daddy loves him enough to let him hang back. He doesn’t force him to

even talk but he does touch Nicky’s hair and cheek; it’s almost as if

he’s checking to see if he’s really standing there. J isn’t swayed by

Nicky’s shyness. It’s obvious that she loves her daddy. Her giggles

erupt every time he tickles her neck with his nose, planting kisses on

her chin. Being a daddy that loves his little girl because she’s his,

and not selfishly or possessively.

I wish I had a daddy like that—even one who lives in his own house.

Having and knowing him is a hell of a lot better than not knowing him.

He keeps his lips glued to her face, hands glued to her body. Those

amazing blue eyes never leaving her face except when they look at

Nicky with the same kind of love.

It’s awkward to be in the middle of this, and not know what’s going

on. John—it’s a nice name for a nice looking man—hasn’t been here

since I’ve been here. I know J goes with him on weekends—that’s when I

keep Nicky occupied. He asks for J a lot when she’s not here. They’re

sort of like twins that way, missing the other when they’re not

together. She’s the same when he’s visiting his doctor and she’s home

with me.

He’s a millionaire. I googled him. Only a millionaire would haves soft

hands like his. Soft skin with only a couple of lines around his eyes.

Worry makes you look older. Grandmommy told me that as well as a man

that love his family takes care of them no matter what happens. When

she said that, she was talking about my father leaving my mother to

fend for herself. He doesn’t look like a millionaire like Puffy or Jay

Z, or Bono. He’s not flashy. What I see when I look into his face is a

man who loves this family more than he loves the money.

Sometimes I want to ask Dr. Evans what happened to make them split up.

In my mind, it has to be a woman or something just as bad. Why else

would Dr. Evans be determined to live alone in this house with only

her babies and me, a total stranger? Her heart is hurting just like

mine and maybe that’s why I feel such a connection to her.

We’re both watching the slow interaction between Nicky and his father.

He’s finally comfortable enough to take the seat beside his daddy. No

sign of worry or panic in his face when John pulls hugs him. Dr. Evans

breathes a sigh of relief, taking my hand to share the moment.

Something big has happened, confused as I may be, I squeeze her hand

to let her know I’m with her. That she wasn’t alone in seeing what she

wanted to see. Sometimes I see things happen and I can’t believe them

because no one else can say it’s true with me. But I’m the witness

that she needs, both of us smiling at the three dark-haired heads

bowing together.

Dr. Evans slender arms are stronger than they seem. She’s stronger

than she seems. I have to always remind myself that my first

impression of her was that she was a stuck up bitch. How wrong I was

to think that, to judge her without knowing her.

“Are you okay honey?”

She’s always asking me that. I never know what to say except yes. I

wish I wasn’t so embarrassed to tell her how much I love it when she

wraps her arms around my shoulders from behind and kisses the top of

my head.

“We’re happy right,” I ask knowing the answer by the tiny smile

curving her thin lips. Her mood is lighter, her eyes wet. “You look

happier than you did when you left.” Selfishly, I pause to think what

will happen to me if the smile on her face means that they’re getting

back together.

“I’m happy because I broke his heart,” she says underneath her breath,

“and they’re healing it.” Dr. Evans watches them huddled, with her

hand covering her heart.

It’s a strange to hear and I look at her just as strangely to

understand it. She can be odd. She can also make me speechless.

Spotting the red crayon that J lost yesterday near my foot, I want to

reach down and grab it, but I want more to stay in her arms and smell

her sweetness. Except when John looks our way, I feel like he’s

intruding on a private moment—or that I’m intruding on his family’s

private moment by being here watching him try to have a serious

conversation with the kids.

The crayon becomes my way out. I bend down as much as my belly allows.

It’s getting too big to do anything. Even then, she has her hand on my

shoulder, leaning over me to see what I’ve found. Her soft hair

tickles my cheek when she fusses at me to let her get it. She’s

nitpicky but I find comfort in how much she cares about the baby and

me.

Dr. Evans talks to the baby a lot. She lays her head on my ugly, fat

belly and tells my baby how good I am. How pretty and smart its Mama

is. She’s a great bull shitter, but I like to believe her when she

says it. I like that she doesn’t ask me questions about what happened

to me before she let me into her life. It’s big of her. She’s nosy.

Prying is her nature. She uses being a psychiatrist as an excuse.

“It’s my job to ask questions,” she’s said so much that I mimic her

voice when she does.

Reaching out to help me back up, she rubs just above my rear. “How’s your back?”

This family’s happiness is contagious—I smile even when I don’t want

to smile. “It’s fine worrywart.” It’s been achy but it should be with

all the extra weight I’m carrying. Leaning into her kneading hands, I

ask her quietly, “Is he staying?”

“No, he just wanted to see Nicky and Noodle. Thanks for taking such

good care of them.” I accept a warm kiss on my cheek. “Were they a

hand full?”

The love and concern that she has for her kids sends a warm tingle

through my body. “Not at all. Danielle took care of the hard work. I

only rocked J when she woke up looking for you. She’s a cranky little

booger when she wakes ups. I couldn’t find that pacifier…Zaza. It fell

over the side and she had a fit.” It was hell trying to get her calm

while Danielle was trying to help Nicky on the potty. I remembered how

Grandmommy rocked me and my cousins in her big bosom humming amazing

grace. J seemed to like that, and calmed down enough to let me find

Zaza. “I got her settled.”

“Thank you honey.” She lifts my hand and kisses my knuckles. “Have you eaten?”

I haven’t had a big appetite and when asked, I politely accept the

food and eat as much as I can. It’s sweet that she worries about the

nutrition and health of not only me but also the baby. She feeds me

like it’s going out of style but I smile and shake my head sheepishly.

“What am I going to do with you? Hmm.” She strokes my chin lightly

with her perfectly shaped fingernails scraping my skin. “To the

kitchen now, my dear.”

“Yes mama,” I tell her sarcastically, not missing the look crossing

John’s face. Feeling foolish, I blush and drop her hand. “I’ll meet

you in the kitchen.”

I hear Nicky remind her that she’s his mama as I retreat down the

hall. I don’t want the sting of his possessiveness to hurt me, but it

does. It hurts not belonging to a daddy who visits them and a mama who

loves them as much as she does. But that’s a hurt that belongs to me,

not them. Only some kids get to come from heaven to find their piece

of heaven on earth and some of us have to get through the hell.

I start pulling out food from the fridge, waiting for her to come to

me. It feels longer than forever when she sways confidently—I love her

walk—up to the counter and takes the knife from me to butter my bread

with mustard. I sit down at the table, turning my back from her. “I’m

not making Nicky feel funny…” I try hard to sound unaffected by his

attitude, “..feel like you’re my mom and not his, am I?”

She drops the knife; I hear it crash with the counter, startling me to

turn around. She covers my shoulders from behind and sinks her face on

top of my hair. “No.” It’s simple. It means don’t ask more, don’t look

for things not there.

“Does John want me here?” I ask, unable to prevent myself from prying

until I’m hurt. Testing her out to see if she’ll be truthful with me.

Ever since I’ve known her, she’s never lied to me. “Is he worried

about a poor black girl being around his kids?”

She sighs, dropping her hands from my shoulders to circle around the

chair holding me. Kneeling beside me, Dr. Evans closes our hands

together. Her eyes have that sad, thoughtful mist. She cries at the

drop of a hat. Her hair hides one cheek, the other fully exposed.

Showing her beautiful cheekbones and perfectly lined eyes. Beautiful,

the way I wish I could be. Loving like mamas should be, stroking my

hands and holding my eyes with hers just to let me know that we’re in

this moment together.

“Don’t say that about yourself. Don’t limit who you are. You’re more

than just a black girl, poor or otherwise.” She says with a voice

packed with emotion. “I don’t look at you as any less than my own

children. I don’t care where you came from.”

Remorseful at making her feel bad, I press a kiss to her forehead. I

learned that from her. “I know you don’t. I know Nicky and J don’t.”

They’re too young to judge my circumstances. “Have you told him about

me? About how I got pregnant…how I don’t have anyone.”

I believe her when she tells me that she hasn’t.

“It’s not that he looks at me funny or anything…” I mumble fidgeting

with our fingers.

“What is it then honey?”

The concern in her face makes me want to cry and being hormonal and

pregnant, I know it won’t be too long before the tears are rolling.

I’ve cried many nights here, in gratitude and not sadness. Normally I

do it alone. Seeing the sweet look that isn’t pity starts the train of

tears that rush down my cheeks.

“I don’t belong here…and I’m not just saying that. I know I don’t.” I

put up a hand to stop her from interrupting. “I don’t belong here but

I’m glad that I am here. I’m glad that when you see me, you don’t see

the ugliness.”

“You’re not ugly,” she retorts.

“I feel ugly…inside and out. And it’s only when I look at myself

through your eyes, and other people’s eyes that I see it,” I admit

sobbing into her shoulder. “This baby makes me feel like such a pop

tart,” I laugh sadly.

She lifts my head up, pushing my bangs behind my ear. “A pop tart?”

“Hard on the outside, soft on the inside,” I explain letting more

tears fall freely.

“You are a hard ass,” she smiles, “only sometimes. And other times

you’re this sweet, vulnerable little girl who needs people so much

that you hide it with hardness.”

“I don’t want to push you away,” I explain quickly. I’ve been trying

very hard to keep my attitude in check. It’s easy not to be pissed off

around her.

“I wouldn’t go anywhere if you did push me.” She says firmly,

squeezing my hands. “Keema, the only ugliness is what you see. We have

to find new ways to see ourselves. You’re beautiful baby girl. I mean

that sincerely. You are gorgeous inside and out. You owe it to

yourself to see yourself that way.” When a beautiful woman tells you

that you are beautiful, you want to believe her for some reason. She

knows better because she gets to live beautifully always. “I haven’t

told a soul anything about you.”

“Because you’re ashamed?” I ask feeling raw and vulnerable under her

soothing hands that rub up and down my arms. Knowing that John and the

kids are only a few feet away and that Danielle is wondering around

too. “Because I sold myself on the streets.”

She doesn’t even blink. No disgust or shame to speak of, she wraps her

arms around me and pulls me up from the chair. Before her, I’d only

ever been hugged by Grandmommy. Those tight, I’ll love you forever

hugs. Comfort came in feeling her large breasts against my cheeks,

smelling her talcum powder through her dresses. She always wore

dresses. Dr. Evans body feels different—smaller, and not enough room

to climb into her lap to bury myself there. But something familiar—the

tightness in my chest and warm sensation flushing my skin.

“Did you hear me?” I whisper, allowing myself to drape my arms around her back.

She responds in silence, nodding against my head. The wall between us

shattered. The belly of my baby replacing it. In that tight ball of my

skin, I jump back at the fluttering under my skin. The movements of

this life that came out of disaster and ugliness.

“I lied to you and the others…in group because I didn’t know—” Two

fingers press my lips to silence.

“Don’t.”

“You don’t want to know,” I ask, pulling back. “You’ve wanted to know

since you met me. I’m ready to tell you.”

“And you will, but not now.”

Confused by her sudden disinterest, I try to figure it out. “I won’t

tell you what I did, and who I did it with. I was…”

“It’s not that sweetie, it’s just I want to love you right now. I

don’t want you to ever feel unworthy of that word anymore. We’ll talk

about what happened…tonight. But for now, let me love you.”

She already loves me enough for the others that didn’t.

“I love you,” she emphasizes hugging me snuggly pressed into her press.

“I know.”

“No, I want you to receive and give…I love you,” she tells me again,

firmer than before.

“I love you too.”

“This is what love feels like,” she stresses letting me go. “I love

you for who you are. I do things for you because I love you. You don’t

owe me anything except your happiness.” The gold specks in her eyes

pop when she pierces me with them. “I’m going to fix you a sandwich

and warm some soup. And you’re going to eat it all,” she admonishes me

gently, pulling me to the island to sit in the stool.

I watch her in amazement, even though I try to hide it. I don’t know

people as compassionate as her. Dr. Evans does everything in love,

everything. I watch her, wishing again that I’d grown up in her

daughter’s shoes. Having talks that don’t include how we’re going to

pay the rent or if I can stay for a week just until I get myself

together. Grandmommy didn’t stay alive long enough to do what Dr.

Evans is—fixing me chicken and rice soup. She was already dying of

cancer when I was born. It’s an old belief that when one person dies,

a child has to replace that person. It’s why I wasn’t excited when I

found out I was pregnant. I knew the moment I found out about it that

Grandmommy would have to go, and she did. But I have to wonder if

Grandmommy sent me Dr. Evans instead. That maybe I’m allowed to have

both a new baby and surrogate mother.

“My grandma, she used to make teach me how to make soup from scrap.”

She would make me pull out all the ingredients, and sprawl them all

over the kitchen table.

Dr. Evans smile, looking up to ask, “Did she? Well I’m afraid this is

all I can do.” She shows me the can, grinning. “Tell me about her,

you’re grandmommy. I like that name…grandmommy.”

I smile just saying her name. “She didn’t want me to call her mommy,

because she said I had one but she believed that kids needed to say

mommy to feel complete, so I called her grandmommy.”

“She’s your maternal grandmother?”

“Was…she died recently.”

She stops stirring the soup and turns around from the stovetop. “I’m

sorry baby.”

“No, she’s in a better place away from the crazy people in our family.

I miss her everyday but I’m happy that she isn’t suffering anymore.

She had cancer.”

“She loved you,” she says reading my face. “I can tell by the way you

look when you speak about her.”

“It’s sort of the same look you have when you speak about the kids.”

Dr. Evans agrees reaching across the island to tap my cheek. “I love

them just as she loved you and you loved her.”

“She showed me what love was before other people used it as a weapon.”

I explain rubbing my face. The many weapons and ways that I’ve been

used in the name of love bring back the bubble of tears. “Why do men

lie about loving you?”

“Oh honey,” she exhales softly, “we don’t have that kind of time. Men

do terrible things in the name of love.”

“On purpose?” I question, thinking back to my own first brush with

boy-girl love. To Jeremy Hastings with the green eyes and red hair. To

balmy nights on the beach kissing until my mouth was numb and lips

swollen. To the first time he told me how much he loved me and would

take care of me.

“I don’t think they all do. It’s hard to say for sure.”

“Did you love the first boy you had sex with?” I ask, needing to know

if it was just me who was played for a fool by believing in love.

“Wow, that’s….”

“Too personal,” I offer, feeling suddenly bashful. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s not. Did I love him?” She turns to stir the soup again,

throwing her neck back laughing. “I sure thought I did honey.”

“Was he older?”

She shakes her head, taking the pot from the flame and setting it on a

cooler. “Same age. Same school for our entire educational career,

until college.” Her slender fingers work slowly at pouring soup into a

bowl in front of me, and then cutting my sandwich into two. “He was

gorgeous.”

“Like John?” I ask curiously. Wondering if in fact it was John.

“No, not as gorgeous as that, but he was up there in the looks

department.” She opens the fridge, “Thirsty?”

“Water is fine,” I say taking a large bite out of my sandwich. “Was he

your color?”

“Yes.”

“Did you love him because he was?”

“No, I loved him because he was him. Color never crossed my mind.”

“Well, I loved Jeremy because he wasn’t my color,” I admit taking the

glass of water that she’s poured. “I loved him because his world

looked better than mine.”

“And he broke your heart.”

“He took my virginity and we dated, secretly for two years.”

“How old were you?”

“Thirteen.”

Terror hits her eyes so forcefully that she has to shield them from

me. “Honey, at thirteen, you barely even have your menstrual cycle in

order.” She says shaking her head at the impossibility of it all.

I understand that in this neighborhood where cul-de-sac and Sunday

afternoon barbecues happen that’s not normal. This is the divide that

comes up between black and white, rich and poor. Our lives are the

same but different in hard ways. “In my neighborhood, you’re the

exception if you’re not having sex. But I didn’t have sex with Jeremy

because of that—I really loved him even when I knew he was hiding our

relationship. Didn’t you have sex the first time because you thought

you were in love?”

She doesn’t hesitate. “Yes, I also thought I was going to marry him.”

“What happened?”

She plants her elbow across the island top, propping chin on her hand.

“I grew up. He was the boy my young heart loved. It was sweet and

angst filled like any teenage relationship should be.”

“How old were you when you lost it?”

She smirks girlishly. “Eighteen. A very mature eighteen.” She points

out, curving her finger toward me.

“So it wasn’t John,” I ask, deflated that they aren’t high school

sweethearts, as I want them to be. It would fit the picture better if

they were.

“Lord no, honey…John came a long time after. By then I was ready for

real love and not just infatuation. Many girls confuse love and

infatuation.” Her face changes with John’s name. “I had been in love

and married, and a mother by the time John came into the picture. I

was more than ready….” She blushes, rolling her eyes, “…maybe I

wasn’t.”

“I wanted to have Jeremy’s baby,” I tell her shyly. I almost did. “He

didn’t want it when I got pregnant at fifteen. His family paid for my

abortion. They were sort of well off, living in one of those gated in

communities. We only met because I was in the gifted program then; I

took classes at the private school for a year.”

Her eyebrows indicate shock that she can’t hide behind her sad smile.

“Honey, you’ve been through so much in such a short time.”

“Tell me about you and John,” I ask abruptly. “Tell me about real love.”

She stands tall, brushing her hair over her shoulder. “You think what

John and I had is real love?”

I nod, peering over my shoulder to listen to his voice blending with

the kids. She’s drawn to the noises herself. J’s voice shrieks Daddy

pick me up, louder and louder. Nicky’s joins the chorus quietly with

requests to be superman.

“How did you know you loved him?” I ask her, trying to force to talk

about something she’s avoiding. “How do you know when you love for

real?”

“It’s not something that I can explain,” she says looking miles away.

“It just happens and you have no chance at stopping it. A train that

slams into you without warning—it’s just there and you can’t fight

it.”

“And when it’s over?”

“It’s not ever truly over. Love can exists between two people for the

rest of their natural lives. My parents have been married forever and

they’ll more than certainly stay together until they pass on.” Looking

down the hallway where her children and ex-husband are playing, she

seems lost in time, but keeps talking. “I’ll always love John with the

same amount of love I had when I first knew I loved him. That doesn’t

go away. You’ll probably always love Jeremy, even as terrible as he

treated you.”

I shrug, asking “Why would I love, why do we love people who treat us that way?”

“Because we can’t help it,” she says simply. “If we could, then we’d

all stop falling in love.”

“If you know that, then why aren’t you with him? Why don’t you guys

live together?”

She thinks quietly. I know she won’t lie. “Because what used to be a

great relationship in our lives isn’t anymore. It’s sad but we hurt

the ones we love more than we hurt anyone else because of the

intensity of that love.”

“Did he do something bad to you or the kids?”

“No,” she denies emphatically. “He wouldn’t ever hurt any of us

intentionally, neither would I.”

“So, why?’

“It’s a fair question, a good question that neither of us have an answer to.”

“You said you broke his heart?”

She nods.

“Why?”

“Because it’s the only way for us to be free.”

“Why do you want to be free?”

“Loving is suffocating when it’s as overwhelming and passionate as our

love was.”

“That doesn’t sound like it’s a problem Dr. Evans.”

“I can’t explain it to you anymore than I can to him. Just know that I

want the best for him.”

“When Jeremy asked me to get an abortion, I thought to myself—he’s

loves me. He wouldn’t want me to do anything that could hurt me

because he loves me. And he said that, he said the same thing you just

said—I only want what’s best for you. It turns out that he only wanted

what was best for him; I never matter when it counted.”

“Yes, I agree but John and I are not you and Jeremy. Keema, I’ll never

love anyone as much as I love him, believe me. He knows that. I’d

rather hurt now for a little bit until I’m able to pick up and move

on. If I keep this window open, nothing changes…nothing moves forward.

I’m too old to stay stagnate and too old to expect him to change, for

any of us to change. I love him beyond a relationship that is founded

on customs and laws. He’s the father of my children and I take that to

be very sacred. I love him,” she whispers solemnly, “I love everything

there is about him, even the things I dislike. But I made a decision

to move on because it’s the best thing for us all. Not just me, I

can’t think about me alone. The kids will be better served by this.

They’ll have us and know that we love each other and them.”

“Dr. Evans, it sounds like you’re still in love with him.”

“That’s probably because I am,” she admits with a tiny smile. “Trust

me; I know what I’m doing.”

“I trust you,” I add sipping my water. I trust that even smart women

make really dumb decisions. I trust that everything around me tells me

that they belong together, that I was wrong about him. I hear him

professing love to both squealing children, and I wish I could find a

way to convince her that she’s wrong about him. John doesn’t seem like

Jeremy. John seems like the love of her life and she seems unhappy and

confused by letting him go.

[Marlena]

“Story daddy.” Noodle insists after the second book is closed tight.

Clothed in a pink Carebear sleeveless nightgown, she looks like a

little angel with ringlets framing her face. Her bath turned into an

all out war with water and bubbles, between she and Nicky, while John

and I refereed outside the tub. During the struggle with lifting her

slippery body from the tub to save her from Nicky’s attack, I was

drenched. She insisted that her daddy get her dressed while I changed

into a comfortable pair of lounging pants and a tank top.

Standing in the doorway of her room, watching her wrap John around her

finger, I hide my amusement. “Daddy’s read you two stories already.” I

say, trying to intervene and save John from another one. “You’re all

snuggled and clean. It’s time for bed baby.”

“Hair.” Noodle points to my ponytail, amusing herself. It was her

bucket that hit my face and hair the hardest.

“Oh, that’s funny is it,” I say reaching under her covers to tickle

her underarms. “You got mommy pretty good there. Thank you for giving

me a bath.”

“Welcome,” she says through her giggling, happy to have her daddy as

her attentive audience. He is quietly observing her bedtime antics

with amusement. “Story daddy,” she begs again, kicking her covers up.

“No kicking or that will be the end of story time,” I warn sternly.

Bedtime is starting to get longer and longer. Nicky’s already in bed

tucked with a soft Hulk under his arm. One night light, television,

and a goodnight from Keema and he’s out like a light. It’s Noodle, who

is high on excitement and restlessness that tends to try to draw out

her goodnights at long as possible.

“Is she like this with you at bedtime?” I ask, sitting near the top of

the bed a few inches away from John.

“I let her get into bed with me and tire herself out until she falls asleep.”

I tap my head exaggeratedly. “So you’re the reason this little

munchkin thinks that bedtime is playtime. Hmmm. Daddy let’s you run

all over the place Noodle bug.” I tweak her belly softly, eliciting

her contagious giggles. “Well daddy can put you to sleep then.”

Noodle, happy to win this battle sits up and perches her mouth for a kiss.

“I know when I’m beaten,” I say kissing her dramatically.

“What do you want to read?”John looks at Noodle’s bookshelf filled to

capacity with books. “Something s-h-o-r-t.”

“Nothing s-c-a-r-y. No w-i-t-c-h-e-s or m-o-n-s-t-e-r-s.” I remind

him, knowing that the consequences will be frightening nightmares for

her that will wake up the house.

“There’s goes half the books on the shelf Mommy” he laughs, lifting

Noodle to pick a book from her shelf. She scans it with trained

concentration, stopping on one of her favorites. The blue bound thin

book is placed on the lowest shelf because she loves to look through

it even when we’re not reading it to her. “Oh the places we’ll go.

Daddy would’ve never guessed that one in a million years,” John says

cupping his forehead mockingly. “Train departing for bed.” He gets

down on all fours, hoisting Noodle to straddle his back. She leans

forward, her hair falling over his shoulders as she wraps her arms

around his neck.

“Go,” she commands squealing with amusement as he crawls to the edge

of her bed, where she promptly hops off using me as a brace. Ringlets

spring around her face as she hops from my leg to the bed.

“Sit down,” I say giving her a gentle warning look that calms her

immediately down. “Now, daddy’s not going to read you the entire

book.” I warn, suspecting that my intelligent child would choose this

long, Dr. Seuss story because of its length more than her adoration of

it tonight. Knowing her as I do, she wants to prolong her daddy-time

for as long as she can.

The lip comes out on cue, followed by a small whine that ceases when

John bends to kiss her chin gently. She smiles up at him through her

long lashes and vibrant eyes. “A couple of pages,” he promises her,

clearing her stuffed animals from the bed so that he can prop himself

up against the bed. Noodle inches as closer to him, angling her head

back against his chest so that she can hold her favorite stuffed Ariel

mermaid doll in front of her.

“All snuggled in?”

She tucks Ariel tightly under her arm and pulls the blanket around her

waist. “Want bubba Mama,” she turns to me expectantly.

“A bubba…baby you don’t drink bottles anymore,” I remind her brushing

her curls back off her forehead. “Are you thirsty?” I rub her tummy,

winking at her. “I can get you a sippie cup with some milk.”

She squirms against John. “Bubba.” Her voice has shifted progressively

infant. She turns Ariel around on her chest, patting her back like a

baby.

“Do you want a bubba for Ariel?” I decipher watching her treat her

doll lovingly.

“Yea bubba…baby,” she explains showing me Ariel. “Pease mama.”

“Well since you put it so sweetly,” I say kissing her and her doll,

“I’ll get you a small baby bottle for Ariel. Okay.”

Blinking excitedly, she shakes her head and looks up into her daddy’s

face. “Places I go,” she says watching him open the book as I run

downstairs to retrieve a bottle of milk for her baby doll.

Keema startles me sitting at the kitchen table snacking on a carrot

cake that Danielle baked especially for her. She sheepishly lifts her

fork and rubs her belly. “The kid…it never stops being hungry.”

“Oh honey, please. This is an excuse to eat as much as you want.” I

say hugging her from behind. Relishing how easily she’s been able to

transform into a person who allows herself to be hugged. Generally,

sexually abused children, especially girls shy away from that and have

a problem with personal space. “I still want to talk. Meet me up in my

room after the kids are asleep,” I remind her, rubbing her tight

belly. “Oh, before I forget, I signed you up for Lamaze classes at the

Women’s Center. It slipped my mind. We have to get you ready; it’s

getting closer,” I add measuring her belly.

“Don’t remind me,” she groans drowning the last bite of carrot cake

with milk. “Is John going to be staying over?”

Laughing, I look at her amused. “No, he’s going to his house.”

“Just making sure,” she smiles, twisting her mouth.

“Now, I have to get Noodle a milky bottle for her stuffed doll while

she holds John hostage reading the longest book on her shelf.”

“Ariel’s thirsty huh?” Keema asks with a knowing smirk.

“Apparently. I’ll see you in a bit honey.” I kiss her and take the

small bottle back upstairs. Nicky is sound asleep, pressed back

against the wall when I check on him. I turn off his television, a

treat this late at night. His foot is jammed between the bed and the

wall. He squirms when I free it and tuck him back under the cover.

Opening his eyes a fraction at the intrusion to his sleep, he mutters

Mommy, satisfied to see me standing over him. “Shh baby, it’s okay.

It’s just Mommy. Sweet dreams.” His little boy scent lingers with me

after I kiss and nuzzle his neck and hair.

Playing to his comfort level, I asked John to stay for their bath time

and bedtime. It wasn’t without suggestions from Dr. Danby on how to

make it easier for Nicky to trust John again. Just to see him finally

back in John’s arms made nothing else matter. He played with John and

let him bathe him and dress him for bed. Cautious steps.

Hearing John reciting the rhythmic Oh the places you’ll go, seeing

Noodle twirling a strand of her hair while patting her doll’s back.

Seeing my baby girl slumped comfortably in her father’s arms while he

affects a cheerful voice to the words to one of her favorite stories

brings me such joy that, it’s hard to speak when I hand the slightly

full bottle of milk to Noodle.

“Thanks mommy,” Noodle says, turning the bottle around and jamming it

against the flat surface where Ariel’s mouth should be.

“No problem.” She’s still wide-awake, strumming her hands along John’s

tanned arm. “How many pages do you have left to go?” I see he’s

already past his stopping point of five. He shoots me a weary,

defeated look. “There’s a new sheriff in town.”

“No kidding,” he says squeezing Noodle’s cheeks.

Noodle pats the place beside her, wanting me to fill it. A sparkle

affected in the shadow of her daddy’s presence softens her usually

whiny approach. She sits up, stopping the flow of John’s words and

looks expectantly at me.

“Mommy,” she pats the place again. With no way out, I climb in beside

her. I feel John’s chest rising as he starts to read again. I lay with

my head above Noodles, under the curve of John’s arm. Stroking her

curls as we both listen to John read. “This is okay, isn’t it?” I

worry that mixed signals can lead to hurt feelings and that’s not what

my intentions are. John shrugs and continues reading.

“We have to be friends,” he tells me as he closes the book after

reading the last word. Noodle, not heavily asleep but enough to enjoy

sleeping between us. “For them, okay? Friends.”

Friends, I agree feeling too comfortable to move Noodle or myself. You

know the way you feel on first dates, whether they’ll make a move. I

lay at first hoping that he doesn’t, that he’ll just let us sleep here

on his chest, not wanting anything in return. And then my choices are

gone as I nod off into a deep sleep, pressed tightly to the chest of

the man that I told to move on today.

Chapter 40

“Only enemies speak the truth; friends and lovers lie endlessly,

caught in the web of duty.”

-Stephen King

In my sleepy haze, there’s just a memory of where I am—where I was

when sleep claimed me. Boneless and languid, the way I feel after

making love, I’m paralyzed until I narrowly lift my eyelids. The low

chorus of whimpering breaks through the doldrums of sleep, pulling me

further out of slumber. Back into the gray shadows of Juliana’s

bedroom wedged up against John with Noodle’s body heavy and squirming

at my belly. Her soft wails don’t disturb her sleep. Her eyelids are

shut tight.

I learned the art of sleeping lightly from being the mother of

children, especially small children.

Always a restless sleeper, Juliana’s limbs and hair tend to

magnetically attach to my body. An arm thrown up over her head, the

weight against my breasts. She was this way in the womb, stretching to

find her comfort. And all the dark curls curtaining her face now were

the cause of pregnancy heartburn.

Her father—the heavy sleeper— is also undisturbed by Noodle’s low

whimpering. Unbending my neck to relieve the tightness in my muscles,

I brush my lips lightly against John’s chest. Our body heat tangles

between his cotton shirt and my bare cheek pressing over his steady

heartbeat. His scent is all male, sweat and cologne. The mix of three

fully clothed bodies in the humid air is stifling, especially pressed

together in Noodle’s toddler bed.

“What is it baby…Mommy’s here,” I cajole softly, rubbing her back in

soothing circles. Her whimpers even to a dull whine. “Mommy’s right

here.”

She angles herself around and squints up at me. “Mummy…”she lifts her

head to place my face in the shadows.

Lifting her hair from her neck, I wipe her sweaty forehead. “Yes baby,

are you hot?” I slide a hand under her gown, pressing it against her

warm back. Without benefit of the ceiling fan that Noodle dislikes,

we’re all a little sticky. She crawls under my chin to lay closer to

John. The sour smell of milk wrinkles my nose and I find the source of

her discomfort lying wet against her belly. The bottle that she

insisted Ariel have has leaked milk down the front of Noodle’s grown.

“You’re all wet and sticky Noodle.” I press a kiss on top of her ear

and start trying to wake her.

“Potty,” she groans, still half-asleep and confused. She raises her

arms above her head so that I pull the soiled nightgown off.

“Potty…” she whimpers again, tapping incessantly my shoulder, now

fully awake. The idea of wetness and soiling herself holding all her

concentration. “Up Mommy.”

“I’m coming,” I grumble peeking over to see if John is still

impervious to our growing plight. Patting her pull-up clad bottom, I

pull her to my breasts and lean forward. “We better wake up Daddy

first.” She disagrees, pinching the skin under my wrist where her

fingers are clamped together. “Juliana. You hurt Mommy.” I say through

clenched teeth, frightening her. She scampers from my lap to her

daddy, sitting right atop his chest.

“Hmmm….baby,” he mumbles groggily cradling Noodle instinctively into

his chest. “What’s the matter?”

“I yelled,” I explain, exasperated by my lack of patience with her. “I

didn’t mean to yell Noodle.” She turns away when I reach out to her.

Flipping my arm over, I show her the broken skin from her fingernails

digging into my skin. “Baby girl, you hurt mommy’s wrist. I’m sorry

for yelling.”

John sits up. “You hurt Mommy.” It isn’t a question. She isn’t happy

with all the attention, and not our usual smiles. “Juliana?”

“Sowie,” she says lowering her gaze to her father’s face.

“Not me, tell your mother.” He directs. She obeys, apologizing again.

“I know. Come here and kiss mommy’s boo boo to make it all better,” I

ask holding my arms for her to come forward. She comes reluctantly.

“Please Noodle bug.” She crawls back to me stopping to kiss my wrist

before wrapping her legs around my waist. “You ready for the potty?”

She lights up, remembering her business with her potty. I share a

knowing look with her father before getting out of the bed. We both

know this little girl can be a handful and we wouldn’t trade her or

her antics for anything. She prances ahead of me to the bathroom

singing “Under the Sea.”

I have an unshakeable feeling about how weirdly normal it is waking up

with John and Juliana. We fell asleep innocently—and it’s as if we

never had the talk about letting me go. I have to wonder if that’s

possible. I told him to—asked him to give me freedom as a way to give

him freedom and he’s still here; that’s because he’s still Noodle and

Nicky’s daddy. We can do this as parents. In the past, I would’ve been

drawn to John sexually lying so close to him. But I only felt peaceful

in his arms.

I smile down at Noodle thinking that friends can work, watching her

dancing around the potty.

“What?” I laugh, watching her frantically choreographed dance. “Pee pee?”

She grimaces, wrinkling her nose adorably. “Make poopy,” She says

thrusting her pull-up down her legs without asking for my assistance.

Plopping down on the pink and purple seat, she lifts her feet for me

to take her pull-up. “Wan my daddy.” She strains, closing her eyes to

concentrate on her task.

“I’ll get him for you,” I tell her pressing a kiss to her forehead

before I turn to leave the bathroom. He’s stretching his arms,

standing by the window. The muscles in his back flex through the

cotton shirt whose jacket is downstairs slung over a chair. “Daddy,

the princess demands your presence in the bathroom.”

He smirks. “Why would the princess think that I want to take part in

her poopy sessions?”

“How’d you know it was poopy?” I ask him smiling at how well he knows

his baby girl.

“Daddy!”

“Because if it weren’t, she’d be right here with you,” he says walking

past me. “I’m coming. Let’s not wake up whole house for your poopy

sessions at 2 a.m.”

I pass the bathroom to check on Keema, whose sleeping in a balled up

in the middle of the bed. I readjust the blankets around her and kiss

her forehead. I’ll apologize for inadvertently standing her up for our

date in my bed. She must have walked by Noodle’s room and realized I

wouldn’t be joining her. Snoring softly, she looks peaceful and round.

She’s had a lot to forgive in her life but with the minor time I’ve

had with her, all I’ve experienced is her joyful spirit. I pray that

she’s being replenished by her time with my family. Touching the baby,

I also pray that its life will be filled with joy. I close the door

behind me and head back to the bathroom where Juliana is teaching her

father “Under the Sea.”

“All done making poopy?” I ask, standing in the doorway watching John

delicately handle cleansing Noodle. “She was sticky and sour from the

milk that wasted on her gown. I wanted to wipe her down before putting

her to bed.”

Noodle looks up shaking her head to disagree. “No bed.” She looks for

her John’s approval. “No night night,” she whines tapping her bare

feet angrily against the floor when John’s head shaking tells her bed

is inevitable.

“Is this the tantrum phase,” he asks me lifting her up to stand her on

the countertop with lopsided curls and nothing else. “Listen to me

little one; these whining spurts are getting us nowhere.” Looking

pitiful standing naked and chastised she reaches pass her daddy for me

to rescue her from his lecture.

“She’s improving on her pitiful look,” I caution John after scooping

Noodle up to rest tightly in my arms.

“She’s too cute,” he complains tickling her, “to stay mad at. I can’t

punish pitiful either.”

“Look what you’ve managed to do,” I say pulling her chin up, “to your

Daddy. He can’t handle that lip or your crocodile tears. You simply

must stop doing that to Daddy.”

He’s amused. “These jokes at my expense are really wonderful.”

“Then why aren’t you laughing,” I ask, fighting my own amusement from

bubbling up.

“Inside baby, it’s all on the inside. I’m a man of steel here.” He

pounds his chest, heaving it forward.

Recovering the twitch in my belly, I brush past him. “I’m going to

wipe her down. Can you get some fresh pajamas and check on Nicky?”

“Sure, then I should go. I have some meetings in town at noon.”

I nod and walk beside him down the hall. I stop at my door. I find

myself telling him how proud I am of us. “We can do this, can’t we? We

can be friends without the other pesky relationship baggage.” I add

sliding a hand across his chest. “We’re adults.”

John shrugs walking away.

“Mommy’s going to get you all clean. You can’t walk around naked as

the day you were born baby girl.” I turn toward Noodle, happy as a

lark in her birthday suit.

She tightens her arms around my neck, trying to pull me into the

shower with her. Instead of another midnight tantrum, I undress and

jump in the shower to rinse off. The trick of balancing a twenty-pound

body and a soapy loofah is tedious when that body is a squirming

little girl terrified of getting soap and water in her eyes.

“Honey, has mommy ever made you eyes burn with soap.” I pull my lip

into my mouth when she nods affirmatively to keep from laughing at

her. “Noodle.”

“Hurt me eyes,” she cries pushing the offending loofah away. We follow

its descent to the bottom of the shower with our eyes.

“You’re behaving so naughty tonight. What’s going on with you?” I ask

cupping her chin between my fingers.

Ignoring me, she kicks roughly between my legs when I bend to retrieve

the loofah. “Damnit Juliana,” I say regretting it as soon as it slips

from my mouth. She opens the shower door, skating past me before I can

catch her. I give up, hollering for John to catch up with her.

Relishing the steamy paradise for a moment, I stand under the

showerhead and let the water pound away at my shoulders and the back

of my neck.

The shrieking alarm system yanks me out of tranquility. Heart set

racing, I turn off the shower, grabbing a towel from the hook to wrap

around me.

“Noodle. John…” I call out cautiously, messily throwing a t-shirt

and shorts over my wet skin. Keema bumps into me from behind in the

hallway disheveled and frightened. She rubs her stomach nervously.

“It’s the alarm,” I explain ushering her into my room to sit on the

bed. “Stay here.”

I cross the hallway. “Noodle. Baby, where are you?” I head to Nicky’s

room. He collides with my knees, sending him backwards as soon as turn

his switch on. “Come here sweetie. It’s just the alarm.” I assure him,

lifting him to my hip. “Daddy’s here. It’ll be okay.”

“J’s here,” Keema calls out standing in my doorway with Juliana hiding

behind her. “She was hiding under your bed.” Noodle peeks through

Keema’s legs, still naked and wet.

“Okay, I’m going to find John.” I tell the three frightened faces

staring up at me. Nicky covers his ears when I set him down. He

scurries to my bed, burrowing under the covers. “I’m going to close

the door behind me.”

“I’m scared.” Keema admits, holding Juliana’s hand. “Don’t leave us.”

“It’s fine honey. Lock the door behind me. John’s still here. He

doesn’t know the code. I have to…” –as I’m speaking the petulant

wailing ends. We each turn to the footsteps on the stairs coming

toward us. I pray hard and silently that John turns the corner.

“Everybody okay,” he asks calmly entering the room. I throw my arms

around him in relief, taking relieved breaths when he snakes his arms

around my back. “Are you okay?” He pulls away, checking my face and

body for signs of injury. “You’re okay?” I nod and back up for Noodle

as she pries us apart, crying for John to pick her up. “You’re fine

baby. Daddy’s not going to let anyone hurt you or Mommy.”

“What about Nicky?” Our son asks from beneath the pile of blankets

he’s hiding under.

John and I share a laugh. “All of you,” John says, turning to Keema.

“Are you okay? Is the baby all right?”

Keema pauses trying to catch her breath. “Yes, we’re…we’re fine.

What happened?”

“I was on my way to get this naked Nancy,” he ruffles Noodle’s hair,

“and I heard the alarm trip.” He scans the room. “Everything

downstairs looks good. No windows or doors broken. You all are fine,

you’re sure?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Nicky lifts just enough cover so that we can see his eyes. “No bad guys Daddy?”

“Not a one kid. You can come out of Mommy’s bed. It’s safe.”

Nicky uncertain but trusting of his father, hops down on wobbly legs

to race into my arms.

“So you disarmed the alarm?” I ask, rubbing Nicky’s back while he

slides his cheek against mine. “How’d you know?”

A knowing smile. “The penthouse code. You really ought to change that.

I spoke with them when they called and told them they could send

someone out tomorrow.”

I eye him suspiciously. “Why, you said everything looked normal.”

He eyes the kids letting me know that for their benefit everything is

fine. “It did, just to be sure.” Noodle’s eyes follow us frantically

between us trying to decipher what is going on between us.

I reach to stroke Juliana’s arm. “Noodle, it’s okay sweetie.” She’s

shivering against John’s chest. “You’re trembling honey.” I press my

body closer to hers.

“J, your daddy is a hero. Don’t be scared. I’m not,” Keema assures us.

“I’m going to get some sleep.”

“If you need anything,” I grab her wrist, “don’t hesitate to come and get me.”

“I won’t.” She walks back to her room after I kiss her forehead,

telling her I love her.

“Joy gots a naked booty,” Nicky points, seeing his sister wrapped around John.

“It’s a good thing Daddy brought her one, isn’t it? We don’t wanna see

Jules naked booty,” John says with a smile, pulling the kids minds off

the frightening last seven minutes.

“She escaped and made a run for it. She’s quick.” I tell Nicky kissing

him as I put him down. “Come here missy so I can get you dressed.”

John puts Noodle in my arms and I walk to lay her down on my bed on

top of the towel I threw off. Nicholas stands expectantly with his

thumb in his mouth, staring up at his father.

John crouches near him. “Come here,” John crushes him against his

chest. “Are you still scared?” Nicky nods affirmatively. “Because you

don’t have to be. I would never let anything hurt you or Jules, or

Mommy.”

“Kee?” Nicky reminds John.

“Keema either. Because as your daddy I’m here to protect you until

you’re big enough to protect yourself.”

I know everything that John says to our son is meant for me, for all

of us, as well. And we both know that I’m not going to be able to

sleep if he’s not here with us. False alarm or not, we’re all a little

frightened from the thought that someone might or might not have tried

to break into my house.

“All new,” I pat Noodle’s covered rear and slide her fresh nightgown

over her head. “Now, its bedtime.”

“Story,” her eyes widen, looking from me to John.

“Bed.” John says firmly. “No whining, water, blankies, zazas, or

tears. Just sleep.”

Juliana tests him. “I wan Zaza Daddy.”

“Come here princess,” he beckons her sitting on the edge of the bed

with Nicky still draped around him. She saunters to the edge of my

bed. “You are going to go to bed tonight without any of that.

Understand?” She shakes her head negatively. “Get under the covers,

you sleep with Mommy tonight.”

“Daddy.”

“Go Jules…we’re not negotiating,” he tells her directing her to the

top of the bed. “Climb in.”

Nicky still uncertain, pulls John’s face between his small hands. “You

sleep in mommy’s bed with Nicky?”

John looks up for my approval. There is no moment of thought or

hesitation. I whisper yes and turn away before he notices the gladness

dancing in my eyes.

“Did you check everything?” I ask, rummaging through my drawers for an

old t-shirt of his. “Here you go. A little more comfortable,” I toss

the faded grey shirt that used to say World’s Greatest Daddy.

“Thanks, I think I’ve been looking for this.” He strips out of his

slacks and shirt down to his boxers.

“Everything is ok. I’m here now,” he reassures me getting into bed.

Nicky sticks very close to the middle, pushed snugly against Noodle’s

back. “Mommy needs some room Nick. You want to move closer to Daddy? I

won’t bite.” Nicky’s smiles proudly up at him before climbing into

John’s arms.

Noodle, upset that she lost her bedtime battle settles against my

chest after I flatten against the mattress. “I love you Noodle and

Nicky.”

“Love Mommy,” Noodle murmurs along with Nicky.

“Thank you John—for staying. I love you.” Closing my eyes knowing,

remembering that the last thing I see is my son falling asleep in his

daddy’s arms.

John

You became an expert at seeing the dark for what is is—an

illusion—after sitting in it all night. Like everything else, it’s a

state of mind—the preoccupation of the sun’s trip home every night,

which is when evil presumes to lurk around. But with animalistic

training and a fierce urge to protect my family, my inner vigilante

rises to oppose any harm that would have come to them in their sleep.

That’s also a state of mind—maintaining the tranquil component of my

nature.

It’s early, enough for the sun to be hiding still, and for the

crickets chirping in the backyard below Marlena’s window. Even the

annoying singing of those invisible animals doesn’t mean harm as they

go about their rituals.

A state of mind—like pretending that Marlena’s breathing doesn’t

change my breathing. She still rises my body temperature, steals my

good intentions. I’ve been up, craning my eyes and ears for unusual

sounds or objects, watching over my family to ensure that their sleep

is restful and nightmare free. And in the blackness, her shape is

distinct. Every firm peak and soft curve. With Jules draping her upper

body, she resembles the Madonna cameo of a loving mother and child.

Many nights in my long memory, I’ve awakened to this picture of love

and wished that whichever of our children wasn’t in bed. The mother in

her inspires the lover in me. A creamy stretch of her thigh peeks

through the leg of her shorts leaving me to wonder what her underwear

look and feel like. She thinks we can be good friends, such good

friends that I won’t lust after her—I won’t without her permission.

But in secret, my own secret closet of carnal thoughts that have to do

with her, I can still ache to touch that thigh. I can dream of gliding

through the valley between her thighs until her sighs and soft groans

turn into pleading.

But that’s not us as of yesterday. Today—we’re friends.

Let me go. If I told her how insane that sounds to me, I’d sound like

the insane one who couldn’t let her breathe. I haven’t even had time

to digest it, let the idea marinate with all the other insane

directives. Allow her to share this kind of intimate setting with

another man. It’s nuts. Will that man be the one she calls when she’s

afraid the way she was last night? I’m playing this as cool as I can.

But in this darkness, conjuring up fear of being abandoned and

thoroughly removed from their lives is very real and potent. As true

as my son’s breaths moistening my neck where his face is buried.

Angry and insistent thunderclaps rumble above the roof. Nicky jerks

against me at the sudden sound of rain pelting the roof. “It’s okay,

Daddy’s got you right here.” I wrap my arm around his back, patting

him back to sleep. “You’re with your daddy and I’m not going

anywhere,” I affirm with a kiss.

“Is that rain,” Marlena asks, lifting her head suddenly. “It’s so

loud.” She groans turning her face to me. “You don’t look like you’ve

slept at all.”

“I’m fine. It’s still early…you should get some more sleep. They’ll be

waking you soon enough.”

She nods, laying her head back against the pillow. “They are pushy

little devils, aren’t they?” She turns to her side, bringing Jules

with her. “I wonder where they get that from.”

“I wonder that too when she’s demanding whatever she wants at the

moment. And then…I see it,” I sweep her honey hair from blocking her

eyes, resting my finger on the bridge of her nose, “right there. This

is where she gets it from…all that determination and stubbornness.

Just look in the mirror.”

She wrinkles her nose like Jules, smiling at my assessment. “You’re

prejudiced.” Her eyes fall to the little girl rising and falling on

her chest. “She’s so much more of you than me. She has my beauty, of

course,” she winks coyly, “and my brains. But the stubborn streak is

all you. It just flares up and all I can do is sit back and wait until

she’s level-headed again.”

I have to agree with that. My little girl can be just as pig headed as

her daddy. What amazes me about children is their ability to go from

needing everything that we have to offer them. Comfort, food, love,

and happiness. And then as they grow into their personalities, it

tapers off. I frown at the idea of losing out on Jules’ top-notch hugs

and soul-saving “I love you.”

“What are you thinking about?”

“Jules…and Nicky. The way they’re growing up.” I touch each of them

worshipfully.

“Too quick for daddy,” she frowns as she strokes Jules’ hair.

“Isn’t it for you too?”

“You have to ask. I love this time with them. I loved everything about

their needy stage. Even Noodle’s temper tantrums are precious. Because

I know once they’re in school, that’s it. They’re lost to us in this

profoundly sad way.” Her voice falters toward the end. “These are the

days we have to cherish.”

Squeezing her arm, I command gently, “Don’t you cry.”

“I’m not,” she says wiping her traitorous tears. “Okay, I am and so what.”

“It feels like he’s gained some weight,” I notice moving Nicky

slightly lower on my chest. It could be a trick of my imagination.

Having not held him after all these weeks, I reason that I’ve

forgotten how much he weighs. It’s possible. So much time has passed.

“He eats a lot. That boy is not picky at all when it comes to cuisine.”

“Now that he gets from me.” Nicky coughs, groaning. “I never thanked

you,” I say facing her. “I appreciate you letting me…”

“John, you don’t need to thank me. That picture is all the thanks I

need. He looks content with you.” She smiles warmly. “From now on,

we’ll deal with whatever happens. I’m not going to shut you out again.

It was wrong.”

“You had your reasons,” I offer peacefully. I wouldn’t expect any less

from her. A lioness will protect its cubs, even when it’s from the

king. “I won’t put you in that predicament ever again.” She looks

unsure about my promise. “I won’t. I’ll never put my hands on you

again.”

“John, I….” She clams up, looking away to blink back her tears.

“It’s ugly to talk about…we haven’t talked about it. I haven’t really

ever said I’m sorry for doing those things.”

She swallows hard. “You did.”

The kids laying with us, heavy in presence makes it seem safer to talk

about what I did. “I didn’t believe that I’d hurt you then—now I know

I did. And I’m saying with all sincerity that I am so sorry for

marking you with anything that wasn’t love.”

Still hiding her eyes, she barely manages to speak. “Could I have done

anything to stop you from doing it?”

What a question to be asked by the woman you love? Why did you hurt me

like that—that’s what she should be asking but she’s too polite. What

I’ve learned from Ashton comes in handy now. You have to admit the

truth to yourself before you can admit it to anyone else.

“I never thought I would be that kind of man honey.” Alex was that

kind of man. I never found pleasure in hurting her. I just lost

control too many times.

She looks up. “What kind of man?”

“The man who would rather pummel you than make love to you,” I cringe

just thinking about being that man. “But I did that, didn’t I? I left

bruises on your skin. I mean I found every way to reason away what I

was doing.”

“You were angry at me,” she reminds me quietly, burning her eyes into me.

“I should’ve never been that angry. I get angry at Nicky and Jules but

I’d never hit them or shove them.”

She glides her hand down my cheek. “I know you wouldn’t. I’m not

worried about that. I wasn’t keeping Nicky away from you to protect

you from hurting him.”

“I know, you were making sure that he was okay being with a man who

he’d seen hurt you.”

She nods slowly. “But I know that you wouldn’t hurt them.”

“I remember what it felt like when I saw those pictures of your

face…of what Alex did to you. I felt sick to my stomach. I wanted to

kill that bastard for all those bruises and cuts. Your face is too

beautiful for that kind of pain…” I grip Nicky to keep from reaching

out to touch her, “…and I added my own in places that I didn’t have to

see.”

“John, when I tell you that it’s all okay…believe me. I’ve forgiven

you for every bruise. The pain wasn’t comparable to how my heart

hurt,” she admits turning away again. The more emotional, the more

connected the quicker she hides her eyes.

“That’s why I’m not going to fight you,” I prop her chin on my hand to

see what she’s hiding. The tears trailing her cheeks. “It’s the

hardest thing I’ll ever have to do…but I’ll let you go if you think

that’s what’s best,” I tell her, feeling the lie harden in my chest.

I’m lying to both of us.

“I want it for both of us.”

“Well…I’m doing it for you because you think it’s best.”

“It is best,” she tells me wrapping her fingers around my wrist. “I

want you to be free.”

I don’t want freedom. I’ll take all the misery and pain as well as the

love and joy because it all means that we’re together. “I know.”

“You’ll see how right I was after a while.”

“After you find love with someone else?” I ask without intending to

provoke her. I have to know how that comes into play. How we go from

being lovers to friends, to accepting of other people in our lives.

Her soft chuckle reverberates against my wrist. “I want us both to be

open to letting new people in our lives. Not because I’m rushing to

get over you…John, I’ll probably never get over you.”

Good, I think possessively. “You don’t have to. I’m open to you

letting me be the new person in your life.” I shrug impishly, feeling

her fingers run down my hand. Instinctively I lace my fingers through

hers. “I’m not making this easy for you, am I?”

“I didn’t expect you to.” She sighs, rubbing her thumb against my

hand. “You know that I’ll love you for the rest of my life. Luckily,

for you, I can pour all of that into our children. I’ve shared my life

with you for so long that it’s scares me to think of you not being

there like this.”

“It scares me that you would want to have someone else like this…” I

look from Nicky to Jules. “I don’t want to think about you in bed with

another man and my children like this. I mean, will your new boyfriend

be sleeping over and making them breakfast. Picking them up from

school. What’s his place going to be in their lives?”

“We’re talking about something that hasn’t even happened yet,” she

reminds me gently. “There isn’t anyone else. We’ll come to that road

when it’s time.”

“I was the other man in your life at one point,” I remind her this

time. “I was the step-father and I did all those things with Roman’s

children.”

“That was different. You were special.” She kisses the bridge of our

hands. “And you did the same for me with Brady. You let me take on a

very special role in his life. That’s our family John. Nobody can ever

take our places in the kids’ lives.”

We do this so naturally that it’s almost as if it’s not happening to

me. I could be sitting in a seat watching how she leans forward to

press a chaste kiss to my cheek, lingering as if she’s taking a mental

picture. Between us the sleeping toddlers of our combined genetic

strands. She breathes so softly that I’m afraid she’s not getting

enough air. The hand that is laced with mine tightens and she uses her

other to cup my neck, pulling me closer to her. “I’ll always love

you,” she whispers pressing slow, wet kisses across my cheek until one

lands on my mouth. I watch myself figuring out if this is what she

wants. Her eyes are closed so it’s hard to tell but the fingers

digging into my skin urging me further into her mouth must mean

something. I stop watching, close my own eyes and move closer,

nestling Nicky and Jules back to back between us. I draw her lip into

my mouth, tasting everything she’s had and ask for more with a hungry

thrust of my tongue against hers.

The life between my legs awakens with her urgent, deep kisses. She’s

kissing me this time. Giving me no incentive to let go, as she claims

she wants. Threading her fingers in my hair she pulls me deeper, as if

she drinking me into her blood. She swallows my saliva instead of

breaking away to breathe. In our straining, she unlatches our hands to

run cup the hard appendage between my thighs. Warm bursts tingle

throughout my body with her squeezing.

Another warm sensation, courtesy of Nicky, warms my torso where his

legs straddle above his mother’s magic fingers. Nicky lifts his knee,

knocking against his mother’s hand halting everything. She pulls back,

taking her hand and mouth with her. Wiping her lips as she moves back

to her pillow. She covers her chest, trying to catch her breath.

“Great timing,” she smiles ruefully. “I don’t know what…”

Grateful that her lips are kiss swollen and that she doesn’t look

guilty. I don’t have the explanation that either of us could swallow.

“Chalk it up to being attracted to each other still.”

“That’s an easy one,” she laughs tracing her reddened mouth. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah…that’s not something I want you to apologize for,” I say looking

to Nicholas. “Son…you left daddy a little gift,” I whisper, rustling

him from sleep.

Lifting his head, he moans sleepily. “Dada…”

“Dada.” It brings an instant pride to my heart. He hasn’t called me

dada since he first learned to talk. “I’m still here,” I assure him

thumbing hair from his eyes. “You think we need to maybe get up and

change clothes? It looks like you had an accident.”

Nicky’s repentant eyes glide from his mother to me. “Nicky had

accident.” He tells me checking his pajama pants as he sits up on my

stomach. “Daddy had accident,” he decides touching my wet t-shirt.

Marlena runs her fingers down Nicky’s face. “Hi sleepyhead.”

“Hi Mommy.” He smiles coyly at her. “Daddy and Nicky had accident.” He

points to his pants and the damp spot in my shirt. “We gots to

change.”

“Have to change,” she corrects him.

“That’s what I say Mommy,” he says shaking his head at her. “We gots to change.”

“Let’s get you changed.” Nicky climbs down, waiting for me with his

arms folded over his chest. “We should probably talk about this.” I

bend over her grinning as I chastely kiss her chin.

“Don’t be cocky John,” she mutters rolling her eyes playfully.

“Cocky Mommy,” Nicky parrots her, twisting his mouth at the new word.

“What’s cocky?”

“Daddy.” She answers simply. “Now off you go with your daddy to

change. And don’t repeat that word again.”

“Is Mommy cocky Daddy,” Nicky asks taking my hand.

“Nicholas, don’t repeat that.” She admonishes him chuckling.

“She is,” I whisper lifting him up. “Now what’s going on here with

these pull-ups? They don’t work anymore?” I ask sitting him on his bed

and taking a seat beside him. “Man to man, I think you can handle the

undies like Daddy. What do you think?”

“I pee pee too much. Nicky’s wingy likes apple juice,” he explains

eyeing his offending pull-up.

“Your wingy?” I repeat hiding my smile. “Who calls it a wingy? Mommy?”

He nods happily. “Nicky’s wingy drinks like a fish,” he says slapping

his knee at the hilarity of it all. He pulls the elastic band aside to

get a good look at his wingy. “Thirsty wingy.”

“We have to do something about that thirsty wingy then son.”

“What?” Nicky asks lifting his hands.

“No more apple juice after dark. Wingys get really thirsty after dark.

You have to tell it no. Deal?”

He shakes his head. “But Nicky like apple juice Daddy.”

“Okay, we’ll figure something out son.” He leans into my side. “That

wingy has a mind of it’s own,” I joke, thinking of the aching one

between my legs. “Let’s get some you some clean undies.” I pat my own

wet t-shirt, lifting it over my head. “Our accident got Daddy all wet

too,” I chuckle, not trying to make Nicky feel embarrassed by his

accident.

He looks up, holding a pair of SpongeBob underwear for my inspection.

“That’s all you want to wear?” He shakes his head excitedly. “Oh, you

want to look like you old man?” Nodding again, he points to my black

boxers. “Okay. Let’s get you out of the pull-up then.”

“Nicky do it,” he insists, plunking down on the floor. He lies flat

and lifts his hips off the ground, pulling his soiled pull-up off.

“Yucky.” He turns his nose up as he hands me the soaked diaper. “Nicky

big boy,” he tells his wingy angrily. “No more pee pees.”

“That’s a boy, let it know who’s in charge buddy.” I encourage him,

taking my own advice by focusing on Nicky and not what I was doing

with his mother. “You know that Daddy’s not upset with you about your

accident. We all have accidents, right? You just have to drink apple

juice before bed until your winky learns to behave. Then you’ll be

like me, a man.”

“Like Hulk,” he corrects me, standing up.

“Excuse me, like Hulk.” I stop him from sliding on his underwear.

“Don’t you want to get a bath first?”

“No Daddy.” He grumps continuing to pull his the white underwear with

neon orange bands over his butt.

“Just the same, I think Mommy would want you to at least be wiped down

with a wetone,” I offer picking him up to handle our business.

After he’s wiped down, and checking himself out in the mirror behind

his door, he calls me. “Nicky looks like Daddy.” He flexes his muscles

for me. “See?”

I squeeze the small ball of flesh on his arm. “Wow Nick, that’s

strong. What are you eating? Wheaties?”

“No Daddy, milky makes Nicky strong.”

“I can see that.”

He looks up square in my eyes. “Daddy, Nicky loves you.” He hugs my

legs until I bend and pull him into my arms. “Nicky wants you back, I

not mad no more.” He tells me rubbing his cheek against my chest.

“Nicky come to Daddy’s to play with Pika and Joy.”

“Whenever you want,” I choke up burying my face in his hair. “I was

never mad at you sweetheart. I always wanted you with me. I’m your

daddy…I love you so much.”

“Nicky not sweetheart,” he grimaces pulling away from our special moment.

I clear my throat and affect a stern voice. “I’m sorry Nicholas Black.

You’re a big man…Hulk man.” I say remembering his earlier

pronouncement. “I love you Nicholas.”

“I know,” he squeals pushing away to flex in the mirror again.

We head downstairs where I check every door and window again. Nothing

is out of place. “Everything’s all clear.” I assure Nicky, who’s

holding on tightly to me as we venture through the house.

“No monsters.”

“No monsters.”

“Bad guy?”

“Nope. Just Daddy and Nicky.”

“Good,” he smiles, swelling my heart. My broken heart mends in the

places where Nicky’s absences cracked. “I love you.” And missed you, I

whisper into the crown of his head.

Marlena walks into the kitchen with Jules on her hip after I’ve

rustled up some bacon, eggs, and pancakes. Nicky and I are adding

chocolate chips to pancake batter when Jules catapults into the backs

of my legs, squeezing tightly.

“Hi Daddy.” I turn around and scoop her up for wet kisses across her

soft cheeks. I stroke the wild curls framing her face. “Down Daddy,”

she squeals, sliding down my legs to race toward the refrigerator.

“Baby girl, you’re going to hurt yourself or daddy,” Marlena says

propping her hand on her hip. The skin around her face is still red

from rubbing into my stubble. “What are you two cooking?” She yawns,

stretching her hands above her head. The silk robe belted loosely

hangs on her frame. “It smells wonderful down here.”

“Pannycakes,” Nicky shows his mother dipping a finger in the batter.

“With chocolate chips for the boy here, and applesauce for the princess.”

Jules peeks with wide eyes from behind the door of the fridge. “Apposauce.”

Marlena lifts an eyebrow at me. “And for Mommy?” She belts her robe

and leans across the island to inspect the batter that Nicky’s fingers

dip repeatedly in. “That’s enough of that baby, save room for the

actual pancakes.”

“Taste Mommy,” Nicky swirls three fingers into the middle of the bowl,

holding them in front of his mother when they’re pasted with batter.

Playing along, she takes Nicky’s sticky hands into her mouth.

“Mmm…this is good baby,” she clears each finger before taking Nicky

to the sink to clean his hands.

She dries Nicky’s hands and turns to Juliana. “Noodle, honey why are

you standing in the door of the fridge?”

“Mommy,” she stomps the ground, flashing her signature pout.

“What?” Marlena mocks Jules’ pouty face. “I’m not Daddy. It doesn’t work on me.”

“Fries,” she pouts.

Shaking my head, I point to Marlena. “That’s your battle for today,” I

warn her, knowing how fussy Jules can over meals. “I can make oatmeal

or she’ll have applesauce.”

“We don’t have any fries. Daddy has applesauce for you,” Marlena

explains, bending in front of Jules. “You can have oatmeal with brown

sugar and syrup.”

“No,” Jules stomps, slamming the door as hard as she can.

Nicky eyes his sister in shock. “Cranky baby,” he says sneaking

another finger into the batter.

“No Nicky,” she pouts sitting down hard on her bottom, crossing her

arms over her chest. She sticks her tongue out at Nicky. “Mummy and

Daddy bad.”

With me, tantrums have been working. With me alone, I’m not match for

the puppy dog eyes and trembling lip. I let her have whatever she

wants for breakfast at my house. Guilt and eagerness to keep her happy

have resulted in the monster whimpering in the floor.

I turn back to the stove to continue with Nicky’s pancake batter

pouring shapes of Mickey Mouse and a distorted Hulk shape. Celebrating

the easiness, the end of awkward silences with my little boy.

“I see you and daddy are matching.” Marlena lifts her brow at Nicky,

ignoring Jules tantrum for a minute. “Whose idea was that?”

“We had accident,” Nicky explains proudly. “Daddy changed us and we big boys.”

“Now I see,” Marlena says, tapping her finger against her chin. “Are

you sure you want Keema to see you and daddy in your undies?” She

emphasizes for my sake. I’d forgotten that we weren’t alone.

“No,” Nicky shouts, looking distraught at the idea of it. He’s

obviously infatuated with Marlena’s mysterious houseguest. “Daddy we

gots to be dressed.”

“Keema sleeps pretty late. I can handle this,” she gestures to the

stove. “I don’t want you to be late for your meeting in town. Was it

at 12?”

“Don’t worry about that. I’m going to push it back. I want to discuss

some things with you the alarm specialist who’s coming.”

She pauses before taking the spatula. “I thought everything was fine.”

“Don’t worry.” Her shoulder slacks under the curve of my hand. “I just

want to go over some things. You finish up here and I’ll get them

ready.”

She looks over her shoulder at Jules, still in a full-out pout. “Good luck.”

“I don’t need luck,” I pull Jules up, protesting and tearful from the

floor, “I’m the daddy. You’re the kid…my beautiful baby pouting

girl.” Nicky takes my hand faithfully and we head upstairs.

Dressed and one less tantrum later the kids are sitting around the

table having breakfast with Keema.

“So they’re going to see why the alarm tripped last night,” she speaks

softly, leaning against the counter sipping tea.

“Yes.”

“I really appreciate you being here…last night.” She says patting my

chest. “I guess we are tied in this life together. I’m just glad you

understand…” This morning must already be backlogged for her.

“Honey, you said we were family.”

“Are family,” she corrects me smiling.

“Exactly. You know I wouldn’t have left you guys last night.

Regardless of what we talked about yesterday and this morning…I’ll

always protect you.”

“I know.” She hesitates, biting her lip before she leans forward to

circle my waist. “I’m sorry about this morning.”

The part of my body that loves her so much twitches to life. It never

fails; I don’t know if it will ever go away.

“Are we ever going to really talk about what this all means? How we’re

going to go about a friendship when we’ve been lovers?”

“We’ve done this,” she reminds me confidently, peering to make sure

the kids are occupied with Keema. “After our affair…when we were

Belle’s parents and best friends. I liked having you as my friend.”

She regards me with a watery smile. “We are great as friends.”

Friends who lusted after each other in secret while parenting our

lovechild. No need to remind her of that. Her feelings belong to her.

She has every right to move on. I have every right not to let her but

I haven’t decided to do that. I’ve decided to let her play this game

with herself.

“I am always going to be your friend,” I say sliding my fingers down

the slope of her cheek.

She moves away this time, turning to put her cup in the sink. “I need

to get showered and changed.”

Marlena

I don’t imagine anyone understands what happens between John and me.

Andi certainly doesn’t. She’s on the phone prying in the charming way

that she does. Checking up on us after the alarm scare but that

quickly turns into questions about John’s truck being in my driveway.

“It’s going great.” I say honestly. She picks up on deception better

than any lawyer I know.

“I see that,” Andi chuckles, “he’s been there all night.”

“With his children,” I emphasize, laughing at Andi’s obtuse

insinuations. “The alarm shook us all up a bit, so he stayed.”

“We heard it here last night. James woke me up when it tripped but he

told me that John was over and that you would be fine.”

“I was.”

“I bet,” she purrs.

Giggling like a schoolgirl, I sigh into the phone. “Do you think of

anything besides scintillating gossip or the sex lives of your

neighbors?”

“No,” she answers without missing a beat. “But last night I did have

some pretty great sex with my okay husband. Thanks for asking.”

I’m shocked at the idea of them having sex, not at the idea that she

would tell me. “Honey, it’s too early for this conversation. I should

get back to the kids. John and Keema are with them having breakfast.”

“Where’s that fantastic Nanny of yours?”

“It’s her day off.”

“Oh and your all alone with the kids and your sexy, protective

ex-husband. I can play good neighbor and have them all over while you

do what it is that keeps him coming back for more.” She offers

seriously.

“We’re friends. I told you I’m open to dating…you keep encouraging

me to date.” I remind her.

“Honey, he’s your ex…you can have legitimate sex with him without baggage.”

“Andi.”

“Friends with benefits.”

“I’m hanging up. Thank you for checking up on me.”

“I’m serious Marlena. Great sex and…”

I’m thankful for the low ringing of my cell on the dresser. “That’s my

cell ringing, I have to go.”

“We’re on your cell.” I realize she’s right. “It’s John’s cell…they’re

the same phone,” I explain.

“Oh, answer it.”

“Andi…it’s not my place,” I whisper, feeling guilty at just the

suggestion. “I didn’t answer it when we were married.”

“Then I’d answer it now because you aren’t married.”

“You would….I’m not you.” It stops. “It stopped.” Then it starts

ringing again.

“There it is again. Someone wants to talk to him badly. Wonder if that

someone is a female.”

“Stop it Andrea but thanks to you, now I’m curious.” I grab his

blackberry from the dresser to check the caller screen. The name isn’t

familiar to me. “Quinn Ashton. Must be business.”

“Quinn Ashton…hmm that’s unisex. Male or female. The mystery gets murkier.”

“Goodbye honey.” I click off my phone and answer his cautiously,

letting the caller speak first. Her voice is buoyant. She calls him

John. “Hi, I’m sorry this is Marlena. I’ll get him the phone in just a

second.”

John looks up suspiciously when I interrupt his conversation with the

alarm specialist to hand him the phone. He checks the caller screen

before he answers. “Hey, I’m sorry about that,” he tells her. “I’m at

the kids. I have to take this,” he says to the middle-aged man in

front of us. He points to the other room and the alarm guy nods, going

about his business in the dining room.

Curiosity is such a temptation. I listen him apologize for not being

able to meet her at noon. I have to admit that a pang of jealousy hits

me unexpectedly. Instead of him thinking of me with another man in my

bed with our children, I see him. I picture him and this Quinn taking

Nicky and Noodle to the park to picnic and play. Things that we don’t

do as a family.

“Hey,” he startles me. “I’m sorry about that.”

“You’re pretty apologetic today,” I reply sarcastically. “I’m sorry,

that was rude of me.”

“Yeah, what’s wrong?” He asks, looking clueless.

“I guess I can still get a little jealous of you,” I say sincerely.

“It’s not what you think. She’s a business associate.”

I accept his answer.

“Maybe you shouldn’t answer my phone anymore.”

“I wouldn’t have, except it kept ringing,” I tell him trying very hard

not to be defensive. “Is everything okay with the alarm system?”

“As far as he can tell, it’s good. Maybe a sensitive wire. We’re going

to put some motion sensors downstairs, that’s what he’s looking around

for.”

“I don’t think so,” I say looking over John’s shoulder. The kids are

chatting Keema’s head off. “I think I have more say so here. Motion

sensors with two toddlers will be more headache than it’s worth.”

“I don’t think so. I’d rather be safe than sorry.”

“Are you not telling me something,” I ask trying to read his blank

face. “Everything checked out fine?”

“Yes, but we have to be smart here. You have this stranger living here

now. We don’t know who she associated with before she came here, or if

anyone is looking for her.”

I look at him incredulously. “John, she’s a 16-year-old homeless girl.

Nobody’s looking for her.”

“Well we don’t know that. And we don’t know who’s watching you.”

A shiver runs up my spine. “You’re scaring me.”

“Good. Then you’ll worry more about your safety.” He kisses my

forehead. “I don’t want you to be scared, just prepared.”

I wish I could take back this morning’s kiss. It confuses me in the

cloud of him trying to keep me protected while keeping distance

emotionally. I can still taste him on my lips; my skin is still

irritated from his rough, patchy skin.

“I guess you have to go now.” It’s not a question. “For your meeting?”

“Not until the work gets finished here,” he says resting his hand at

the small of my back. “I want to talk to Keema. Will you take the kids

out of there?”

I stop, turning angrily. “You’re not going to question that child like

she’s a criminal John.”

“I wouldn’t do that to her. I understand her situation. I just want to

make sure.”

Pushing my hand against his chest, “No, you’re not going to do that.

Trust me. I can handle my house,” I say walking away. “You handle your

life the way you want and let me handle mine.”

Chapter 41

“Do I contradict myself? Very well, then I contradict myself, I am
large, I contain multitudes.”
–Walt Whitman

Like every other parent in the country, I have moments when I’d rather
be anywhere except the company of my one-year-old tantrum-prone
daughter and her brother. Like every single parent, I have moments
where feeling guilty about asking their father to take them is the
least of my emotions. I’m never completely out of the loop. Our deal
was to spend the day together—as a family for Nicky and Noodle’s sake,
before spending the rest of the weekend with John. It’ll be the first
time that Nicky is back at John’s.

Dr. Danby feels that Nicky’s progress is coming along very well. He
seems comfortable in John’s presence. In fact, he’s been spending even
more time with John than he would have if it were just a weekend
visitation schedule again. John’s been at the house every day, making
sure that we’re all right. It aggravates me a little; even
hypocritical of me after the way I wanted him to stay with us the
night of the alarm tripping. So he comes and stays until we put the
kids to bed. It’s annoying and reassuring. I can’t explain why that
comforts me but also makes me wish for just one second away from the
situation. To go from not seeing him, to seeing him every day takes
some adjusting on my part. The kids’ period of adjustment has moved
into what they think of as routine. They want him here all the time.

It’s Saturday and they’ve spent three hours bickering so much that I’m
ready to put them both in separate corners to have a second of peace.

The arguments are small but continuous; disagreements over calling
John, about who gets to sit in Mommy’s lap, Noodle’s disregard for her
brother’s dislike of playing dollies with her or his disdain for her
coloring in his coloring books. Small but continuous, and God help me
annoying.

The easy relationship that existed before we divided them up for
weekends has dissipated to sniping and tortuous looks of contention,
Nicholas being the victim of Noodle’s frequent assaults. The friction
is mostly due to jealousies that they’ve never had to acknowledge
before. Once Noodle began visiting John without Nicky, she developed
her own special relationship with her Daddy and Nicky felt especially
closer in our relationship. Now back to sharing us, they haven’t
figured out the balance yet.

Nicholas gets aggravated with Noodle’s infant behavior, crying to be
held and coddled. Her whiny moods didn’t bother him before and the
difference in his attitude becomes obvious as soon as I cave into a
tantrum. He withdraws to his own room, quiet and sullen. Noodle, in
his mind, is taking away from the time that he feels he should be in
my arms. Noodle, being the absolute baby of the family, wants to
remain that. And being our princess is what she does well, without
realizing how much it bothers her brother.

Our morning began at dawn with Noodle standing at my bedside asking
for her daddy. My cajoling and placating put her back to sleep for an
hour. By then it was Nicky who was at the bedside asking for Pika and
John, which led to both wanting to talk to him before 8 a.m. Caving
under penetrating hazel glares and the threat of a loud morning, I
handed them the phone and buried my head under the pillow while they
talked his head off. That was just our morning.

We’re having lunch on the patio, waiting for John to pick us up for
The Little Mermaid play that Noodle bullied Nicky into agreeing to
see. Danielle and Keema have a date of their own, a movie and shopping
day. Danielle is taking Keema for the weekend so that she wouldn’t be
lonely without the kids. Keema is asking about my weekend plans when
we she stops mid-sentence. I turn around to see what has stunned her
speechless.

Juliana prances out of the patio door with Danielle following. Lifting
her arms to show her blue and green two-piece bathing suit, she poses
with two curly ponytails hanging over each shoulder, “See
Mommy…Ariel Princess.”

“Ariel not a princess…she’s swims with fishys.” Nicholas informs
Juliana, looking up from the dump truck on his lap at his sister’s
latest outfit. She’s already changed twice. “Princesses don’t swim.”

Affronted by his disregard for her favorite thing in the world,
Juliana whirls around in a rage. “No Nicky…Ariel is princess,” she
argues kicking at his truck with a white sandal covered foot.

“Okay, whether she is or isn’t, we don’t use our feet for anything
except walking young lady.”

“That wasn’t very nice J, now was it?” Keema asks reaching out for
Juliana to join her at the table. “Nicky’s your buddy. Why would you
want to hit him like that?”

Shrugging, Noodle leans back into Keema’s lap as much as her belly
will allow. “Where my Daddy? I wan see Ariel.”

Answering wearily for the eighth time today, I put her plate of French
fries in front of her. “Daddy will be here shortly. You have to change
first. You can’t wear a bathing suit to the theater.”

“I wear,” she argues folding her arms defiantly over her chest. “I no go.”

“That can be arranged,” I say wagging a weary finger. “Change before
Daddy comes. Danielle will help you.”

“Come on Princess Juliana,” Danielle calls out. “You’re going to miss
your daddy if you don’t get changed.”

“Maybe the princess is going to her head,” I tell Danielle laughing
quietly at Noodle’s annoyed face. “Thank you for helping her.”

Unexpected salvation comes in the form of a phone call. “Girls’ night
out,” Hope proclaims, her enthusiasm contagious through the phone
line.

“Toddler blues,” I ask knowing the feeling all too well. Spending
hours with a baby who is as demanding and grumpy for hours is
exhausting, especially when doing it without the benefit of another
person.

“How’d you guess?”

“It’s catching,” I say looking at Nicky jamming his sandwich into the
window of his dump truck. “Don’t do that Nicholas. Eat the sandwich.”

“Nicky not hungry Mommy,” he explains, trying to figure out how to
cram the other half of the sandwich into the miniature window.

“Sounds like it. Mommyhood has its limits,” she laughs. “The word
suffocating comes to mind.”

“You’re probably about ready to go back to work.” She’d taken two
years off to be with Ciara and just as much as my job is a part of who
I am, it’s the same for Hope. She lives and breathes the grind.

“I love my little girl. I appreciate this time and all those other
mushy things a mother feels,” Hope explains jokingly, “but Mommy needs
a night away from her baby. Would you please join me?”

“Tonight?”

“Yes. It’s Saturday,” she says emphatically. “We’re planning our
escape. You’ve been summoned by the Salem entourage that you left
behind. We’re not taking no for an answer.”

“I have plans.”

“Oh,” Hope’s voice squeaks in curiosity, “with whom?”

“Well John and I have plans…”

“John?”

He walks in on cue, waving at me before scooping Nicky up to throw him
over his shoulder. “And the kids,” I add, watching the large smile on
Nicky’s face grow wider as he hugs his daddy, “but it’s early. I’m
actually in need of a girls’ night out.”

John raises an eyebrow. “Are you?” He whispers setting Nicky down.

Ignoring him, I answer Hope’s question about when I can be ready. “8.”

“7 at Silhouette,” she amends chuckling. “For good seats.”

“Okay, Silhouette it is. See you then.”

“A girls’ night at Silhouette,” John asks as soon as I hang up. “Isn’t
it down there in the new district? Where they’re trying to revitalize
the area with the young business crowd?”

“I wouldn’t know,” I roll my shoulders back, avoiding his eyes. Today,
in a dark blue golf shirt and blue jeans they seem bluer than normal.
Blue and deeply penetrative. “I don’t get to Salem much these days.
You know, mothering your rambunctious children and taking care of my
practice, there’s not much time for extras like shopping and checking
out the young business crowd.” It’s more sarcastic than necessary, but
I’m feeling snippy.

“Well, it is. I have a project in the area.”

Addled by his smug face, I prop my hand beneath my chin, leaning
forward to whisper, “Is that where you met Ms. Ashton—in the new
business district?”

“Ahhh,” Keema chuckles getting up from the table, “that’s my cue to
go. I’ll tell J that you’re here Mr. Black. She’s been waiting all
morning for you.”

Waiting until Keema slips inside the house, John sits down across from
me. He looks over his shoulder at Nicky playing unaware, lowering his
voice, “Do you want to discuss…”

I interrupt, “No. I’m being…it’s been a long morning with the two
little munchkins. I just need a break.”

“You’ll get one tonight at Silhouette. You can let loose all you
want,” he says running his hand down the front of his jeans. “With
whomever you want.”

“It was Hope on the phone,” I say smiling at his predictability.

Sitting through a colorfully loud production of The Little Mermaid for
two hours has its charm. Noodle and Nicky were both amused by the
dancing and life-like characters. Noodle sat, perched on John’s lap
with wide eyes following every move. Nicky on my lap with eyes craned
on the amusing crab. But I’ll admit I’m not reluctant about leaving
them for a night of freedom.

I decide to invite Andi because she’s always up for good fun but at
the last minute before I can make my escape, John calls to tell me
that Nicky and Noodle would rather spend the night at our home with
him. Not up for an argument, as strange as their conditional sleep
over sounds, I give in and welcome the three of them into the house as
I’m slipping out. John’s reaction to my outfit, a sleeveless shirt
with jeans, is apparent even understated. He taps my shoulder like a
college chum and wishes me luck. Rolling my eyes at the sarcasm, I
kiss both of the children and head for Andi’s house.

One margarita down and the conversation turns swiftly to men. Sitting
around a large, circular table filled with women who have known me
nearly all my life, it’s easy to talk about life—the failures and
missteps. The only stranger, Andi, doesn’t seem out of place among
Lexie, Kayla, and Hope. We all share so many commonalities that it’s
easy to feel comfortable about the issues and problems in our
respective relationships. Mothers, working mothers with marriages that
have worked, and some that haven’t.

“So all it takes is alcohol to break the wall down,” Andi comments
after Lexie asks me about John. I shoot her a humorous glare that she
responds to by sticking out her tongue. “I’ve been trying to get these
details since she moved in.”

“Really,” Hope says, looking at Andi in disbelief. She gulps down some
of the frosty margarita and squeezes Andi’s shoulder. “This woman’s
love life is an open book. There are no secrets here.” Hope runs a
hand dramatically in front of me. “Hell, this is Marlena Evans. You
haven’t heard about the most endearing, contemptuous relationship in
the history of love.”

“Oh, that’s a little too dramatic Hope,” Kayla says pleasantly. “She
isn’t the whore of Babylon or anything. John and Marlena aren’t
Sampson and Delilah for pete’s sake.” Kayla’s so wholesome that pete’s
sake coming out of her mouth just fits. She and Steve have had their
moments but they’re nicely matched. He’s the fire and she’s the ice. A
dedicated and loyal person, Kayla has always been a significant person
in my life. She’s had the advantage of seeing me with both John and
Roman from the inside as their sister. She knows that my love for them
has always been genuine. “They’re just like any normal couple…if
normal begins with intense love that exploded into an affair that
created a lovechild.” Kayla’s lips curve into a wide grin. “Awww,
that’s too cute just thinking about it. We’d all love to have love
like that.”

“Would we?” Lexie wonders pushing hair from her eyes. “I’m happy with
my nice safe relationship with Abe. There is something to be said
about consistency.”

Hope is the first to chime in. “Yes, nice and safe usually come with
being married to a man who is as old as your father.”

“He’s not that much older than me,” Lexie defends slapping Hope’s arm.
“He’s dependable and loving. Theo adores him and that’s all that
matters. I don’t need a young stud.”

“Anymore,” Hope reminds her, wiggling her eyebrows at her.

“That was my crazy Dimera period. I’m not that woman anymore.”

“That’s right,” Kayla comes to her defense. “Lexie Carver is one of
the most boring people I know…besides myself.”

“And that’s just fine by me,” Lexie adds tilting her head back to
laugh. “I’ve had enough crazy to last me a lifetime. Besides what’s
wrong with loving the man you’re with, even boring as it may be.
Marlena tell these women that it’s a great virtue to have.”

“You’re really asking her to talk about loving the man you’re with,”
Kayla exclaims, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand after a
long gulp of margarita. “This is Marlena Evans—she’s had to choose
between two men for as long as I’ve known her.”

“Weren’t you just defending me,” I shoot back at Kayla chuckling. “You
can’t change sides that quickly.”

“Sorry, I wasn’t saying that you were the whore of Babylon.”

“What is it with you and that description?” Hope says shaking her head
in amusement. “We all know that Dr. Marlena Evans is no more a whore
than any of us at this table.”

I share a wry smile with Lexie and Andi. “No, I’m just really
friendly,” I tell them sarcastically. “I’ve loved every man that I’ve
had an intimate relationship.” I sip the cool drink and lean back to
eye the band of women watching me. “I have,” I say emphatically.

“We know,” Kayla sympathizes, “but you’ve loved them at the same time.
Doesn’t that get confusing?”

“I love them in different ways,” I explain slowly for effect. “I love
them for different reasons in different ways.”

Andi eye’s focus on me. “How does that work?”

“Well…” I think before speaking. They have always, with the exception
of Andi wondered how I let my marriage to Roman be destroyed by an
affair. Oh, as women they’ll defend me to the death but to understand
it, unless you’ve been that woman, is remarkably harder. “There’s safe
love, as Lexie said and to a degree that is what we all yearn for. Who
wouldn’t want to be secure and assured that the relationship won’t
have any bumps or hassles. To that degree, yes safe love is
comforting.”
“And boring,” Hope argues. “I’ve loved the same man for gosh…” she
taps her temple, counting the years in her head, “all my life. I’ve
made love to the same man for too many years to count here. But even I
can’t touch the kind of relationships you’ve had.”

Andi sits up, intrigued. She looks to me. “What aren’t you telling me girl?”

“Nothing,” I choke out laughing, “really. They’re giving me more
credit than I deserve.”

Lexie takes her turn. “Well first there was Roman…and that was
apparently a wonderful marriage. Great kids. Great friendship. Right?”
Lexie points to me and I agree nodding. “But then comes John Black.”

“Oh John Black,” Andi says shaking her head in awe.

“Someone else has noticed the wonder and charm that is John Black. Add
her to the list,” Kayla bellows downing her drink. “I think we need
another pitcher of this.” She holds the empty container up to signal
for refill. “Andi, he’s something else.”

“Hey,” I say covering my mouth to keep from laughing too loudly. The
atmosphere is such that it’s easy to be caught up in the vigorous
conversation without feeling suffocated by how serious it really is.
As John described, it is a lounge for the business crowd to unwind.
Groups of like women and business attired men form their own circles
around each other, and we are in the mix of all of it.

“He’s my brother, like my brother anyway,” Kayla explains to Andi.
“Not only is he the sweetest guy in the world. He’s devoted and loyal.
Protective. Um…he’s sexy and fiercely protective…did I say sexy and
protective.” I nod amused. “Good because I want to make clear how sexy
and protective he is.” She chuckles, continuing, “He loves his kids.
Hell, he loves another man’s kids.”

“Then what’s the problem,” Andi asks Kayla.

Kayla looks at me before answering. “You’d have to ask Marlena. I
wasn’t married to the guy.”

“It wasn’t Alex, wasn’t it?” Lexie asks, still feeling guilty for her
part in the debacle. “We’ve all noticed how much has changed since
Alex.”

“Or was it Nicky’s illness?” Kayla wonders searching my face.
“Illnesses in families, especially in cases where the children are the
patients lead to divorce. Did you know that?”

Hope eyes us all sadly. “It wasn’t when you lost Roman’s baby, was it?
I know that’s a lot to take for a man.” She averts her eyes; it
reminds us both of when we thought her baby was my husband’s child.
“Oh my hero,” I say, happy when the waiter comes with a new pitcher of
margaritas and distraction for the girls away from me for a moment.
“Thank you.”

“It’s taken care of,” the waiter says looking across the room at our
benefactor who’s sitting at the bar with three men.

“Thank you,” I mouth lifting my glass in salute to the dark-haired man
smiling our way.

“He’s cute,” Andi says craning to see him fully. “Dark-haired and
handsome—that’s just your type.” She taps my shoulder gently. “Go for
it.”

“Go for it?” Kayla fills her glass again. “She doesn’t go for it
anymore. Do you?”

“No, not me. I’m a single woman with babies.” I add dramatically
covering my cheeks.

“And an ex-husband who won’t go away,” Andi mutters. “Speaking of
which, you were going to answer what happened? What really happened?”

I take a deep breath and lift my eyes to the ceiling. What happens to
any relationship? Everything and nothing at all. “We grew apart.”

“No,” Lexie nearly shouts throwing her hands up, “we’re not accepting
that answer. That one doesn’t play here buddy. You’re a doctor. You
have more tools in your artillery than ‘we grew apart’ doc. Go
deeper,” she challenges playfully.

“I left him for my psychopathic, abusive ex-husband after having a
miscarriage with my other ex-husband,” I breathe out quickly. “Add to
that list of tyrannies the fact that I nearly killed myself and our
child, emotionally abandoned that child, and then practically threw
what was left away by kissing my therapist.” I lift my hands in
surrender. “How’s that for deeper?”

“That’s deep,” Lexie allows. “Really deep.”

“Ouch.” Kayla whispers, taking another sip.

“So the straw finally broke the camel’s back?”

“In a sense, yes. No matter how much John and I love each other, there
was always this fragile condition to it.” I love him deeply. I know
him in the clichéd way of knowing myself less. I know that we’ll
always have a love for one another that is solid. “I hate to say it
this way but it’s complicated to love like that. I sense that for
John, it’s never feeling worthy of my love—which doesn’t make any
sense to me. I’m the one who’s unworthy of his love,” I say, voice
cracking with emotion. “I’m the one who broke my vows.”

“You broke them because you couldn’t help yourself and let’s not
forget that you broke them for him. Safe love isn’t always the best,”
Kayla allows. She fell in love with a man who didn’t match her ideal
of what she should be in love with. He was on the edge and totally
unsafe. “Steve and I were never supposed to be married or become
parents.”

“Who the hell cares what others feel is safe? I don’t,” Andi sparks
up, looking around the table. “My husband is a class-A asshole, I knew
that when I married him but I still married him. My daughter Emma asks
me why. She loves him because she has to but she doesn’t like him. I
tell her that love that makes sense isn’t love, it’s companionship and
I’ve never wanted that slow ride. I like the roller coaster of it all.
I like feeling out of control.”

“We can see that,” Lexie laughs. “I guess I know that feeling. We all
know the exhilaration of an affair.”

“I don’t.” Kayla blushes.

“Be grateful you don’t.”

“Thank you mom,” she tips her glass to me.

“I’m serious honey. It’s great for two seconds and then the hell sets in.”

“John only lasts for two seconds,” Andi grins slyly, winking at me.

“Now that my dear is something I won’t discuss,” I answer coyly, “but
suffice it to say, he’s amazing.’

“Then why?”

“Why what?”

“Why not him—why not be with him?”

“For all the reasons I just said,” I explain quietly. “We’re in each
other’s lives now. That’s about all we can manage now.”

“But he’s always at your house. Every night this week.”

“We have two children under three who like their daddy being around.”

Hope leans forward, “So you’ve been parenting together…not sleeping together.”

Amazing how intrigued they all are about my life. “Why would you think we were?”

“You were in Colorado. Everyone knew it. You and John have this
energy—sexual energy that is so apparent. We all know when you’re
having great sex.”

Winking, I take a sip of margarita, “You only think you know.”

“So? What happened?”

“Life,” I answer simply.

“Jealousy?”

A flash of John’s anger and how he struck out at me in Colorado plays
in my memory and I close my eyes to the picture. “Why do you say
that?”

“Honey,” Hope says smiling diplomatically, “your husband…ex-husband is
wonderful but he is a jealous guy. You had an ex in every corner. Did
that lead to the break up? The latest break up?”

If only it were as simple as that. “Hope, we don’t belong together
because it’s what people are used to.”

“Do you think that’s what this is about? We expect you to be with John?”

“Yes, a little of that,” I admit taking longer sips of the icy alcohol
sliding through my body. “I’m the most reliable person you all know
when it comes to love. You know, John and I don’t have to be lovers to
be together. Our companionship is intimate enough.” I smirk,
remembering how I kissed him. “One day soon and I have no idea when,
I’m going to find someone that is suitable for me. You know, nice
quiet and not so intense.”

“You love intense.” Lexie tells me frowning. “You’re not telling us
that you’re going to start seeing other people. After all this time.”

“Lexie, I hate to tell you this but I’ve been separated for over a year.”

“And you started seeing John again,” Kayla says.

“I did,” I agree, flashing a satisfied smile. “And it was wonderful
while it lasted. But that was something for the kids and not really
about us at all.”

“You slept with John for Nicky and Juliana?” Lexie asks, looking
confused. “How much sense does that make?”

“None, which is why we’re not involved in that capacity anymore. We’re
just friends.”

“You started out as just friends.”

“Why is this all about me,” I ask downing the margarita in my hand.
“Let’s talk about you all.”

Andi’s attention veers behind me. “Let’s talk about the man who’s
walking over here.”

“What man?” I ask, not wanting to turn around to see.

“Our kind drink-refiller. And he’s cute,” Kayla remarks, eyeing the
stranger behind me up and down.

“Thank you,” a gravelly voice says behind me. “I only thought my
mother thought and said so.”

Turning around, I’m met by a handsome man with dark hair and a sexy
smile. Sexy in its mysterious, self-satisfied curve. He leans over and
offers his hand to me. Now I’m shocked because men haven’t openly
flirted with me in years. Mainly due to having John—my jealous
husband—holding onto me possessively everywhere we went. Not that I
found anything wrong with that; I did belong to him in a sense. And
because he and I founded our relationship on deception, I never wanted
him to think that I was encouraging men. I honestly never looked
another man’s way when I was with John.

So it’s a shock that the stranger’s attention is on me, and not the
other women. “I’m Reese and I’ve been watching you enjoy each other’s
company all night.”

“Have you now,” Hope cocks an eyebrow suspiciously.

“She’s a cop,” Kayla explains to Reese. “Don’t pay her any attention.
She can’t leave her job behind.”

Reese laughs and I listen for the insincerity in the deep rumble.
“Excuse us all, we’ve had a couple of margaritas. We don’t normally
drink…but thank you for buying us a round. We owe you one,” I say
lifting my hand to shake his. He presses his smooth palm into mine and
I smile, blushing at the warmness between us. “What are you drinking
tonight?”
“I’m partial to Vodka and tonic,” Reese says taking a seat from a
table behind us to sit beside me. “You haven’t told me your name yet.
I never take drinks from a stranger.”

“I did,” I remind him sweeping my hair nervously behind my ear. He
checks my ring finger, and by nature, I check his. Shyly of course,
because I’m very bad at flirting and trying to figure out what’s
appropriate and what’s not. “But it’s Marlena.” I introduce the other
girls, who are sitting quietly admiring Reese.

“That’s a pretty name,” he says.

“For a pretty lady,” I finish for him.

“You’ve heard that before, huh? How about a thing of beauty is a joy
forever? It’s loveliness increases, it will never pass into
nothingness.”

I tip my head to him, impressed. “I like Keats. A poet in a nightclub.”

“I’d prefer a businessman with a poet’s soul and this isn’t a
nightclub per say, it’s a lounge.”

“How about that drink?”

With alcohol, you can travel extremes so quickly that nothing makes
sense. The limits are gone and power of the tongue remains. Reese
Scott—in my loosely inebriated mind it’s humorous that his last name
should be his first name—spends the rest of his evening at our table.
Gathering stories from each of us on our lives. You don’t think while
drinking that it’s not a good idea to tell a perfect stranger that
you’ve left your ex-husband for the third time in a year. You don’t
even find fault with admitting that you’re attracted to him still but
can’t find the energy to continue the battle of wills.

Only under the influence could I give out my number, I’m not that
brave anymore. Only then when my brain has taken leave would I agree
to a date. But that’s exactly what happens when I do. Unfortunately,
the other thing that happens is that I am too tipsy to drive home.

We—me and Andi—end up in the back of a cab. Alcohol is the only
explanation that I have for calling John in the back of the cab to
tell him that I’m coming home and that Reese Scott made sure we were
safe. Of course I should have known, remembered that I can’t call John
and tell him anything like that without expecting some reaction.

John meets me at the door. Face full of parental judgment and ire.
“You’re more than a little tipsy.” He thankfully offers me a hand into
the door. “Where are your keys?”

“Hmm. I guess they’re in here,” I say opening my purse for him to
inspect. “Where are my babies?”

“Asleep. They’ve been in bed for an hour.” He pulls my arm through
his. “You’re later than you said you’d be.”

I stop walking, dropping his arm. “Are you upset,” I ask in a sing
songy voice. “I knew you would be. Maybe that’s why I called you.” I
reason tweaking his cheek.

He pushes my hand back. “Come on, honey. Stop. You’re drunk.”

“I don’t get drunk,” I say, hearing the change in my voice. “I’m just
happy…and we had a lot of margaritas.”

“With Reese Scott?”

“Jealous John,” I cover my mouth, laughing. “The girls said that you
were a jealous guy. My jealous guy. You know that I don’t want anyone
except you…except I can’t have you,” I rationalize feeling
lightheaded and queasy. “I can’t…”

John lifts me up to carry me to the bathroom. “Aim for the hole,” he
says guiding my head over the toilet bowl.

I start retching curled around the toilet. “I’m sorry,” I cry dropping
my head into the bowl.

“It’s okay,” he tells me rubbing my hair. He massages my shoulders
gently. “Baby, it’s okay. Get it all out.”

“No…” shaking my head, I pull back. “Reese is nice guy but he’s not
you,” I moan falling back into his chest. “He’s not Nicky and Noodle’s
daddy.”

“Honey, you’re too intoxicated for a sensible conversation. Focus on
the toilet.”

“Why aren’t you more upset?”

The thick pads of his fingers rub into my temple, guiding me back to
the toilet to expel the rest of the contents of my stomach. “About
what? Reese Scott?”

“Hmm.”

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m not,” I cry, pushing his hands away. The thrust of my emotions
hitting me at the center of my belly. The vomit continues and tears
start. “I’m sick…I think I drank too much.”

“You’re going to regret this in the morning,” he laughs.

“S’not funny…my head is killing me. Where are my babies?”

“They’re asleep.” He tilts my head back. “All finished?”

“I’m not Noodle,” I moan, trying to stand on my own strength. The
quick move sends me back into John. “Stop touching me, I can handle
this,” I say feeling suffocated.

“Okay,” he backs up, crossing his arms over his chest. “Go for it.”

Two steps that go askew and he’s behind me, lifting me in his arms. “I’m fine.”

“Are you? You want to try walking up the stairs alone?”

Thinking on it, I bury my head against his chest. “No, I want to lie
down. Can you bring me water?”

“I should let you suffer,” he says lying me gently down on the sofa.
“But I’m not that cruel. Lie down. I’ll be back.”

“John, wait…” I lift my head and cup his face between my hands. “I’m
sorry about kissing you.”

He kneels beside the couch. “Did you kiss this Reese guy?” He asks
confused by my kissing apology. As if I can’t tell the difference
between kissing him and kissing someone else.

“Of course not…” I slur, my head feeling heavier by the minute. I drop
it to the cushion and shift so that my hair is covering my face.
“John…” In the blurry state of intoxication, I hear my cell phone
ringing. I cringe at the intrusive tone that feels as if it’s cracking
against my skull.

“Here.” John hands puts the glass of water in my hand, helping me sit
up. “Drink this. I think we’re going to have to curtail these girls’
night outs a little.” He says sitting down beside me. “You have to
have more control than this.”

“Don’t lecture me,” I groan, covering my face when the phone starts
ringing again. “Where is that damn phone at?”

John rummages in my purse and hands it to me. Through blurry vision, I
see Reese’s name on the caller screen.

“Oh,” I toss it back into my purse. “Not now.”

“Apparently, he’s going to keep calling. Answer it,” John says as he
puts the phone back in my hand.

“No, my head hurts. I probably make no sense. I’ll talk tomorrow. Tell
him for me,” I plead sipping some water and handing John back the
glass. “I can’t.”

“Marlena, this is…”

“Please,” I cry falling back. “I’m sleepy.”

The phone stops suddenly. John leans down and kisses my temple.
“Honey, you sleep it off. I turned the phone off. I’m not going to get
involved in that.”

“Will you sleep with me?” I mumble making room for him to slide in
behind me. “Please.”

“You’re so hammered.” He whispers against my face.

“I know and I want you to hold me until I’m not, so that I won’t do
anything stupid.”

“You already did,” he says spooning me from behind. “You gave that
asshole your number. Now go to sleep.” He kisses the back of my neck.

“I love you John.”

“I know…I love you too.”

“I’m really turned on right now,” I moan pulling his hand from my hip
to rest on my belly.

“It’s the alcohol,” he says breathing slowly. “It’ll pass.”

“No, I don’t want it to pass. I want you…” I decide in a moment of
dysfunction and alcohol fueled passion. “Don’t you want me?” I push my
rear into him demandingly.

“Marlena,” he moves back to break the connection, “it’s not a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not going to be the one you screw when you can’t be with the one
you want,” he breathes angrily. “Now baby, go to sleep.”

Sighing in defeat, I allow him to rest his arms around my body and
inch as close as he’ll let me. “I love you.”

“I know.”

Chapter 42

“Of course, I love you.”
–Anne Sexton

There are things in life that we want because we think we need them
and things that we want because we’re selfish and arrogant enough to
assume they’re ours. Assumptions aside, she is mine. She belongs to
me; every incredible inch of her. Of course, she loves me…because I
love her through these phases of ours; I love her…through the tough,
confusing periods.

Such as these tempting situations where I have to be more gentlemanly
toward her in drunken confusion. Alcohol stimulates her. She’s high on
lust. She even smells intoxicating, a healthy combination of perfume
and liquor emanating from her skin. She’s only been asleep an hour and
in that time I’ve felt every move, closed my eyes to every tempting
gesture of her hand, brushed my lips secretly against her hair; and
made no effort to lift her body from mine.

She sleeps with sad vulnerability and I like watching it play out. A
smile wrinkling the sides of her mouth. Whimpering, softly pillowed on
top of me. I flinch, thinking about how easy it was to hurt her when I
see this side of her. She is the embodiment of a true woman, soft and
vulnerable to my strengths as a man—the confusing male species that
would cease to exist without women like her.
Yet like the angel that she is, she opened her arms, allowing me back
every time. There is shame, my own. I hurt her more than physically,
more than bruises did and harsh words did. Enough pain that she’s
determined to accommodate our lives in a friendly environment where
love and misguided passion don’t and can’t cross.

Treat me sweet.

I’d kiss her for hours with that sexy command. Just kissing intimately
seemed followed her command. Face to face, hips and legs combined.
God, we were young and full of limitless possibilities in the
beginning, after she found me. I crave for that kind of beginning
again.

We could be deliberately selfish to the world and devote ourselves to
each other as young couples do when they’re learning things slowly
about each other. There were wants. Babies. I wanted more; I told her
over and over again how much I wanted to be a daddy again after
experiencing how easy and joyful it was to be the twins daddy. Some of
those intimate, slow kisses went a long way toward baby making that
didn’t end up being successful. But I treated her sweet. I wanted to
treat her that way out of appreciate and devotion. She didn’t have to
do much to please me. All I ever wanted to hear out of her mouth was
yes…I’ll have another baby…I only want you…yes…yes you make me
happy and complete. Those years were so tame compared to now.

Now I know what I didn’t care about then is what I think makes me feel
vulnerable now. About who came before me, who loved her before me.
When I was Roman, I was daddy and husband, and Don and Alex didn’t
matter. I didn’t even know about Alex; she couldn’t remember that or
the child she left behind, but I fear in my selfishness that it
wouldn’t have mattered.

Now that we have kids-vulnerable babies-everything about her past
matters. I thought you moved on from relationships without taking
baggage, until I tried to move on from her. I had an exercise with
Ashton that called for me to list the five things about Marlena that
make me angry.

Not surprisingly, they were all about the men in her life, past and
present. Roman, Alex, Don, Dr. Shalit. It was a brutal session
admitting that I hold jealousies over men who have nothing to do with
my relationship with Marlena. Now, after much discussion, I realize
that she was a different woman with each of us. We all have had her in
our own way of having her.

I’ve divided them into eras. The young and naïve era with her high
school boyfriend and professor. What they got was a budding woman
fresh from the naïve world of her parent’s safety net. I assume she
was seduced by the older man; I don’t know. All I know is it made it
easier for Alex to swoop in and pretend to be her knight in shining
armor. She’s told me that every girl, especially young girls, want
that guy to show up. Alex had the ability to cover up his monstrous
personality. And she paid for being naïve in her immature brushes with
love.

The years with Don were supposed to be a healing period, Ashton
thinks. I think that the years with Don were about recovering from
being broken apart inside by pretending to be something she wasn’t.
She shattered to protect herself from the brutality of it all. Ashton
says that’s normal. The brain protects from a complete breakdown, the
memory is often the first thing to go in trauma. What you don’t
remember can’t hurt you as bad. I think she became the girl that she
was before Alex and her professor. She’s said that her relationship
with Don was paternal more than it was about love. She needed
protection. She’d forgotten Alex but she needed a man like Don. She
was probably stilling herself from remembering the hellish years with
Alex with the shiny, innocent veneer she had as Don’s wife. From what
I’ve observed in her stories, she wanted to be everything Don wanted.
Good wives please their husbands. She wasn’t sure about motherhood and
having a career, but she had his baby. I don’t begrudge her little Don
Jeremiah Craig junior. He never made it to adulthood but I’ve always
believed that it was because of him that this kind, devoted, and
adoring mother exists for my kids. But that baby’s death broke
whatever connection they had. She was vulnerable after their
separation to become defenseless to a man who raped her; she says the
rape forced her to go deeper within herself. She needed someone who
could scrape away all the scar tissue building inside her.

I wish I had been that man for her because I believe in my hands she
wouldn’t have experienced any of those things. Ashton said that all of
it shaped her into the woman that she is today. I still wish I had
been in Alex’s shoes as the father of her first child. I also wish I
could’ve stepped into Don’s position to be the one to heal her from
all of Alex’s issues. But I was thrown into Roman’s shoes.

Before I took over for him, she readily admits that Roman showed her
back to the person she must have always been, before Alex and Don tore
her down. He gave her some semblance of happiness with their babies;
and just as the others did, broke her heart by leaving.

She’s been through so much for love. A lesser woman might have
crumbled and given up on finding true love. But she didn’t do that at
all. Her purest attribute is her belief in love’s possibilities. She
doesn’t tread lightly. She goes headfirst and gives her all, despite
all the bad things that have come from loving us men.

Don cheated on her, broke her heart, and blamed her for their son’s
unfortunate death. I haven’t begun to comprehend the kind of man that
Alex North was to hurt her and take pleasure in her pain. How he
manipulated her into becoming a battered wife who was too afraid to
confront the cycle of violence claiming her life. No mattered what
I’ve done, I haven’t done anything believing that I should hurt her to
keep her. To put such fear in her that she wouldn’t ever leave me.
That’s not what our deal was about.

Our deal; my abuse. I can say that now. I abused her. And it saddens
me how easy that was to do. Easier because she’d already known how to
handle it, she’d already lived through so many levels of abuse that
mine didn’t scare her away. She’d die of love—for love, if she could.
I really believe that. Dogmatic in the rules that shape love, she
catered to me and I took advantage knowing that. Not in any
manipulative way, I never meant to do those things. That’s the
difference between Alex and me. In my twisted anger, I hurt her
because I love her. It’s fucked up. I know how illogical it is and
sounds but I couldn’t hurt her unless I loved her.

Ashton, with her degrees and experience seemed confused by that idea.
An abuser in her opinion hurts out of some sense of pure anger, never
in love. The narcissistic abuser. I really tried to picture myself as
that kind of person; but I’ve never been that man. I explained it to
Ashton the way I rationalized it to me and Marlena.

I told her that hurting her was like hurting me. Did I see the way she
flinched when I grabbed her and pushed her—of course. I also saw the
bruises as a result. I heard the fear lacing her voice. I saw every
tear that fell, felt the stabbing at my chest for every one of them. I
was aware of the moments when Nicky and Jules were around or near
enough to hear. I saw the tired resignation of too many apologies. I
saw everything that Ashton thinks batterers avoid seeing. I didn’t
hide from my anger. Marlena allowed me to continue on a path and I
took advantage of her easy forgiveness.

And those are the reasons for my anger at her. She’s too accepting of
all the bullshit that the men in her life have given her. She’s always
been too good for anything less than perfection, even when she asks me
to allow her to be imperfect. I have to smile at the request and shake
my head because she is that—walking perfection.

When I was asked to list the five things about her that I loved in the
next session, it was easier. Her lovable qualities are endless. I saw
the reasoning in what Ashton was doing. If I can recognize the reasons
I hurt her, then I’d have to admit that I hurt her—which I have—and I
can stop myself because I know that my anger isn’t about her at all.
My anger isn’t about her but my love has everything to do with her.

So I started that list with what I love most about her.

She’s the mother of my babies, even Brady who she didn’t carry in her
body but loves with all her heart. There are things that she does
horribly wrong and there are things that she does that astound me.
First, she made those babies with me with amazing grace and skill.
Three times when she asked me to fill her up to end the emptiness, I
did. I filled her up with seeds that turned into three walking,
talking, breathing replicas of us. Second, she nurtured each one of
them as much as she could inside her body and went through hellish
labor to give birth to them.

She mothers each of them in the ways that they need. Tough when
needed, soft in the same way. Encourages them with her example. Loves
them unconditionally. Devoted to her deepest core. There would be no
thought between saving her life or theirs. She kissed bruises, healed
broken hearts, settled squabbles, apologized when wrong, celebrated
their successes, and stitched them back together when they fell apart.
There are so many things that I can’t name them. Things that I know
and things that I only guess.

But what I love most about the mother in her is that our two youngest
have changed her life around and she revels in that. Nicky and Jules
are such miracles that I wonder how they came to be. How, after all
the drama that led to their births, they’re still ours. She
appreciates these late-in-life babies as much as she appreciated her
first. She loves them with such fierce devotion that I know they’re
safe in her care.

She gives them peace, shelter, and love; and they know they have her
and she has them. She gives so much to them that I’ve lost access to
some parts of her, but as their father, I’ve learned to appreciate
that. I could go on forever about her merits as a mother.

The second item was the lover I have in her. The deeply devoted lover
who falls deep into the abyss of sex and intimacy with me every time.
The level of intimacy that we’ve reach has no boundaries. I know every
part of her. The smells and secretions that I’m privy to, these
sensory details are imprinted in my brain. The exhilaration of being
aimlessly lost in her. I lose track of time. I lose my sense of being.
We meld and make up one spirit that connects more than our bodies even
allow.

I love her sexual sense of adventure. How there’s nothing that she’s
unwilling to try. Nothing that makes her feel ashamed. That she cares
about my pleasure as much as she cares about her own. That she has no
qualms of being a wanton lover in my bed and a woman in public. That
she can talk dirty and not seem disgusting. How her legs fit nicely
around my waist, hips, and neck. The giggle that comes from knowing
that I’m about to taste her. That she cries when we come together. She
moans my name. She holds me inside until she’s ready to let go, often
times feeling empty when I can’t stay inside anymore. That she falls
asleep curled up beside me smelling of me, our sex, and rewarding
perspiration from working hard. That she gives me credit for turning
her into the lover that she is today. That even when I can’t have her,
I still want her.

I love the nurturer inside of her, which has a lot to do with why
she’s a great mother and friend. Why she took in a homeless girl who
needs guidance. I’ve seen the nurturer blossom over the years and it’s
good to see that she hasn’t given up on believing that people are
innately good. She’s a great psychiatrist because of it.

The last two items on my list are tangled into a confusing ball.
They’re about me and me specifically. I love that she’s puts me first
and that our lives before this were solely about us. Ashton’s smile
faded when I got to these reasons.

The devotion to one person, at the expense of leaving the rest of the
world out worries my anxious doctor. She blames my insecurities on
depending on Marlena for too much. She can’t be my only avenue of
happiness, Ashton tells me religiously. I’m getting it. But it doesn’t
negate that I still love that we had that kind of connection for
years. I now see the harm in that kind of segregation from the world.
I didn’t see the problem back then. What happens is easy to understand
in hindsight. When you give all to one person and they turn away, you
lose your outlet. You lose yourself. We both did.

Ashton is trying her damndest to remind me of how that felt. Stay open
to that feeling and you’ll never want to feel it again. She’s right
and I accept it begrudgingly. I’d love to be everything for her again
but this time I’d careful of seeing her as the complete embodiment of
my life. And I don’t want to hurt her anymore. A testament to her
character is that she still loves me, and all those bastards who came
before me.

For whatever reason, she never takes that back. I have to thank
them—Roman, Don, and even that bastard Alex, all of them who broke her
for me to fix her. They let her go when she asked, or hurt her so much
that she had to leave them. I’m not those foolish men. I’m only
loosening the hold; I’m not going anywhere.

One reason is that I’m nothing without her. Money, power, and respect
are nothing without someone to come home to at the end of every day.
The other reason is tied up in the babies lying asleep upstairs. My
eternal connection to her made stronger by their young age. The other
reason is I have no ability to say goodbye to her and mean it. I only
parrot what she says, letting her believe that we’re in the friend
zone.

She wants to try having a life without me. I thought I did when she
hurt me last year. I told us both that what she’d done was too much to
forget and forgive. Now, I’ve done so many unforgiveable things that
she probably considers being out of our tumultuous relationship a
peaceful solution. I can’t change that now, but I know that it’s not
the solution, not my solution.

I know boundaries now. I practice trying not to overstep them every
time I feel like screaming at her.
I’m not going to push. I’m not going to be that man. I’m going to be
the man who once answered her loneliness by always promising to be
there when she returned physically, except now I mean it in an
emotional sense. She’s not too far from our partnership-yes we’re
playing this friend bit…but friends don’t lie together in a cocoon
of safety without some other current moving around us. The sexual
static in the air is palpable.

Alcohol, my favorite truth serum, has her curled up to me.

Now this is the true test of our new relationship.

This closeness. Her lazy touching in her sleep. The gentle breathing
under my chin. Her breasts heavily pressed against my chest. Sounds of
the night making music around us, setting a romantic atmosphere. Her
fingers digging into my shoulders making impressions in my black
t-shirt. She loves me in black t-shirts—they bring out the blue in my
eyes. I’ve seduced her with my eyes more than once.

Her thighs squeezing involuntarily around my waist when she jerks
sleepily. I breathe a little harder when she does. My hand resting on
the swell of her denim clad rear. Any other time I wouldn’t hesitate
pulling her hand to massage me. It’s coming to life under her sleepy
tugging. But I’m not going to take advantage of the situation,
especially in light of her bathroom confessions.

I meant what I said. I can’t be the one who makes love to her if she’s
using me to satiate an itch that some other man created. I dismissed
the Reese character as a drunken figment of her imagination used to
make me jealous, until he called.

He called, but I’m the one lying in her house letting her rub and
grind all over me in her sleep. Comical if it didn’t slightly piss me
off. I still can’t picture that scene. Another man in her house taking
my role.
I was that other man; I don’t want anyone else to experience what
that’s like with her.

Her knee brushes the muscle between my legs straining against her
thigh. I shudder at the impact, waking her up.

“Mmmm…John,” she lifts a heavy eyelid. Her hair falls across her eyes
sharpening her sexy, hooded eyes. She licks her bottom lip as I sweep
her bangs back.

“Yes, were you expecting someone else,” I asks tugging at her chin.
“How do you feel?”

“Who else would be here?” There is a slight slur to her words. “I
don’t fall asleep on everyone.” She grins licking her lips again.

“Is your throat dry?”

“A little.” She sips the glass of water that I press to her lips.
“Have I ever told you what a good daddy you are?” She hiccups and sits
up slowly. The hour of sleep has done nothing to alleviate her loose
demeanor. She cups her forehead and tilts her neck back. “It’s hot…”
she unbuttons her shirt slowly, “aren’t you hot?”

I watch her reach the bottom of her shirt, holding my gaze as she does
shrugs it off her shoulders. A sexy lace bra with an innocent bow
resting between the see-through cups barely restraining her breasts. I
bite my lip, closing my eyes. “Honey, how are you feeling? Does your
head hurt?”

“My head is fine,” she whispers sliding her hands under my t-shirt. “I
feel very hot. Your skin is warm too. Let me take this off of you.”
She clenches the bottom of my shirt.

“I’m fine,” I grit out, gripping her wrists in a tight lock. “Marlena,
don’t do…”

“Shh…” She uses her lips to quiet my rejection. The words, “I need you
right now,” spill into my mouth as she kisses me hungrily. Her tongue
sliding against mine saturated with alcohol. Without the use of her
hands, she uses her lower body to get the friction she needs.

“Honey, no…you’re too wasted.”

“No…you’re wasting a good opportunity,” she cries biting my lip.

Taken aback by her roughness, I turn away. “Marlena.”

“No, I want to be baby tonight…your baby.” She breathes, nipping the
bottom of my ear. “Can I be your baby? I want to hear you call me baby
when you’re inside of me. Will you do that for me?”

“Honey, really…you have to stop.” I say without stopping her. She
knows that her sucking and tugging at the skin below my ear turns me
on. She manages to get a hand loose in my rising aroused state. She
slides her hand between my legs, giving me a squeeze that steals a
husky groan from my throat. “You’re not thinking clearly. You know how
alcohol affects you.”

“Yes,” she laughs, unzipping my jeans. “It makes me feel like sucking
all over you.”

“Baby, stop,” I protest quietly, freeing her other hand.

“That’s it…finally. Call me baby again and touch me,” she whispers,
hovering over my ear. “I just want to be your baby right now. Nothing
else matters. Nothing else…no one else except you and me.”

Losing to her drunken seduction, I take another deep breath and push
against her chest. She shoots me a disappointed pout. She slides back
to the other end of the couch, bringing her knees to her chest. Her
shoulders sag as she brings a finger to her mouth.

The sassy way she sucks on her finger, and rakes her fingers through
her hair sends a multitude of urges through my body. But I’m stronger
than her sexy looks and drunken confusion. I want to be.

“I’m not trying to prove a point by not giving in to you,” I say
firmly, zipping my pants back up. “I want you and you know that. We
just can’t.”

She stops sucking her finger and looks up with tears filling her eyes.
She’s so drunk that her emotions are overriding. “You don’t want me
anymore?”

“Oh Marlena please,” I say derisively. “I respect you. I’m not going
to take advantage of you.”

“I want you to,” she appeals, crawling back across the divide. “I want
you to take everything I have to give you.” She hovers above my body,
her forehead slanted to mine.

“Do you even know what you’re saying?” Her quickly changing emotions
convince me that she’s really out of it.

“Touch me,” she purrs, cupping my hands over her bra. I squeeze her
breasts, lowering my mouth to kiss her neck out of habit. “Kiss them.”
She offers, unsnapping the front clasp of her bra to allow her breast
to fall free in my face.

I sit up, looping an arm around her back. She giggles as she curves an
arm around my neck to pull me down with her. I lean into her chest and
tell myself that I’ll just kiss them and it’ll be over. I’ll stop
before we go too far. She can’t regret having me kiss the luscious
swells of her breasts.

Her sexy voice stops my reluctance. “I want your mouth all over me,”
she mumbles, unzipping my jeans again. I kiss the tops of her creamy
skin, the heavy mounds that bring her pleasure. Taking a nipple in my
mouth, I lick circles before suckling at her. Her hips respond,
thrusting upward for some kind of connection. “Your mouth is magical,”
she hums gripping her arm tighter around my neck to keep me right
where I am. Between my legs, she rubs her own brand of magic. “Is this
for me John?” Her voice squeaks when I replace my mouth with my
fingers on her distended nipples.

I choose not to speak. I let my actions do the talking. I release her
nipples and move up slowly between the valley of her breasts to her
mouth. Kissing heavily until her lips balloon in my mouth. The coppery
taste of blood shared between our tongues as they move eagerly toward
each other.

She breaks the silence. “Am I your baby? Am I yours?”

I nod, knowing that it’s wrong to keep encouraging her.

“I didn’t want to go home with him tonight…I thought about you. I
thought about doing you…doing this with you. I wanted my lover to be
you tonight…I only want to be with you. I don’t want Reese or Steven.
Not anyone…”

Her words are like ice water. I tear my mouth away. I could’ve kept
kissing through her drivel about wanting to be with me until she
started naming names. She reaches out to me in confusion. “Don’t…we
have to stop,” I break away completely, sliding her legs from under
me.

“What? I’m sorry,” she cries, looking bewildered. “I’m a little
tipsy.” She holds two fingers to measure how much. “I’m sorry…what did
I say? I take it back,” she slurs, closing her eyes. “I don’t want you
to be mad at me. You hate me when you’re mad. Don’t be mad.”

A painful indictment that rings true. “I’m not mad at you.” I tell her
and myself for good measure. “I’m not mad at anyone. I just want to
stop. It’s not your fault.” I pat her knee and start putting myself
back together. “You need to clear your head.”

“I need you,” she hiccups, covering her mouth. “I really need you to want me.”

Smiling wryly, I ask, “When haven’t I wanted you? That’s not the problem here.”

Her slender finger aims at me. “You are. You keep seeing it in your
head. You think I slept with him…that I’m a slut. You called me that,
you know.” She says without an ounce of bitterness. “You think I
fucked…oops, you don’t like it when I do that…” she covers her mouth,
“You like me to be perfect.” She straightens her back, her breast
falling forward. The small plane of her stomach flexing above the
waistband of her jeans. “You like to think that nobody else can see me
for what I am.”

My insecurity rises. “I know that they can see you. You do a good job
of making them see you.” I accuse calmly. “Like tonight, this new guy.
You flirted with him, didn’t you?”

“Maybe,” she grins.

I hide my disappointment well. “Well honey, that’s your prerogative.”

“Don’t you care?”

I’m being trained to care but not show how much. “I care because
you’re trying to hurt me by doing things that you shouldn’t do.” She
plays games that she has no idea she’s playing. “You could get hurt by
doing that.”

She snaps her neck around to face me. “By you again…it wouldn’t be
anything new.” She says biting back a smile. If she’s trying to
provoke me, I have to blame it on alcohol. If she’s bating me to get
her into bed, I’m not going to fall to that either. I know by the edgy
tone of her voice that she’s being aggressive. There’s a slight
satisfaction coloring her face. She looks like she’s enjoying this
back and forth between us.

“You want to hurt me,” I ask softly. “You know how badly I wished I
didn’t have to be the one who hurt you. Why are you trying to goad
me?”

She softens. “I don’t want to goad you…I want to fuck you.” She wraps
herself around me again, clinging to my chest. “Why don’t you just
make us feel good?”

“Because you’re drunk…and you’ll regret it in the morning.”

“I’m not drunk,” she cries, pushing me away. “I am sober. I know what
I’m doing.”

“Marlena, I’m not that prick in the bar.”

“I know who you are,” she yells. I place my hand over her mouth so
that Nicky and Jules aren’t frightened out of their sleep. “Stop doing
that…” she bites at my hand.

“I give up.” I throw my hands up to surrender and stand up, moving
away from her. “The next time you have a night out, I’ll make sure
that we’re at my house when you stumble your way into the house. This
isn’t fun anymore.”

“You’re no fun anymore,” she accuses fumbling with her shirt that she
picked up from the back of the couch. “What happened to that crazy
feeling you used to have for me? Where did that go?” She stumbles off
the couch, yanking her jeans unbuttoned. She takes them off and throws
them at me. “You’re an amazing asshole.”

She’s gone from lusty to pissed-off in zero to two seconds. I give her
room as she hunts the bra that she flung across the room. Fighting
hard to keep from laughing at her, I cross my arms and watch her in
amusement. “Are you finished?” I ask, smiling.

“Don’t smile at me,” she seethes. “Don’t smile at me…don’t kiss
me…don’t touch me. Leave me alone. Where’s my phone?” She begins
looking around frantically.

The game of stroking my jealousy begins.

It’s the thing she hates most but brings out as needed. She gets on
her knees looking for her purse, knocking over the glass of water in
front of the couch as she maneuvers around the leg of the table to get
her purse.

“Who are you calling?” I ask as she snatches her blackberry out of her
purse and starts dialing while watching me. “Marlena…it’s after
three,” I warn, knowing whom she’s dangling in front of me. “Don’t
do…”

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Don’t call him,” I say sadly, shaking my head at her. “Don’t do this.”

“Do what,” She smiles mockingly.

I fight the urge to yank her phone out of her hand. I count to ten and
remind myself that she’s intoxicated. And if she weren’t, she wouldn’t
be pulling these stupid stunts. I comb my memory for techniques that
Ashton suggested to combat anger and the need to act violently. Leave
the room. I look down at her one last time before turning around to
climb the stairs. She has the right to be destructive; I don’t have to
watch her do it.

I hear her apologizing for calling so late. Breathing his name
suggestively. I should continue walking all the way up the stairs. To
block out her taunting conversation…but I don’t. I stand in the middle
of the stairs, never turning to see what kind of faces this man is
eliciting from her. I could crumble right here, breaking into little
pieces at how this is destroying me. I can’t believe how devious
alcohol makes her. And even worse, I can’t believe that I’m
considering playing her games just to make sure she doesn’t do
anything stupid with the man making her laugh on the phone.

“Marlena,” I ground out, keeping my back to her. I call to her again
when she ignores me with a firmer tone. She stops laughing and
apologizes for her ex-husband. He’s here for the kids. It’s enough to
send me back down those stairs.

“What?” she asks, looking up frightened. She jumps when I snatch the
phone and throw it across the room. We both watch it crash into the
wall, stunned by my quiet reaction. “John…” she inches back, trying to
get to her feet.

“You crossed the line,” I inform her very calmly. “You and I both know
it. So, let’s just stop playing games and just go to sleep.”

“I can’t believe you did that,” she cries, eyes clued to the pile of
shattered cell phone. She’s standing tall, away from me. While many
scenarios play out in my mind, I never imagine the one where she leans
forward to slap me.

Stunned again, we remain silent. Her recklessness stifling the air.
The remorseless look on her face goads me but I don’t fall into the
trap. I’m stronger. I’m stronger than alcohol and her attempt at
hurting me.

“Are you ready to go to bed now that you got that out the way?” I ask
holding out my hand.

“Don’t be nice to me. I don’t want anything from you. It’s
humiliating,” she starts sobbing. “You’re an asshole and I hate you
for treating me like this again. You look at me like I mean nothing to
you.”

“I don’t,” I whisper, trying to stop her from swatting me away.

“You did this when I was having our little girl. You didn’t love me
enough to hold me when I had her. I bled and pushed her into the world
while you stood back like I wasn’t human. Some incubator for your
seed.”

I finally manage to break through her shield to crush her against me.
“I didn’t. I’m sorry. Honey, let’s go to bed.”

“No, I don’t want to. I don’t want to go to sleep alone,” she sobs
weakly, crumbling in my arms. Breaking apart the way I wanted to on
the stairs. “I love you…and you don’t love me back.” She pouts, hiding
her face when I try to lift her back up to stand. “Why did you stop
loving me?”

“This isn’t you talking…it’s not you,” I remind her gently, holding
her chin. Wrapping her legs over my arm, I pick her up and carry her
up the stairs to bed.

“I’m sorry I hit you,” she cries, rolling away from me when I climb
into bed next to her. “I didn’t mean to…I’m just so confused. I’m…my
head…I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have called….” She blubbers into the
pillow. I brush my lips across her head and shush her. “John, did you
love me when I had our daughter.”

“I loved you before you had our daughter…both of them. Now go to sleep.”

“Did you love me after I tried to hurt Nicky?” She asks softly sobbing
into the pillow still.

“I’ve always love you.” I curl around her back. “I’ll never stop, no
matter what stupid things you do. Now close your eyes.”

“Okay,” she mutters, turning her head a fraction so that our lips
touch. “I love you so much,” she sobs against my lips.

“Baby, I know.” I assure her with hands that rub her arm. “I love you too.”

“I still want you,” she says, rolling over me. “I want you so bad
right now. I feel awful and I need you to love me back to normal.” She
kisses me. “Treat me sweet.”

I take it as some sign that this isn’t wrong. Her outburst, drunken
and destructive, is her responsibility. What I’m responsible for is
forgetting the promise I made her and myself. She wants it and I have
to. It disturbs me how much I have to give what she keeps asking for.
This isn’t my war to lose—she’s the one who keeps insisting that we’re
better apart.

Lifting her fingertips to kiss, I wrap my arm around her back and
press her tightly to my body. Matching shoulders to hips to foreheads.
I warn her that I’m not going to forget in the morning and she answers
with a quick kiss that turns into something more. I savor the feel of
her lips pillowed against mine. Taking swipes across each one as I
whisper how much I love her.

She cups my face between her hands, so that I’m unable to break away
from her mouth, taking my affirmations with me. “I don’t think we’ll
care if we respect each other in the morning, will we?” She asks
taking one last kiss. She leans up, using my chest for balance. Her
breast peek from the slant of her opened shirt. I help them find
freedom, taking the shirt off yet again and tossing it aside.

“I just don’t want you to regret it,” I warn, rolling us over so that
I’m back on top.

“Shutup John,” she demands kissing me hard.

Our hands go every direction against each other. She lifts off my
shirt. I yank off her underwear. She unzips my jeans, crawling down
the bed to take them off. In this hailstorm of clothing, I keep my
eyes closed tight. Seeing her face reminds me that she’s really
intoxicated and not fully aware of what she’s doing.

“I love your feet…” she drops a kiss on my ankle, “…and your calves,”
she licks up to the bend of my knee. “I love this right here more than
I love anything else,” she says grabbing the length of my manhood
between tight fingers causing my eyes to shoot open. “I love it when
it’s inside me. Will you put it inside me?” She looks up, smiling
seductively as she kisses the tip. “Wait…first I want to kiss it
more,” she moans as she slides me into the depths of her hot mouth.
She knows just the amount of pressure to apply, how much tongue to
use, and how to squeeze just enough to lift my hips from the bed. I
thrust roughly in her mouth, feeling her hand on my hip to slow me
down. “Whoa bubsie, slow down.”

“I don’t think I can,” I admit, lacing fingers through her hair. I
apply pressure to force her up and down. She flattens her tongue and
glides it up and down both sides like an ice cream cone. Smugly, she
slips me into her mouth again. “Baby…”

“Oh baby,” she kisses my tip goodbye after releasing me from her
mouth. She smiles at me as she slinks up my body like a kitten. She
stops at my chest and lavishes her magical tongue on my nipples while
I slide my hand past her belly, finding wetness in the clefts between
her thighs. “Oh, don’t stop doing that baby. Right there.” She grinds
against my fingers, grazing my chin with a kiss. “How did I ever think
I could go without you making love to me?” She whispers, her breath
warm against my chin. “I can’t live without you.”

It’s my turn to silence her. “Shutup and fuck me,” I say laughing
huskily into her skin.

“No, you love me…” She counters, moving my hands from between her legs.

“I’m trying to love you.”

“No, not that way…with this,” she says kissing me. In a fluid
motion, she lifts up and latches on to the headboard. Her wetness
hovers above my chin as I sweep my tongue across her swollen folds.
She cries out, tightening her grip on the wood as I continue to taste
and kiss her where she wants to be loved. Holding her steady by her
buttocks, I use my mouth as a weapon of pleasure and watch her quake,
falling backwards onto my body in completion.

She writhes against my hand when I try to prolong the contractions
between her thighs. “Noooo…” she cries, biting her lip from the
sensory overload of my fingers jutting in and out of her. She tumbles
over the edge again, clenching my hands between her legs as she cries
out in pleasure. “You’re trying to kill me,” she moans, breathing
heavily.

I laugh, kissing her belly as I lift up to lean forward. “You said
that you wanted to make love.” I remind her, kissing her inner thigh.
“Are you up for more?”

She shakes her head, trying to find her breaths still. “No, I don’t
think I can handle anymore.” She cries trembling whenever I touch any
part of her. “I think I’m all orgasmed out.”

I take that as a challenge and settle between her legs. “Are you sure
baby? I’m sure you have one more left in you. Just one more for
daddy…you can manage that right?” I ask, stroking myself to enter her.
She whimpers. “Can you hear me?” She licks her lips, shaking her head.
“You said you wanted me inside. I have to come inside, don’t I?”

“No,” she moans, satiated by her multiple orgasms. “I don’t think I’ve
stopped coming yet.” She quivers again. “I don’t think I can…”

I glide inside her contracting walls, letting her body mold around me.
Underneath me, she’s raking her hands through her hair, clutching the
sheets behind her. The first move forward, our hips collide and she
grips behind me to have some control. Moving at a snail’s pace is
excruciating but rewarding with every gasp and whimper that thrusting
extracts from her. She grips me tighter wanting more friction, faster
and harder. I latch onto her mouth to swallow her nosy affirmations as
I ride toward my own satisfaction, reaching between us to circle her
exhausted nub to bring her back over the cliff again.

“Oh my god John,” she breathes in my mouth, tilting her neck as her
insides clench around me and squeeze me to a harsh finish. “You’re an
animal,” she sighs when her breathing is steady again. “You’re an
insatiable animal.” Her eyes are barely open as she dots my faces with
lazy kisses.

“In the morning, when you’re pissed off at me for letting you seduce
me…remember that you said that.” I smile into her chest, where I’m
cuddled. She pulls the cover over us, whimpering when I try to pull
out. “Honey, you’re going to be in pain,” I warn her, feeling my
slight erection still heavy inside her.

“Don’t…” she mumbles, kissing the top of my hair. “I don’t care about
the pain. Just don’t move…don’t leave me.”

Chapter 43

My heart breaks just thinking about my babies like her. I stay around
for the love of my children and because I don’t want the streets or
someone trying to take advantage of kids with rough home lives.

But I need to know who this girl is exactly. “Can I ask you something?”
Marlena reads minds but I read body language and faces. Marlena can be
blinded by the pain in their lives, but I try to focus on their
culpability. Their reactions and what they don’t say.

Keema tightens her mouth and crosses her arms over her chest. “I don’t
know who tried to break in Mr. Black.” She says quickly. “I swear.
Nobody is after because nobody cares enough to look for me.”

Tough stuff to swallow. She’s tough, street smart but intelligent. She
reads people well. “I was worried about that…but I wanted to ask
about the baby.”

She recovers swiftly from the surprise that left her mouth gaped open.
“My baby? Why do you want to know about my baby?” She watches with
circumspect eyes blaring intently.

It’s time to make her comfortable with me. When I’m here, she’s always
circling around quietly, but never addressing me directly. Marlena
said it’s because she’s reading me and reflecting back what she sees
coming from me. But I don’t hold anything against her; she’s a baby,
really.

“Would you mind if I come down and talk to you?”

She nods uncertainly, biting into her bottom lip. We both turn toward
James’ yard once I’m seated in the chair a foot away from her. He’s
chipping golf balls.

Keema breaks the ice. “He’s weird.”

I agree with her simple statement, laughing.

“He is,” she reiterates, sucking her teeth, “he’s always staring
across the fence, trying to get Dr. Evans to talk to him. He’s so
thirsty.”

That’s a new phrase to me. “Thirsty?”

“Uh….eager,” she explains with a nice, wide open smile.

“Yeah, that could be a good description of James. Does he make you
feel uncomfortable?”

“Nah, I know his kind,” she says dismissing the thought with a flick
of her wrist, “he’s just an old pervert.”

“Whoa. You really call them like you see them. That’s a good quality to have.”

“Thanks,” Keema accepts shyly. She rubs her belly, reminding me of my
earlier question.
“Do you know what you’re having?”

She shrugs. Her finger traces her stomach cautiously. “I think it’s a
boy. I haven’t gone to the doctor.”

Stunned, I ask, “Never?”

“I told Dr. Evans I did.” She shrugs again. “I did at first, then sort
of stopped all together.”

“What about the baby?”

“I don’t know…it still kicks. It’s fine.”

It’s written all over her face. “You’re really afraid of this whole
thing, aren’t you? Doc wouldn’t let you go into this half way.”

She tries to hide her smile by covering it with her hand.

“You have a beautiful smile. Don’t hide it. Share it more. That has to
be why my kids love you so much. You’re a good kid.”

She uncovers her mouth. “Thank you.”

“I mean that sincerely, kid.”

Keema’s smile is genuine and absolutely beautiful. She is a pretty
girl but pregnancy looks very ugly on her.

“Is there a father for this kid?”

It’s obvious when she lowers her eyes to the concrete. She is
definitely all alone.

“What are you going to do?”

“Maybe…you and Dr. Evans can raise it. I know it’s not white but
black babies grow up with white moms and dads all the time now.”

The idea totally floors me, not because of color or Keema, but because
she would even suggest giving us such a precious gift.

“Honey, that’s…it would be an honor. Believe me. But that’s a
serious responsibility.”

“I know…I haven’t told Dr. Evans but I think you all should raise
this baby. She’s the best person I know. I’ve seen you with Jay and
Nick. I wish I had parents like you two. Y’all have problems,” she
adds, “but who doesn’t. You all got love. I don’t care bout the
problems.”

I breathe. Think. And restructure my mind. “We’re not together,” I
state the obvious. “You know we’re not married.”

“So.”

“I don’t live here,” I continue, trying to make her see the
irresponsibility in her request. “We don’t have any right to add
another child to this mess.”

“Mess? This is heaven compared to some kids’ lives. A lot of kids grow
up with one parent.”

I remain the realist. “Still, it’s not that easy.” It’s also unfair to
expect a child to understand the mechanics of separated parents,
especially parents that aren’t biologically yours.

Keema plants her feet on the ground to lean forward. “Think about it,
please,” she asks sincerely.

“I don’t think it’s up to me,” I tell her.

I can’t make Marlena do anything other than what she wants. I’m
working on myself so that when she finally realizes that she can’t be
with anyone else I’ll be right there.

[ Marlena]

Keema was with John on the back patio when I looked out the window.
When she opens the sliding door, she smiles up at me. An odd thing for
her to do because she’s been studiously avoiding John.

“Hi, Dr. Evans.”

I stop pouring hot water for tea and walk over to her. “Are you okay?”

Keema beams, rubbing her belly. “The baby is kicking me…but other
than that I’m fine.”

I cup her cheek. “Are you sure?”

“Why wouldn’t I be,” she asks cheerfully.

“No reason…do you want me to fix you something to eat?”

“Nah. I’m gonna call Danielle. I have some things to tell her.”

“Okay honey.” She walks past me and stops, circling around quickly.
She does something that I’ve never seen her do. She stops herself from
trying to hide her smile. “What’s up, honey?”

Keema shifts from foot to foot. “How many kids does John have?”

Unexpected as her question is, I answer with ease. “Four that we share
and three additional step children. Why do you ask, sweetie?”

“Just asking,” she shrugs, rushing off.

I return to making my tea. Chamomile for tranquility. It’s been a
tense couple of hours since I confessed—listen to me feeling guilty. I
only told him the truth. And I’ve been feeling guilty ever since.

It’s getting late. Standing in the glass door, I watch him looking out
into the distance.
The sun is fading over his shoulders. I also see James from my vantage
point. These two very different men. One prowling about looking for
conquests; the other, dealing with the stress of a separation that he
doesn’t want.

I grab a jacket for the chill and head out with my cup of tea. John
doesn’t acknowledge my presence but I sit down anyway. “So…” I start
timidly, “are you giving me the silent treatment?”

John avoids my gaze. Avoids the remorseful way I’m searching him over visually.

“I just wish I knew the right things to say to you,” he sighs.

“Say something.”

He turns to me very calmly and asks, “Why do you lie to me?”

I try for an answer that isn’t a lie. “To protect you.”

John uses his fingers to make quotation marks. “I don’t need your protection.”

I said that to him. I meant it. “Please don’t use my words against
me.” I know it’s wrong to lie but I don’t lie to deceive. I roll my
shoulders, sipping on my tea. I never used to tell him lies for any
reason. “You were already upset about Reese. I didn’t want you to feel
threatened.”

He stands up and walks away. I don’t realize that I’m holding my
breath until he stops near the fence and turns back around.

“John.”

I can tell he’s reluctant to come back toward me. That he chooses to
look around rather than my way. It’s what I’d recommend for someone
who has an anger problem. It’s disconcerting. He’s using familiar
techniques of avoidance without shutting down emotionally.

“Honey, come here…please.” I have to stop doing that. Honey as an
endearment for him is different from the way I mean with the children.
There’s even a distinct tone when I say it for John.

Honey, my lover and best friend. My soulmate. The other half of my
heart that I can’t stop breaking.

“Why do you do that,” he asks with one of his more charming smiles. He
takes deliberately slow steps across the yard.

I can’t keep a smile from curving my mouth appreciatively. “You look
just like Nicky when you smile that way.” I appreciate that fact
immensely.

“Wait,” he slides back into the chair near me, “don’t keep doing it.”

“What am I doing?” I ask coyly propping my knuckles beneath my chin.

John closes those beautiful eyes that still send chills down my spine.
“Honey, it’s a problem,” John tells me. “We can flirt and bullshit,
but I have a problem with this.”

Dr. Shalit is our favorite problem. I’m exhausted with the subject. “I know.”

“Do you really? I know things have changed but I still feel very
strongly about that. You asked me to trust you.”

“You should.”

He disagrees. “I don’t. And I’ve told you so. Now you need to look at
me and believe me.” He sits up. “I’ll have to do drastic things if you
defy me.”

“Defy you, as if I’m Juliana or Nicky,” I say incredulous by his gall.
“It’s not personal. He wants my professional opinion. I don’t think
you have a right to tell me how to run my practice.”

“He doesn’t know the difference between personal and professional. You
were his patient, remember.”

“You’ll never let me forget that fact, will you?” I ask, matching his
even tone. “Don’t answer that. It doesn’t matter.”

“This is about them,” he points toward the house where the children
are sleeping, “and you. I’m going to protect you for your own good.”

I don’t have to tell him that I don’t need it. He knows how I feel
about being coddled and protected from myself.

“Do you hear me?”

I do. I don’t answer, but I hear him. And it angers me. Ironic that
I’m angry and he’s calmly telling me what he wants, and not
demandingly.

“Honey, I’ll do what I have to do to protect you. Even if it’s
something that may hurt you…”

“What does that mean?”

“Custody,” he says quickly. It’s obvious that it’s not something that
he’s thought about. “ I don’t want to but those are my children.”

It’s me raising my voice at him. Standing, I face him and tilt my neck
forward. “Don’t ever say something…don’t threaten to take my babies
away from me. How dare you.”

Unfazed, John eyes me up and down. My emotions unchecked seem
unreasonable in opposition to his tranquility.

“You don’t have anything else to say?”

“I’ve said everything.”

“John, he’s changed. I had dinner with him. He’s married now,” I begin
rambling in spite of myself. Crumbling to my knees to drape my elbows
over his. “Honey, please don’t…”

He takes my breath away when he cups my cheeks. He leans forward, our
foreheads touch serendipitously. My heart pumps nervously against his
knees.

“Baby, I don’t want to do this,” he whispers.

“Then don’t…say you didn’t mean it,” I beg openly unashamed. “Say
you wouldn’t hurt me that way.”

“You can’t ask me not to. I asked you not to see him. You swore you
wouldn’t.” He shuts me out of reading his thoughts by slamming his
eyes closed. “Who called who?”

I draw back on my heels, bringing him with me. “It doesn’t matter who
called who, does it?” He thumbs away my tears.

“No…it matters that you saw him.”

“Don’t do this…”

John looks affronted as he stops touching my cheeks. “Don’t choose him
over us…again.” He pushes his chair back to stand. Towering above
me, He whispers, “Honey, stand up.”

Wiping my face, I inhale and slide my hand down my leg. I look like
I’m groveling at his feet. I’d like to stand up and defend myself but
I’m honestly exhausted. And I start sobbing. The idea of John trying
to take the children away is too much to accept.

“Marlena,” Andi calls over the fence. She’s watching us anxiously with
James at her side. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

“She’s fine,” John snaps unexpectedly, pulling me up.

Andi isn’t convinced. “Marlena?” I’ve yet to look fully into her eyes.

“Andi, no offense but we can handle what’s going on over here.”

She ignores John. “Honey, are you…”

I stop her before she can ask again. Nodding, I assure her in a
defiant, shaky voice.

“John, do you want to talk?” James asks.

That flares the temper that John’s been studiously holding in check.
“Hell no, you son of a bitch. You don’t think I know that you want my
wife? What the hell do you think I need to say to you?”

James holds up his hands. “Hey, John…it’s not like that.”

“If I see or hear about you….” I press his chest to stop him.

“John, don’t threaten him,” I whisper, turning toward the fence.
“Please. I’m fine Andi.”

“I’ll call you later. Okay?” I’m looking into John’s eyes as I say
this, relishing his gentle thumbs rolling along the delicate curve of
my cheek to clear tears.

“As long as you’re sure,” Andi concedes.

“She’s sure,” John tells her.

He curls his hand around mine and starts to walk toward the house,
half pulling me with him. Our steps pause when James calls John.

“No wonder she doesn’t want to be with you,” he laughs manically.

My weak hands fall weakly from around John’s wrist. He snatches away
and I stumble watching as he moves like a tornado toward James and
Andi.

He can control himself for me, but others have no such privileges.

Suddenly, in the storm of voices, Keema’s rises among John and James’.
She waddles to catch up with John, meeting him before he gets out of
the yard.

I blink once, opening my eyes to Keema crouching on the ground,
holding her belly. Her face grimacing in pain.

Chapter 44 (NC-17)

But I too
am afraid:
I know where
life leads.

The impulse
to join,
to confess all,
is followed
by the impulse
to renounce,

and love–
imperishable love–
must die,
in order
to be reborn.
“Middle Aged Lovers, II” Erica Jong

I recognize Noodle’s sharp, plaintive crying in the haze of my
alcohol-inspired slumber. The silence cracks open, followed by my
eyes. It’s early, grey shadows surround my bedroom with small ribbons
of light dividing the walls. My little girl is standing beside the bed
with a tattered pink blanket tucked under her chin; she uses the
blankie to comfort her baby dolls. She’s rubbing the soft cotton along
her neck trying to find her own brand of comfort.

She casts her eyes vigilantly over the odd shapes in front of her.
Burying her face against the blanket muffles the sound and sops up her
tears. This isn’t her first time seeing us tangled together in my bed.
It is a rather telling scene with our bare bodies heaped against each
other. Noodle narrows her warm, vivid eyes over the turgid truth of me
lying on my stomach, hair covering my face. It feels like John and I
are touching at every point. John’s arm lay heavy across my shoulder
blades. His thigh and the curls nestled there, warm the backs of my
thighs underneath the light sheet covering us waist down.

Juliana squints through the half-light. She lowers the blanket from
her mouth, dropping it on the floor in frustration. Her mouth droops
into frown as the plaintive crying begins again, loudly. Her hand is
small but forceful in its attempt to awaken me. “Mumma…” She taps
doggedly against my cheek as she leans over the mattress to peer sadly
into my opened eyes. “Mumma…me-me.”

Mumma means unhappy; Me-Me means pay attention to me. Her lop-sided,
large t-shirt is John’s old housework shirt. Black with embroidered
words proclaiming: World’s Greatest Dad. A gift from Belle and Brady
that hangs now on their little sister.

I don’t know if my voice works. It cracks when I attempt her name.
Swallowing I try again, “Baby…what is it? What’s happened to you?”
My voice squeaks hoarsely. Alcohol has that effect on my voice.

Juliana looks confused by the change.

“It’s early…come to bed with me and daddy.” I offer reaching to pull
her up onto the mattress. The slight movement awakens a headache
hiding just behind my eyes. “Come let Mama make it all better,” I say,
inching closer to John to make room for her beside me. “Come on
baby…climb on up.”

She doesn’t budge; she shakes her head negatively instead. I lift up
as much as John’s heavy body and my own aches will allow, shifting
closer to Juliana’s face. Propped up on my elbow, I see that she’s
gravely agitated, when she swats my hand from moving pieces of hair
away from her face.

“Mummy,” she sobs, kicking her foot. Her button nose is glowing red,
cheeks splotchy. She is full of John’s stubbornness. A trembling lip
juts forward.

“Come on Noodle…”

“No…no wan.” She mumbles collapsing. Her body half curled over the
mattress, her face pressed into the mattress. “No sleep Mummy.” Her
voice is drowned out.

I tilt her head back up. “No…why no,” I reason with her, trying to
keep my movements still. “Mommy doesn’t know why you’re upset. Are you
hurting?” I scan her face, moving the askew curls back so I can fully
examine her face. I check her forehead with the back of my hand to see
if she has a fever. “You feel fine to Mommy. Noodle, tell Mommy what’s
happened? Did you have a bad dream?”

She shakes her head with dramatic effect.

“You want Daddy?” I ask, hoping that it’s enough to quench her
tantrum. He’s been good at stopping them before they get out of hand.
I have always been an easy target for tears and night terrors. It
usually takes one kiss to the forehead after climbing into bed with
me. Noodle isn’t buying that solution today.

She props her chin on top of my back, peering over at her father,
who’s still asleep. I can’t see him but I feel him all over. His
breaths against my skin; his hand cupping the curve of my rear
naturally. “

Noodle draws back with a few steps. She looks decisive as she lifts
her t-shirt above show me her Pull-Up. She spins around and tells me,
“Poopy.” She pats her bottom, looking over her shoulder, face curving
in disgust. “Potty Mummy…pease.”

I stretch my arms forward to pull her into bed but she lurches back.
My muscles protest the move. Every move, small as it may be, is a
reminder of why my body feels as it does. Sated and achy, I’m hazy
about details. I have to force myself to remember why my thighs ache,
why we’re still naked and moist.

And then it comes back in bits and chunks of memory. “Ohhh,” I moan,
covering my face as I tilt my neck back over John’s shoulder.

Juliana is unconcerned with my recollection of the previous night with
her father. She’s whining at my bedside, “Mumma….pease….pease” She
tugs at the sheet tangled around my hips. In my ear, I have Noodle,
John, and crashing waves of dense thumping.

The incessant collection of sound, John’s snoring and Juliana’s
crying, claw at my exhaustion building my irritation. “Baby, stop
whining and come back to bed with Mommy.”

She huffs, slamming her lids down to ignore me. She remembers that
there is another avenue for her. “Daddy…make poopy.” Her hand swats
at her rear awkwardly. “Daddy…” She finally climbs up the edge of
the bed, jamming her knees into my side, disregarding me to get to her
father. Curling over me, she pats his cheek until he’s moving beside
us. “Daddy up…”

“I am now,” John groans pulling her down into the gap that he opens
between us. I roll over onto my side, getting a better view of them.
She buries her face against his chest, crying indistinctly. John lifts
her head,”What’s going on with you Jules-bear?” He nuzzles her neck
and cheek until she’s half-crying and half-laughing. “What’s with all
the crying this early in the morning? Daddy and Mommy are sleeping.
It’s early princess.”

It is early; I nod in agreement tweaking her nose to get her
attention. She hides her face in John’s chest again. She’s too young
for me to explain that it’s too early after tying one on with the
girls, and after sex–great sex with John.

“She needs to be changed.”

“Make Poopy,” Noodle explains, standing up to lift her t-shirt for
John. “Ewww.” She turns her nose up and looks disgustedly at her
father before bursting into sobs.

I collapse against the pillow, using it to cover my ears. “Will you
please?” I whisper, turning my back to them.

“Hung over?” I feel the imprint of a sly smile as John kisses the side
of my neck followed by a laugh that reverberates across my feverish
skin. “Honey?”

“I don’t feel well…will you please help her?” I roll back over.
Juliana and John watch me with distinct looks. John’s amused; Juliana
is agitated. “Come here baby,” I say drawing her to my chest. I brush
aside the curls sticking to Noodle’s forehead and offer her a tender
kiss. “Let Daddy help you baby…Mommy has a boo boo in her head.”

She doesn’t understand and it’s apparent by the confusion saturating
her face. Noodle wraps her arms around my neck and starts crying
louder after burying her face.

“Baby, what is it? Come on, Daddy’ll help you. Okay?” I force her to
look up so that I can see her sad puppy eyes. “It’ll be just fine.
Mommy promises.”

John tries to pull her from me, inducing another long wail. He looks
to me for support. I shrug, covering up with the sheet as he manages
to get Noodle.

She fights John, flailing arms and legs against the idea that I could
be rejecting her. “Wan Mommy.” She cries, stretching her arms forward
to squirm away from John.

“Honey, please…Mommy has a boo boo,” I wince feeling the pressure
pulsating in my head with every level of volume that Juliana’s voice
hits. “Stop fighting Daddy.”

“No wan Daddy,” Noodles declares climbing roughly across my hips to
straddle my tender thigh muscles. “Poopy…wan potty.” Her bottom lip
quivers adorably.

“Daddy will take care of it Noodle.” I sigh quietly, desperate to move
my disgruntled daughter from my aching thighs and quiet her. “Let
Daddy help you.”

John sighs. He shoots me a look that I know means he’s ready to take
charge. “It’s fine. Come on Mommy’s little Noodle.” He scoops Juliana
up, stopping her protests with a quick kiss to her lips. “No
no….come with your daddy.”

I whisper my gratitude as he carries Juliana to the bathroom, allowing
me to bury my head under the bed sheets.

Peace is fleeting. Noodle catapults herself back into bed after she’s
all cleaned up and changed. Still in her daddy’s t-shirt, she uncovers
my head from the sheets. Untrained to the signs of hangovers and bone
melting sex, my daughter climbs on my back checking me over for signs
of life. John chuckles at her inspection as he climbs into bed again.

“It’s not funny.” I raise an eyebrow after propping up on my elbows.
“This is your fault.” Partially anyway, and all alcohol’s fault. “You
should have turned me down.” I reason, smiling at the memories of
being with him last night.

Juliana is toying with hair while lying with her cheek pressed over my
back, knees straddling my sides. “Up Mommy…up.”

“I am up honey…thanks to you.” I circle beneath her the light weight
of her body so that she’s straddling my stomach. I surprise her by
crushing her against my chest for a kiss. “Isn’t my baby still
sleepy,” I whisper on top of her head, pretending to yawn as I start
rocking her gently. “Mommy’s so sleepy. I think Daddy is sleepy too.”

“Mommy nicked.” She looks down at my naked torso that she’s unleashed
from the sheet. “Daddy nicked.” She points out at her blushing father.

Our nudity is natural with the children. It always has been. They
shower with us. There’s nothing unnatural about the nude body. But
Noodle’s awkwardness is apparent. She covers her mouth and giggles at
John.

John thwarts awkwardness with humor. “It’s all Mommy’s doing,” John
encourages her as he rubs my shoulder. “Your mommy likes being naked.”

I swat at John. “Don’t tell her that. She is a parrot. She’ll be
repeating that phrase and I’m the one who will have to explain what
she means by it.”

“The truth is okay to share,” he laughs kissing the sensitive skin
behind my ear. “I hope you’re not regretting this moment…what led to
this moment.” He brushes Noodle’s wild curls back from her face to
give her the kiss that she is requesting. “Look how happy she is.”

“I’m not,” I admit shifting Noodle so that she’s between our bodies.
“Just don’t push.”

“I never push,” he says winking sarcastically, “I let you do all the work.”

“Like last night,” I recall, eyeing him. “I remember being pushed into
a….” he stops the rest of my sentence with the palm of his hand over
my mouth.”What time is it?”

“Early.”

“Well I know that much…if I’m remembering correctly I need to pick
up my car. I hope my keys are in my possession,” I laugh tracing lazy
shapes on Noodle’s belly. She’s listening quietly. “It was certainly a
rough night.”

“Your keys are here.” John reminds me. “Is your car in a garage? Did you valet?”

I scramble the hours around in my head. My car is at Silhouette in a
parking lot. Andi and I came home in a cab, paid for by Reese.

Reese, the charming man who I vaguely recall speaking with on my phone.

“You broke my phone,” I recall, keeping my voice monotone. “You threw
it against the wall, didn’t you?” I ask trying to remember exactly how
that happened. The only clear memories are the lovemaking. I also
remember his first refusals to make love to me. “What…the phone
call? I called…” It’s all coming crashing back.

“Don’t say the name…I heard it enough last night.”

Juliana is slowly fading while I rock her back to sleep. She has a
hand wrapped around my wrist and the other thrown behind her, holding
her father’s hand.

“Reese,” I say for my own memory jogging. “Reese Scott. I talked about him.”

“Over and over again,” he says looking down at me with aggravation
lining his face. “Alcohol doesn’t only turn you on; it turns you into
a little devil.”

“I’m sure,” I admit closing my eyes shamefully. “I apologize for
that…especially about throwing him in your face.”

“That’s what happened to your phone,” he deadpans. “You called him.”

“I remember calling….” I gasp when I recall the conversation,
“…while you were right there.” I’m horrified at the amount joy I got
out of John’s irritation. “I didn’t mean to egg you on.”

“You did,” he chuckles. It’s a good sign that he thinks it’s humorous.
“Your phone suffered the consequences.”

“This isn’t funny…it’s sad, isn’t it?” I have a hard time deciding.
His clear eyes lower to Juliana. “I think she’s asleep.” Checking her
over, I run my fingers lightly over her closed lids down toward her
chin. There’s a cleft there that she inherited from me.

“We make beautiful babies,” John remarks watching me trace Noodle’s
cheekbone. “She’s beautiful in her sleep, isn’t she?”

“I’m not objective but I always think she’s beautiful because she
looks so much like you.”

He stiffens as he covers the hand I have on Noodle’s face. “Reese
Scott won’t ever get to see her like this will he?”

Sighing, I understand how much that hurts him. “John, I’m sorry. I
don’t even know him. He was a nice guy who bought us drinks.”

“He sent you home. You also gave him your number.”

We impose so much on each other with words that we avoid saying. I
feel compelled to share that with him. “We’re such a mess, aren’t we?
We have the slightest jealousy over nothing.” He takes my comments
adversely. “I was upset over your new mystery lady too. I understand
that we’re both going to move on, but we’re going to have to learn to
handle it better.”

John starts playing with my hair when I lay against his shoulder.
“She’s a business associate,” he breathes calmly. “There’s no
mystery.”

I pause because I’m trying to figure out who’s more truthful. “John,
don’t spare my feelings.”

“If she was anything more, I wouldn’t have made love to you.” He tells
me absolutely convinced of it.

“John last night wasn’t about love, was it?”

“It was for me.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t about lust? I’m pretty irresistible when I
want something.”

“Don’t try to be cute when I’m being serious,” he tells me quietly. “I
didn’t screw you…I never just screw you.”

I cringe all over. Just the idea is too much to stomach. He has just
screwed me; and I’ve probably done the same to him. It’s still not an
easy concept to comprehend or stomach. “I hate sex being described in
those words. It’s so demeaning.”

“That’s my point. I don’t screw you. I have no hidden agenda here.” He
says stilling the hand playing in my hair.

It’s so quiet.

“I don’t either,” I admit, happy that I’m not facing him. “I’m
attracted to you. I can’t stop feeling that attraction no matter what
I try to do. So what else can I do? I can’t hide from you. We have to
be in each other’s lives. We both know that, but what are we going to
do about it this thing between us? I mean, I don’t want to be an
outlet for your sexual frustration. I don’t want you to be that for me
either.” I stop talking to hear if he’ll say anything. When he
doesn’t—when he only starts toying with my hair again, I continue. “If
you’re dating, and I’m not saying that you are and hiding it but if
you don’t feel comfortable admitting it, I don’t know how honest we
can continue to be with each.”

“Are you asking me if I’m seeing someone?”

I am. I hope that it’s my imagination but I feel that he’s hiding
something from me. I wouldn’t want it to be another woman. But I’m
stubborn enough not to ask.

“John, I’m saying that we can’t end up in bed together. This is it.
That’s what I’m saying.”

“I love you. I’m going to want you until we both leave this Earth.
That’s it. What you do about that is up to you. But look at me,” he
demands lifting my face so that our eyes catch, “ask me what you want
to know.”

I lower my head. “I don’t want to know.”

“Why not,” he asks tilting my head back up.

“It would break my heart if you were seeing someone else this soon. I
just can’t handle knowing that right now.” I admit unabashedly.

“Marlena, you don’t know what you want,” he declares kissing my forehead softly.

“I do…we never had problems expressing ourselves in bed John, it’s
only in the real world where it gets tough.”

“Do you want to know who she is, really is?”

I have that awful stab of jealousy after he asks. The question is
suffocating me as much as the idea is. I pull away from him, drawing
Noodle with me as I roll over with her in my arms. She’s my safety net
that protects me from everything that could hurt. Any word. They can’t
negate the fact that I’m the mother of his children and we’re lying
here in my bed with our child. Whatever that means to us, nobody else
can’t divide it.

“You told me; I believe you,” I lie snuggling Noodle as close to me as possible.

“Honey, she’s really not what you think…” he hesitates and I hear the
lie that he can’t cover up.

“John, I don’t want to know.”

“Honey.”
“I mean it; don’t tell me.”

“I love you,” he whispers leaving a gentle kiss at the nape of my
neck. “I absolutely would give anything for you to come back home to
me…but I know right now for whatever reason you can’t. I respect that
honey. I’m not going to beg and plead. I’m not going to push. I’m only
going to say that I’ll never give up on this relationship. I won’t
ever feel comfortable with you being with anyone besides me. I won’t
ever come around to the idea of sharing my life with anyone except
you. Believe me when I say those things because it’s all true.”

The lump that lodges in my throat blocks the words that I should say
but can’t, or won’t. If I were smart I’d tell him I don’t want to push
you away. If I weren’t such a coward, I’d admit that half the time, I
don’t know why I push you away. If I were any other woman in the
world, I’d give up trying to find my own peace and allow a mutual
harmony to blossom.

But I’m not any of those things. I’m Marlena and he’s John. And we’re
so extraordinary that we’re complicated. I wish we were like ordinary
people but we’re not. We’re John and Marlena—and I don’t know how to
separate us without breaking apart myself.

I don’t know how to stop my body from wanting him. I can stop my heart
from trying to get him back. I can be his friend but I can’t stop
myself from being his lover. It’s all sad really.

But even fires extinguish themselves. I have to believe that one day I
won’t want him as mush.

“I love you too,” I say holding our child closer as he holds on
tighter behind him. “I don’t know why I can’t just let this be
normal.”

“I don’t know either,” he says sadly. “This just feels right.”

“Until we’re out there,” I remind him lifting a finger toward the sky.
“In the real world, this isn’t normal.”

“Yeah…but maybe it’s our normal.”

“Well then somebody should kill us now,” I laugh quietly, “because
we’re only doing ourselves a grave disservice.”

“Loving is a disservice?”

“I’m tired,” I say to quiet the nagging of his words. “I just want you
to know that I don’t regret this at all. I hope I’m not confusing
you.” I’m confused as hell but I can handle that. I’m worried about
him. “I do love you very much. That’s clear and I want you as much you
want me, but we know the consequences. We know what happens down this
path.”

“It’s okay. I’ll be here when you’re ready….”

In my ear, I think he means when I’m ready to get my car but in my
head, I hear “when you’re ready to come back to me.”

It’s not as easy as just letting go. I owe myself a chance; I just
don’t know what that chance is yet.

Chapter 45

But I too
am afraid:
I know where
life leads.

The impulse
to join,
to confess all,
is followed
by the impulse
to renounce,

and love–
imperishable love–
must die,
in order
to be reborn.
“Middle Aged Lovers, II” Erica Jong

[John]

I kid myself about what we’re really doing—what we’re really feeling
for each other. Hell I know what I feel for her. It may just be that
I’m letting her kid herself. And I’m afraid to confront her about it.
I’m afraid to be shut out of her life again.

After her shower, as Noodle slept where we left her, and Nicky remains
undisturbed in his bedroom, I made love to her.

Outside the shower, I untied her towel and watched it pool around her
ankles and swiftly carried her to sit on the edge of the countertop.
We gently moved together, swallowing each other’s moans deep into the
confines of our mouths. Kissing for kissing sake, and not for the sake
of simply turning her on. She was already there. I traced beads of
water with my tongue down the smooth column of her neck, kissing her
there as well. I have the benefit of the mirror behind her,
immortalizing the sounds and images of our lovemaking. I want her to
remember this time and not have the excuse of alcohol.

She will—her body is a map of what we’ve done. In my arms, she lay
exhausted with her head slumped over my shoulder trying to catch her
breath. Her inner thighs are reddened from straining and rubbing
against my legs. A red oval behind her ear inflamed from my mouth’s
lazy suckling. Her hair is damp from her shower and sex induced
perspiration.

She’s too exhausted—too exhausted to stand up after unclenching her
thighs from around my hips. I take it as a compliment, adding a soft
kiss as an apology for her soreness.

Her lips are pressed into a satisfied grin. “One for the road,” she
asks, licking her swollen lips.

“Maybe,” I suggest, reaching between our bodies to massage her thighs.
“Or maybe it’s the warm up to the finale.” The glistening lips are too
tempting not to move in for another kiss.

“No,” she warns weakly with her lips touching mine, “this is it Bubsie.”

“I don’t like this Bubsie character.” It’s cute the way she says it;
the look that lights up her face. One that is created just for me, but
the nickname is something that came after—after we separated. “Who is
Bubsie?”

Hazel eyes glare up into my face. “You are, who else?” I have to close
my eyes when she cups my cheeks, the smell of her skin hypnotizing me.
A shower doesn’t erase the hint of Nicky and Jules, apple blossom, and
me on her skin.

There isn’t anyone else that’s been with her is what I’m led to
believe. The Reese Scotts and Dr. Shalits are merely fabricated
entanglements in my mind. She can’t lie, not looking into my eyes.
“Good…I think,” I tell her cupping her cheek. Vulnerable is
beautiful on her. The beautiful that reminds me of why I have a
deep-seated need to have and keep her away from other men. “I’m sorry
that your sore sweetheart.” I roll my fingertips across her soft damp
skin. Skin that’s been rubbing against mine for hours it seems with
all the lovemaking over the past day and night.

“I can’t move,” she breathes, shivering under my fingertips.

“Are you cold?”

A knowing smile softens her face. “I’m still feeling the effects of
what you did to me. That feels wonderful,” she hums, dragging her
finger down my arm. “Don’t stop.” I’ve stopped massaging her to stare
down into her face. “You have the most amazing eyes.”

“And you have the most amazing body. Sweetheart…” I stop myself
before I pour another promise of devotion into her. Before I give her
too much, or something that she’s not asking for.

“What are you thinking?” She asks clutching a slender arm around my neck.

We get very introspective after sex. She opens up and I find that I
can get at the truth. I’m thinking how much we do this. How insatiable
we both are. The healthy mix of romance and gentle lovemaking balances
out our fiercer, passionate acts. We have moments of extreme
sensuality, when the eruption of passion becomes exaggerated acts of
carnality. I admit to trying to possess her in those acts, pushing her
to the limits.

Last night was about pushing past those limits. The walls that she
erects fall whenever we’re together intimately. How could she hold
anything back with me cradled between those golden thighs. She can’t;
it’s impossible.

I like being the one, the man—her man. The only man between her legs,
inside her body. I plan to make sure that I remain that man.

Answering her question, I rely on something that will make her smile.
“We make beautiful babies.” Who wouldn’t be grateful for her easy
smile and the kiss that follows? The lazy hands rubbing up and down my
sweat covered back, that draw me closer to her core.

She tilts her neck, tempting me to take another swipe at her skin.
“You really are the expert at this, aren’t you?” She sighs digging her
fingers hard into my rear.

“At what?”

That unforgettable mouth and tongue thrusts hungrily into my mouth.
“This….seduction. You know I can’t and won’t turn you down.” How
many times have I heard that song and dance? We both know it. What’s
more, we don’t stop each other from trying to make it false.

She groans when I leave her mouth to kiss her neck in a trail that
leads to me sucking her shoulder, silently enjoying the rewarding
gasps falling out of her agape mouth.

I think we’re too good at this. Making love until we can’t move
anymore, only to wake up to finish what we couldn’t the night before.

I wonder when and if I’ll ever get enough. There is no familiarity
breeds contempt with us. I still love the sweet sounds of her
pleasure. I know just when her fingernails will dig into my skin, just
in time to pull me closer. I know the amount of pressure and friction,
the way to move. I know the look of real completion, the signs of a
real orgasm and not a performance.

Marlena’s voice grows husky with arousal as she whispers at the base
of my neck. Things that stiffen the growing erection between my legs
that unclench my hands from her thighs to shape underneath her rear to
bring her closer to the edge of the counter.

“Tell me what you want,” I urge, feeling her anchor legs back around my back.

She laughs, “To learn how to control myself with you.”

Kissing her eyelids, I remind her, “You don’t have to control yourself
with me. I love you for all the things that you are and aren’t.”

“The things I’m not?” She stops, her face creasing thoughtfully. “All
the things I’m not?”

She kisses the fingers I press to her lips. “Shh, you ask too many
questions. We don’t have time for deep and profound,” I warn with a
mind set on being inside of her before I give her back to the world.
“I’ll tell you what you want…”

Two fingers, the same two that she kissed, slide to where we’re
joined. Her breath hitches as I prod the warmth and wetness between
the swollen cleft. It wasn’t twenty minutes ago that she came apart in
my arms. But I have to ask for another chance. “Baby, I need to be
inside you again.” I’ve never needed permission before but in asking,
I’m partially respecting her unwarranted boundaries.

She bites down on her lip moaning inaudible agreement. The feminine
fingernails that she takes pride in scrape across my hips down between
my shaky legs. “Everytime you’re inside me, I forget why it is that
I’m keeping you away. You do that on purpose. You want me flustered
and panting after you like a wanton fool.”

“No truer words have ever been spoken, baby. I love hearing you cry in
my ear when I’m inside. You look devastatingly beautiful when…” She
cuts me off.

“Oh my word,” she cries thrusting her hips upward. “Stop…stop.”

I pause my hands, pulling back to see her fully. I watch her confused
by her vocal resisting.

“No, you misunderstood,” she pulls my wrist and guides my fingers to
the seeping wetness. She leans forward, helping me penetrate her with
one finger. “Stop teasing me…I want you back inside of me John.
Please.”

Her please sends electric currents through me. I want to bury myself
between her thighs. My erection clenches painfully as her hips move
forward.

“Please make you forget.” I slide another finger into her and watch
her eyes widen. They’ve changed colors, as they always do when she’s
turned on. Hazel with golden amber flecks that shift under the light.

“Forget,” she gasps angling back to feel every motion between her
legs. “Forget what sweetheart?” Her eyes open wider as she stares up
at me with her back pressed against the mirror. That vulnerability
shining back.

“Forget that we’re good enough to fuck each other,” I say without
anger, “but not be together.” She whimpers in disappointment at the
lost of my retreating fingers.

“I thought you said you didn’t want to speak about profound things.”

“Don’t you like the truth?”

She leans forward to bury her face in my chest. “The truth is that
we’re good at this…we have this wonderful connection.”

“You’re afraid of our connection.”

“I’m afraid of falling back into the cycle,” she admits hugging me.
“You have this gift of making me forget. You smile at me and kiss me,
and I for the life of me don’t know why I push you away.”

“Because you’re afraid,” I tell her.

“I am afraid,” she confesses drawing back and sliding her hands up my
chest to pry more space between us. “Doesn’t this frighten you?”

Ignoring that heavy question, I reach to touch her face. A contrast of
weary and sexy. Her cheeks are flushed with arousal. I run my finger
across her bottom lip, gasping when she drags it into her mouth
tasting herself.

“What frightens me is how much you don’t see that we belong together.”

A sigh burdens the air between us. The truth that doesn’t leave and I
don’t have to remind her.

“You know what I feel,” I say kissing her harshly. Our mouths grind
together as our bodies snap magnetically at points.

She welcomes this silence. She can do things silently that also keep
me quiet alongside her.

I pull back and look into her weary face. She’s achingly beautiful.
And I love that I have no control over how I’m affected by it. “Baby.”
The endearment brings her smile back. A grown man shouldn’t be
frightened to be in an intense connection with such a beautiful woman.

My erection aches as her hand shapes around my length, pulsing and
straining to be in her.

She’s quiet. The acts of a wanton woman often are until the end. But I
want to hear her voice.

“Talk to me baby…tell me what you’re thinking,” I breathe heavily,
snapping my eyes shut. The last image is her move off the counter and
push me back.

“I’m thinking,” she grasps my hips, lowering herself in front of me,
“of how much I want you to stop making me think. You promised not to
push…stop pushing.”

Doing this, welcoming me into her warm mouth has always made me aware
of how devoted she is to me. I wouldn’t want another person to be so
vulnerable before me, if there wasn’t some profound level of love and
devotion. How else could she allow me to bury myself into the depths
of her mouth if she wasn’t devoted to our love?

“I love you.” It seems shallow to say so because she’s bent in front
of me squeezing my skin under her fingers. “I love you…” I cry
shattering in her mouth. My knees betray me, buckling as I climax
uncontrollably. We fall together into the cold floor where she curls
against my side, pressing her cheek to my chest.

“When you said we make beautiful babies,” she whispers after I stop
twitching, “I wish for another 20 years…I wish that I had met you
when I was 20. When everything seemed perfect before love was tainted
for me. I love our babies. I loved making them and seeing how much
they would resemble us.”

I am too full of emotion to speak on her wishes. I have to enjoy what
I feel when I’m with her like this and not dwell on what we can’t have
the way she is doing.

“I don’t have many regrets but I do regret not having a house full of
babies…your babies.”

“You have a house full of my babies,” I remind her. “You have my
babies and my heart except you don’t want my heart.” She tenses,
stilling the hand rubbing up and down my chest. “Don’t get tense baby.
I’m not trying to provoke a response. I know what it is…and I’ve
told you how I intend to handle this.”

“How?” Marlena asks molding my hand over her breasts. I’ve yet to
scratch her itch, and finish what I started on the counter. It amazes
me that she is ready for another ride until she lifts up on her elbow
to look into my eyes. It’s the way she hungrily eyes me up and down.

Marlena lifts her knee over my hip bringing her body over mine and
asks again, “How?”

Mounds of flesh with creamy and erect nipples scrape my chest as she
pulls me up by my shoulders. Whatever she wants to know is forgotten.
I appreciate that. I appreciate her thighs squeezing mine. She wants
me inside. She tells me so with a slightly aggressive moan that ends
in my mouth.

Roughly. We move that way as I penetrate her again, this time with the
erection that she’s called back to life.

“Tell me…,” she stammers as she wraps her arms around my shoulders,
“what it feel like inside of me?” Her palms rub my back and she kisses
my jaw line, asking for an answer to her question.

I thrust upward, pulling her lower body closer to mine. Slow and even
moves that enable me to enjoy her depths, rather than rush to an end.
This time it’s about her pleasure. It’s about her hitting the peak of
satisfaction because of me.

“It feels like home,” I moan clutching strands of hair at her back as
she rocks her hips softly.

“Home,” she cries falling over my shoulder.

“Yes, home…” I repeat for lack of anything better. Home is where you
go and you’re always welcome. “Home baby, home. Oh god woman.” I yank
her hair in sweet agony.

Marlena bites down, licking and sucking my shoulder. She moves
rhythmically in perfect harmony with my controlled movements. But I
feel something lacking in our lovemaking. The connection that rests in
her eyes.

“Baby, look at me.” There is nothing to lean against for steadiness.
No wall or chair, only us joined and thrusting at each other. “Look at
me so that I can see you.”

She lifts her face slowly to mine. “Oh honey…” She whimpers
clutching me tighter, “what am I going to do with you?”

“Love me,” I strangle out kissing her after she finally opens her eyes.

“I do love you.”

“Show me.”

Unexpectedly, she instructs me to lean backward. I follow her orders
propping up on my elbows to watch her tale control. She eyes me with
determination. Ready to provide me with the evidence I asked for.

Marlena shivers at the slightest touch. Swallowing, I take the sight
of her in. Her firm belly clenches with every thrust. Full, round
breasts splayed in front of me moving with her slow, tantalizing
motions. Marlena’s mouth falls open and she tilts her neck backwards.
Her own hands moving across her flesh is sexier than when I touch her.
She squeezes her breasts, peering lustily into my eyes.

Slow thrusting drives her mad with passion; it drives me even crazier.
I’m holding back. I’m bracing for the moment when I take control back.

I have to take my mind off wanting to drive myself into her. So I ask
her a question. “What does it feel like when I’m inside of you,” I ask
reaching between us to brush her swollen sex. “Tell me what I feel
like.”

She is unable to put together a sentence. “Hmm….I..oh honey.” Her
hips rise and fall quicker as I circle a finger slowly around the
hooded button. “Honey….honey…”

“Shhh….take your time,” I advise griping her hips to slow her.

“John,” she cries trying to move harder and faster against me. “I
can’t stop….don’t stop.”

“Baby, tell me,” I whisper against her chin, dipping my tongue between
the cleft dividing her chin. “I want to know.”

She closes her eyes thoughtfully. “When you’re inside me,” she
clutches her thighs together, “I don’t feel empty anymore.”
A tear trickles past the closed eyelids. “I feel free and uninhibited
by anything. I feel love like I’ve never had before.”

I take advantage of her reflective moment and roll our bodies so that
I’m on top of her. Marlena’s eyes open and she spreads her legs to me.
Wide and uninhabited, the way she said. A sad whimper follows me
pulling myself from her body, so I travel slowly down her stomach with
my mouth. The sight before my eyes is heady. All of her, pink and
glistening, open and writhing inches from my face. Instead of talking,
I caress and worship the rose bud that brought forth those babies we
love so much.

She opens the valley wider to accommodate the kisses along her thighs.
Thrusting forward so that I can touch the place that she wants filled.
I don’t. I tease with blowing and kisses, even as she threads her
fingers through my hair and urges me toward the apex of her thighs.
She whimpers to touch her. My penis tightens with every squirm. I cave
in, press a small kiss at her center, and crawl back up her body.

Marlena smiles when I nestle back between the cradle of her thighs.
Her back arches forward as she wraps her legs above my rear. Hot and
anchored together, I brush my lips tenderly over her eyelids and nose.
The gentleness is more intimate. Loving stroking instead of harsh
digging. It all meshes into love but this languid roaming of our hands
swells my erection within her.

“John, I can’t wait…” her lower body thrusts up, “I can’t….please
make love with me.” She cups my rear and pulls me deeper.
“Now…baby…”

All the teasing and touching have built up to this. I began moving
against her, climbing the mountain to a climax. I thrust in and out
slowly at first, quickening my hips when she moans in satisfaction.
Leaving kisses that turn into red welts along her neck for every time
that she’s said that we’re over, my scent and marks of possession
drench her skin.

“Do you want me to stop loving you,” I ask, drunk on the ecstasy of
her gasps and whimpers. She shakes her head from side to side, raking
her fingernails across my rear. “No,” I stop pumping, “I mean do you
want me to let you go?” I clarify.

“John,” she cries softly, leaning up for a kiss that I don’t provide. “John…”

I thrust into her and slide back out slowly. “You don’t ever want to
be with me like this again?”

“John…” She shakes her head and watches me lower my mouth to her
breasts. “I want you.”

Her hips respond to the soft nipping of my teeth, pausing only when I
pull away from her heaving chest.

“You have me.” I remind her feeling myself stretching her walls as I
move in and out of her body. “Do you want me to give up?”

She shakes her head.

“What about Reese?”

Marlena pauses, kissing my chin. “Don’t do this…just make love.
We’re so close,” she moans. “Just keep doing what you’re doing.”

“They can’t have you because you belong to me.”

“I know,” she mumbles turning away from me in agony.

“You can’t have them and me. It’s all or nothing.”

“Ohhh….baby shut up,” she groans closing her mouth over mine.

The floor has no give, which helps me dig harder when she asks for
more pressure. Stretched out under me, I revel in her body and the
pleasure that it brings me. And I mean what I say, and I say so again.
I make her beg me to finish her off just when she’s at the edge. I
remind her that it’s me inside her, and I’m the man she’s begging to
finish what we started together.

Writhing uncontrollably, she clenches her thighs with me moving
restlessly between them. She calls my name repeatedly as she shatters
beneath me. It does something to me knowing that I can make her climax
with my only shaft finding the elusive spot that is making her quiver.

“You didn’t finish,” she says panting as she tries to collect her breath.

“No, I was taking care of you.”

Her smile falls when I pull out of her, her face wrenching.

“Still in pain,” I climb off her, stretching out beside her.

“It’s good pain,” she assures me, running her fingers through her hair
languidly. The other hand examines her neck. “Why do I feel like I’ve
been stung by bees?”

“That’s the first I’ve heard that one.”

“I’m sleepy,” she yawns, lying against me, “and delirious from sex and
sleep deprivation.”

“Mommy.”

We lift our eyes to Nicholas standing over our heads. She sighs
happily, kissing me before she gets up. “How could I ever forget your
house full of babies,” she says sarcastically cupping her forehead.
“Hi baby…” her voice trails off as she scoops Nicky up and walks out
of the bathroom.

Chapter 46 (NC-17)

“Don’t ruin the present with the ruined past.”
-Ellen Gilchrist

[Dr. Ashton]

In choosing my profession, I went into it believing that my heart
should play an important part in my work. I believed that my greater
purpose was to give sight to the blind, heal the lame, and bring life
where there is death; except I’m not the Savior—I don’t want to be.

I take my job seriously. I spend precious minutes documenting cases
and reasoning solutions by looking at all dimensions of the problem.
That is why I am the best in my field. I have a need to be great; I
have an inexplicable need to save lost souls. I have yet to lose. My
success stories include abusive men being welcomed back into their
relationships; welcomed back to their homes and with their children.
I’ve put marriages back together stitch by stitch. I have helped wives
who swore they would never forgive transgressions and violence to
change their minds. I’ve helped husbands find solutions to their
anger, making their lives meaningful through self-awareness.

This is why I come to my office every day, listening to other people’s
lives. Neglecting my own. Forgetting my problems. Focusing on what I
can do for my patients.

I have immense pride in those accomplishments, in my goals.

But this case is more convoluted than either party knows, or
recognizes; this mysterious John Black.

I’d patted myself on the back after our last session. It was such a
breakthrough for him. I started planting the seeds of awareness,
seeing them take root as we spoke about the relationship between him
and his wife. I explained that he had to learn to see himself
separately from her, outside of their relationship. I’ve expressed
countless times that I don’t think they should continue their sexual
relationship until other issues have been settled.

But there will always be setbacks. The phone call and now he’s sitting
across from me with what I’d label as a self-satisfied smile, as he
describes the sexual encounters that he’s had with his wife.

I care enough not to hold back my opinions; that is why he pays me so
well. “I thought we decided that you would abstain from pursuing any
physical comfort from your wife,” I remind him, pulling my notepad to
my lap to scribble quick notes. “We’d discussed letting things settle
between you two so that you could focus on what you need to do to
heal.”

He shrugs; I believe it’s truly confusion lifting his broad shoulders
back and forth. He just doesn’t know how to disconnect from a long
held, intense bond; that kind of bond can have both negative and
positive effects on any relationship.

“Well, tell me what led to the encounter,” I encourage, catching his
retreating eyes before they fall to the beige carpet underfoot. The
wedding band on his finger serves as a perfect distraction. I have to
ask him about it later.

“I didn’t initiate sex,” he tells me cupping his knee after crossing
his leg. “You’d be proud of me. I turned her down. That never
happens.”

“So it was her choice to cross the boundaries that she set? What was
your reaction? What were you thinking when she was initiating an act
that you apparently didn’t want to go through with?”

He has a thoughtful face. One that softens whenever he thinks of his
wife in a loving light. From the picture that he paints, she seems to
be a conundrum. For a psychiatrist, she participates in dangerous
emotional games. I keep that observation to myself.

“I didn’t turn her down because I didn’t want her; I always want her,”
he admits sheepishly. “You have to understand this…I have no willpower
where Marlena Evans Black is concerned. And to be honest, I’m
desperate for her to give me any part of her.” He looks up bravely,
cobalt clear eyes bearing into me. “I miss her. I miss being that guy
in her life. I know you think it’s a bad thing.”

“I didn’t say that.” It isn’t healthy but I’ve grasped that love
doesn’t always have to be healthy to be positive. “I believe you and
she share a connection that many would envy…” And some would run away
from.

“I don’t think so.” John shakes his head. A gesture that reminds me of
the teenage boys I avoided in high school. I’ve always been worried
about complicated as opposed to simple; simple is safe, complicated
frightens people away. “It’s a complicated connection that’s been the
source of so much pain.” The lines in his face move swiftly into
aggressive curves. “I love the hell out of her. Hell, being the
operative word.”

When he allows anger to push through his emotions, I can’t reach the
sensitive part that listens to compelling advice. This man has many
dimensions, layers that just have begun to appear. I allow him to fill
in the blanks without assuming; I don’t assume with him because he’s
the antithesis of any batterer I’ve encountered.

He is a different man when he’s under the sexual prowess of his
beloved Marlena. He’s careful not to criticize and assigns a more
nurturing role toward her, until the issue of infidelity is broached,
then the angry mannerisms return and he remembers that she was
disloyal to their intense connection.

I want to dig into the complexities of his wife initiating sex after
distancing herself and their children from him. I want to understand
how they go from zero to one-hundred degrees within weeks. I also want
to name this disease they suffer from. A disease whose affliction is
love and torment, the salve, yet to be determined.

“She initiated…” I prompt, using my hand to illustrate a gear crank,
pulling details from him. He isn’t usually so closed mouthed about
her. Something has shifted within him; there is a glimmer of hope
behind his cool glare. He believes that her sexual forgiveness is a
door, a small chance of reconciliation. I try to dissuade that type of
thinking. The sexual initiation is only a temporary stay of his
execution. She will shut him out again. Only, I’m not certain because
this couple doesn’t follow any guidelines or rules of other couples.

He whispers her name and the love and adoration that he feels for her
colors his cheeks adding a healthy sheen to his eyes. He loves her;
and I’d presume to say that she loves him as well. What I can’t say is
why she didn’t stop their problems, cutting them off at the pass
before they twisted into the destructive battering phase, as minimal
as it has been—it is still significant.

“My wife…” He shakes his head again, seemingly as a way to erase her
image from his head. He closes his eyes, hiding them behind his thick
lashes. “I know you’re confused. Hell, I’m confused. I don’t …”

“What are you holding inside,” I ask recognizing the tactics of
avoidance. His unusual stammering coupled with a retreating of his
eyes again.

“I think she’s jealous of you.”

I nod knowingly. “The phone call? “

He says yes, exhaling with a smile. “She keeps giving me the keys to
my freedom, but I’m still living in her cage. You know?”

I return that smile because I do. Because I know my species better
than I know the inner workings of batterers. She’s jealous in spite of
herself. And that’s the most destructive jealousy to dwell in.

“I’m sorry about that. I didn’t mean to cause her any anxiety.”

“She shouldn’t have answered my phone. She never used to do that before.”

Before is an interesting tangible word. It piques my interest; it
divides their life. One that worked before and now one that does not.
“When you say before, what does that timeline consist of?”

“Before,” he leans back pensively, “we imploded.” An honest laugh
follows that rather sad description. “We never have been a couple that
sails smoothly. No matter how far we come, it seems we still have so
much ground to cover. It stays fragile.”

“So before in your interpretation consists of any time that wasn’t chaotic?”

“We have three coping conditions.” He shows me three fingers with
hairy knuckles. “Love. Sex. Chaos.”

“In that order?”

“It’s confusing.”

“Let’s work through it,” I prompt gently. I’ve resisted talking
directly about his marriage or his wife, especially about what caused
their separation. My job is to help him change his behavior so that
the violent nature of his anger will retreat in the face of
confrontation. But everything comes right back to her, regardless of
where they are in their connection. “John, I want you to talk to me
about that night specifically. What lead to this encounter?”

“Marlena does things without realizing them,” he begins tapping away
at his knee, “and it used to infuriate me. When I said before, I meant
a time when there were bumps but we never turned away from each other
like we have recently.”

I impulsively ask, “What’s changed?”

“Nicholas Ethan Black and Juliana Nicole Black.” He speaks of them
with the same love and gentleness that he does about his wife. “It’s
not that they changed us for the worse, they haven’t. They were both
wonderful gifts that we never imagined having this late in the game.
We were supposed to be living in our golden years, or damn near close
with our grandkids crawling over us on the front porch of some large
summer house.” His chuckle is endearing. This is a man who loves his
family; it pours out of him. “We were happily, nauseatingly happy.
Like I said, we had bumpy spots but a relatively seamless road. I knew
that when I came home she would be there and she knew that was true of
me. After Nicky…”

Children do change the boundaries of a relationship. In some cases of
batterers, children serve as a factor in triggering partner isolation.
A mother becomes a devoted caregiver to her child, neglecting the
relationship she’d nurtured with her partner to build one with her
child. Some husbands are threatened by that. I wouldn’t categorize
John as a jealous father, but I could be wrong. He could be
unconsciously jealous of his young, dependent children.

“Having children can certainly strain a relationship.”

“It wasn’t having children. We’ve had children together; we started
out as parents. Without all the confusion of how or why, we have a
daughter, Carrie. A child that came from what I thought was my first
marriage, and then our children. The twins, Brady, and Belle. We’ve
never been alone in our marriage.” I’m confused and must appear so
because he shakes his head laughing. “It’s not as complicated as it
sounds, but the point is that Nicholas and Jules changed her in some
inexplicable way. I see little sparks of her, the old her, when we’re
in bed or she’s doing some mundane thing that I’ve seen her do a
thousand times. But more often than not, she’s a version of herself
that she thinks she has to be. She never used to think about being,
she was just herself.”

“Maybe you thought she was and that’s never how she saw it,” I suggest
writing down his assessment. A large part of his problem is assuming
that he knows her better than she knows herself. “John, we can’t
assume that we know people even if we think we’ve seen every side.
There are a hundred more than those sides. We are still mysteries to
ourselves.”

“Not Marlena,” he disagrees emphatically, but quietly. “I know her.”

“You think you know her and that’s probably why you react so strongly
when she isn’t that version of Marlena.”

“You’re the expert,” he relents, tapping his knee nervously.

“I am, and you still haven’t told me what I’ve asked,” I remind him.
“You said that Marlena never answered your phone before.”

“She didn’t. We trusted each other.” Trust is a big deal for him. He
doesn’t throw the word around lightly. “But when she picked it up and
heard you asking for me, I think it reminded her that it was possible
for me to move on.”

“The way she’s been asking you to do?”

“She doesn’t mean that,” he grumbles, breathing harshly.

I allow him to have that assessment. “So she heard my voice, does she
generally respond with this kind of vigor.”

“It wasn’t like she heard your voice and jumped me in the hallway,” he
chuckles, disarming me with his intrusive staring. He’s very frank
about sexuality. “Our foreplay is buildup; it’s step by step for hours
or in this case days. She doesn’t come out and say I want to make
love. She can be open about wanting me. She’s never been shy about
that.”

I jot down sexual games quickly. “A buildup? Explain that to me.”

“She tells me to move on, asks me to let her go. The next minute her
tongue is inside my mouth, her hand inside my pants…and we’re lost.”

“Lust?” I suggest kindly.

“Love and healthy lust. She’s been trying to drop hints about dating
other men. She thinks giving me permission to date is enough to free
her of the guilt she’ll feel dating other men.”

“But you’re not dating anyone…and you have no plans to do so, correct?”

He looks as if I’ve slapped him. “I’ve been telling you from day one
that my goal is to get my wife back. She can say all this bullshit
about dating but I’m not buying it.”

The tiger roars to life in his firmness. “That bothers you.”

“Of course it bothers me,” he adds curtly. “It should bother me.
That’s my wife; she’s the mother of my children and the head of our
family. I’ve told you this so many times—she is a part of me. I feel
her inside. I know her the way she smells and laughs. I know what kind
of mood she’s in by looking into her eyes. I know that she loves my
children and would do anything that they asked of her. I know that she
loves me.” Affirmations pour beautifully from his mouth, so easily
without thinking that I know there is total truth in his words. “There
isn’t another soul on Earth I know in that way. You may think I’m
assuming, or being possessive but I know her. I own her—mind, body,
and soul.”

It’s the first time a patient has rendered me speechless. Such
powerful, beautiful language makes me emotional and wish inside that a
man would sit in a chair across from anyone and say the same of me.

“Ashton, she’s my everything. I can’t give that up. You keep telling
me to hold back what I want to give her. That feels unnatural to me,”
he continues in a voice ripe with emotion. It unnerves a woman to see
a man on the verge of tears. Batterers are supposed to be strong, but
I know that inside they are sometimes soft versions of the angry man
they haven’t parted with. “When she tells me to move on, I want to
breakdown. I want to…”

My voice strains through, “Hurt her?”

“Yes, hurt her.” It’s obvious that it pains him to admit it to me.
It’s a sign of progress that he can admit that he has the capacity to
hurt her. “I hate admitting that I want to do that.”

“I can tell how much,” I tell him sympathetically. The mood has
quickly changed from playful to solemn. “I swore to her that I would
never hurt her again.” He shrugs sadly. “We all say that, don’t we?
Promise never to hurt them again.”

I nod slowly. “But some of them mean it, and I believe you believe
yourself when you say so. I don’t think you intentionally would batter
her.” I use action words that batter because he has to self-identify
with that part of himself. “We both know that you have batterer urges,
it’s all in how you deal with them. You have to know your triggers.
Recovery starts with awareness.”

“I’m aware,” he admits, scratching his chest, “that I’ve done horrible
things to her. And usually I blame her.”

We’ve discussed his responsibility in the battery. He courageously
owns up to his part in the cycle but I’ve never told him that she
plays a part as well, maybe the most volatile.

“There are two players in this cycle. I’m concerned for the part you
play here. I’m proud of how well you‘re reconciling yourself to that
unwanted part of your psyche. It’s progress.” He’s worked hard at
this, but I feel that he’ll backslide with his wife’s interference.
“As far as your wife, there is still work to be done but I can’t work
with her. The only way I can help you is to point out things that you
may not want to hear about her.”

“Like,” he asks leaning forward with pointed eyebrows.

“Well, tell me what part she plays. If you are the angry part, who is she?’
“The victim.”

I nod, but wait until he realizes there is more to that answer.

“The unhappy participant,” he asks.

“The person who still needs you, even if it’s as her batterer.”

He sucks in a harsh tuft of air. “You’re not saying that Marlena asked to be…”

“We all play roles in our life, actively or non-actively. I would
never suggest that she wants to be struck or shoved, or belittled and
yelled at; I don’t think any person walks into a situation hoping to
be battered.”

“You’re saying that she knew what was coming, that she provoked me?”

“I’m giving you all the information I have on what happens and why she
keeps coming back. You’re paying attention. You’re loving her through
the hurtful words and actions, in her mind, she is probably accepting
of all of it because it keeps you close to her. It’s the same with
your physical relationship. She asks you to release her from this
relationship, but continues to allow you to take intimate liberties
with her body. I’m assuming that she’s not a promiscuous woman who has
multiple partners.”

“No,” he says firmly.

“Then why do you think that she initiated sex?”

“She still has a strong attraction to me.”

“That’s possible, but even more than your sexual attraction she is
afraid of losing what you all have as much as you.” I give him a
minute to absorb that idea before continuing. Believing that he will
understand why it is that their sexual dalliance is a negative step in
his recovery. “She is probably still in love with you, and has no way
to truly say goodbye without saying goodbye to herself,” I assure him.
“Marlena is a woman, women don’t have sex unless they are feeling
connected to that person.”

“I don’t worry about her love. We express love so well in bed. She
tells me how much she needs and loves me when I’m with her.”

“When you’re having sex?”
“Especially when we’re having sex.”

“John, the danger in that is the toying that she’s doing with your
feelings. She has to know how dangerous it is to ask you to remove
yourself from the circle that you all have built around each other
only to go back on her instructions to connect on a deeply sexual
level.”
“She can’t help herself. She loves me in spite of herself.”

“Love is not sex, John. Love is deeper than the act of sex.”

“Sex enhances love,” he reasons relaxing. “Sex is our truth. If she
didn’t want me, than she wouldn’t give herself to me, would she?”

“She could numb herself to dealing with the emotions involved in sex.”

“That’s not our problem. She’s always very involved with our
lovemaking. It’s an impulsive act. We can’t get enough of each other.
We can’t deny each other.”

“That’s unhealthy,” I say simply. “You might need a sex therapist.”

“No,” he laughs.

“I said that in all sincerity.”

“I know Ashton. If it’s an addiction then I don’t want to be cured of
it. I love being with her that way.”

“Because you don’t have to deal with real emotions. Mechanical acts of
communication are inauthentic.”

“It’s the most truthful way of communicating.”

I’m losing that argument. “Let’s discuss triggers. Tell me what makes
you angry enough to hurt her, besides her pushing you away.”

It doesn’t take him long to list his grievances. He doesn’t hesitate
naming them. “Marlena’s greatest crime against our marriage is
betrayal. That slices through me deeply because of this we’ve built
this unit that the world is not supposed to be able to penetrate, and
she allowed someone into our inner circle.”

“The ex-husband?”

“That tore me up, but it didn’t make me angry enough to leave her.”

I remember then, by the angry tilt of his chin and narrowed eyes that
it was her doctor. “The therapist.”

“That bastard turned Marlena into someone that I was mad at. I could
yell and be angry at her…” He cringes at the strength of his own
words. “I was very hurt by his intrusion into our marriage. It killed
me when I saw her with him. I can take the idea of her being with
someone else; I take it hard, but I take it. With him, I saw the
picture. That stayed burned in my mind for an entire year. I had
nightmares about her being on top of him.”
“I’m sorry that it hurt you so much,” I offer kindly. He deserves
someone to tell him that. “It must have been extremely hard for you to
leave her.”

“I don’t know that I thought about it. I just knew that if I had
stayed with her then we would both be dead. I still can’t accept that
betrayal.”

“You don’t have to accept it, but you do have to live with it.”

“I do?”

“Either live with it or die for it.”

“Those are the only options, huh?” He smiles.

“I want you to try and tell me why you think…”

“It wasn’t her,” he says quickly. The idea of her being inappropriate
is foreign to him.

“Partially her,” I tell him.

“No, you have to understand what state of mind she was in before we
started going to that bastard. He tricked her; I don’t think it was
Marlena’s fault, even though I threw all of the blame on her. It took
two but my relationship was with my wife, I couldn’t confront him, and
haven’t.”

“That’s probably best. It’s finished.”

“I hope it is.”

I look up and realize that our time is up, but I have so many other
things to discuss that I scribble quick notes for our next session.

“I want you to do something. We can call it your homework,” I say
cheerfully. “I want you to commit to not having sex with your wife,
even if she tries to initiate.”

“Ashton…”

“John, I want you to be sure that you want to be with her because you
want her, and not simply because you’re lusting after her. I want you
to learn to tell the difference between those two ideas. I don’t want
sex to be your only way of communication.”

He nods sliently.

Chapter 47- Part 1

“When a woman is talking to you, listen to what she says with her eyes”
–Victor Hugo

This child of mine, one Nicholas Ethan Black, who I often think of as
my unexpected blessing in a storm that nearly destroyed my life, is my
testament to overcoming any obstacle. A living testament combined with
the makings of John and I. The physical likeness that he shares with
his father has astounded me to silence when I take time and became
aware of what and who these children are in our lives. Of how they
came to exist and what destiny they’re fulfilling.

I would’ve counted my eggs out before Nicky, in fact I had. The
miscarriage didn’t help. I never believed my body stood a chance with
life anymore. And that’s when it happened. I had become so careless
that pregnancy never entered my mind on a conscious level. As an older
woman, I was complacent in my responsibility to protect myself. I
dared myself to tempt fate and forget all about contraceptives and
babies. Amazing that I not only have one baby, but two as proof that
life is always right, confusing and shaky as it is, it is always
cemented in rightness.

I was slow to recognize the power in knowing that life unfolds around
us. Nicky’s conception was a miracle. After losing a baby so
tragically, to be given that gift again is astounding. To see Nicholas
now, living life with him hugging every corner is all the reason I
need. It made such little sense when I learned of Nicholas inside of
me. I was terrified of the audacity in being pregnant, at thumbing my
nose at fate. Once can lose their grip of reality in audaciousness. I
certainly did.

Two years later, I’m just getting around to marveling at the majestic
nature having Nicholas. This very little, determined piece of John
Black. I know that John never cared whether we had a little boy or
not, but I suspect every man would love to have a son to carry him
into mortality. Not to discount Brady from carrying on John’s legacy,
I don’t. I could also never discredit Belle’s rightful place in that
Black legacy. But Nicky is something altogether different. He’s the
little boy I always wanted to give John, or more sensibly, that he
gave to me.

I saw Nicky in John’s eyes before we ever held him in our arms. I
envisioned a little boy with John’s handsome face, charming
personality, and sense of family. I had Nicholas living in my
imagination before his father left him inside my womb. That’s the
intensity that hits my throat sometimes, choking me up. I don’t cry
out of misguided pride or arrogance; I cry because John finally sees
exactly what I’d always been hoping for.

It’s the subtle quiet hope that you can’t voice for fear that it won’t
come true. It’s true, I hoped for John’s son. I’d already seen what
his girls looked like. I wanted a little boy that he could teach
things to again. Through a little boy, I imaged that John could relive
the childhood that has dried up in his memory. Through our son, I knew
John would feel completely fulfilled.

In hindsight, this all makes sense. But you have to sit down and
examine yourself before you understand things. I have very little time
or heart to dissect the months that Nicky lived under my belly tucked
close to my heart. I was ecstatic about him. That will always be true,
even after my illness grew stronger, I believe I held onto some of
that unspeakable joy. I might have been saying and acting unhappy, but
I know I was happy. I remember being happy when I finally shared the
news with John. I remember anticipating the way he’d hold me during
the news. That’s what I choose to remember. The other part of me that
took control might not have wanted to see the happiness, but I could
never be upset about carrying life inside.

For some, his birth might seem to be a happenstance of life—I thought
so at one time, at first. But he has his place in this timeline of my
life. His existence should have always been perceived as the blessing
that it was and not a curse that clouded an already difficult life. It
wasn’t only hard for me; it was hard for Nicholas and John.

And allow myself three minutes every so often to dwell on what I did,
and how I could have ended my chance to know Nicholas. For those three
minutes, I say all the bad things I think about myself and cry until
my eyes hurt. But I stop at three and move on.

Moments linger though. They take hold of an idle mind and run away. I
know the brain retains trauma, locking it away in corners of the mind
to protect. I find that I watch Nicky at times to determine if he
remembers any of our darkest period in the recesses of some repressed
memory.

Just this morning, I wondered, hoping that it was my mind’s rendering
and not the truth, when Nicky shuddered awake in the grips of a
nightmare. The extent of his torment was apparent in the drenched hair
shining with sweat that trailed down his forehead, back, and arms.
He’d been lying curled away from me with the small of his back pressed
firmly to my hip. His sister was in her own bed sleeping. After having
a crying fit over not being allowed to go with Keema to Danielle’s
house, she’d fallen asleep sucking her thumb.

I sensed the turmoil even before I felt his body jerking. I saw a
vivid image of Nicky’s terror pounding unrepentantly against my
eyelids before our eyes opened simultaneously. Our arms circled each
other immediately. He was seeking comfort and my body heat, words, and
rocking fulfilled those needs. I lay him over my shoulder the way I
used to when he was a baby, rocking him as he moaned against my
shoulder. Sometimes, it takes that small gesture to reassure him that
his mother hasn’t disappeared in the realms of his dreams. His
thirty-six inch frame enveloped me as we twisted around each other in
the grey light of dawn.

Two-year olds don’t always have the language to express what they need
to tell you after terrifying ordeals in their sleep. I didn’t need to
know the details; his trembling body spoke them fluently. When I
lifted his face to kiss away his fear, he locked eyes with me and
silently communicated that just holding him was enough. The tears
tapered off gradually as his nightmare ran toward forgotten. Nicky
never said a word; he didn’t have to. My mind and heart understood as
I held him to me until he fell back to sleep.

Moments like those are when I feel the most unworthy. Instances with
Nicky that strike me harder than others because of the way I left him
alone in the world when he was born. The curtains peel back in my
conscious, showing me all the days that he spent being mothered by
nurses and his father while I lay unconscious down the hall. You know,
sickness has its limits as well as its excuses. The statute of
limitations has run out and I still have this open wound from that
time, widening in the vulnerable moments of motherhood like this
morning in bed.

Could a newborn know that his mother was too sick to mother him?
Regular people who know little of the mind’s capability to retain
answer that question negatively. The curse and blessing of my
profession is knowing otherwise. But I try to have less moments of
questioning how badly my emotional abandonment scarred Nicky. I’m able
to every so often take the power away from the unworthiness and admit
that a nightmare is just a nightmare.

His genes are chocked full of resilience and remarkableness; they are
etched through his blood and bones. Challenges have their place in
maturing; Nicky has had his share. He’s been asked to sacrifice more
than enough and yet he comes out charming, adorable, and untainted
through it all.

And then there are moments when I remember that no matter what he’s
been through, he is a little boy.

He’s frustrated. Gruff and heaving chest frustrated. Things that I’ve
seen John do so much that I can mimic them. Nicky’s not the only one
frustrated, we both are, unfortunately it’s with each other. The only
distress that we’re in now has nothing to do with illness or
nightmares, unless clothing has climbed into a higher echelon.

Nicholas Ethan Black believes that they have. He believes it to the
point of argument when he shakes his head, disagreeing with the green
Hulk shirt that I was sure would win him over. I pull the shirt from
the hanger and hold it up for his inspection. It is an obviously lost
battle by the scrunching eyebrows and wrinkled nose. Brown eyes
already moving along in the closet for a more suitable shirt. I
replace the green top and step out of his closet for a one-on-one.

With his freshly cut hair, he looks unmistakably like his father.
They’re in a tapered hair phase that is reminiscent of Roman emperors.
It happens to be my favorite look on John and Nicky. The haircut opens
up his face, brightening his eyes and other handsome features that he
shares with John. That mouth and chin. A nose that is a miniature
version of his daddy’s. Down to the fuzzy, unkempt eyebrows.

He stands with his feet wide apart, ready to argue his point. I stifle
showing the amusement shaking my head. His bargaining power is null
standing in Sponge Bob underpants. The sun has done its part to brown
his shoulders and legs, freshly tanned from our morning jaunt in the
pool.

Kneeling respectfully, I rest on my heels and place my finger along
the cleft in his chin. “Nicky, if you can’t choose something to wear
then I will do it for you,” I express very calmly with some semblance
of authority. We have been standing in the doorway of his closet for
more than five minutes. The idea that we’re still negotiating tickles
me enough not to be completely aggravating.

Nicky rests his hands on his hips, jutting out bony elbows. “No,
Mommy,” he argues, drawing his right hand toward his check, “Nicky
clothes.” He casts his wide hazel eyes over me. “Wanna pick for
Colton’s birfday party.”

“Then you need to choose honey,” I tell him gently, realizing how his
independence on this particular day is my fault. I believe in choices.
I’m the mother who allows thoughtful consideration for tantrums and
disagreeable attitudes, which has created the sternly concentrated
monster looking over my shoulder toward all the possibilities in his
closet.

“Colton’s going to have another birthday before we get there,” I smile
at him, checking my watch. “Come on baby, choose something.”

“Mommy.” Nicky rolls his eyes, folding his bony arms over his chest.
It’s early for the eye roll. My boys pick up things quickly; the girls
didn’t learn facial sarcasm until well after five.

I amend my tolerant face in honor of something sterner. “Nicholas,
don’t be disrespectful. I’m only trying to help you decide what you
would like to wear to Colton’s birthday party. It hurts Mommy’s
feelings when you’re disrespectful.”

He shrugs, narrowing his eyes as he glides them back toward my face.
“What dizzyspetful?” He wonders, twisting his face in puzzlement at
the word.

“This,” I unfold his arms, “and lifting your otherwise beautiful eyes
toward the ceiling to show that you’re not happy with Mommy.”

Nicky shrugs again, unconcerned by chastisement. He inches back to get
a wider view of his closet. “I want Daddy’s help,” he decides looking
further confused and exasperated by the situation.

“Your Daddy isn’t here at the moment,” I remind him standing to go
back into the closet. I pull out a grey t-shirt vividly displaying a
soccer ball. “You loved this last summer.”

Nicky frowns immediately, jutting his chin forward. “Daddy,” he pouts,
dropping on his behind and tilting his head sadly.

I replace the shirt back into the sea of colors and turn around to my
pouting child. “Nicky, I’m going to choose and you’re going to wear
what I choose or you’re going to stay home with Danielle and Keema.”

Nicky doesn’t hesitate to tell me, “No way, Mommy.” It’s a very Keema
expression that he’s picked up.

“Or you’re going to look through this closet full of clothes and pick
an outfit.” I’m not a heavy-handed parent and when I try to be, it
rarely works, especially with my youngest children. “Is that what you
want,” I offer Nicky firmly.

“Mummy,” Noodle screeches, sending panic through my body. “Mummy!”

Nicky blanches mirroring the panic in my face. We match strides out of
Nicky’s room, down the hall to the last place we left her playing. He
rounds the corner first, calling her name. Relief drains my panic when
I reach her door and find her sitting in the floor on her soft pink
Disney Princess rug in the middle of her floor. She’s still clutching
the dolls I left her mothering.

I kneel and hug her from behind.”Are you okay, honey?”

“Mummy,” she smiles, displaying none of the terror that screeching
induces. “Dwess.” Noodle drops her half-naked doll into my lap with a
dress slightly pulled to her hips.

Thoroughly exasperated by both of them, I speak softly into her hair,
“Where is your daddy?”

Nicky lifts his shoulder, taking my question seriously. He twists his
arm around to look at his Hulk watch. John and he decided that he
could manage when Daddy came and went with a cool watch with Hulk as
the clock’s face.

Sighing, I turn Noodle around. “You gave Mommy a bad scare, baby. I
thought you were hurt.”

Noodle lifts her palms, showing that she’s not injured in her limited
understanding of boo-boos and hurts. Kissing each hand, I carry her
and the doll to carry back into Nicky’s room to continue the clothing
battle with him while Noodle busies herself with making her doll
pretty on his bed.

Being the sweet natured girl and baby of the family, Noodle has no
qualms about what I clothing I choose, usually. There are days when
she’d like to be independent and dress herself. In those cases,
mismatched shoes and clothes ensue but she picks her battles astutely.
She generally argues over what bathing suit she would like to wear.
She is very particular about swimwear.

She won a battle to wear her beloved Ariel swimsuit for swimming
earlier with Nicky and me in preparation for Colton’s party at an
indoor water park. After being given the choice to choose another
bathing suit for the party, she was more than happy to put on her
yellow Osh Kosh B’gosh jean overall skirt with a white polo shirt with
daisies embroidered along her collar. She even sat quietly on while I
brushed her hair into two neat ponytails, something that she dislikes.

The battle with Nicky isn’t as easy. He’s been irritable about waiting
impatiently for his daddy to come over.

Dr. Danby and I observed that he generally behaves disagreeably after
his father goes home. Nicky acts out by defying anything I ask of him,
testing his limits. Dr. Danby believes that he also acts out with me
because in general it has been John that meted out time-outs. My son’s
assumption is that I would more than likely call his father to handle
the issue. And then he’d have his father back at our house.

It is a response to our situation, but a decidedly positive one. John
spends a generous amount of time with them here, because Nicky is more
comfortable with that. He clearly enjoys spending time under one roof.
He still has qualms about going to John’s, which would pose problems
if John weren’t being so accommodating to Nicky’s wishes.

It’s been a tight rope act, the balance between our tangled up roles.
I keep rolling the dice on him, shifting our circumstances and
positioning to make everything sensible and tidy. I like a tidy life
with little room for mess. That weekend I made him the lover again,
but now I only need the father. And he’s been relishing being that
with the kids without bringing up what happened between us. We’re
almost too good at avoiding things that don’t belong.

I suspect James and Andi want to see how John and I behave around each
other. It’s the only explanation I can find for John’s name being
included on the invitation to Colton’s birthday party. In hindsight,
it’ll be better for Nicky and Noodle to have a father there like the
other kids. Children notice differences. If I were only taking them,
then they’d be seen as the poor children of divorced parents. But
they’re divorced parents are amicably attached as friends. The fact
that Andi used her son’s birthday party as a ploy to put us under the
microscope only confirms what I already know about my meddlesome
neighbor.

Learning Andi’s quirks has been the easier part of our budding
friendship. John’s car has been here almost every day since the girl’s
night out. Andi’s not so indiscreet questions have been solely
centered on John and Reese. Women are inclined to live vicariously
through each other if their own lives leave a lot to be desired. She’s
stuck in a loveless marriage. To quote her, “a draining, empty
partnership with small joys.” She seeks fulfillment in work and
affairs. We aren’t so different, she assures me. We aren’t exactly the
same either.

Love is draining, but it’s supposed to be a good draining. Days should
be filled with giving and getting love so much that it exhausts you
enough to collapse in each other’s arms at the end of the day. Nights
should be spent exploring depths with each other.

I suspect that’s never been the case with the Landrys. They have all
of the passion, lusty and sensual but empty of emotion. It’s a sad
thing to have spent so much time with one person and still feel empty
in their presence.

That’s never been the case with John. I feel so many things with him
that it’s not possible to hold back anything. We have a static
connection that abides outside of our mistakes. I don’t make myself
yearn for John; it happens very easily. I make love to him and there’s
no guilt. I kiss him and I want to kiss him more. We have no control;
I understand why people are confused.

Andi sways between helping me move on and pushing me towards John.
She’s joined the brigade of people who think they know best for us.
And yet, she switches teams to remind me that Reese Scott is worth
becoming acquainted with. But it’s not her fault; she is swept up in
the romance and details that she’s swallowing whole. I’ve shown her
pictures of my life with John. She usually sighs at the way he looks
at me, the way we look at each other. I’ve shown her the ring that he
gave me when he proposed. She remarked that James has never been
thoughtful enough to purchase tokens of affection.

It saddens me that she doesn’t have what I have, even with all the
confusion. The night we had too many drinks and ended up in a taxi
together, she told me that James took advantage of her state and made
love to her. Her only disillusion is that she never lets him initiate
because it gives him too much power over her. She rations their
lovemaking and it’s taken a toll on the time they spend in bed.

When she asked me what happened, knowing that John was inside my house
waiting for me. I neglected the part where I seduced John after he
broke my phone. That’s the only part I did share with her. I told her
that I dropped it in the sink washing dishes; Reese believed that
story as well.

A new phone and three voicemails later, I finally was able to reach
Reese to apologize for my behavior. From what I recollect, I
definitely played up the fact that I had met an attractive guy that
night for John’s benefit. Reese didn’t enjoy being used but he
recovered easily from my rude behavior. He was worried about the way
our call ended, and I assured him that I dropped the phone and
promptly passed out, never mentioning all the other things that led up
to me passing out.

Alcohol lowers my inhibitions. I wasn’t making love to John because I
was turned on by Reese. John was convinced that I’d been aroused when
I came home because of Reese, but it was never about Reese. I remember
clearly, I wanted John. Even if the other details are cloudy, I know I
didn’t use John as a substitute for Reese. I have no idea if I’ll ever
stop being attracted to him but drinking makes the fight not to be a
lost cause.

I have one regret about that night. I do wish that I had never struck
John. I abhor violence and its effects on relationships. How can I use
that weapon against John when it’s what I’ve been using as the
reasoning behind our separation? John can fling my phone across many
rooms, but I’ll never strike him again. You don’t repay one
infringement with another. I don’t even have the words to use as
apology. I’m a hypocrite. Luckily, we’ve buried that slap and its
repercussions between the cracks separating us.

I actually went to lunch with Reese as a gesture of good will and
found myself having a better time than I wanted or expected. For
John’s sake, I wanted to remain uninterested. I didn’t want to tell
Reese about my children or myself. I didn’t want to tell him about my
past. I wanted to appear normal and with him, I had that for the time
that I sat across from him.

I was pleasantly surprised for not looking for the John in him. Beyond
dark hair and nice physiques, the similarities end. I’ve tried too
hard to mold others into John. My past is my past. I continually
recite that as prayer every time it gets hard to think that John is my
past. With someone new, and it doesn’t have to be Reese, I’m able to
leave behind miles of baggage. I’ll never be able that with John.

Regardless of all of those factors, he is going to be here whether
Reese or anyone else is here or not. And the children are happier
having that.

He swoops in to rescue me from the grips of Nicky’s clothing tantrum.
Smiling and looking cool and refreshed in jeans and a t-shirt. He’s
the only man I know who can pull off jeans on hot summer days and not
look like he’s trying to hard. I’ll give him this: he never has to try
to seem what he is or isn’t. Sexy, manly, loving, charismatic. Name
it; he oozes it naturally.

John lifts Nicky to his hip to give Nicky an eye level look at his
clothes. They touch a few shirts before Nicky decides on one that I
showed him at the beginning of our showdown. John puts him down and
pulls the t-shirt over his head. Nicky tugs the red and blue top over
his stomach, looking down to inspect the plain t-shirt.

“You sure make this seem easy,” I sigh, watching them from Nicky’s
bed. Noodle is squirming on my lap trying to avoid me fixing the
ponytail that went askew when she bear hugged John after he came in.
“Everything I chose was categorically denied with rolling eyes, I
might add.”

John grins at Nicky. “Father knows best,” he says helping Nicky into
the khaki shorts in his hand. “Isn’t that right, kid?” Nicky agrees
with a cheerful nod. “You look wonderful, by the way.” He eyes my
favorite, yellow maxi dress appreciatively. “Yellow has always been a
good color for your freckles,” he smirks. We differ on the value of
the brown dots riddling my body.

“I bet you tell that to all the mothers,” I smile letting Juliana down
from my lap.
The dress was a deliberate choice for the Colton’s birthday party.
Long, flowing material hides the slope of my curves under the plain
print. I readjust the thin straps digging into my shoulder to pull a
little more material over the swells of my breasts. Not for John’s
sake entirely, James has a propensity for gawking at the slightest
hint of cleavage.

John watches me modesty cover my cleavage, winking as he says, “Just
the mothers that I know really well.”

Noodle prances toward him lifting her skirt when she stops in front of
him. “Daddy begging suit…” she giggles, pulling her skirt above her
hips to wiggle her hips to shake the ruffles attached to her bottoms.
“Pwetty girl.”

John cups her hips to lift her over his head. “Pretty girl, what’s
with you flashing me all the time?” He brings her back to him,
nuzzling her neck until she bursts with peals of laughter. “That’s a
beautiful bathing suit, baby girl. You match with Mommy…does Mommy
have a beautiful bathing suit on under her dress?” he asks, wriggling
his brows.

I catch his eyes before they retreat from determining if I indeed am
hiding a bathing suit under my dress. We complement each other’s
flirtatious personalities, which are amplified after we’ve made love.
It isn’t an indication that we’ll fall into bed after the party. There
aren’t any indicators to determine if that will happen except being in
the same room. Knowing that, I am determined to practice restraint
today while I’m with him and the children so that I’m not swept away
in the safe comfort of our family.

“You just worry about what you have on under those jeans,” I advise teasingly.

He nods, ending our flirtation. “Who wants a ride?” he asks, hiking
Noodle and Nicky on both hips and walking out the room promising them
a sneak peek at Colton’s gift downstairs.

If I had known that the roller coaster of emotions I felt in high
school about first crushes lasted into middle age, I would have taken
all of my punches then. I would have learned early to hold on to my
powerful emotions and not give in so easily. I most certainly would
have learned to plant my feet firmly in front of me and not take such
giant leaps at love. Not give everything for love.

But I didn’t.

If I had, the sound of John’s cell phone wouldn’t make my heart thud
in my chest out of fearing who’s on the other line. I stop before I
reach the bottom of the stairs, listening for precious secrets. John
hangs up quickly with whomever it is, telling them that he’s with his
children.

Once your lover has a secret, it has no choice but blossoming into an
obsession. I’ve really wanted to know who Quinn Ashton is, ever since
I first heard that name. Evaluating my emotions from our night of
love, my actions came from fear. A healthy fear of John having a new
life and a new woman in his life. I’m woman enough to give him
permission to move on, but not woman enough to admit that I really
don’t want to see or know about her.

Ever since I heard her voice, saw her name with its own place in his
phone, I’ve been picturing what kind of face belongs to a girl like
that. Yes, a girl, not a woman. She didn’t sound like a woman. She’s
probably a cute little blonde with a body free of stretch marks and
none of the fat left from having his children in her womb.

Yes, I want him to be happy, but I don’t want him to be happy in my presence.

That’s selfish and defeating. It’s also honest and hard to swallow.

I know now that I seduced him to show me-us really, that I still have
that power over him. It’s unfair of me to do that sober or inebriated
but that doesn’t erase the fact that we made love. I fret over
thinking that he told her about that. I even worry that he hasn’t.

What I also wonder is, has he made love to her. I’m jealous of the
mere thought of it. It’s a healthy jealousy. I still have residual
jealousies when I see Roman with other women as the woman that shared
his life and gave him children. However, I don’t begrudge Roman his
happiness in the way that I find myself doing with John. I don’t share
that kind of connection with Roman. I don’t still want Roman the way I
want John.

John wanted to tell me about her, but I couldn’t face hearing it from
him. That vulnerable “do you want me to tell you” was enough for me to
know. I read that she means something significant to him. Rarely have
I been wrong when I’ve assumed in this capacity.

She means something; I wanted him to find that.

I owe him the chance to be happy with someone else, the way I asked
him to give me the same permission. But what we know is that in the
deepest corner of our hearts, the deepest recesses of our minds, we
can never fully appreciate what happiness with others means.

We’re not supposed to.

We do this happy scene. Normal mommy and daddy taking their babies to
a birthday party. How does that life match up with new people; it
doesn’t match. I don’t want it to.

I feel so strongly about that sitting beside him, watching as he does
things that I’ve seen him do so many times. The drumming of the
steering wheel under his blunt fingernail tips. The baseball station
at a low volume that he cranes his ears to hear. Chewing loudly on
gum.

This is the environment that I’m blending into well. And then my phone
rings. And the peace and happiness cease. My stomach starts
somersaulting after my first, innocent word, “Hello.”

It’s Dr. Shalit. “Hi. I hope this isn’t a bad time.”

I smile watching John, weakening as quickly as it came. I do evasive,
obvious things with my body involuntarily. Turning away. Lowering my
voice. Switching ears so that John can’t hear his voice.

“It’s not a great time. I’m taking the kids to a party,” I say biting
into my lip. I stop that as soon as John’s drumming fingertips snatch
my attention back toward him. He can read me just as well as I can
read him.”What can I do for you?”

“Mommy…Nicky bite dolly,” Noodle cries out, kicking the back of my
seat from her car seat.

John handles the situation with one firm word. “Nicholas.”

Nicky apologizes to his sister immediately. “Sorry Jules.”

“It is a bad time,” Dr. Shalit says sighing, probably recognizing
John’s distinct voice. “I’m sorry. This isn’t a social call. I should
have called your service but I wanted to refer a patient to you.”

Flattered, my smile gains some strength. It still matters that he
respects me as a colleague. “I can call you when I’m stationery to
discuss that. Maybe on Monday when I’m back in my office.”

“That would wonderful. I’m sorry to have disturbed you,” Dr. Shalit
says backing away easily.

“Good bye.”

His voice is actually jovial when he asks me, “Was that him?”

I make a concerted effort to halt the evasive motions controlling my
body. I fix an unusually wide grin across my mouth and shake my head.
“That was a business call. Him knows that I’m spending the day with
the children.”

Chapter 47- Part 2

John slides his hand up and down the peaks of his chest, a move that
has always turned me on. I wonder if he’s doing that to see if it
still works. “Does him know that you’re also spending the day with
me?”

“Who’s him Daddy,” Nicky interrupts our playful banter.

“Him…” Noodle repeats, never to be left out of anything.

“A patient of Mommy’s,” John answers, finding Nicky’s eyes in the
rearview mirror. “He’s really sick Nick.”

I tighten my mouth and look between the seats at Nicky eyeing John
curiously. “Daddy’s only kidding, honey. He’s a friend of Mommy’s.” I
don’t like to contradict John in front of them but I also haven’t come
up with the discussion about Mommy’s new friends. It’s a conversation
I don’t know how to have. When I was pining away for John while Belle
was Nicky’s age, there weren’t any male friends. I didn’t see anybody
but John. I was a desperate ex-lover who was grateful for the time he
found for me. I didn’t need to move on then. I never had to explain to
Belle the new man sitting across the table at dinner.

But it’s a new day. Mommy can’t pine away. I have to move on so that I
can allow him to move on. It’s a fantasy, I know.

“John,” I speak low to keep the two parrots in the backseat clueless,
“don’t bring them into this.” He laughs and I stop feeling charitable.
When we’re ready, when they’re ready we can try to explain things to
them. I’m not ready now.”

Nicky isn’t content to not be heard. From the moment his father
engaged him, he’s been chatting away trying to get our attention.
“Mommy, can Nicky have a lollypop?”

Noodle pipes up, “Wan ZaZa Mummy.”

“You two Tasmanian devils are like twins,” I say digging in my purse
for Noodle’s zip locked pacifier. “Nicky, I don’t have any lollipops.”

Noodle pumps her feet against my back through the seat. “Zaza.”

“Be nice,” John warns her without looking back. Daddy’s voice is
authority enough. She curtails the kicking and begging until I turn
around to put the pacifier between her eager lips. “You can’t go to a
big boy party with a binky in your mouth, Jules. Right, Nicky.”

Nicky is concerned with his own dilemma. “Why does Joy gets ZaZa? I
want lollipop.”

“I don’t have lollipops,” I say patting his knee. “Mommy doesn’t even
like you to have candy. You know that, honey.”

They’re never too young to learn the art of pitting one parent against
the other. “Nicky wants lollipop, Daddy.”

“Mommy’s rules Nicky.”

“You’re going to a party,” I remind him, “I know there will be plenty
of sugar highs for you to reach.”

“But…”

John intercedes, “Nick, Mommy explained to you already, didn’t she?”

I see him nodding out the corner of my eye and tell John so. Nicky
scoots back in his booster seat quietly defeated.

“I’m going to have to ask Keema if she’s Nicky’s candy pusher,” I
laugh, trying hard to keep it at bay while watching the dramatic pouty
face that Nicky is hoping wins him a piece of candy.

“We’ll be at the water park soon enough, son. Then you can go wild.”
He stops when I shoot him my best I-don’t-think-so look. “I’ll be with
you every step of the way.”

His face lights up, bringing a mischievous sparkle to his eyes.
“Goody, Daddy.” He rubs his hands together and lifts them above his
head.

“No big slides or inner tubes.” I warn gently.

“Cut the strings,” he says, mimicking scissors with his fingers. “The
boy needs some room to grow.”

“He can grow; I’d just like him to do it safely.”

After a few moments of silence, he senses an opening. He’s been
waiting for Nicky and Noodle to settle down to ask it. I know this
approach. “So, we’re calling him a business friend?”

Amusing but annoying the way he doesn’t use his name. “It wasn’t
Reese,” I tell him softly. “Don’t make assumptions. It was a business
call.”

“Honey, did you forget that I can read you like one of those
over-indulged psychic palm readers with bad floral perfume.”

We both chuckle at that description, remembering separately that we’ve
encountered one or two in our lives.

“Then you’ll know that it wasn’t Reese,” I say, refusing to call him
by some anonymous pronoun. “It was business.”

“You’ve never been evasive about business,” he tells me with a cocky grin.

“Evasive? In a car with you and those two,” I say, feeling trapped by
his accurate evaluation of my phone call with Dr. Shalit. I still
haven’t told him about having dinner with him. We’ve gotten pass many
things except the idea of me spending anytime with him. “It was a
private call.”

“Okay, I’m just saying in the future you can feel free to speak to
your boyfriend. I’m mature enough to handle that.”

Rolling my eyes at the absurdity of his options. I lost a phone to a
wall doing just what he’s just suggested.

“Mommy boyfriend,” Nicky asks, looking rightly puzzled by the idea.
Two-year-olds know the ins and outs of the boyfriend, girlfriend game.
Nicky’s crush on Keema is an indication of that. “Daddy you is…”

“Are,” I correct, glaring at John. “And no, Daddy isn’t Mommy’s
boyfriend. I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“You gots Daddy,” Nicky asserts logically. He slaps his head laughing.
“Daddy are Mommy’s boyfriend.”

“Is,” I correct him again.

“Mommy you says are,” he exhales, dropping his head back.

“Nicholas…in that instance are was incorrect.”

“So Daddy is boyfriend,” he asks, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Would you like to clear this up, Daddy?” I ask, lifting my eyebrow
dramatically at John.

“No, you can take this one.”

“Thank you,” I nod, turning around to my hopelessly adorable child.
“Daddy is your daddy, and that’s all we care about.”

Nicky agrees, looking as if any other answer would be treason.

When we arrive at the indoor water park, Andi makes a beeline for me
as John takes the kids to get them settled for some dry activities
while I help Andi stuff party favor bags.

“You’re up to no good,” I point out, wagging my finger at the cheerful
look on her face.

“My baby is growing up, it’s all for show. But you, my dear have much to spill.”

I shake my head, laughing at her quick wit. “Incorrigible.” It’s my
favorite description of her.

“I prefer inquisitive. Now talk… Reese Scott details, honey.”

“No details,” I say counting out pieces of candy that will undoubtedly
have Nicky climbing the walls. “We had lunch.”

“Does John know?” Andi asks, chomping at the bit for juicy tidbits.
“He’s been a staple in a certain someone’s house this week.”

I count out some loose pieces of candy and drop them into the Disney
Cars theme bag. “I don’t know how many times I have to keep reminding
you that his children live in that house.”

“And I keep saying,” she effects her stoic, lawyerly voice, “Andi,
she’s hiding something.”

I am hiding my privacy. There are things about my life that belong to
me and me alone. We finish off the bags as I continue to avoid her
questions with other little tasks. Andi heads off in one direction
with an activities director leaving me to my tasks. The trade-off is
now I have to contend with James’ gawking instead of Andi’s
questioning.

I’m finishing settling the gifts on one table when John appears with
Noodle in her bathing suit. He passes her off to me so that I can take
her into the wading pool for the smaller children. John takes Nicky
the way he promised me he would to the slides that Nicky is determined
to conquer.

Noodle clutches my leg as she moves through the ankle high water. Her
comfort level with water is very low. She’s digging into my calf to
stay above ground.

“Look at that, honey,” I say to distract her fear. The bottom of the
pool is painted with vivid flowers and animals. I crouch and stick my
finger into the water.

“Fower,” Noodle points out the lilies painted on the floor of the pool.

“It’s a pretty flower,” I say, trying to avoid the intrusive way that
James peers over the railing at me. He doesn’t even try to pretend.
I’m as covered up as I can be in a bathing suit. It’s a dark one piece
with little detailing and modest cutouts on the slender end of my
back.

He’s always watching in a distance. There is difference between
admiring or rather appreciating someone’s beauty. With James, it
always feels predatory and uncomfortable. Especially with my child
holding my hand, waddling innocently through the pool. It just feels
inappropriate.

“She’s as pretty as her mother,” he calls out loudly enough to rouse
people’s attention around us.

I drop my head, feeling the curious glances of the other mothers and
fathers in the pool burning into my skin. Feeling subconscious and
slightly irritated that he continues to make me feel that way without
my permission.

Noodle sees another flower that she shows me. “What’s that, baby girl?”

She walks closer to the pink butterfly underfoot. “Bubblfly.” She
mumbles through her pacifier.

“You’re so smart,” I tell her picking her up and wrapping her legs
around me. She lets me press light kisses into her hair, protecting
her from James’ unnerving attention the way I want John to do for me.
“Where is your Daddy,” I whisper, feeling like prey when James’ eyes
lock into us. “Let’s find Daddy and Nicky,” I say louder, for the
benefit of my admirer.

“That’s a great suit on that world-class ass,” James says discreetly
as I pass by with Noodle struggling to get down.

What do you say to that with a child present? I haven’t been in the
presence of a man with the power to make my skin crawl in so long that
the sensation unnerves me more than words and actions.

I feel him behind me, eyes burning into my back. Noodle insists on
toddling along the smooth pathways of the park on our search for John
and Nicky. She fusses, thrashing around until I relent and let her
down. She hits the ground running across the slick pavement.

I turn for a second, possibly not even as long as that when I turn
back to see her tumble face first a couple of feet ahead of me.

Jolted by her silence, I crouch near her to turn her over. Her
pacifier is still wedged in her mouth, stifling any note of noise or
aggravation. James crouches behind me, the awkward moments before are
forgotten as we check Noodle over.

“She can’t catch her breath,” James says as she blinks in terror,
trying to catch her breath.

James moves me aside. His pale arms work rapidly around Noodle while I
blank out and the sounds muffle around me. I see her lying there
struggling for air but my hands won’t work to clear the pacifier from
her mouth. Frozen in the terror, I eye James and Noodle remarkably
silent. A trickle of red to the graying atmosphere brings me back to
the moment, to my daughter squeezing her eyes shut.

James hovers over Noodle, whispering positive thoughts. He’s taken
ZaZa from her mouth, exposing the broken skin from the impact with the
ground and her teeth on the inside of her bottom lip. Her head starts
thrashing and he slides his hand beneath her back to blow in her face
to force her to cry.

“What the hell,” John yells breaking through the crowd that’s gathered
around us. “Why are you sitting there?” he asks me unkindly, plucking
Noodle from James.

Relief washes over me when I hear her crying.

“I’m sorry…” I tell him softly. He’s already on his feet with Noodle
pressed crying into his chest. “Is she okay?” I ask rubbing her back.

He pulls away from me when I try reaching for her. “Why were you
sitting there? She couldn’t breathe. I watched from the slide…we
ran…” he looks around wildly. “Where’s Nicky? I ran…”

“He’s here.” Andi has a firm grip on him behind me.

“My god,” John breathes out, taking strides to get away from the
crowds with Noodle tucked firmly against his chest.

“She’s bleeding,” I recall watching him comforting her. “Her mouth,” I
say helplessly holding my hands in front of me.

“Everything’s fine now,” Andi tells the crowd. She hands Colton and
Nicky off to James and takes my hand. “Come on…”

“Noodle…” I say quietly, feeling my body shiver.

“She’s fine,” she tells me sharply, “but you’re a mess. Come on.”

I contritely follow her to the bathroom, watching John and Noodle
interacting as I go. He’s rubbing her back and touching her hair. She
looks better than she did on the floor crying up at me.

“What happened?” Andi asks, handing me a paper towel once inside the
bathroom.”You froze up.”

“For just a second, I wasn’t there with her. I was just gone,” I admit
clinging to the wet paper towel in my hand. “But she’s okay…right?
She has a cut but she’s breathing.”

“She’s breathing. She has a cut…but she’ll be fine.” She pauses to
look me over. “Why did John flip out on you like that?”

Why does John do anything that he does? I did try to hurt his baby
when he was in my belly. He probably still thinks I’m culpable enough
to do that again.

“Honey?”

“He’s over protective,” I explain, shaking those old demons away.

“He launched after you,” she said, looking haunted, as if she’s
replaying it in her mind. “I’ve never seen him like that.”

“Finally, I’ve lost the glass slipper in your eyes,” I add
dramatically. “I want to go see my baby.”

“Okay…yeah,” she says watching me as I push through the doors. John
has Noodle waiting for me. He averts his eyes when he puts her into my
arms. Guilt and remorse have us both moving awkwardly.

“I overreacted,” he says emotionless. “I’m sorry about raising my
voice.” He sounds more contrite.

I don’t respond to his apology. Noodle has all of my attention.
“Mommy,” she cries reaching to wrap her arms around me. “Boo boo.” She
pulls her lip down to show me the broken skin.

“Oh baby, you were so brave. I’m proud of you.” She appreciates being
my brave baby girl. My reward is the weak smile that softens her face.
“Are you really all right, baby?”

Noodle bobs her head back and forth, throwing her arm out to make John
join our hug. You forget outbursts and loud voices in embraces that
remind you of why you have children. You have them because you loved
the person who gave them to you at one time.

Moments transgress and words arise that cut but he can smile, just
smile and I find compassion, yet again.

“I was afraid,” he says after we’ve sung happy birthday to Colton. We
are sitting at the picnic style tables.”I’m sorry that I was such a
bear. I saw her lying there and I reacted.”

“I know.” He tends to overreact and overprotect. It’s exactly why I
was seeking him out before Noodle fell. Sometimes I don’t mind having
it. “I froze,” I admit looking up at Noodle sitting on Andi’s lap
being fed cake.

“She’s fine.” He looks across the room at Noodle buoyant in all the
resiliency that children have. Her hands are covered with icing. Her
ponytails have gone wildly awry but for the moment she’s safe and
enjoying being a little girl.

“I know. I accept your apology.”

Nicky’s laughter from the other side of the room distracts me from the
serious words that we’re exchanging. He and Colton are huddled
together, telling secrets and sharing smiles. The other children
forgotten around them in the circle of their special friendship.

“It bothered me a little that James was…” his voice trails off, and
I look to see what has his attention. James. “He’s gawking again.”

That’s when I feel the most vulnerable, as if the eyes of every person
can see what John sees. Karen and her husband look vaguely interested
in what John and I are talking about but hide their eyes when we come
in contact. So do a few other people who were around when Noodle fell.

They’re human enough to wonder, as I would if I weren’t involved, why
and how John and I manage to come together so fragile. Wonder why his
truck comes and goes at my house as I continue to insist that we are
only friends.

“He’s not even trying to hide it,” John points out smiling at James.
“He wants you.”

“Lower your voice,” I insist quietly blushing. “I’m a little more than
over being the subject of gossip in my neighborhood.”

“It’s life. You’re a single, sexy woman. Men are going to stare; I
just never knew a man who did so with his wife sitting near him.”

Compliments like that make me blush self-consciously. A
positive-negative compliment awards you for being pretty by condemning
the behavior it brings out of others.

“James is an ego-maniac. I’m sure it has nothing to do with me. He
enjoys conquering.” I have read James’ personality with every
encounter we’ve had. My conclusions are always the same. He is
narcissistic and an asshole. “I don’t have any intention of being
conquered by him.”

John seems unsettled by my words. “What if you have no choice?”

“I always have a choice,” I remind him. “Contrary to what you believe,
I have self-will. I don’t open my legs to every man who asks.”

He looks affronted. “Why does that sound so defensive to me? Are you
trying to start an argument,” he asks with a grin that makes my blood
boil.

“No,” I say turning away. In the dining area where we are, there is no
room for arguments. Picnic tables lined up in neat rows occupied by
children and parents dissuade the kind of talk that John thinks I want
to have.

He aligns against me, his chest touching my back to whisper behind my
ear. He squeezes his my hips and behind between his strong thighs,
lying a hand on my hip.

“What are you doing?” I ask suspiciously as he bends to kiss my
exposed shoulders.
“Making James jealous. Is it working?”

I spin around quickly, landing dangerously close to his face. “Don’t do that…”

“People are watching,” he reminds me, never taking his eyes from mine,
“and they want to know what’s going on between us. Should I tell them
that we’re just friends?”

“We are. Maybe you should have brought your new friend,” I suggest
coyly, watching as his eyes glaze over.

His lips brush my nose as he talks. “I don’t fight fire with fire.”

I draw back slightly. The urge to kiss him is stronger than my
resistance. “Fire with fire?”

“Your friend…I know that was him on the phone.”

I shrug and realize how childish we both sound with our careless
words. “I’m not going to play this game with you.”

“What game? I’m calling it how I see it.”

“You’re so jealous,” I tell him gently, not with the intention to
incite anger. I’m aware that of course I can make him angry to be
reminded of that flawed trait.

“Has that ever been disputed?”

“We’re at a child’s birthday party,” I say, tiring of our verbal back
and forth. “This isn’t the place for this.”

“Just admit it.”

“It wasn’t him,” I say.

“Marlena…you don’t have…”

“John, it wasn’t him,” I mouth slowly.

“Then why the secrecy.” He clicks his tongue against the roof of his
mouth. “I don’t know why I even care.”

“Then let’s drop it,” I plead turning away again.

“You’re hiding something,” he breathes behind me. “Why?”

It’s agitating to be easily read. It’s also disarming to feel the need
to hide things from him. We’re not supposed—I use that a lot because
I’m always thinking in terms of idealizing. But people are human. I
should be able to tell him who it was without feeling guilty. Guilty
people do guilty things but I’ve done nothing wrong.

“I just know that you won’t be happy if I say who it really was.”

He turns me by my shoulders to face him.

I continue to ramble. “You have a tendency to believe I’m not capable
of distinguishing things and I get very upset at that. I don’t have to
hide anything from you. I shouldn’t have to. We’re supposed to be a
support system, even as friends—especially as friends. But when I do
things that you don’t approve of, you take all of your confidence in
me away. You take your friendship back.”

“Marlena,” he tilts my chin. The intense way he sees me sends a shiver
throughout my entire body. “Don’t hide from me.”

“I’m not…I know what I’m doing…”

He moves closer.

“I do…I know…is…” I pause to control my stammering.

“Marlena.”

“Just trust me,” I ask in a small voice.

“It’s him,” he says slowly, realizing the enormity of his words.

I know the him in John’s realization. I nod and wait for his reaction.

It doesn’t come. Not then. Nicky breaks into the bubble that we’ve
formed around ourselves, asking his father to take him to the
bathroom.

Andi notices the sudden heaviness between us and tries her hardest to
get me to open up before I get the kids ready to leave. I shrug her
off. It’s too dynamic to have a small conversation over. It’s the very
thing that broke our relationship apart. I can’t discuss it in a water
park surrounded by strangers.

When we’re in the privacy of my home again, I tell him very
sadly,”Your silence is unnerving.”

[John]
My silence is golden and safe. With it, I hold the ability to control
the situation and her. But it’s not what I want. This is when I learn
to accept it’s not about me; I try to anyway by repeating it under my
breath.

All of the advice and suggestions. All the techniques for keeping a
handle on my ego. My temper. My anger. All of Ashton’s hard work. In
the heat of the moment, the only technique I utilize to work doesn’t
push the truth away. The truth is more potent than any technique. We
keep coming back to that.

I look down at my son tugging on the hem of my shirt. “Daddy.”

He looks up smiling. He’s always smiling these days. I’m so conscious
of that because I missed when I made this smile disappear. And I’m
aware that he’s smiling because I’m here now. I kneel in front of him.
A smudge of ice cream remains on his chin from Colton’s party. His
mother scrubs at his chin to his annoyance.

“You’re sleepy,” she tells Nicky as he rubs his eyes.. She glances my
way with silent questions.

I hook Nicky into a hug. “You ready for a nap, son?”

He disagrees. “I wanna play with Daddy.”

“After your nap,” I assure him scooping him up to hand off to Marlena.

“You stay,” he insists over her shoulder. “Kay Daddy?”

It’s all over Nicky’s face how much it means to him for me to be here.
I planned to drop them off after the party and go home to defrag. To
give her space and find my space the way Ashton suggests but Juliana
needed to be carried into the house because she fell asleep in the
car. And then she needed to be put back to sleep after I put her to
bed and her eyes popped open.

“I’ll be here buddy,” I promise him, dropping a kiss against his
forehead. “Sleep well.”

She walks him upstairs and I walk in the opposite direction. Outside
for air on the back patio.

Dialing Ashton happens without much thought. I feel many of the
triggers that set me off. Her dishonesty about Dr. Shalit. But a
promise is a promise; I can’t ever hurt her to make her see what I’m
unable to express.

“It’s an emergency Ashton.”

“John…”

“No…don’t get the wrong idea. You know those triggers we discussed.”

“Yes, I’m proud of you for taking yourself out of the situation,” she
says reading the unspoken confession. “Is it Marlena?”

“Yes…”

“Where are you?”

I look around. This place has a sense of peace. My kids play out here.
Marlena’s essence is all through here.

“At Marlena’s place.”

“Where is she?”

“With my boy upstairs.”

“You sound calm.”

“I am,” I say proudly. I am upset but very calm. I can handle this.
“It’s the doctor. He called her today and she lied to my face.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why do all you shrinks apologize so much? Is it your fault that she’d
rather lie than make me upset?”

“Is that why you think she was dishonest?”

“She told me that I take my friendship away when I’m disappointed.”
That is probably true. “She asked me to trust her after she lied to my
face, again. About this man that she always lies about.”

“That’s a major trigger, the dishonesty. I’m curious as to why you’re
still there if you’re feeling pressured.”

She calls them like she sees them and I respect her for it. I respect
the honesty that she requires.

“Because of my kids. My daughter had a little accident and she wanted
her daddy to put her back to sleep.” When you hear the excuses flying
from your mouth, you have to acknowledge the truth not being spoken.
“I also wanted to stick around.”

“I know. You’re threatened when you feel like they’re isolating you.”

“Absolutely,” I confirm hearing James over the fence. “I keep playing
this game with her.”

“Who’s winning?”

“Jules and Nicky. I don’t want to leave them. That’s a hard thing to
do with me. I always want to be here for my kids.”

“I’m not finding fault in your reasoning, just be aware of Nicholas
and Juliana. They have a right to feel safe and protected from
traumatic experiences.”

“I know.”

“John, you have to recognize Marlena’s rights as well. She has a right
to feel safe in her home. If you’re going to threaten that, then you
don’t have a right to be there.”

“I know,” I whisper. “I know that Ashton. So what do I do?”

“If you don’t feel able to participate in a mature conversation, then
go find your space. Go home.”

“I can’t,” I admit feeling weak in my confession.

“Tell me why you say that.”

“You know that better than me. What it’s called when you can’t turn
away from the accident or the wreck.”

“John…”

“That’s called my life. No circumstances are bad enough for me to give
up but I’m pissed off.”

“Don’t be,” Ashton instructs me.

“As easy as that?”

“No…but you know that. Let’s take stock of the situation,” she
recommends with soft determination. Then she begins listing the facts
about our situation.

To a novice, the near silent breathing just off the patio would go
unnoticed. But I have a sense of someone holding on to breaths to keep
their location hidden.

Keema’s sad eyes glide up as I lean over the railing to see her
sitting with her arms wrapped around her knees.

I wave, holding a finger up. “I’m sorry Ashton but I have to go.”

“John…be safe.”

“Thanks Ashton.”

“Are you eavesdropping?” I ask, disarming the shy girl twirling her
hair with a smile. Nobody can ever say Marlena’s heart isn’t in the
right place.

She untucks her legs to stand up. “Nah…”

I wonder whose little girl she is, and why she’s living with my
family. What kind of man doesn’t look after his little girl so that
she doesn’t end up alone on the streets, pregnant?

With a belly as big as her body, she can’t pull off the tough girl act
that I usually get around her. “Okay?”

Keema averts her gaze, asking, “Are you mad at her because of me?”

“So you weren’t eavesdropping?”

“Nah, you came out here. I was just sitting here.” She explains
sliding into the pool furniture, so that she can look up to speak to
me. “I heard you talking to that lady. Is that the one that Dr. Evans
is jealous of?”

“How do you know that,” I ask chuckling. “Let me guess…you just hear things.”

“Yep,” Keema shakes her head. “She’s a nice lady.”

“The best,” I agree.

“Do you hit her?” Keema asks confidently. Eyes now straight ahead.

“No,” I say slowly shaking my head.

“She don’t seem afraid of you.”

I search her eyes. Her vision of men could be tainted. Probably sees a
threat before the benevolent hand. I haven’t asked enough questions to
know her story but in her eyes, I can see that men have let her down.
And now she believes that I’m a man that has let down her savior.

“I’ve done some things that I’m not proud of Keema, but I love her.”

“You love Jay and Nick too.”
It goes without saying but I say so anyway. Sometimes people need to
hear what they already know. “Yes, I love them very much.”

She accepts that without question. But then what else could she say;
Marlena would never tell her that I am abusive to her. No. When Keema
asks about me hitting her, it’s in reference to a past that I have no
understanding of.

That’s a past that can include people with violent pasts. Marlena
wants to protect her, from my questions and her life. Remarkably, I’ve
never looked into the girl’s face. I never saw her as human. Never as
someone’s little girl but I would want a woman with a heart like
Marlena’s to take in Noodle or Belle, if they ever found themselves
lost on the streets.

Chapter 48

“Whatever someone did to you in the past has no power over the present.
Only you give it power.”
–Oprah W

When Keema squeezes, her slender fingers leave indentations of red
shadows against the palms of both of my hands much in the way that she
has left footprints in my heart. Her gift has been lasting moments of
seeing the world through eyes vastly different from my own. I welcome
the differences; I’ve never been comfortable with the cloak of
indifference. I have never craved a life that ignores the plights and
worries of those who do not look and live as I do. My vocation must be
proof of that.

I didn’t march with civil rights activists or that cried out against
injustice but my heart surely walked every step with them. Too often,
we became accustomed to looking at people not like us in color, class,
or style and categorize them as “the other.” I don’t ignore the
differences. I can’t. I see what the well-intended staring of
strangers who see us implicate. The differing tones of our skin, the
fact that I was born to check one box of race classification and she
was born to check another. These external, categorizing tidbits that
supposedly separate us from each other. I hate it all, hate that it’s
one of the reasons that Keema would not believe that I could help her
without pitying her. I worked hard to erase any sense of pity that I
admittedly may have harbored unconsciously at first. It’s not a
mistake that we’ve grown into a nice, tidy family despite our rough
beginning.

When I met her, I never knew that I would become so heavily invested
in her life and the life of her unborn child. I met Keema thinking
that I was helping her and the group of girls who surrounded her with
what I thought was a good example of a caring, knowledgeable person
that they could come to rely on. I had already defined myself as lucky
and financially well off. Different. Before I knew better, I had
already silently judged them all. Not with intentional criticism, but
I was smug enough to feel sorry for them which opened that improvident
door to differences.

Yet, what’s different about us. She was born from a mother, as I was,
as my children were. She has two eyes, feet, and hands that maneuver
her through life, as I do. She has a father, as I have. She’s a woman,
a girl child as I have been. She needs love, in the same measure that
I do. She deserves recognition with hugs and kisses; words that build
her esteem, moments that don’t seem like the world has turned its back
on you.

She’s transformed before my eyes. But most importantly, I don’t see
the categorizing, dismissive differences that separated us in the
beginning. The only difference I notice between us now is that my hand
is larger and it swallows her tiny, clenching fingers. Willowy blue
veins bulge against her pecan skin as she tightens her fist in my
hand. Moon shaped nails lengthened by pregnancy making crescent
grooves.

She looks surprisingly tiny for a body swelling with pregnancy on the
sterile white streets twisted around her. She is cowered into a ball
looking around miserably, her back angled toward the railing. With
half of her face covered, her eyes illustrate her fear vividly as she
tries to breathe naturally through the oxygen mask covering her mouth.
We’re not alone. She is unexpectedly reminded when the male paramedic
on the opposite side of her slides a stethoscope down the front of her
shirt.

Tilting her head back, she turns away from his intrusions to find my
face perched behind her raking fingers through her hair. She blinks
plaintively taking short, fear-filled breaths. Her fears are
reasonable, expected. The fear scrunching her eyes is for my sake. I’m
a doctor; in her mind, I should be able to tell her why her body is
raging with foreign pain.

I muster my strongest voice, the detached, emotionless voice I use
with patients. “She’s frightened. She doesn’t understand what’s going
on,” I say unintentionally cool. Keema tenses again and I scowl at him
intently. I’m trying to allow him to do his job and assess her
situation but the silent pleading in her eyes is calling the mama lion
to the surface; the detached doctor has been long forgotten.

The blood pressure cuff sleeved around her forearm tightens to measure
the blood circulating through her vessels, adding to her fright. She
tightens her grip on my hand as the cuff continues to expand.

“It’s alright, baby. It’s taking your blood pressure. It’ll be fine if
you try to relax so it can take an accurate reading.” I say stroking
her wheat colored hair off her damp forehead. “There, all done,” I
add, kissing the soft place where her cheek and eye sockets meet, as
the paramedic pulls the stethoscope out of her shirt.

The medical field is a profession that requires a detached demeanor
the longer that one practices. For him, this is transport number x and
I understand that logic. He will move on after releasing her to the
hospital, onto another victim who needs his services. He has to move
through his job effortlessly without taking each victim with him to
the next job. As a doctor, I know he is not doing things to scare her
purposely, but as a mother and human being, I believe in having warm
bedside manners that make patients feel human. In his shoes, I would
try even harder knowing it’s a pregnant sixteen-year-old unfamiliar
with invasive medical procedures.

The young man lifts his blue-green eyes from reading the digital
monitor registering Keema’s pressure. His mouth is thin, his face
indistinct beyond a scar on the bridge of his nose. A groove curving
into a semi circle. “I’ll be finished here in a minute, Dr. Evans.”

I introduced myself as such. Our small amount of time with each other
has been fraught with tension already. I shared that I would be more
comfortable with them transporting Keema to University and not the
hospital near my house where I have no medical privileges and he
disdainfully dismissed the idea all together.

“Her vitals are stable.” He scribbles quickly without looking up.

I acknowledge his exercise in humanity with a tempered nod. Knowing
that she’s not in critical condition doesn’t shake any of the
tenseness from my face; I’m trying to hide it with weak smiles. I am
pretending to be stoic. If I worry, she worries. I am keeping it
together for her, until we know for certain what is happening.

Keema’s almond-shaped, hazel eyes continually search my face
reflecting our mutual agony. I squeeze her hand, showing her that I’m
with her even if I can’t feel what she’s feeling. She slams her
eyelids shut when another sharp pain flutters through her stomach
where she yanks her hand to caress. They have been consistent since
she collapsed.

A tear trails past the curtain of her lids taking a slow path over her
reddened cheek. One single tear I use my thumb to erase and then to
linger on her beautiful, smooth skin. “Baby girl, I’m right here with
you. I’m not going anywhere.” Keema’s eyes open slowly and I press my
face as close to her as I can get, pulling her mentally into a place
beyond the sirens, metallic walls, and the paramedic surrounding us. I
hunker down in the small space that separates the gurney from the
bench on the wall to curl one of my hands between her two and stroke
her forehead with my other. “You’re so beautiful, honey. And you’re
going to be beautiful and fine when all of this is over.”

She accepts my prophecy closing her eyes. I always thought she was
from the moment Cory introduced us. Although, I wouldn’t have
described her gentle features then as beautiful. It was so tough to
see it, though there were always hints hiding behind the toughness
that she showed in the beginning.

I trace a line from her round chin up the soft curve of her high
cheekbone across to the bridge of her nose. She’s sixteen. She’s
barely out of adolescence, her face barely mature. She is blossoming
and pudgy with pregnancy but still, only a whisper of womanhood
emanates from her. Pregnancy is the culprit. It brings lasting
transformations but on little girls, it doesn’t appear genuine.
Sixteen is already an age when womanhood and childhood blend
confusingly. The childish emotions try to flourish in this unkind new
territory of maturity and responsibilities. Babies aren’t built to
have babies. Men and science disagree, but mature bodies don’t have to
yield babies. It is difficult enough for seasoned women to survive
pregnancy intact; it is a miracle if a child can.

Keema is still blossoming in other ways. The mother inside of me
recognizes how much, appreciating that she has allowed me to help her
see that there is a beautiful side of life. But I don’t know what’s
going to happen. I haven’t processed what happens next in her story.
I’ve been so focused on transitioning through the present. Tragic
circumstances have a way of pulling a resolution to lingering
problems. I have avoided thinking beyond what happens after she
delivers. I have no idea if she will keep it, and if she does, I don’t
know how she’ll manage without me.

I’m not the only hope for her; I know that there are other caring
people in the world, but I’m very attached to her. I feel very
responsible for anything that happens to her especially with her lying
on a gurney staring into my eyes.

I feel like this child’s mother, her Mama. I hurt for the pain that
she’s going through as if I’d given physical birth to her myself. I
have birthed her in certain ways; I’ve been mothering her in a
spiritual sense, nurturing the parts of her that have no experience
with being loved fully. I don’t question that her grandmother did
everything in her power to love Keema. I suspect that Keema’s fierce
love for her grandmother stems from having only her, making her death
have a tremendous impact on Keema’s view of loss and love. She’s never
had a mother to care for her in the way that I’ve grown to do.

I pray that she doesn’t lose this baby. I mouth it silently across her
forehead. I pray that she doesn’t suffer that horrible pain of never
knowing a child that grew inside of her. She doesn’t know it yet but
she loves her baby more than she can express; once she sees this baby,
there won’t be any question in the same way that I’ve grown to love
her beyond words. What I pray most is for her not to lose one more
person because of me.

What was she doing trying to stop John? I have to believe that she was
trying to protect me when she stopped him from going after James. That
she knew how upset I would be to see them tearing each other apart. I
don’t know what John said to her on the patio but something changed
between them. When she collapsed, John stopped dead in his tracks and
picked her up to carry her inside to the living room couch. While I
called the paramedics, he sat holding her head in his lap and
smoothing her hair the way he does for Juliana when she’s not well.
And while I examined her, he waited with bated breath for a diagnosis.
He kept whispering how sorry he was for her condition. I couldn’t hold
back the emotions of seeing him care so touchingly for the girl he’d
considered a stranger as we waited for the ambulance.

When they arrived and strapped Keema to the gurney, John stood by her
side holding her hand until they wheeled her out. We both nearly
forgot that Nicky and Noodle were sleeping upstairs until they asked
which of us would be riding with her to the hospital. John kissed
Keema’s temple and promised to meet us at the hospital after he
reached Danielle to sit for the children. She put on a brave smile for
him as they lifted her into the back of the ambulance. It was her last
smile.

She pulls the oxygen mask away from her mouth frowning. “It hurts so
bad.” She turns away from me, burying her face into the gurney. “I
can’t do this.”

I lower the railing and climb beside her despite the discouraging look
on her paramedic’s face. She rolls toward the center and buries her
face against my chest. “Honey, you have to do something so that the
pain doesn’t take control over you. Focus on me sweetie, we’ll get
through this.” I close my hand over hers as she rubs her belly. “Baby,
listen to me now…I’m not leaving you.”

She groans, tossing her head back. “I can’t.”

“You can,” I say firmly. “Baby, I know you can. Take my hand. Squeeze
it just as hard as you need to when it hurts.” I grip our hands and
pull them to my lips.

She lifts her head, glancing down at her stomach. “Do you think its
coming?” She always refers to her child as an inanimate thing.

The paramedic shakes his head negatively. “You’re water hasn’t broken.
There is no indication that you’re anywhere near delivery. We have to
get you to the hospital before we can tell you anything conclusive.”
His voice is now slightly sympathetic. “I would feel more comfortable
with you replacing your oxygen mask, please.”

Keema props up on an elbow, deliberately holding the mask down.
“There’s something wrong. I can feel it.” she says wincing.

I force her up to look at me. “I won’t let anything happen to you,” I
whisper very soberly. “Now close your eyes and try to relax. I don’t
want you worked up. Put your mask back on and take slow breaths,
honey.” She lets me cover her mouth again, lying back down as she
cradles her cheek against my breasts.

To relax of all my girls, I often massage their heads softly while
they are curl against me. And I recite the story that has come to have
great significance with my daughters’ lives. Anytime Belle needed
reassurance, even into her teenage years, I’d look into her eyes and
speak the words that I repeat to Keema.

“I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always, as long as I’m
living my baby you’ll be.” I hold her as close as I can manage in the
small bed, wrapping my arms around her. “I love you, honey.”

We’re an odd pair to the paramedic. I noticed his confusion when I
opened my front door to let him into the house. He cast a wide eye
over the room, revealing his incomprehension of the situation before
him. Keema lying on John’s lap and me crouching by her side as they
went to work. Those ugly differences rearing their heads.

And it must seem odd that I’m comforting Keema, a girl who bears no
resemblance to John or me, cradled like a baby in my arms. She calls
me Dr. Evans. I’m not her adoptive mother. I don’t have any pictures
of her in my house. I’m just a woman who loves her and wants to keep
her safe. That’s confusing to him.

He looks perched finally to ask what his eyes have been trying to
decipher when the sirens and ambulance stop under the canopy
announcing the emergency room. He moves quickly to get out of the
truck after his female partner opens the back door of the ambulance.
She smiles at me lying with Keema. I leave another kiss on Keema’s
forehead before I leave her alone on the gurney to move out of the
way.

They wheel her quickly through the sliding doors where a nurse heads
for Keema’s gurney. I watch patiently as she exchanges information
with the paramedics. I’m eager to be back at Keema’s side, calming her
with my presence. She’s searching for me but I remain obstructed by
the white coats and blue scrubs surrounding her gurney.

She yanks her mask off whispering to the nurse who looks over her
shoulder at me. “Are you her guardian?” she asks, pointing at me.

I’m too afraid to say no. I’m not. I can’t legally make any medical
decision or even sit with her while they diagnose the problem because
I’m not a guardian. I could kick myself for not thinking about doing
something about that the entire time that she’s been living in my
house.

“It’s okay,” the nurse shrugs, allowing me to come and hold Keema’s
extended hand. “She says you’re the only person she has in the world.”

I smile down at Keema who nods in agreement. “I am not her legal
guardian but she has been living with me,” I explain to the nurse who
pats my shoulder understandingly. “She’s sixteen…and she had nowhere
else to go.”

“Well you can come back with her because she is a minor,” she says
helping the paramedics wheel Keema through a second set of doors. They
transfer her from the gurney onto the bed in the middle of a private
cubicle boxed in by glass windows and curtains. “I have to get some
information from you. How are you feeling, love?” she asks Keema,
touching her shoulder. “In pain still? On a scale from one to ten,
what level of pain are you experiencing?” Keema holds up seven
fingers. “Here,” she presses into her belly. Keema nods and the nurse
moves lower, “here or lower?” Keema nods again.

“The pain has been localized there since she collapsed,” I say
stroking the top of Keema’s head.

“My name is Edie,” the petite nurse shakes my hand. “I should have
said that from the beginning, but I was busy trying to find out what’s
going on with you, love. And you’re Keema.”

“Yes,” she says weakly from behind the mask. “Can I please take this
off? I think can breathe without it.”

“Are you sure,” I ask bending to rub her cheek.

“She’s okay. Aren’t you, honey? Take it off, but the minute that you
feel light of breath, don’t hesitate to pull it back on.”

“Thank you.” She turns to me. “Where is John?”

I eye her mysteriously. “Honey, I don’t know. How are you feeling?”

“It still hurts,” she says as Edie continues examining her. “But I’m
glad you’re here. I’d be so scared without you here.”

My lips touch her forehead, whispering, “It’s okay to be afraid,
honey. But I have told you, I’m staying right here.”

“Come closer,” she whispers. She cups her mouth and scans the room
before curling her fingers around the back of my neck and whispering,
“I love you, too. I love you so much.” She shuts her mouth tightly and
leaves a quick peck on my cheek.

I don’t recover easily from hearing her say that she loves me for the
first time since we’ve met without prompting from me. I’ve always
known that she needed me and was grateful that I could help her. But
love, I never considered that she could express it so clearly, and
that my heart would quicken beats as a warm tingle bursts through my
body.

Choked up, I lean and nuzzle into her neck. “Thank you, baby. I
know…I hope you’ll always know how much I love you, how much I’ll
always love you.” With little acknowledgement of anything else
happening in the room, not Edie’s placing Keema’s feet into stirrups
or the entrance of another auburn haired nurse, I linger in the space
where I continue to press soft kisses. My nose fills with the fragrant
combination of cocoa butter and baby lotion saturating her skin.

I have an unqualified hope that hugs replenish the scarceness of
affection from her childhood. I cradle an arm around her so that her
head is tilting against my shoulder. Edie places her hand on top of
Keema’s knee. “I’m going to put a fetal monitor on you and check you
over more thoroughly before the doctor comes.” She rubs Keema’s hand
tenderly. “I’ll explain everything that I’m going to do before I do
it, okay?”

Keema bowing her head to Edie. She swallows hard as Edie parts her
legs gently. “Do you want to call John,” she asks to relieve me of the
duty of seeing her trembling uncomfortably. The possibility of anyone
invading her zone of personal space is intimidating; a symptom of her
abuse.

“No, I want to stay right here with you,” I say grabbing her hand and
shielding her face with my neck. “She’s only there to help,” I remind
her. To erase the ugliness of anyone who’s been between her thighs
without her permission. “I’ll never let anyone else hurt you, baby. I
swear I’ll protect you.” It’s a promise I intend to keep, one that
causes Edie to curve an appreciative smile on her lips.

After Edie’s places a fetal monitor low on Keema’s belly, she sits up.
“I want him here,” she says pleadingly, “John, it won’t feel right
without him.” I look at her strangely, causing her to lower her eyes
to keep this strange new connection their secret. “Edie will take care
of me, won’t you?”

Edie smiles down at her. “Of course, love. You can go make a phone
call. I’ll take good care of her,” she promises rubbing Keema’s knee.
She leans toward me. “Maybe this dad will show up for the child,”
assuming that John might be her absent baby’s father.

“It’s not what you think,” I tenderly correct her. “John’s not her
baby’s father. He’s my children’s father.” I don’t know why children’s
father replaced the usual identifier as my husband. “Will you keep an
eye on her? I’ll be just a moment.”

Edie nods and directs me to the phone outside the emergency room
doors. I walk right into John’s arms when I past the sliding doors and
he’s standing there as if he’s waiting for me. He slides his palms up
and down my back until I relax against his chest, my cheek resting on
his shoulder.

“Are you okay? Is she alright?” He asks holding me snugly with his
mouth slanting over my hair. He draws me back from his shoulder,
holding my eyes with his. “Baby, is she alright?”

“She’s in the back. She wanted me to call for you,” I say, choked with
unshed tears. I don’t want to give myself permission to cry in front
of him. He’ll just allow me to collapse in his arms and hold on to me
until I’m better and we don’t need me to feel better. We need to focus
on Keema’s condition. “Where are the children? You’re here so
quickly.”

“Danielle’s with them at your house. Andi came over to sit with
them…but Danielle called as I was coming into the hospital. They’re
fine; they’re both still asleep.” He cups my face and kisses my
forehead. “Let’s go.”

I slide my hand into his and walk him to Keema’s cubicle.

[John]

The thing about families is when one of us is in pain all of us are in
pain. She’s not ours; she doesn’t look a thing like either of us. She
hasn’t lived through the times that have cemented us together nor
through the times that have broken us apart. But now she has a special
role in our family that isn’t drawn through the blood and DNA that our
other children share with us. She’s one of us by virtue of Marlena’s
love and devotion to her.

It’s true that she is a virtual stranger who I know simply as Keema.
Not even a last name. It’s because-my ignorance-I was too occupied
with my own problems to notice her. She was extra baggage in Marlena’s
life that I didn’t want to deal with. A threat. Insignificant clutter.
I treated her the way people probably have been treating her her
entire life. A child that shares more with me than I ever
acknowledged. We were both orphans, rescued by Marlena’s love. The
only difference being I was an adult, she’s still a child. She saved
us both, something she does well.

However, she doesn’t worry well and it’s visible by the smudges under
her eyes. A hint of tears creating shadows of the eyeliner that she
wore earlier. She has her hair tied back from her face adding light to
the transparency of her pale freckled skin. Her posture is rigid, a
wall against forces hitting her from all sides. Her hands drawn
tightly to her mouth. For a doctor, she looks terribly out of place. I
think the only place she has total control is the safety of her office
where control rests in her hands.

She comes to me quietly dropping her hands to her sides. She melts
into me the way I love for her to do, and I threw my arms around her.
Small tremors climb her spine as I press my hands close enough to feel
her heat through her dress. She’s holding it together for Keema’s
sake, fighting back tears that fall so easily from her eyes when she
is upset. She wraps an arm around my waist and buries her face into
the hollow of my shoulder. I shape my palm around her neck, inhaling
the sweetness in her skin and hair, running my other hand up and down
her back. She loosens her back, curling softly against me.

When I pull her back from my body to ask about Keema, she blinks at me
glassy eyed and I ask how she’s doing too. She swallows the fear,
takes my strength, and says okay. Her slackened mouth says
differently, but I take her hand to build her resolve and let her
guide me through the heavy doors.

I feel more than responsible as Marlena walks us through the sliding
doors and rounds the corner of a glass box of machines and people. The
severity of the situation looms between us but for once, she’s not
pushing me away. She’s clinging on to me and I’m grateful. It’s the
first time that we’ve held hands in a long time. She’s frightened,
even fragile as she’s clenching her hand into a fist behind her back.
She always clenches her fist when she’s afraid. Hospitals have that
effect on her now; Nicky’s leukemia has a lot to do with that
trepidation.

Keema looks relieved when she spots us entering the room. A brown
haired nurse in scrubs is rubbing the top of her hand to clean it for
the IV in the other petite nurse’s hand. Marlena grips my hand,
imprisoning my eyes before we walk to Keema’s bedside. The thought
that transfixes my mind is of her in a hospital bed. All the machines
and sounds that add life to the small room are a backdrop I came to
hate when it was her in the bed, pregnant with Nicky. I haven’t
thought of those days in a long time.

“How are you holding up,” Marlena asks before I can do anything more
than nod and lay a hand on top of Keema’s head.

“They’re putting a needle in my hand,” she says dryly. Marlena flashes
her one of those reassuring, killer smiles before leaning to kiss her.
She steps back to make room for me. “I’m glad you made it.”

“I’m glad I did to,” I tell her patting her shoulder. “How is she doing?”

The petite nurse looks at me. “Better, we’re giving her something for
the pain. We’re also monitoring the baby’s heart now and there seems
to be no distress. No dilation. There is no leakage from the amniotic
sac. Vitals are good.” The nurse explains smiling at Keema. “This
young lady has been very anxious for you to arrive, weren’t you, love?
You must be John.” She reaches across Keema to shake my hand. “Edie
and that’s Jacky,” she points at the brown haired nurse, “We’re taking
good care of your girl, don’t worry.”

“I can see that. So the baby isn’t in any danger,” I ask sheepishly.

“Not now, no. Everything looks good…but we have further tests to
run. Preliminaries are looking good.”

“It burns,” Keema complains dragging her hand up to her chest when the
liquids in her IV start coursing through her vein.

“It will burn,” Edie assures her stilling her hand, “but it’ll stop, I
promise. Now relax, love.”

“You swear?” Keema asks timidly eyeing the IV.

“Yes, honey. Now rest this arm and sit back. Relax.”

“I think that’s a good idea,” I say, patting her hand.

“It is,” Marlena adds, pushing Keema’s shoulder gently until her head
hits the pillow. “Rest for a little bit. For me?”

“She’ll be resting in a minute anyway,” Edie tells us quietly. “The
medicine will make her very sleepy. Right?” Edie asks Keema. “I told
her she might be a little tired. I think you two can probably relax
until the doctor gets down here. I’ve told him about her condition.
He’s doesn’t think there is any cause for concern.”

Marlena addresses Edie.“Really?”

Edie touches her hand reassuringly. “Yes, love. She’s fine.”

“And the cause of the pain?”

Keema shakes her head contritely at Edie. “I told you that she was a doctor.”

“I see but I suspect this isn’t the doctor speaking,” Edie winks at us
both. “Believe me, we won’t know anything conclusive until she has a
sonogram but we’re not in any rush. She seems to have settled. The
pain could be from a number of things. Stress. Exercise. I just can’t
give you a solid answer now.”

I relieve Edie. “Thank you. Just take good care of her.”

Marlena starts stroking Keema’s hand. “Baby, how do you feel?”

“Sleepy,” Keema yawns stretching her free arm high.

“We can let you get some rest,” I offer, taking Marlena’s hand again.
I like the way it feels hiding in mine; that she doesn’t pull away
from my touch.

“I don’t want to leave her alone,” Marlena tells me softly.

“I actually need to talk to you,” Edie says beckoning us to follow
her. “Jacky will sit with her until she’s asleep and then you can come
back in.”

“Sweetie, we’re going to let you get some rest.” I kiss her forehead
as if it’s the most natural thing. “We’ll be just outside, not very
far from the door.”

Her eyelids droop as she gazes up. “Okay.” Marlena adds another kiss
to Keema’s nose and we follow Edie outside.

A potent, unnamable smell coats every hallway of any hospital. Maybe
it’s the awful smell of death and life, tangling between the floors
that are crawling with caretakers who know more than they feel they
should say. Hospitals have ways of sneaking into my conscious to
provoke memories that I like to forget.

Nicky’s birth and sickness; the distant experience of Juliana’s birth.
Do all hospitals have the same feeling of doom hanging overhead? Edie
leads us away from the clusters of nurses keeping vigilant watch over
the emergency room and its patients. I match Marlena’s footsteps
anchoring her next to me with my arm around her waist. Edie opens the
sandy door to a boxed in room; the family room where they isolate you
to share bad news. With the turn of the knob, the vault opens and the
memory of being alone in a room like this, windowless with dull beige
walls, and a doctor telling me that my son and wife could die feels as
real as if it’s happening now.

“It’s not serious,” Edie holds her hand up after we’ve taken seats
across from her at the table. She furrows her brow and leans forward,
her broad shoulders lowered. “I didn’t bring you in here to tell you
anything about Keema’s condition. Relax.” She spreads her elbows
across the table. Her gaze shifts to Marlena. “I didn’t mean to alarm
you.”

Marlena sighs in relief. She clutches my hand on top of her thigh
under the table. We move unconsciously to mirror each other’s poses.
Forward with our shoulders touching, chins lowered and heads tilted.
“What is it that you want to tell us” her voice trembles.

“We have to report Keema…” Marlena’s fingers start digging into my leg
before she interrupts Edie.

She turns to prop her forehead on my cheek. “We’re not her guardians,”
her lips brush my skin, “By law, the hospital needs to report that
she’s here. Right,” she looks up at Edie, leaving a warm circle on my
cheek.

“Yes. I normally wouldn’t give a heads up in this situation but you
two seem very devoted to her,” Edie explains shifting from me to
Marlena, “I just wanted to warn you. It’s hospital policy.”

Marlena absorbs Edie’s kindness quietly, while I lean back clueless.
She’s been living with my family for weeks and not one social worker
or family member has tried to contact her. That fact bothers me, the
law now intervening when she’s been missing this long aggravates me.
“She doesn’t have anyone.” I eye Edie grimly. I’ve worked in law
enforcement. I know the law prides itself on being fair, but children
rarely have a fair deal under its protection.

“The state is legally her parent.” Edie lifts her shoulders sadly,
tired lines creasing her face. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Marlena assures her. “I’m going to seek custody of her,”
she continues without missing a beat. Without as much as a glance my
way.

I turn to her but she keeps her eyes locked on Edie. “Honey, you’re
going to what?” It’s not that I didn’t hear her. I just need her to
hear what I heard. She always leaps with her heart without thinking of
the consequences.

She turns slowly to face me. “She’s already like my child. I don’t
know about you, but I can’t let them take her back to wherever she was
before she came to be with me. I couldn’t live with that. Legally,
they have a right do that. I should have thought about all of this
before this happened.” She breaks the hold on my hand under the table
and turns back to Edie. “I’ll figure out something. Thank you for
letting me know.”

Edie’s smile is warm, peaceful. She covers the hand that Marlena
slides across the table. “Of course, love. Good luck.” She stands up.
“I’m going to check on our patient. I’ll let you know just as soon as
the doctor checks her.”

Marlena thanks her again before she leaves us alone in the
uncompanionably silent room. She pinches the bridge of her nose before
sliding her fingers down her mouth. The soft edge of her jaw shifts as
her mouth tightens into a narrow line. The curves of her face are
delicate. Her profile is strikingly youthful. Just the glimpse doesn’t
paint the full picture. It’s like watching a painting sliced in half
before you can take on the full degree of its beauty. But when she
turns, fastening golden rings of hazel and jade at me, it strikes me
again that she’s a beautiful woman.

Even mad, crying, distraught, and destroyed. Beautiful. Sleeping. In a
coma. Nursing my babies. Having my babies. Loving. It’s all beautiful.

Those are the things I tried to remember when she tried leave me
behind; those pills and her anger couldn’t do anything to dim that
beauty. Her spirit was darkened. Her words were careless and ugly, but
she remained beautiful in my eyes, in my memory.

“John,” her voice interferes with my internal trip down memory lane.

I realize that I’m holding my eyes closed. Reliving those exhausting
moments of her sickness.
I open them and hold her eyes prisoner. She couldn’t look away anyway
with the grip I have on her jaw. My thumb running along the edge.

“You don’t know, do you?” Her memory isn’t filled with these grim
little reminders. This room. The smell. She shakes her head, confused
but glaring into my face, trying her second sight to see the memories
flickering across my eyes. “When you were sick they brought me into a
room like this.”

She drags her teeth over her bottom lip. “You want to tell me,” she
folds her fingers over my hand on her chin, “I’ll listen. Tell me.”
She draws my arms around her shoulders and leans closer. “This room
reminds you of that,” she hesitates to look down for just a second,
“it reminds me of when Nicky was sick.”

I lock my hands behind her neck, taking a deep breath. To plunge into
this would be unfair. And it’s not really about us. But my sanity was
hanging by a thread while she ran away from hers. Those aren’t easy
things to forget.

She slides her fingers down the side of my face. “I made you hurt me,”
she breathes slowly, blinking as if the images are playing in my eyes.
“I pushed you until you made love to me, knowing that it wasn’t good
for the baby.”

I’ll never forget that smile. She’s never smiled like that again. It
was maniacal, uncontrolled. No traces of the smiles that touch her
lips reaching from her heart; only this fixed, pained show of elation.

“I don’t really remember much of anything else.”

I weigh the need for expunging my memories against adding them to her
psyche. I could leave them in the dark places and keep them hidden. At
a time when we should have been celebrating our new life, I was
imagining her in a casket. I envisioned the baby that I didn’t think
I’d see in a sad, small casket.

“You can tell me,” she encourages still stroking my face, “I want to
share that with you.”

“Do you?”

“You don’t have to bear it alone. I was there; I bear responsibility.
Don’t I?” A tear leaks down her cheek. “Don’t stop…” she wipes her
face, “they’re only tears. I’m not going to shatter. Tell me.”

I vet through words they used and form a sentence that isn’t as
dangerous as it felt when the doctor told them to me. “He couldn’t
guarantee your life or the baby’s.” I didn’t know it was Nicky. He was
only my innocent baby then, with no name or personality. “I was there
alone with this grim diagnosis. Your doctor was guarding your room
when I felt calm enough to see what was happening with you.”

“Dr. Shalit,” she whispers, closing her eyes.

“Yeah, he was standing by your bedside. They’d gotten you to calm down
and you were in an induced sleep.” He was proprietary even then,
looking over his shoulder at me as if I was intruding on him. “I
wanted to talk to you. I asked him to step out. He did, but he warned
me that you were fragile. He told me that you wouldn’t hear a word I
said. I knew better.”

She smiles thinly. “You always do. What did you say?”

She wipes my tears now. “I rolled my hand over your belly. You used to
like that; whenever I did, you always had this enchanted look. I loved
that look on you.” We only had a few precious moments in her pregnancy
before the madness set in. “I touched you because when you got sick,
you used to not like me near you. I leaned down and brushed my lips
across yours. I remember your lips were so dry that I kissed you until
they felt soft and moist again.” She laughs at that sending warmness
throughout my body. “And then I angrily told you that you could not
leave me. I asked you to fight back from whatever it was that was
keeping the real you hidden.” I was so angry at the situation. It was
never her; she was too sick so no better. “I just started chanting the
names of our family, of our children. I told you that you would never
leave them. You could never leave them so easily.”

She’s listening with tears rolling down her cheeks.

“I knew…”

“That I wouldn’t I leave you,” she asks sniffling.

“You didn’t,” I remind her. “And then they took us into a room where I
held your hand until Nicky was born.”

She smiles again. “Did you hold him first?”

“He was so slimy.” And small because it was too soon. “They took him
to clean him up before they let me see him again. He was under a lamp
warmer squirming around with his little fists tucked under his chin. I
ran my finger across his fuzzy cheek and he let out this angry cry. I
introduced myself and he cried accordingly.”

She wipes the back of her hand across her nose. “Did you already know
then that you wanted to name him Nicholas?”

“No, I wanted to wait for you.” I didn’t know if I had the right to
choose a name that our son would use for the rest of his life without
her input. It felt disloyal. “I let him go a couple of days with that
blue tag that read Baby Boy Black. It bothered me so I thought about
what you would want our son to be called.”

“Something strong.”

“Victor was already taken.”

She rolls her eyes. “Thank goodness. I can’t imagine that he’d be
called anything else. You did a good job naming our son.”

Her appreciation is much needed. I unlatch my arms and cup her face
between my hands. She sighs against my lips. It’s not a kiss but the
heat lingers regardless. “You’re a wonderful mother, Marlena. I don’t
question that. We have great children because you are such a wonderful
person.” Her qualities are endless, the ones that matter. Those
nagging insecurities that I have about her stem from things that don’t
have to do with motherhood. But her decisions affect the children.
“Thank you for listening.”

“I’m sorry that I never listened before. I’m glad that our son had you
when I couldn’t be with him.”

“And I’m glad that our children have you to call mommy. You’re a great
mother,” I repeat sternly because I have to say something that might
make her not feel that way. “You do things that you feel you need to
do. Honey, I respect that. You know I’ve always respected you.”

She senses what I’m not saying. “But you won’t respect my decisions to
continue to have contact with Dr. Shalit.” She pushes my chest to draw
back.

“No.” We’ve pulled completely apart.

“Or my decision to adopt Keema?”

“Honey, that’s not my choice to make. I think it’s rash. You haven’t
taken the time to think about things because you’re worried about
her.”

“Aren’t you?” She says accusingly. “I mean, she seems to want this
connection with you. She chased you down…that has to affect you.”

“You don’t have to convince me. I’d love to help her; I want her just
as safe as our kids are.”

“But not at my house?”

“The fact that you’re questioning the decision is reason enough for
you to consider this longer.”

“We don’t have much time,” she sighs. Her hand cups my knee and she
looks deep into my eyes. “You won’t do what you said…not to Nicky and
Noodle.”

I can’t argue with her logic.

“John, if I do this…adopt Keema, promise me that you won’t make an end
run for custody. I’m in my right mind. I’m thinking straight. Okay?”

“You don’t have to convince me of that.” I decide to let the Dr.
Shalit comments rest. “And we don’t have to discuss this now. We
should check on Keema and the kids.”

I follow her from the room holding her hand the way we entered. She
brings my arm around her waist again and leans into my shoulder as we
walk. Walking away from the sadness in that room, leaving all
arguments aside. For once, she’s not hiding away from me. She’s right
beside me.

Chapter 49

“There will come a time when you believe everything is finished.
Yet that will be the beginning.”
Louis L’Amour

Evan is the Welsh form of John. Isn’t it strange that in all the years
that we’ve been together, I’ve never known that? I named him Evan Noah
Carter. It just seemed appropriate somehow.

I’m getting ahead of the story; rather, I’m telling it out of sequence
in a chaotic, disjointed method. You are simply feeling what I am now.
I guess the baby, Keema’s son, is the most important piece of what
happened. Yes, Evan is the most essential part. There are so many
parts to share. So many ways I could share them, and so many ways I
could and want to keep them. Keeping them makes it feel sacred, but
the price of that is my sanity. To swallow pain quietly, internalizing
it until it’s a hard crust around my heart hasn’t been helpful in the
past.

What I feel is trapped in a labyrinth of the moments of the last two
days. Yes, your life can change drastically in two days. I knew that
before and now, again I feel as if I’ll never be the same person I was
before. To add order to chaos, to illuminate the maze of details so
that I can find my way through without tripping and staying trapped
there, I’ll go back to those moments. They’re fresh, still raw and
filled with pain that seeps in my bones.

Just the thought of her still—she was smiling the last time I held her
image in my eyes. When I close my eyelids, it’s that smile that
brightens the dark spaces, shining through the darkness that
accompanies her death. There are empty places yet empty that were once
filled by her brand of love.

She was smiling that day because of Nicky and Juliana, maybe even
because of John and me. We were surrounding her bed. Nicky was
monopolizing the conversation. He was excited about the upcoming trip
to the zoo with Colton later that afternoon. Juliana was wrapped shyly
around her father’s neck. Keema showed the patience of a saint with
Nicky—I was thinking that she would make a great mother if she decided
to keep the baby watching her.

We were told that she was fine. She was experiencing some cramping and
light bleeding. She had been having those symptoms for weeks without
telling me. But they assured me that she was fine. She was talking
about names. It was she that informed me about the etymology of Evan.
She couldn’t believe that I’d never named a son Evan. It would be
perfect name for a little boy. She didn’t say that she wanted to name
her little boy that; she didn’t even know that a little boy was
growing inside of her. She said also said she liked the name Lena.
Those details are significant to me now, precious and heartbreaking.

After the fact, after the words and images, it makes sense. But only
after it’s too late. I never told her that I wanted her to become a
part of our family legally. I assumed there was time. When Edie told
me that there had been inquiries about Keema’s whereabouts, I didn’t
tell her that either. I counted on there being time. When Cory and
Tory, her best friend that she’d lost contact with since moving into
my house, visited, I moved aside. I didn’t know I wouldn’t have
another chance to hear her speaking less formally with a girl who’d
always known her and accepted her. I didn’t know that when Nicky and
Juliana said goodbye to her, when John kissed her forehead and rubbed
her belly to say a casual goodbye, that it would be the last time they
saw her, smiling.

Death is so crude, so distilling, an uncompromising bond of
nonsensical things. It steals souls so quickly that we’re only left
with remnants of who they were. Footprints. She left footprints all
over my family and me. That’s the part of life that I haven’t learned
to forgive, the giving of myself, I can manage. But losing, it’s
horrible and undiscriminating.

It’s what I’m left with—besides the life she left behind. This
beautiful soulful-eyed baby with ruddy pale skin and golden red curls.
That’s the entire legacy that a 16-year-old girl can leave. What else
was there to plant? She didn’t have enough time to root and grow
beyond being a little girl lost. That’s the eulogy. That is all
anybody will ever remember about her.

I have more. I know more; I know better. She didn’t enter my life so
that I could ever go back to being who I was before I met her. What
did she leave me; what did she teach me? I have to rummage through the
moments, her transformations. Strength even in her fear, that’s what
she left behind.

What other choice did she have when everyone responsible for her took
roads that separated them? What choice does a young girl who learns
about sex in an ugly, degrading manipulative way do except use it to
destroy herself the way she’d been taught? She took the bumps and
smoothed them out in the best way she knew. She grew beyond the
concrete. That’s what she told me; it was one of the last things she
said to me that I can’t forget.

I stayed that first night with her in the hospital. I stretched out
beside her and cradled her against me. She laced her fingers through
my hand to anchor us together. I let her do all the talking and
question asking. Things that she’d asked before. Things she wasn’t
sure about. She talked about missing her mother, even though she’d
never had her. She told me her name was Ina. She also told me that the
grandmother who raised her was a kind neighbor that took her in after
Ina abandoned her at three. She talked about her mother’s hair. A
small detail that she carried sacredly with her. She stopped trusting
people with dark hair like Ina’s.

She said that she didn’t want to take any of my daughters’ places but
that she felt like I was the only mother she’d ever really had. I
allowed her to say it knowing that she was mine in the place that
matters more than blood—my heart.

She always had these moments of clarity that didn’t correspond to a
girl who has been raised marginalized by poverty and abandonment. She
tucked my hand against her heart and told me there, but for the grace
of God, go I. I understood. A turn of the dice. Happenstance. Miracle
or what have you, it’s not up to us. And then she recited a poem by a
person I’d never heard of before.

Did you hear about the rose that grew
from a crack in the concrete?
Proving nature’s law is wrong it
learned to walk without having feet.
Funny it seems, but by keeping it’s dreams,
it learned to breathe fresh air.
Long live the rose that grew from concrete
when no one else ever cared.

I grew from concrete. She said it with such conviction that anyone
listening would have no choice but to believe her. She believed it; it
was her one victory. She could recognize that no matter where she’d
come from, who didn’t believe in her, and what obstacles blocked her
path, she still managed to become what she’d ultimately wanted to be.
A girl who had love.

I loved her; I still love her.

Uterine fibroids caused a placenta abruption that led to induction of
labor. I went into the delivery room with her. Everything swelled
around us in chaos while they numbed her and delivered the baby by
cesarean. I held her hand. I cried with her when they lifted him over
the sheet blocking their work from our view. She was surprised that it
was a boy. She told me that he was going to be luckier than she had
been. She was also surprised at how beautiful he was, even covered
with her blood.

She lost consciousness when she started hemorrhaging. They asked me to
leave her and I did so believing that she’d come through fine. When
she didn’t, I didn’t cry, not at first. I listened to Edie explaining
what happened. The only thing I said when Edie prompted me was, “she
was finally happy.” And then I collapsed into Edie’s arms and we
grieved together.

How I pulled through those first minutes is still a mystery. I only
know that I was hurting in profound, numbing ways. I ached for all
that she’d given. I permitted myself a couple of disgruntled moments
of why? Why her, why now? Why would her son never know what his mother
had gone through to give birth to him? Why did her mother leave her to
become pregnant? Why did He put her in my life and then take her so
crudely away? Why her?

I pulled myself together for her sake, for her baby’s sake. I was all
he had, as everything lay broken all around me. Death and birth have
no place in the same space. I went to him with every intention of
telling him all about his mother. I wanted to hold him, just to feel
his little heartbeat beneath the fingertips that had ran along his
mother’s skin. I hoped that her scent lingered. And that he could
inhale it and keep it as a memory in the same way that she’d
remembered Ina’s hair.

I went into that nursery of babies with parents, love, and stability,
taking Keema’s pink son into my arms and sat in a rocking chair. I ran
my fingers across his scrunched, wrinkly face and whispered to myself
that I would never let anything happen to him. I chose Evan because I
knew that’s what she wanted; I knew that’s what she was trying to say.
Edie chose Noah. I felt like she understood what we were doing, even
if others felt we didn’t have a right. And then, I called John.

That wasn’t the end of the chaos.

I believe it was Alex who taught me the lesson that says all good
things that come are accompanied with trouble. I’d stupidly forgotten.
Now, I’ll always remember that good and bad have relationship as do
death and birth. Now, I won’t be able to forget that bad things still
happen to good people.

The stupor of my grief would double, even triple.

I couldn’t stay in the hospital another minute after sitting there,
waiting. For what? I don’t know. John came and let me cry some more,
holding me on his lap in complete disregard for anyone else in the
room. He reminded me that I’d done a good thing for Keema. She died
knowing that I loved her as if she was my daughter. He gave me
permission to cry until I couldn’t produce tears anymore. He came with
me to see the baby and it was his turn to show some sign of what
Keema’s lost meant to both of us. He hadn’t put in the time I had but
just the small portion of her that attached to him struck at his grief
for her and her orphan son.

We felt the same way. We wanted to go home to our babies and hug them
to remind ourselves that we were still a part of the grateful group of
parents with babies who lived. Our grief would have to settle, I
realized but it was too raw to settle alone. I didn’t want to be
alone. I wanted him. I told him how much I wanted, needed him and he
promised that he would be there. Assured that Evan would be fine in
our absence for a small amount of time, we left. He promised to meet
me at my house after he picked the children up from Andi at the
restaurant she’d taken them to because I insisted that I wanted them
home. I didn’t want to wait until she brought them. I needed to see
and touch them.

I don’t know how I drove home. I don’t know how I found my way through
the tears. But I did. I pulled into my garage and felt paralyzed with
the dread of being in a place where Keema’s spirit was still so alive.

And then it happened so quickly that I can’t put this into perfect
sequence. All I have, the portions of my memory that haven’t been
blotted out by the painful intrusion of evil into my life, is being
pushed into my bedroom before I could turn the corner. I’ve been
attacked before. I know what it feels like. You feel it before it
happens; you’re terrified before you’re even brutalized. Just the idea
of being violated fills you up with unshakable terror.

I was paralyzed again. I smelled smoke on his skin when he covered my
mouth and eyes.

I didn’t think I had any room for any more emotions after losing
Keema. I was so wrong. I said his name and that pulled his hand away
from my face. I turned around, because he allowed me, and saw my worst
nightmare come true: James with unremorseful lust in his eyes.

He didn’t murmur one word; that frightened me. His silence terrified
me more than the way he was looking at me. And then his hands started
touching me all over. My breast. My face. Under my clothes. His nails
scraped my arms and back. His heavy breathing made my stomach churn.
He pushed me until I was lying horizontally across my bed.

Did I fight? I can’t remember. I can’t remember him striking me
either, but I have bruises that say he did. I don’t recall him
scratching my inner thighs but there are red gashes now. I don’t know
when he started dragging his teeth across my skin but there are teeth
markings along the column of my neck, around the edge of my nipple. I
don’t remember him trying to pry my legs a part but my muscles still
ache there.

What I do remember is going away in my mind, slipping into a chamber
that houses all of these kinds of instances. Alex created that
chamber, Kellam Chandler added to its rooms. I have no control in this
place and I don’t try to manage myself. I stiffen and make myself as
small as I can under the heaviness on top of me. I close my eyes and
tell myself that love doesn’t hurt even if that’s what they whisper as
they steal a piece of my soul.

It was Nicky that stopped him. I heard him and came back to my senses.
Then, I pushed and clawed at him; I was determined not to let my son
see me in such a vulnerable position. I called out to Nicky to get
daddy before he came into my bedroom. James never tried to stop me
from screaming. I guess I hadn’t tried before. He seemed to realize
that he’d lost control of the situation. He smiled weakly when I
breathed against his chin that it was over.

It was Nicky who saved me in the form of his father thundering up the
stairs to see why I was crying out. And then it was John’s face that I
saw, one that I’m not allowed to forget. One of sadness, rage, and
destruct. He only stopped attacking James when I backed up against the
wall, holding my clothes together crying so softly that he had to look
up to see if I was still breathing.

Chapter 50

Don’t tell me if I’m dying, cause I don’t wanna know
If I can’t see the sun, maybe I should go
Don’t wake me cause I’m dreaming, of angels on the moon
Where everyone you know, never leaves too soon
“Angels on the Moon”
(Thriving Ivory)

Things have no hold on the soul. I wish I remembered where I heard
those words first so that I can step back into that second in time and
feel what I felt. It was then, a powerful thought. Imagine controlling
yourself on a simplistic idea that summons major calamities into
things. Pain and rage. Things. These things are real and present but
it is my choice whether I give them power to raid my conscious.
Whether or not I hand my ego over to the blind fury threatening to
consume me is my choice. There is no monster, no lurching entity that
has possession of me. I have to choose to be in control of myself, the
situation will eventually bend to that will as well. It all starts
there—with choices.

I choose not to close my eyes. The images aren’t forgiving when I do.
They’re ugly, black and white, flickering along like a reel. He’s
between her legs, touching her in ways that elicit feral shrieking.
He’s pillaging the treasure of her intimacy, where my children entered
the world, where I enter her to mesh our souls. He was there. She was
fighting back, trying with everything in her to keep Nicholas from
seeing. But he was there.

The truth of the matter is this: the only thing keeping me from going
over the edge is Marlena. I need to maintain control if she chooses to
lose her reign on that for a while. I have to stand up to myself to
protect her from going solo overboard. To keep from being too effected
by it all. The new mantra I’ve adopted in the 6 hours since this all
of this happened is: It’s not about you. It’s not about you.

I’m not delusional. I am in full possession of my faculties. I know
what happened; I saw what happened. But reacting in a way that alarms
Marlena’s sensitivities would be selfish right now. I would love to
use every ill-gotten technique of stalking prey and snuffing the very
life out of that prey with my hands. I’d take pleasure in his demise,
it would make me feel better; but I love my wife more. She taught me
that her work is about anticipating behavior; heading off destructive
behavior by reaching out. She needs me working in that capacity, even
if she hasn’t been able to say so. She needs me not to be the John
who’d push her feelings aside to avenge her honor.

I recall once being asked solemnly by her not to become bitter, or
consumed with revenge.

This thing, this awful gut wrenching act of perversion has knocked me
on my ass. I admit that I’m not her; I don’t have her skills. She
doesn’t want the John who puts her back together. She backed away from
that John because he’s too affectionate. I tried to hide my
disappointment at not being allowed to pull her into my arms in the
middle of the bed so that we could cry together. Of course, she
doesn’t want to be touched. She isn’t comfortable with me looking at
her either. I’ve never been in a position of being violated in such a
personal way; add to that fact that I, her lover, witnessed it. She
was at the mercy of a man who was taking what wasn’t his. There’s that
hint of unnecessary shame because we shared that violation. But I
don’t care about any of it. I care, but I care because she’s been hurt
and I need to heal her.

I helped her change into a comfortable pair of my boxers and tank top,
avoiding the bruising on her skin. I threw her ripped clothes into the
garbage because she asked. She crawled into the bed. I expected to
hear sobbing. She didn’t shed a single tear. We sat in the dark
listening to each other breathe as she lay turned away from me.

You have to remember that everything in my life begins and ends with
Marlena. Every good and bad thing, every minute of every day. Her
turning away is/was a big deal because I expect us to fall back into
our comfortable codependent relationship. It’s only fair. Because
she’s not hurting alone. If I took the time to think on it all, then
we’d both go into a darkness that would be hard to find our way out
of. But too, when I say that she’s not hurting alone, I don’t mean
that figuratively. I hurt, ache with her. My skin burns in places that
she has bruises. I swallow and feel the tears lodged in her throat.

Even though she doesn’t want it, I wrapped my arms around her because
I can’t stop or help myself from touching her. I lay spooned against
her, breathing her in until she rolled over to tell me that she
couldn’t breathe. I was holding her too tight, too close. She needed
space, so I left her alone in my bed hurt. I can’t force her to take
my comfort. I left her in that room knowing that she was filled with
too many emotions to name them and feel them. Everything is just raw
and open. I can’t expect her to cling to me just because it’ll make me
feel better. She’s safe now.

But it’s not enough for me that she’s safe.

Nicky and Jules are also safe, asleep, and innocent in their awareness
of what happened to their mother last night. We haven’t even told them
about Keema and the new baby. That animal took all of our options and
threw them out. He breeched the security that Marlena had about her
new life. Her independence is now shattered; I can say that with
conviction. Beyond tomorrow, I don’t know.

He’s in custody, safe from my wrath. That’s lucky for him. Ironically,
Marlena saved him from me. She was crying so pitifully, shivering in
the corner where she’d crawled to clutching her clothes together;
trying to regain the dignity that that animal had stolen, trying to
keep our children innocent to the brutality she’d experienced in her
own bedroom. He had been clawing at her when I saw them. His hands
were between her legs, twisting roughly, as she struggled to bat them
away. He didn’t hear me approach. He felt me. He fell after the first
punch, cowering to the floor pathetically. I struck him with hard
blows that split his skin and bruised mine.

And then I heard her. That sad whisper was my undoing. She simply said
our two youngest children’s names. I stopped beating my fist against
his face and went to her. Incoherent things bubbled out of her as I
wrapped her in the blanket and carried her out of the room. Her
shattered, shivering body and haunted eyes will disturb me for the
rest of my life.

I wait until after nine to phone Ashton. Surprisingly, Marlena made it
through the night without any disturbing nightmares. But functioning
positively in this highly sensitive situation is important to me. I
need to make sure that I’m doing everything possible to help her
through the first crucial hours after being violated. She was at the
mercy of an animal. She hasn’t been that vulnerable since the Shalit
debacle.

“There is no cure,” Ashton informs me gravely. It is a phone call made
in desperation. “There aren’t any quick recovery techniques, John. It
is a process that progresses with time. I’m afraid that all you can do
is be there for her. Down the line, she’ll certainly need to speak
with a professional about her feelings.”

That’s not enough for me. She’s still asleep upstairs. I’m in my
kitchen whispering, clutching the phone in one hand, and gripping the
counter in the other making my swollen knuckles streak white. “Ashton,
did you hear me? She was attacked last night. I don’t even know if
he…” the thought dies before I give it credence with my voice. I
didn’t see him penetrating her. I saw—I saw enough of too much.

“Raped her,” Ashton supplies the ugly word that stops my blood.
“Hasn’t she gone to the hospital for an exam? I recommend that you
take her to an emergency room for a rape kit.”

I sigh, remembering how tremendously tragic last night was for her.
“Keema died last night.” It’s so heartbreaking and simple that it
takes the wind out of Ashton. She struggles for a minute to regain her
professional composure. “I know. I wasn’t there for that either. It’s
so fucked up.” Keema. I haven’t even processed it. “She never had a
chance, did she?” Someone has to have a reasonable explanation for
what happened, other than the stock answer that the almighty works in
mysterious ways. Marlena usually has those kinds of answers.

“It’s not for me to say, John.” She pauses and then says
sympathetically, “You sound very upset about her death.”

None of the time that I’ve spent with Ashton is painting a clear
picture of me if she’s questioning my distress over Keema’s death.
“I’m not a monster, Ashton. Of course, I’m upset.” The confusion is
blinding. “I’m pissed off about all of it. I hate it; I hate it so
much. She left a little boy behind. He’s beautiful.” I hear the pain
in my voice. “She didn’t deserve this.” I say about Keema and Marlena.
Neither of them deserved what happened to them.

“No, she didn’t,” Ashton commiserates considerately. “But it’s
happened, and as you know, the only way forward is forward. I know you
need to help her through this…it’s terrible. The death and her attack
are now compounded into this one moment. It will be difficult for her
to live with but I know how strong she is because you’ve told me.”

I shake my head slowly to no one in particular. She was strong. But
what I didn’t share with Ashton is that she also crumbles easily.
Shatters completely and it’s a hell of thing to put her back together.

“She’ll likely go through stages,” Ashton continues, “ranging from
helplessness to despondent. She’s in the acute stage.”

“She hasn’t shown me any range of emotions.” I was unnerved by her
timid silence in the car as I drove us away from her house. She was
holding her arms folded over a jacket I put around her shoulders.
“It’s like she’s sleepwalking.”

“That’s normal. The numbness is a reaction to losing the power over
her body. It’s often described as being thrown into a raging ocean
without the benefit of a raft or lifejacket. Rape isn’t about sex
John, rarely is it about that. Rapists are power seekers because they
lack control or power in their own lives.”

“I don’t give a damn what his deal was. He hurt her.” I ground out angrily.

“You know the assailant?”

“Her next door neighbor; an asshole that’s been sniffing around since
she moved there. I should’ve known.”

“This is not your fault, John. You couldn’t know what he would do to
her. Besides, we’re past that time and incident. We have to focus on
now—she should seek medical attention. It’ll put her mind at ease.”

She wouldn’t let me touch her. I’ve heard how invasive those kits are.
I understand what her not going to the hospital is about. I don’t
agree but I’m not going to push. “She won’t go to the hospital.” I did
ask her to go be checked out and she vehemently refused the cops and
me. She asked me to do one thing. Get her out of there. She didn’t
want to change her clothes. She couldn’t be bothered to grab her purse
or cell phone. She wanted to be gone from there. I didn’t want to
pressure her in front of the kids. Because from the moment I burst
into her bedroom to save her, she didn’t let one sign of emotion play
out in front of them. She tucked that trembling bottom lip and took
the kids upstairs to avoid them having to see James being led away.
She didn’t want to have to explain it to them later.

“Well, you’re not sure if there was penetration.” The word knocks
around my head bitterly. The image tries to push its way through but I
shake it away. “I don’t mean to be crude here but there is her health
to consider.”

“I know and I agree but she’s too fragile to do anything now. Ashton,
she hasn’t said a word about the attack and I don’t know how to ask
her to tell me what happened.” I need to know if he did more than I
saw.

“John, I don’t think she’s thinking of anything except making it
through the next second. She was at the mercy of someone much stronger
than she was, much larger probably. She’s trying to walk with one foot
in front of the other. It’ll be harder for her to talk to you about
this than anyone else.”

“Why?”

“You really have no idea, do you?” she asks gently. Firming me up for
the drum beating that she’s going to sound. The clarion call of the
state of our union. “You want to help; that is the history of your
relationship. She needs you and you need her to have that reaction.
You want her to need you. But John, she’s your lover. You share an
intimate relationship that has, in her mind, been endangered by this
encounter—one that you witnessed. Put yourself in her position. She’s
bound to feel trapped by your recollection of things. She’s in all
probability trying to protect you from what happened to her.”

“Protect me,” I ask incredulously. “I just want to help her. I love her.”

“It isn’t about love right now. She’s been violated in the worse
possible way a woman can be. She’s had taken what she gives to you
freely. It’s about you, but also it’s not.”

“I would never judge her. I know this isn’t about me. I wasn’t the one
attacked.”

“You’re right, John. You weren’t attacked last night, Marlena was.
It’s important for her to feel in control. I suspect that not going to
the hospital is how she’s doing that and not talking about it with
you. Just don’t allow her to isolate herself. It’s important for you
to validate her feelings and allow her to communicate them without
fear of being blamed for what happened to her when she is ready to
talk.”

“I’d never blame her for what he did,” I breathe out angrily. “I know
this isn’t her fault. I just wish…”

“You’re doing everything you can,” she assures me. “Don’t be passive
in these next couple of days. Be there. Hold her. Let her cry. Let her
feel sad. Just love her through this awful moment.”

I always love her anyway. It’s not as if I have a choice not to, but
it’s reassuring to hear Ashton give me that permission. “Thank you,” I
say sincerely.

“You don’t have to thank me.”

I do though. I feel stronger in what I have to do because she’s
validating what I know about us. “I know I put you through hell with
this, with us.”

“How so?”

“I came to you in order to deal with my anger issues. I came out of
pity, really. I wanted you to tell me it wasn’t my fault and you never
gave me that out. And even though you aren’t one hundred percent
behind the close contact that I’ve kept with her, you’re still trying
to help me help her through this. I appreciate that.”

She manages a small laugh that isn’t inappropriate in the severity of
our conversation. “Do me a favor?”

“Anything…”

“Remember that you can’t be her savior entirely. She has to learn to
save herself, the same way that I’ve tried to show you. Love her but
don’t become her crutch. She’ll pull through all of this, but it’s
going to take time. I think you’re in for some tough days.”

The sound of Nicky’s voice nearly makes me drop the phone. He’s
standing in the doorjamb visibly shaken. In my kneejerk reaction, I
hang up without a goodbye seeing his panic-stricken face. He sobs my
name around the thumb sticking in his mouth. The phone hits the floor
as I throw my arms forward to pick him up. He wraps his legs around my
back and buries his face in my shoulder sobbing quietly.

“What is it, buddy?” His little back shudders under my palm. “What,
honey? Tell Daddy what’s wrong.” I pull his chin back and peer into
his glistening eyes. “It’s okay. Your Daddy’s here. You know I’ve got
you.” I pat his back, letting him bury his face again. “You can tell
me anything.” I remind him tucking his head under my chin. “Tell me.”

“Mumma,” he sobs into my shirt.

Not a second passes before we’re taking the stairs two at a time to
get back to Marlena. We’re met at the door with her quiet sobbing. My
tank top is soaked with sweat that has transformed her honey hair into
a darker shade of springy curls framing her face. She’s sitting up
holding a pillow to her mouth with her knees drawn to her chest. Her
arms are wrapped around her legs as she rocks robotically back and
forth. Eyes devoid of emotion, despondent—Ashton’s description is
perfect.

I take slow steps up the side of the bed and turn on the lamp. Nicky
kicks to be let down to touch his mother who has made no effort to
acknowledge either of us. “Mumma…Mumma,” he cries pumping his fist
against my back when I keep him held close to me. “Daddy, no…Mumma.”

“Honey.” I touch her shoulder softly. She blinks disoriented, without
looking at me or our worried son. Nicky reaches out to her
desperately. “Honey, it’s me. It’s John. You’re at my house, in my
bedroom.” My hand hasn’t left her shoulder; and she hasn’t pushed me
away.

Nicky is baffled by her rejection. He beats into me angrily with large
tears wetting his cheeks. His confusion is heartbreaking. He eyes his
mother’s quiet chaos from my arms wondering where his real mother is.
The anguish draws his thumb back to his mouth. “Mumma…” He pushes away
from me, toward her again. He looks even more upset by her inability
to acknowledge him. “Mumma…”

“She’s okay…calm down Nicky,” I try soothing him. Looking into his
eyes, I plant kisses on his face and pull him close to me. All he
wants is for his mother to wrap her arms around him the way she always
does when they wake up. But she’s stuck in a nightmare that’s playing
while she’s awake. She can’t differentiate between the nightmare and
the reality. She needs me to pull her from the nightmare.
I set Nicky down on the bed and he crawls away from her toward the
bottom of the bed. She finally looks at me, her eyes unwilling to
focus. She starts panting harshly and I start rubbing her arms and
whispering to her. The torment in her eyes is such that I close my
eyes to avoid looking into such despair. “Baby, it’s me. It’s John.” I
tell her softly, climbing into bed behind her to pull her back against
my chest. I wrap my arms around her knees and tuck my chin against her
shoulder. “I’m here. I’m here, baby,” I choke with tears that I refuse
to shed in front of my frightened little boy.

Nicky watches from the edge of the bed, sucking his thumb for comfort.
He tries to reach her again in his small, barely audible voice.
“Mumma…it Nicky” he whimpers. He needs her to see him because she’s
looking past him the way she looked past me. “Mumma…Nicky hug,” he
cries lifting his arms forward.

Unable to see him in such pain, I beckon him to us. “Come on son. Hug
your Mommy.” Maybe his touch can bring her out of whatever state of
confusion she’s in. “Hug Mommy.”

Nicky crawls reluctantly beside us, reaching hesitantly to enfold his
mother into his arms. He cups her face, gazing intently into her blank
eyes. “Mummy…it Nicky” he pleads wrapping his arms around her waist
and leaning his head on top of her knees.

I rock her and speak softly so that she can hear Nicky’s pleas too.
“Come on baby, come out of that nightmare. It’s John…and your son. He
needs his mommy so much right now,” I whisper reverently into the
shell of her ear. I push her hair away from her eyes and turn her
chin. “Look at me…it’s us. It’s your family.” She shuts her eyes and
it’s as if she comes back alive in my arms. She starts panting and
crying roughly, her chest buckling with the force of her sobbing.
“Come back to me, baby.” I soothe rubbing her.

“Mummy…” Nicky watches her, hopeful.

She lifts her hand slowly, laying it on top of Nicky’s hair. “That’s
it baby, come back to me.” I encourage her, stroking her bruised
cheek.

Nicky lifts his head from her knees and regards her sadly. “Mummy.” He
climbs into her lap after she releases her knees and slides her legs
in front of her. “Mummy better.”

“She’s better,” I assure him sliding my hand down his cheek. “Aren’t
you?” I ask her to make her speak. To have her voice soothe our son as
well as me. “Tell him, baby.”

She exhales slowly before opening her mouth. She wets her lips and
swallows to coat her dry mouth. “I’m sorry…” she breathes against
Nicky’s forehead as she enfolds him in her arms. “I’m so sorry, baby.
I was having a bad dream,” she explains to him softly while rubbing
his back. “I’m sorry.”
“Nicky scwared,” he mumbles tucking his thumb into his mouth.

“I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m sorry honey, forgive Mommy,” she says
taking more even breaths. “I needed a hug from my big boy to make me
feel better.” She tries smiling but it’s contrived.

“Like Mummy do for Nicky…for munsters.” He’s making sense of what’s
happening in his little boy comprehension.

“Exactly like that, baby.” She pulls him into a hug while I rub her
back. “I feel all better after a hug like that.” She holds him tightly
to her chest and turns to look at me.

What I didn’t notice when I was trying to get her to respond to me was
how bruised her face was. How through the night, the ugly colors of
being struck parade across her skin. Nicky seems to notice as well. He
glides his eyes slowly up and down Marlena’s frame, stopping on her
face. His tiny finger traces a loop around an ugly purpling bruise
underneath her eye.

“Mommy gots boo boo,” he determines, leaning forward to kiss the oval
shaped bruise.

She flinches but smiles again, for his sake. “Thank you. Mommy does
have a boo boo, but I’m okay. Are you okay?” She asks checking him
over.

“Nicky gots no boo boos,” he says tucking his head under her chin to
rest against her chest.

“Good,” she kisses his hair, “Mommy wouldn’t be happy if her baby was
hurt. Are you sleepy?” He shakes his head yawning.

I’m drawn to the tight grip she has on Nicky. The uneasy tone of her
voice also makes me weary of this show that she’s putting on for
Nicky. But she’s a mother first, and for her they’ve always come
first, despite whatever happens.

“Nicky go potty,” he says sitting up.

“I’ll bring him,” I offer, trying to look into her face from my
awkward angle behind her.

“No, no…let me,” she says, moving rigidly away from me with Nicky in her arms.

There are so many bruises that I didn’t know existed. There are more
scratches along her neck and face. The black eye. She’s moving slowly,
awkwardly. Her shorts ride up as she traipses gingerly out of the
room, revealing a net of red slashes on the backs of her thighs.

She can’t see that alone. She has no idea. I jump up and follow them
into my bathroom where she’s studiously avoiding the mirror. She’s
rubbing the tender muscles at the base of her back with Nicky standing
in front of her aiming for the toilet.

“Honey…” I don’t know what to say after she turns to me with the
blankest stare that I’ve ever seen in her eyes.

“You’re getting better at this,” she says to Nicky as she looks away.

“Nicky big boy,” he tells her triumphantly flushing the toilet and
heading to the sink to wash his hands.

There’s no reprieve for our mutual grievance. We see it at the same
time, I’ve seen them, but I’m looking through her eyes at the evidence
of what happened to her.

[Marlena]

It’s the cruel reality of it all. I could almost pretend that last
night was a nightmare. I could pretend that I was dreaming of Keema’s
death and of him on top of me. I could pretend…but the evidence is
reflecting from the mirror at me. Cruelly reflecting that I wasn’t
dreaming. It’s all real. And John is here, standing in the reality of
it all.

I could’ve pretended that the tenderness between my thighs is from
being wrapped around John’s torso last night. We could have been
celebrating Noah’s birth, and the fact that Keema came through her
labor like a pro. I could say that. I could say a lot, but the truth
is it happened. We all see it. Nicky, John, and I standing in this
mirror.

“It’s okay,” he tells me when I flinch from tracing the oval pattern
underneath my eye. “You still look beautiful.” He kisses my hair and
slides his hand to my hip. I push it gently away and lean to help
Nicky soap his hands.

“Here baby, let’s rub those hands together and get them really clean.”

Nicky thrusts his hands under the faucet to wash away the suds. “Mommy.”

I’m so afraid of what he’ll ask. My face has to be puzzling him as
much as it should puzzle a little boy. He could ask about Keema and I
haven’t thought of how to break that news to him. He could ask
anything that will be my undoing because I’m on the edge of my sanity.
I’ll admit it. One more drop and I could pour myself into the floor
and welcome the trampling of shoes.

I work at scrubbing his hands tediously. Scrubbing between his
fingers, rubbing his palms together and apart. Adding more soap when
it doesn’t seem clean enough for me.

Nicky eyes me strangely, as I continue washing his hands. “Mommy?”

John stills my hands from moving. “They’re clean,” he tells me sadly.
“They’re clean. Come on Nicky.”

“I know,” I say biting my lip to keep from breaking the bough of
tears. “I’m…” I don’t know what I wanted to say. Looking into his face
is painful. He knows. He saw him on top of me, hurting me. “I….”

John lays a hand on my shoulder and scoops Nicky up. He wants to talk
about this…I don’t have the words yet. I don’t even have the emotions.
I’m just raw. And the truth is that I don’t want to feel anything. I
just want to be miserable and not need an excuse for being so.

What would I say? To him especially. I know how John feels about me
with other men. I know how much even the thought of it kills him
emotionally. Worse for me is the fact that I can’t hide this from him
because he was there.

He traces a bruise down the column of my neck gently as he wraps his
hand around my waist. My lungs constrict involuntarily and I have to
pull away. His touch is too much. Anybody’s touch is too much now. I
feel like I’m bleeding without any way to stop it.

“I think you should go to the hospital,” he whispers, giving me space
to turn around and sit on the edge of the sink. Nicky looks around
warily. “I want you…”

“It’s not about what you want…” I breathe slamming my eyes shut. “It’s
not…I can’t.” I tell him shaking my head after cupping my forehead. “I
can’t…” I won’t. “I don’t want to talk about this in front of him. I’m
sleepy.” I brush past him on my way out of the bathroom. “I just want
to sleep.”

He follows, watching me climb painfully back into bed and pull the
covers over my chest. Every inch of my body feels like I’ve been
ravaged from the inside out. It’s not just the bruising; it’s the
entire sensation of being held down against my will by a force greater
than I am. It hurts to breathe because of the tightness in my chest.
My hair throbs from being pulled. I just ache and feel horribly
invaded.

“Baby, look…I know I don’t understand,” he starts mumbling at the
bedside, kneeling with Nicky tightly pressed to him. “I don’t have any
clue what…I just want you to be okay. I want to take care of you.”

“Then don’t ask me to talk to you right now,” I say turning away from him.

“I won’t. Could you talk to someone else?”

I consider it; I swear that I do. I consider not giving into the
temptation of hiding away. But it’s too soon. I shake my head and feel
him patting my hair. “I can’t.”

“I still think that you should go to the hospital…get one of those kits…”

I turn around so violently that Nicky gasps. “I asked you to stop it,
for his sake and mine. Don’t. I can’t do that…I…”

“Honey, look at you. You’re shivering. Maybe a nice hot bath will
change your mind.”

To clean away the stench of him. The dirtiness that I feel. “I know
I’m soiled now,” I say lowering my head. I know this feeling too well.
“No matter how many baths and showers I take, I’ll still be dirty,” I
whisper turning back around.

“I didn’t mean that,” he breathes behind me with his hand sliding up
and down my back.

“Daddy…Nicky eat eat.”

“Then Daddy’ll take you downstairs to fix you something,” I answer
Nicky, grateful for the opportunity to be alone.

“Baby?”

“He’s hungry,” I say without turning to face him. “I’ll be here,
sleeping.” I close my eyes.

I dream of Alex. Young carefree, sadistic Alex. He taught me about
this kind of fear. He introduced me to this incredible anxiety. I
never could protect myself enough from his sexual advances when I
didn’t want to participate. My voice was never loud enough to stop
him; my hands were always too weak to stop him.

In my dream, I’m in the apartment that became my prison. Everything is
just as it was. Dainty little figurines collecting no dust on the end
tables. He was obsessed with Greek sculptures that boasted of nudity
and they were in every corner of the apartment. In our bathroom, our
kitchen, and especially bedroom.

I’m back in that bedroom that started to became like a jail on the
days that I upset him. It was a routine and I could count on it more
than anything else. There would be the explosion. He’d become livid at
simple little mistakes that I’d make. Things young wives have no
recourse but to continue at until they seem familiar. A slap for
talking over him while he explained what I’d done wrong; being thrown
against a wall nor piece of furniture for staying at the grocery store
longer than I should be there; having my mouth and nose covered by
that clammy hand because I’d stupidly hugged him robotically and not
passionately.

He holds me down by my shoulders. I’m learning to stop fighting and
just let him have what he wants so that it’ll end quicker and less
painfully. He’s between my legs thrusting angrily at my core. I can
feel the blood trickling from my lip, the dryness inside me from not
being able to get aroused by his aggressiveness. The heavy cloud of
his aftershave and cologne choking me.
I give up. I learn to stop fighting because I never win this battle.
He’s stronger than I am. He’ll always be stronger and that’s what he
keeps saying as he rumbles between my legs. He’s always going to win.
He stiffens to release his completion and I find the strength to push
him away. He starts choking me until I start fading away. The pressure
of his fingers clawing at my neck is the last thing I feel before I
burst out of my sleep.

John’s at my side before my eyes are fully open. I know that it’s him
because of the way he holds me. He has a special way of cradling me
against his body so that my cheek feels the beating of his heart. I go
to him easily at first, because I need to replace the torment of my
dream with something familiar and comforting. His body is just the
salve I need.

“You’re okay,” he tells me quietly. “I’m right here, baby. You’re all right.”

I catch my breath by letting the flashes of Alex slip back into my
memory where they live. He’s dead. He can’t hurt me anymore. He’ll
never use my body without my permission again.

“You’re safe and sound, baby. I’m not going to leave you,” John
assures me dropping kisses on top of my head.

I don’t know how much time has passed since my nap. John’s in a
different pair of clothes. I’m still in his tank top and boxers,
drenched from the sweat pouring down my skin. “Where are the
children,” I ask hearing how quiet it is in the room, and the house.

“They’re safe,” he assures me, “they’re not here.”

I sit up panicked. “Where are they? I want them here, John. I want to…”

He puts his hand over my mouth. “Danielle has them.”

I wrench my face away from his mouth angrily, and sit up so that I’m
not in his arms anymore. “Don’t do that…don’t cover my mouth. He
covered my mouth,” I mumble closing my eyes. I can still feel his
fingers pinching into the skin when she tried to keep me from
screaming. “I don’t want your hands on my face…please,” I push his
fingers away from trying to trace the split in my lip.

He holds his hands up. “I’m sorry.”

“Where did Danielle take my babies?” I ask rubbing my face. “Why
didn’t you tell me?” I glare up at him. He’s as lost as I am in this,
but what reprieve do I have to offer him when I can’t get a grip on
myself. I’d love to snap my fingers and have everything make sense.
But I can’t. I’m just going through the motions. I’m afraid for my
children and myself. And I’m depending on him to understand that I
don’t want to be alone. “You left me alone?” I ask sadly.

“No,” he says leaning to wrap his arms around me. He stops when he
notices me tense up and move back. “I didn’t leave you. She came over.
They’re at her place. We can call them. I just thought you needed to
rest for a bit before you dealt with…”

“What happened,” I say for him.

“Honey, I’m lost…”

“Me, too,” I admit locking my arms under my chest. “I’m…”

“I want to take care of you,” he says moving tentatively toward me. He
slides his hand over my knee and looks up before doing anything
further. “I don’t know what it feels like to be put in the position
you were put in last night. And I don’t know exactly how you’re
feeling about losing Keema. I don’t pretend to know.”

Her name does it. Tears trickle unbidden out of the corner of my eyes.
It feels like I’m losing her all over again. My shoulders buckle and
the sadness overwhelms me to the point of not caring that John folds
me into his body. I owed her more than letting her die alone in that
room. I owed her being the last person who she saw before she closed
her eyes for the last time.

“I don’t know what to do with all this pain,” I cry against his
shoulder. “It’s too deep. I feel like I’m drowning. I feel like I
can’t hold on anymore.”

“Hold on to me,” he begs me.

“Why,” I crumble feeling my chest shuddering with the sobs wracking my
body. “Why did this happen?”

“I don’t know, baby.” He whispers holding me so tight that I
distinguish my breaths from his.

“He hurt me,” I cry anguished by the feeling. “He hurt me…he hurt me.”
The sobbing takes over my words and I start shaking my head against
his chest. I don’t understand why. “Why did he do that to me…” I hear
myself moaning pitifully. I don’t even recognize my voice because of
all the pain laced in it.

“Baby, I won’t hurt you.” He assures me. “I won’t let him hurt you again.”

He pulls my chin up but I snatch away and keep my eyes closed. I don’t
have the strength to see his pity. I don’t want to see his love
either. I want to bury myself with all the pain. With Keema. With the
shame. “I feel dirty,” I admit to us both. “I feel him all over me
still. His breath on my neck. His teeth.” My stomach churns. “His
hands all over me.” I bolt out of John’s arms and head for the toilet.
There’s not much to release but my insides wretch and expel what’s
there.

“Baby?” John bends over me to make sure it’s all out. He pushes my
hair back to let me finish. “It’s okay. Let it all out,” he coaxes me
stroking the back of my neck.

“I think I’m finished.” I lift my head out of the bowel and lean back
against him. “I’m sorry.” He helps me back to my feet, drawing an arm
around his waist as he guides me to the sink. He opens the cabinet and
grabs a tube of toothpaste. I watch him in silence as he puts a
slither of red paste on a toothbrush and then proceeds to brush my
teeth for me.

I block out the bruises dirtying my skin. I close my eyes to my reflection.

“You’re still beautiful.”

I open my eyes, and turn to him. “You don’t believe that. They’re ugly.”

“It’s not you.” He lifts a cup of water to my lips to rinse my mouth.
“They’re not you.”

I eye him, perplexed.

He locks my chin between his pointer and thumb fingers, hitting a
sensitive spot on my skin. He kisses the edge of my chin. I pull away
and lean to rinse out my mouth. When I stand up, he wraps his arms
around my waist from behind.

“Look at me,” he says staring at me through the mirror.

I look away. “John, this…”

“No, look at me.” He asks me gently. “Look at my face. I don’t see
anything here except the woman I love.” He gestures at the bruising.
“You’re not dirty. You’re not,” he says when I shake my head
unbelievingly. “Not to me…I don’t care about that.”

I wipe my face simultaneously. “You don’t care about what?”

He shrugs. “Honey, you didn’t give yourself to him.”

“I know,” I whisper taking his hand to stop him from trailing up and
down my arm. “It’s just that he was inside…he was…” digging through my
most intimate parts without my permission. I gag at the thought. “I
can’t talk about this with you, I’m sorry.” Wrapped in his arms, the
heat of his glare on my face, I feel trapped again.

“I…saw…him,” he reminds me.

“I know that,” I say curtly. “It’s not the same. John, I make love to
you. I give myself wholeheartedly, my body and soul when I offer
myself to you. I offer,” I repeat firmly. “He took me and I couldn’t
stop him.” When he pushed me against the bed, I knew what he wanted.
It terrified me to see it in his face. “I’m just so ashamed. I don’t
want to talk about this with anyone. I just want to forget it ever
happened.”

“You can’t,” he warns me touching the cut on my lip. “He raped you.”

I shiver from the brutality of those words. The hairs on my arms and
neck bristle at their enormity. He hurt me. Maybe John’s confused
about what he saw. “No, he didn’t,” I tell him shaking my head. “He
didn’t rape me.”

“You said he was inside you…I saw him,” he says turning me around
slowly. “He was on top of you.”

“He didn’t…he did sexually assault me,” I cringe. “He fondled and
groped me…but he didn’t penetrate with his…” I say breathlessly.

“But you…”

“His fingers,” I offer as an explanation for telling him that he was
inside of me. “He used his fingers.” I say looking upward. John is
relieved and I’m instantly crushed. “I knew it mattered to you.”

“No,” he grabs my shoulders, “I’m relieved for you. Honey, I don’t care.”

“You care,” I assure him. “You want me to be pure…I want me to be
that, too. I don’t want to feel dirty. I don’t want anyone to look at
me like I’m unclean. I’m not. He didn’t dirty me that way.”

“He didn’t dirty you at all,” he says turning me back around to look
in the mirror. “You’re still the same beautiful woman you were
yesterday.” He kisses the scratches prominently scaling the side of my
neck. I tilt and give him better access to the other side where he
presses gentle kisses over those welts.

“John, you can’t tell anyone about this. I don’t anyone to know.
Promise me,” I ask watching him slide his hand over the bruise under
my eye. He pauses and pulls my neck back so he can kiss there too.
“Promise me.”

“I’ll do anything you want,” he says. I push back into him and bring
his hands around my waist. My instincts fail me and I begin relying on
pure emotion. The only true emotion that I’ve felt since he saved me.
Love. He learned to love me by looking into my eyes and telling me the
truth. It’s the exact same look in his eyes now.

“Will you make me feel better?”

He nods and everything inside me tightens into a ball before bursting.
The tears and anguish stream through me roughly, as I go ragged in his
arms. All I needed was his permission to come undone in his presence.

He runs bath water and undresses me. I turn away, using my hands to
hide my breasts and the bites near my nipple. He lovingly pulls my
hands to my sides and starts kissing the places left tender from my
attack. I tremble under his lips gentle caresses. He touches each
place that has a bruise. My thighs. My stomach. My sides. My face. My
neck. My hair. He then lifts me to place me in the bathtub where he
starts soaping my skin softly, washing the remnants of James from my
skin. He does this without words.

I lean against the back of the tub and close my eyes. If one man can
make you feel disgust and torment, it’s the miracle of another who
gives you back some semblance of peace through his soft caresses.
John’s tenderness replaces the brutal way that my body was assaulted.
He drags the loofah down the span of my inner thigh, and I’m surprised
at the effect of something so innocent. I slide my hand to where he
is, circling my fingers around his wrist.

“I need you to want me,” I whisper eyeing him sadly. “I need you to
fill this emptiness and take away this pain.” I guide his hand to the
place that was invaded by a strange hand. His fingers are just the
medicine to heal me. “Don’t hold this against me,” I crush my mouth
against his and kiss hungrily until I feel him slide into the water
beside me, giving into my fear and need. He uses his body to mend me,
and I hungrily accept his healing.

Chapter 51 (NC-17)

“Love takes off masks that we fear we cannot live
without and know we cannot live within.”
James A. Baldwin

The first kiss is long and achingly tender with our lips pillowed
together savoring the sweetness of his tongue’s thrust into the bounds
of my mouth. John’s ability to liquefy my insides with just his
tantalizing lips can be more satisfying than an orgasm. Feeling safe
being pressed to his body, touching his fevered bare back, and
kneading his skin. I arch into his kiss wishing I could climb into his
skin to swim in the tides of his body. Tasting him, savoring his
scent, I breathe him into my nose. I clench his wavy hair between my
fingers to anchor his lips to my skin when he backs away. His feverish
lips travel a warm path down my chin toward the valley between my
breasts.

He draws his heat away from my skin; I quiver from the loss. Needing
him close, his mouth over my skin, I pull him down to crush his mouth
to my arching breasts. His stubbly chin tickles the slope of heaving
breast as he laps at my nipple.

John’s gentleness cradles me against the pain of another man’s
exploitation of my body. Tears leak out of my closed eyes. I need this
tenderness. Gentle fingers that don’t insist. Kisses that melt not
twist my insides. A scent that my nose has intimate awareness of. I
know well the ridges of his masculine bone structure, the curves of
his sculpted arms and thighs, the feeling of the length and swelling
between his legs.

A whisper to open my eyes doesn’t. What I fear seeing is unknown to me
but instinctively I squeeze them tighter. He cups my face, grinding
his pelvis roughly into me while urging my legs to part with his knee.
It alarms me until his fingertips trail back gently across my
cheekbones. Able to detect the difference between urgency and
forceful, I cup his rear to pull him closer. Closer. With me, on me,
in me.

He smells differently when I bury my face in between his collarbone
and neck to press light kisses. Sliding my hands over his hip down
into the grooves cutting his body into masculine lines, my fingers
circle over his swollen manhood to guide him into me. The air changes,
his breathing grows rapid. He grabs my wrists swiftly, locking them
above my head. His tenderness evaporates as he starts pushing roughly,
harder into me. Teeth pull savagely at my skin. Fingernails roll down
the backs of my thighs, digging so that my legs slam up against him.

I cry out in protest, but no sound leaves my throat’s cave. I push his
chest to unlock our bodies and try again to open my eyes. This can’t
be John, after the way he made love to me in the bathtub. It doesn’t
feel like John. It feels like a stranger. The hold on my wrists makes
it impossible to break away from the prison of his fingers. He knees
me to still me and I snap my neck to turn away, surrendering. Alex
told me fighting was useless. “A man is always stronger. You are
wasting your energy fighting.”

I twist my neck, staring into the blank eyes of the man using his body
to keep me motionless beneath him. It’s not John. His face disappears,
in a cloud of grey Alex’s cold eyes and stilted smile appear. I lower
my eyelids, trying to disappear into my skin.

My voice cuts into the eerie silence.”No…please no..” I realize my
arms are free to thrash at Alex. He laughs cruelly before crushing his
mouth into mine. “Stop touching me….please don’t do this, Alex.”

A small voice. “Baby.”

“No, don’t…” I protest blindly, pulling away from Alex’s hands
trying to wrap around my shoulders. I don’t want to be trapped. Once
he has me held down, it’s over. He’ll hurt me until I show him the
emotion he wants. Taking a chance, I bolt up and roll over the edge of
the bed. I crawl to a dark corner away from his laughing. Hiding my
face between my knees blocks out voices. John’s, Alex’s—they blend and
sound identical around me. Taunting me with a sing-song voice that
chills me. Calling out my name over and over again.

“Stop…please…no more…”

I feel warmth and a body kneel beside me. I’m useless to his powerful
arms when he slips one under my knees and lifts me up. It’s John that
I smell. It’s John that buries his face and voice in my hair as he
carries me back to the bed. And Alex hates it; he calls out for me to
pay attention to him.

“It’s me, baby. Open your eyes.” John. “Come back to me, baby. You can
do it. Come on. You were dreaming…it was only a dream,” he whispers
settling me into his lap and sheltering my face against his chest.
“I’m here. Nobody else, I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”
His voice is tight; his arms are the same holding me like a vice as he
rocks me. “Wake up.”

Gasping awake, fully and slightly aware that I’m not with anyone
determined to hurt me, I follow John’s comforting voice. The light
surrounds me as I slowly open my eyes and see that it’s not dark
anywhere except in the chambers of my mind. Where Alex haunts me
mercifully.

It’s actually daylight. I remember gripping John that he did exactly
what I asked. He made tender love to me in the bathtub. And then he
brought me to the bed where we fell asleep spooning. I remember the
warmth of his mouth against my neck, the feel of arms locked around my
torso. I remember feeling safe.

“Baby, are you okay? Huh, look at me,” he stops rocking to draw my
face away from his chest. “You were dreaming,” he assures me, his
glassy eyes gazing down at me, “you called me Alex. You were fighting
me.”

I bite into my lip. I was fighting the ghost. “I’m sorry. He was in my
head; I couldn’t tell you apart.”

He dips to kiss the tip of my nose. “You want to tell me about it?”

“I don’t know,” I shrug, knowing the pain he feels when I have to
share things that hurt me. He feels them too profoundly. “It was just
a dream.”

He peers at me narrowing his eyes, “don’t do that…don’t dismiss
this. Talk to me, sweetheart. Tell me.”

“You don’t want to know,” I whisper timidly. “It’s not…”

“I want to help you. You can tell me anything.” He presses his mouth
closely to my lips and lingers there for a moment of silence that
builds both of our courage. “I love you.”

I close my eyes. I want the feeling of his love to enter my pores and
take over all the ugliness. When he loves me, I’m not afraid. I’m
strong and bigger than the demons that crowd my dreams. “I love you,
too.”

“So…” he tweaks my chin and gathers some of my damp hair into his hand.

“We were making love, you were making love to me very sweetly,” I
begin, trying to keep the trembling from saturating my voice. “I was
happy to have you healing my wounds with kisses and touches. You do
that so well,” I smile pulling his knuckles to my mouth for a kiss.
They are swollen. “And then you started to become rough and I realized
it wasn’t you at all.”

“No, it wasn’t.” He helps me sit up and then turns me around in his
lap. I wrap my legs around his back and use my arms to encircle his
shoulders. He leans his forehead against mine sealing our mouths and
eyes together. “You don’t have to be afraid. You can tell me
anything.”

He really thinks so, or he wouldn’t have said so. And yet, I think
about all the times we’ve gone down this road. I’ve tried to share
things and only ended up hurting him more than he helps me.

“It’s always too much for you, isn’t it?” I ask tracing a slow path
along the nape of his neck. “I know it hurts.”

“No,” he shakes his head. A kiss to silence my fear of sharing and his
arms gathering around my body snuggly. “It kills me that you’re in
pain.”

“But I’m not,” I lie. It’s easier and I’ll believe it when he starts
to believe me. “You healed me. You took away all the pain. You kissed
me and loved me. Just love me.”

He pulls back, stopping the thrusting of my tongue into his mouth. “I
do love you, and it’s why I want to help. I need to help you,” he begs
rubbing the small of my back. “You don’t have to protect me.”

“I know,” I lie again. I try another kiss. A kiss that starts at the
tip of his nose, continuing along a dotted path toward his lips. He
accepts each one with his eyes closed. “Look at me, John.” I need to
see his warm, blue eyes staring back at me.

He does. “I am looking at you,” he says staring intensely into my eyes.

“I feel like I’m falling apart,” I admit with untainted honesty, “and
I don’t know another person in this world who can save me from that
except you. So don’t ask me to talk about those things that will make
me break. I can’t do that right now. I can’t think about it…” I shake
even remembering the attack. “I can’t go there with myself or you
right now. And do you want to know why? I’m not being selfish. I’m not
being brave. I’m just moving through this phase as best I can. Keema
needs to…we have to say goodbye to her. We have to help the baby.
There are so many other things that we can talk about…and I just don’t
have the time for the nervous breakdown that I deserve.” I sigh with a
forced, small smile that he wipes tenderly from my lips.

“You’re so good at holding things in.” He tucks his chin into my
shoulder and holds me quietly. His body is naked, we both are. I’m
covered in sweat from the thrusting through my nightmare. This
intimate, weak moment with me cradled into his body as if he’s my
protector. My father. My savior. I don’t want either. I just want John
to wrap me into his love once more.

“I’m not hiding anything,” I whisper sliding my palms across his back,
“from you that you don’t know. You know how afraid I am.” I bring his
face to mine. “I don’t want to give my fear any power. I just want to
be safe.”

“You are,” he promises lifting his head from my shoulder to frame my
face between his warm hands. “You’re safe. So goddamn safe.”

“I know; I believe you,” I breathe harshly against his mouth as we
stare into each other’s eyes. “Do you still think of me as dirty?” I
stumble over the last word. I wouldn’t ever want him not to want to
touch me because of another person’s insistence on breaking the sexual
bond and boundaries that John and I have.

He tilts my chin upward, scaling my face with his eyes circumspectly.
“Every time with you is the first time.” He kisses me. The illusion of
any space between us shatters and we seemingly dissolve into each
other around the rumpled sheets and pillows.

John starts to make love to me innocently. His touches are timid,
sometimes wild. He sculpts my skin under nimble fingertips with a
feverish obsession with leaving their imprints on every part of my
body. He rubs my neck, over the welts, between them, under them. He
massages my stomach, circling around in my navel before dragging his
fingers over the mound at the apex between my thighs.

Breathless and needy, I swallow him whole. The parts of my body that
he isn’t touching enough, I start touching. I arch into him and hold
the secrets of our unspoken love between our tongues. I bite his lips
and drink the blood that springs beyond his flesh. I become the
teacher and lead him into a deeper fervor to entice him into being the
lover I know well. I love his gentleness but I’m craving the
passionate lover who knows just the right amount of friction. Just
where to stroke while he thrusts. Where to kiss so that I have no
control over my voice.

“You’re mine,” he reminds me rolling me onto my back from his lap. He
climbs over me and starts to kiss me feverishly. The timid lover
climbs back into his soul and my John emerges. With each stroke of his
tongue, the pull of my lips between his, the urgent shifting of his
head, my body prepares for his welcomed entrance into me. “I love you
so much, doc. I love you,” he moans into my skin as he descends my
mouth and sits back on his heels.

“What are you doing?” I ask shyly as he gazes down at me.

He cups my knees in his palms and spreads me apart slowly. “I’m
looking at how beautiful you are here,” his finger disappears between
my legs. “Do you know how beautiful you are?” He asks lovingly, warmth
and sexy coating his beautiful blue eyes. He talks softly as he buries
his mouth between my thighs, kissing the long spans of skin on both
legs where scars tread. He assures me that it’s him doing the loving,
amazing things with his tongue instead of anyone else. He settles
between my legs and kisses the place glistening for him. He urges me
to let go and trust him. He doesn’t have to ask. I’m already thrusting
my hips at him, begging with soft moans for him to bring me to the
place where nothing else matters.

He laps at me with his hands rubbing tenderly over my navel, sliding
down my thighs until he feels me clenching my way to an orgasm. He
cups under my rear and I feel the rewards of his tongue’s
manipulations tightening in my stomach. He tells me to let go. I have
no choice. I arch my back from the bed and thread his hair around my
clenching fingers as I lose control of my body.

Feeling spineless and languid under his mouth, I fall back and enjoy
the convulsions pulsing through my body as he continues pressing light
kisses between my legs. He crawls beside me, pulling my hand from
raking through my hair in ecstasy to feel the heavy swelling between
his legs.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispers sliding our hands toward the
base of his pulsing manhood. “But I need you very much right now. Can
I have you?” He asks tenderly.

He’s giving me the power back, taking the powerless that I felt last
night. His considerate question sends a lone tear down my cheek. I
close my eyes to keep another from escaping. I’m not sad; I don’t want
to be sad. I don’t want to frighten John. I lift my heavy, exhausted
head and lean over his chest.

“I love you for asking,” I say with kisses that start small and end
with hungry tongues finding their ways in the dark. “Come here baby,
come here,” I beg rolling over to welcome him on top of me. He
straddles me between his knees and stares again at me as if I’m
porcelain. “I’m fine…come here, give me you,” I beg pulling him to me.
“Give me you,” I cry feeling him rubbing against the wetness that he
left between my legs. I help him slide inch by inch inside me until
I’m filled again with him. I inhale that maleness that shines in his
skin and adjust my hips to rap against his.

He’s still gentle. Talking to me as he pushes the love back into me.
Assuring me of my power over our lovemaking. Telling me that I’m the
only person who he’ll ever want to be with in this way. Kissing me to
steal my gasping moans. He pushes into me and I cry a little every
time. Some men look at love as a healing, loving gesture of intimacy.
And those others, I don’t want to think about. I don’t have to think
about them with a man so tender cradled between my thighs, making love
that erases all that.

He explodes with my permission. And I hold him close to match our
uneven heartbeats. I close my eyes. “I love you so much that it hurts.
I love you…I love you….” I cry against his cheek as he stops moving
inside me.

Chapter 52

Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am the sparkle in the snow.
I am the shredded leaves that blow.
I am the sunlight on growing grain.
I am the gentle summer rain.
I am the quiet bird at night.
Circling about; Taking flight.
So do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there, I do not sleep.
-Mary E. Frye-

As much as every one of the brokenhearted who sit and grieve amongst
one another would hate to admit, life is truly fragile. Life lasts but
seconds; moments of good and bad, peaceful and chaotic places in time
that mark one soul’s journey. Life exists to say goodbye. Beginning
with a shriek, the sounds of renewal, freshly baptized through the
birth canal and ending with the sound of light breathes; the only
thing that remains is the sound.

That death is not specific to time, age, or color is a fact; that
death brings people together is another. That death steals souls to
places that spirits only tread, is true; that death manipulates and
makes strong men crumble, also true. That death hurls insults and
bitterness in hulking balls of grief, is accurate; that death makes
pretty the ugly, also truthful. That death causes separation, is true;
that death crystallizes life, is sincere.

That Keema Carter left stains in the rivers of life that she waded
such a short time in, that she called these haunted, mournful people
to this place; that she lay peaceful, undisturbed and tortured no
more; that her life leaves an absence of fear; that she managed to
make a clean breast of it all; that she accepted her fate with her
brave, warrior-like spirit; that these are all reasons that she was
theirs, and she was them.

“Life did her wrong, maybe death will treat her better,” Tory, her
best friend reflects looking down over the white casket holding
Keema’s sealed remains. It wasn’t real for her until she walked pass
the casket to stand behind the podium. She could still pretend that
Keema was sleeping, and when she heard Tory’s voice then she’d awaken
with her odd smile that never quite touched her eyes. But this isn’t a
fairytale, no sorcerers with potions or kisses that unlock the grip of
death. Keema’s not coming back she realizes eyeing the closed box,
visibly shaken by the magnitude of such finality. “Keema,” her voice
falters, “I’ll never forget you, girl,” she adds kissing two fingers
and pointing them heavenward.

Tory isn’t the only one stunned by such a cruel blow of fate. She’s
just brave enough to express her grief to the mourners. But they’re
all stunned, reflective, and remorseful. And none of them is prepared
to stay goodbye. How do you tell a restless, tortured soul goodbye at
the dawn of their new life anyway? There is something out of balance.
God must have gotten it wrong. He couldn’t have meant to take Keema.
She was just learning how capable she could be in her life. Her
abbreviated life stings so many people. Marlena is just one in a sea
of others.

Tory hugs her stomach as she waddles pass the casket, stopping in
front of Dr. Evans. They hug and she leans to hear Dr. Evans whisper
that she is sorry for taking Keema away. For rescuing her, for leaving
Tory behind. At one point, those were the feelings that tore at her
friendship with Keema. She’d disappeared into the suburbs with her
angel of mercy, leaving Tory to fend with the demons. She was jealous
that someone had chosen Keema and left her behind, but with death, the
option to hold grudges diminishes with time. Tory has no regrets;
Keema finally had what she’d prayed for all of her sad-filled life, a
family. Tory kisses Dr. Evans’ cheek and assures her that she was
happy that Keema had her in the end, reminding her that the only thing
they have is now. Yesterday and its mistakes are gone with Keema. She
takes her seat in the row behind Dr. Evans and her family, startled
again by the sight of their beautiful faces, clouded with tears that
can only mean true love existed.

The Black family sits huddled together in the front row of the Baptist
church that Keema attended as a little girl with one of her
grandmother. There was no insurance or family to decide on the service
and other matters. Without question, John and Marlena became the
benefactors of Keema’s services. In deference to the past, that
Marlena was unknowingly helping Keema erase, Marlena insisted on
having Keema’s services in the small sanctuary of the historical
church. It had once housed abolitionist sympathizers who helped
escaped slaves find freedom. When Cory shared its history with
Marlena, she felt a kinship with the postage stamp sized building with
its large steeple. She likened it to what she had tried to give Keema,
freedom in love and happiness with her family.

Behind them, the pews are filled with the other people who filtered in
and out of Keema’s short life. They sit amongst one another saturated
in the mournful sobriety of the proceedings. Teachers who recognized
Keema’s potential hold their heads low in shame, dejected by their
inability to do more. Clergy hum sober tunes about redemption,
regretting their lack of intervention in Keema’s life. There are
foster mothers, countless women, who failed to see beyond Keema’s
toughness to mend the cracks in her broken heart to keep her glued in
their families.

And then there are the Blacks, who spiritually adopted Keema, and now
sit grieving more painfully than all the others. They all have a sense
of failure tugging their shoulders lower. They’re all responsible for
the tragedy of Keema’s existence.

“Keema was a sweet spirit,” one of her foster sister recalls at the
podium. She is an average looking girl with beautiful brown eyes and
corkscrewed hair. “She had my back from day one. I knew I could trust
whatever she told me.” The sister, who introduced herself as Shay,
looks pointedly at Marlena. “She told me how happy she was. And I
believed her,” Shay adds wiping tears away as she stiffens her back.
“Keema Carter was love, always.”

Marlena nods at Shay. The love they both felt for Keema ignites a
quiet kinship that connects between their eyes. Shay lowers her head
to gather her strength and to stop staring at the woman who saved her
sister. Marlena Evans looks every ounce of what Keema described her as
during one of her phone calls. Even dressed in the somber black
clothing, Marlena Evans-Black is a beautiful woman with warm eyes. It
annoyed Shay, but Keema could never talk enough about the beautiful
woman who saved her from working the streets. To see her now, sitting
in their poor little church in her expensive dress and shoes, Shay
understands why Keema was so infatuated by her. There is something in
her face that makes Shay and obviously Keema believe—in anything,
especially because they never believed before.

Shay looks up and fastens her eyes back on Marlena. She came into the
church hiding behind a pair of dark sunglasses, but they’re pinned in
her hair now. Her tears are tangible; her sadness is potent. Her hair
is pulled into a sedate ponytail, her face devoid of makeup. Her body
is absent of adornments, save a watch on her wrist and the diamond
studs in her ears. She is the walking statue that Keema said she was,
and maybe more. Shay smiles at the stranger who makes her feel warm in
the coldness of Keema’s death. She knows what it was about Marlena;
she made Keema believe in people again.

“I don’t think Keema would want us to be in here crying and carrying
on,” Shay continues, focusing on Marlena. “We all do the best we got
to do and sometimes it’s enough. Sometimes it ain’t, and it ain’t
nobody’s fault.”

Shay tries to remember the things that Keema said about her life with
them. She always talked about love. Keema said they were drowning in
love in that house. To watch them, it’s evident how much they love
each other. Marlena leans into her husband. Keema wasn’t always sure
of him but she wasn’t unsure about the way he felt about Marlena. He’s
been holding her ever since they walked down the middle aisle to take
their seats. He held her hand at the casket before they closed it,
rubbing her back while she bent over the casket to touch Keema’s face
and leave a picture of Noah and a teddy bear wearing a light blue
t-shirt that said Noah. He keeps her steady by wrapping his arm around
her shoulders and rubbing up and down her arm. Two girls, who resemble
her, lean to caress her shoulder whenever she sobs too loudly.

Shay shares with the rapt audience how Keema experienced her first day
at the beach with her. She describes the way they both felt in the
unbridled waves crashing around their ankles when they rolled up their
jeans to run in the water. Neither had ever been to the beach. It was
such a new, exciting experience that Shay holds close to her heart
today. The freedom of letting the water have its say, loving the power
of nature over man. Keema sat at its edge and looked to the sky to
thank God for such a simple pleasure. She loved small things, small
gestures.

Shay stops talking abruptly, unable to continue in the vein that she’s
remembering Keema. The sad, gloomy stories that add glory to their
inglorious lives twist her insides. She’s doing what she knows Keema
would never allow. Making fairytales, lying to herself about what it
all meant. She cringes and catches Marlena’s eyes. In answer to the
silent pleading between them, she almost isn’t convinced that Marlena
rises from her seat and walks toward her. She leans into Marlena’s
gentle touch and backs away from the podium. Now, she’s rescuing her.
Shay inhales the sweet smell of Marlena’s skin when she falls into her
outstretched arms and lets go of the tears that she’s been too proud
to let fall freely. She mumbles thank you into Marlena’s neck,
savoring her palms stretching soothingly up and down her back.

“I didn’t think that I could stand up here and talk about Keema,”
Marlena says inching closer to the podium with Shay curled to her
side. “It’s unreal that she’s there,” she looks sadly at the casket,
“and we’re here discussing her. There is something unfair about that
fact. What is more troubling about her death is that it feels as if it
is impossible, because she’d never really lived.” Marlena sighs as
distraction. Her emotions are so close to the edge that she has no
control over them. She cries in one moment because of the loss, but in
another, it’s because of the way that people remember Keema. They knew
the same person that Marlena came to know. “I don’t understand
why—perhaps, it’s not for me to understand. I do have questions and
I’m taking them up with the person who holds the cards. But I feel as
if I can’t leave here without sharing that my life, the lives of my
children have been immeasurably blessed her. Just her—she never knew
that she was enough. I tried to give her that.” Marlena bites her
bottom lip and looks across the podium at her husband. “I think she
gave me that, too. It hurts me so much that her baby boy won’t ever
know her. But through me, through my memories and your memories, we
won’t let him forget. I promised her that I would always protect her
and now I have to protect Noah; we all have to protect him from the
life that his mother created him in.” She looks away from her
husband’s stoic face, away from her children’s worried faces. She
looks down at the casket and then at Shay, as she pulls the poem out
that she put in her pocket to read.

“Rise up slowly, Angel. Do not leave me hear alone. For the warmth of
mortal essence,
lays replaced with cold hard stone. Speak to me in breezes, whisper
through the drying leaves. Caress my brow with raindrops, filtered by
the sheltered trees. Rise up slowly, Angel. For I cannot hear the
song, which calls you through the shadows, into the light beyond. Wrap
me in a downy cape and sunshine, warm with love. And kiss a tear
stained mother’s face, with moonlight from above. Then wait for me at
sunset, beside the lily pond.
And guide me safely to your world, which lays somewhere beyond. Just
spread your arms,
to take me in reunions sweet embrace. And we shall soar together, to a
different time and place.”

[John]

She named him Evan but she likes to call him Noah; she and Edie swear
that he responds to it. Edie, who is devoutly religious, believes that
biblical Noah is stronger than Evan is. I don’t disagree with them.
The little boy who’s been in the world for exactly 5 days is thriving
under the careful watch of nurses in the preemie unit of St. Joseph
Memorial Hospital and Marlena.

She’s holding him in the rocking chair they all use to feed him his
bottle. She’s humming “Somewhere over the Rainbow” while strumming
Noah’s fuzzy hair with her thumb. There are pangs of regret when I see
her with Noah looking very motherly. She was born to be a mother. If
she could mother the world, it would definitely see vast improvements.
Her tender touch and soft kisses bring smiles to my kids’ faces. Noah
is the fortunate recipient of her maternal reassurances. She’s pouring
all of the love that she wishes she could still give to Keema into the
baby cradled in her arms.

We buried her this morning in a plot by the woman she called
grandmother. As soon as her casket was lowered into the ground,
Marlena insisted on heading here to give Noah his feeding. She sent
Rachel and Sami to check on Nicky and Jules, who spent the morning
with Danielle. She’s been eerily silent. In the car ride over, she
tucked her arms around her chest and looked out the window.

Watching her rocking Noah, his cheek relaxing against her breast, his
fingers clinging to her hand, I feel her words bubbling up inside of
me. “What did you mean when you said you’d protect Noah?” I curl my
fingers around the arm of the rocking chair to stop her from moving.

She clenches her mouth into a tight line of defiance. Avoiding my
question, she bends and presses her lips to Noah’s fuzzy head. We’ve
been working in silence since this morning when I watched from my
bathroom door as she climbed into her sleeveless black dress like it
was a new skin that carried mourning in its seam. She insisted that
she was fine, had been fine since we made love and decided that she
would stay with me and the children at my house.

We planned Keema’s services. We went about avoiding the subject of
what happened. No James, no talk of death. She spent her time
preparing the children emotionally for Keema’s funeral, only to decide
that they wouldn’t understand the services. In between, she went back
and forth to the hospital to care for Noah. And she did all of this
without discussing anything with me.

She’s closing herself off from the pain of it all.

“Baby, I know you hear me. Don’t shut me out,” I crouch beside her and
Noah. He’s a quiet kid that enjoys the sound of her voice. “Talk to
me,” I encourage her, stroking the inside of her wrist. “Tell me what
you’re thinking.”

She lifts her eyes up mechanically, pulling Noah closer to her breast.
“You know what I’m thinking,” she insists, her eyes swollen and red
from all the tears she shed over Keema at the funeral. The dark
smudges underneath her eyes speak of her exhaustion. She’s also still
waking up with nightmares every night. Alex, James, and at times I
have starring roles attacking her every night. She’s cries about Keema
when she thinks no one is watching, or that no one can hear her in the
shower.

“Noah, we haven’t discussed this,” I remind her, dragging my finger
down Noah’s ruddy skin. “You seem to have already made this decision.”

“I’m not asking for your permission,” Marlena sighs, avoiding the way
I’m looking at her.

“I didn’t think that you needed it, honey. I just want to be clear; I
want you to be clear. This is a large responsibility. We have two
children under three, barely out of diapers. How are they going to
feel? Have you thought about them? What about your job? Do you have
enough time in the day as it is with your patient load for the two
children you already have?”

“John,” she says simply, gazing down at Noah. His golden red hair has
changed into a sandy color like his mother’s hair. He looks at up
Marlena when she places his bottle between his lips, rubbing his chin
with her finger. He has Keema’s almond-shaped eyes, her small mouth.
“I’m not asking you to be this child’s father. I’m not asking anything
of you that you’re not willing to give.”

She doesn’t even sound sure of what she’s saying. “Honey, you’ve just
been through a very traumatic week.” She cuts her eyes so angrily at
me that I stop talking.

“Don’t talk about it,” she breathes slamming her eyes closed. “I don’t
want you to mention that. Not in front of him, not to me. I don’t want
to think about it.”

I hold my palms up to surrender to her wish to stop inquiring into her
bruised psyche. The bruises on her face are hidden under her skin
again, with only a hint that they were ever there. She’s not ready;
Ashton doesn’t feel that pushing her is a good thing. “I’m sorry,
baby. I know you loved Keema. The kids loved her, too. But you did
everything you could; you don’t owe her anymore than that. She knew
that.”

“She wanted us to have him…us,” she says, her eyes flashing angrily.
“And I can’t believe you didn’t tell me that. She never had the chance
to but you should have told me what she asked of us.” I’m stunned that
she knows that; I didn’t tell her because I knew the extent of her
guilt. She feels partially responsible for Noah’s loss. “Don’t look so
surprised, Tory told me that she asked you. She told her.”

“Honey, look—this, Noah…”

“He’s a helpless child,” she says staring at the baby. “He needs a
family. I have a family.”

“We have a family,” I remind her pulling her chin to face me, “I’m the
father in this equation, whether you want to have me or not. This is a
decision that we both should make.”

“No,” she shakes her head disagreeably, “we don’t have to make a
decision. We’re not married, John.” She covers my hand on her chin and
lowers it. “I’m not saying that to hurt you. I’m just being honest.
I’m adopting him and it’s not up for debate.”

“What about Nicky and Juliana?”

“They’ll love him, just the way I will.”

“It’s not as easy as that, Marlena. And you know that.”

“I know that I can’t let him go to a foster home.” She takes the
bottle from his mouth and props him to her shoulder. “I couldn’t live
with not knowing,” she tells me patting his back gently. “His mother
wanted us to have him. I want him. I’m sorry if it seems selfish and
not well thought out but I don’t want to think about it. I’m going to
give him everything that I couldn’t give her.”

“Baby, give this some time.” I don’t doubt that she could be a great
mother for him. “You’re in pain. I think it’s okay to give this time.
He’s not going anywhere.”

“He’s going home with me…that’s where he’s going.”

“You can’t even bring yourself to go home,” I tell her gently, stroking her leg.

“John, wherever I am will be his home.”

And she forgets that wherever she is, I am home, too.

Chapter 53

“Lying is done with words and also with silence.”
–Adrienne Rich–

Einstein said it best when he determined that “insanity is doing the
same thing over and over again and expecting different results.” The
brain is inflexible in its ability to override traumatic experiences
to grasp at more positive thoughts and feelings. It does its job to
shelter from colossal breakdowns by kidnapping the traumatic moments
in order to protect the body from shutting completely down. We are not
those moments, but those moments are undoubtedly a part of who we
become—which is an infinitesimally small portion of life, an
encapsulation of a traumatic period, not a pattern for one’s life. I
was victimized, but I can’t become a victim of that violence.

It is a denial of the events, and perhaps that’s a bad premise for
healing. But, I don’t do well to dwell on the event; I have to move on
from it all. Keema’s death and what happened to me—what I haven’t even
been able to say aloud to myself—have happened, and there isn’t one
single thing that I can do to change them. Now, in my conscious mind,
I understand how powerless I am to death and someone else’s
determination, in this case, a man’s weak willful lusting. I
understand. I am accepting defeat to circumstances, but I can’t talk
about them and continue to relive them. I have to avoid going there
because I fear what could happen if I let go of my willful ignorance
in dealing with these matters. I would be insane to try to find reason
in things beyond my control.

Isn’t there supposed to be serenity in accepting the things that I
cannot change? I pray for that. I wish for a peaceful acceptance of
what happened to me, but it seems that my brain has this insane
obligation to obsess over details and add feelings and emotions that I
hide well while I’m awake. In my sleep, I’m not as lucky. Einstein
also said that solving problems on the same level that they were
created on is impractical. I wasn’t attacked in my sleep. I was
wide-awake, in a body alert sense; however, my emotions were numb.
Those emotions, whether I wish to explore them or not, have a
deep-seated need to have their turn on stage. Awake, I operate the
stage, and asleep, my brain does. It is insanity at the basest of
levels. I have a history of forgetting traumatic, soul-killing
experiences. Perhaps my brain has tired of protecting me in my
conscious and unconscious life; maybe my brain is asking me to deal
with more than just what happened of late. I’m beginning to believe
that I have no choice in the matter either way, whether I want them to
or not, the demons continue to show up and raid the banks of my
memory.

I can disguise sadness with another, less threatening emotion—not for
me, but threatening to John and the children. I smile at them when
tears are hiding just behind my eyes. I do well with distractions. And
when they cease, when Nicky isn’t asking me questions that make my
heart light; when Noodle is twisting knots into my hair while she
tries to nap in my lap; when I’m not at the hospital feeding Noah;
when I’m not making love to John every night, when all of those
beautiful distractions cease, I’m left alone with dreams.
Nightmares—continuous tormenting images that rouse me from an
otherwise peaceful sleep.

They seem to come from a formula: lying in John’s arms naked and
tangled in the comfort of our intimacy. Ironically, these dreams
always happen after we’ve taken liberties with our bodies to end the
neediness, which is a co-dependent coupling of John’s desire to end my
depraved feelings of lovemaking and my need to be filled with someone
who I welcome hungrily. We make love—I make love to him to forget what
it’s like not to have control. Body covered in John’s manly scent, his
secretions spilling between my legs, holding on for dear life in the
sea of our neediness, these things seem to call Alex forth. He takes
advantage of my hyper-aroused condition.

He comes to me more now than he ever has. He’s real enough to touch
and hear; my heart quickens as rivulets of sweat pour out of my skin.
My body understands that dreams have a foot in reality. Alex’s
taunting is so real that I hold my breath to calm him. No dream is the
same; however, his intent is clear in every one. He is livid. He’s
fuming against my sin of laying with John, a man who isn’t my husband.
Alex is my husband; Alex is my child’s father. Those are roles he
needs me to remember emphasizing that my penance is forthcoming. Alex
is my tormentor, jailer, my everything. Alex is unhappy with John and
reminds me how much I will pay for my disobedience and betrayal in the
gentle, disarming tone of his anger.

Alex attacks me tonight, ramming remorselessly into the delicate place
between my legs. He slaps me when I don’t react in pleasure. He chokes
me to force the words I love you from my lips as he mutters against
them. He yanks my hair to lift my neck for marking. He reminds me that
we’re making babies, making love. I remember not to cry; I remember to
smile and make the bile rising in my throat stay there. I kiss him
back to make the angry words stop. I clench and unclench my fingers
above my head where he’s holding my wrist. I feel the evidence of his
completion on my inner thigh. I wince when he turns my face away in
disgust; I don’t deserve any of his children. I swallow the anger;
he’s already taken one child away with his beatings. I close my eyes;
I’m being choked again. I deserve to die.

Alex’s name is on my lips when I startle awake thrashing against John,
out of the grips of Alex’s torment. I know his kiss; the difference
between John and Alex’s lips is warmth. Alex was always so cold. His
hands were always so clammy when he touched me methodically during
sex.

John holds my sweat-drenched body against his, wrapping his arms
around me as he rocks me tenderly. I know this part; it’s not a dream.
This is the routine that puts me back to sleep. I relax in his
protective embrace. I inhale him, relishing the safety locked in his
scent. I wedge my leg between his thighs. He allows me to find my
focus in a calm silence instead of asking questions. Lately, he hasn’t
asked anything of me except to take comfort in having him with me. We
are still disagreeing about Noah and James, but only outside of the
bedroom. Even at odds, he doesn’t deny me protection and I don’t deny
him my body. In fact, I crave the tenderness that he keeps showing my
body during our intimate unions.

They start out with pure intentions. I’m usually seeking a peaceful
rest in the crook of his arms where he can touch me in all his warmth
and his devotion to continue to try to heal me. I need his healing;
it’s all I want. I don’t want the revenge that hides behind his eyes.
I simply want peace. James is in his own personal hell; I don’t think
I have to do anything more than allow him to fall on his own sword.
John disagrees. He also disagrees about Noah. At midnight, the
arguments cease and we transition into lovers finding peace through
making love.

I can’t help crying when he enters me gently. It’s redemptive. It’s
prayer. And it’s us.

Alex is fighting for his place in my memory. I don’t know why it’s
such a battle to forget him, why my attack has called him from the
shores of my forgotten life. His jealousy of John is so tangible that
I feel as if we’ve lived through it together. When I’m dreaming, it’s
not so illusionary. The images threading the dream together feel as if
I’ve lived them already. And Rachel’s there as a baby, toddling
through the minefields of Alex’s anger and my fear; John is there as
well. All of these people are connected by their link to me. It feels
genuine.

I know I’ve been Alex’s victim in my past. It’s frightening how potent
it feels in my dreams. When I slip back to sleep in John’s reassuring
arms, they’re both there fighting for me. John is victorious in this
dream. He rescues Rachel and me just before my mind goes blank and I
awake again to find that Alex isn’t there, only John and me.

John finds me staring at him when he wakes up. I’ve been watching him
sleeping, enjoying the peacefulness coloring his face. I didn’t have
the heart to disturb him. He’s been spending so many nights and days
losing sleep because of me.

“Good morning,” I smile, lifting my head to touch his jaw line with my
pursed lips. He draws me to his mouth with a finger tipping my chin,
kissing me softly.

“Good morning. You were watching me sleep, weren’t you?” His eyelids
flutter when I trace the crease of his forehead down to the top of his
lip. “Do you still like waking up to this face,” he asks flashing a
pure Nicky pout with lips protruding adorably.

It’s natural to admire the angles of his face in the sunlight flooding
through the window dissecting it into prisms. I love his face not
because of his inordinate handsomeness but because I can look into it
and still see the man that I fell in love with. And now with history
flowing deeply between us, I see the map of my children’s origins,
especially Nicholas, in the curves and angles.

“I always have, except…”

John grabs my chin playfully, “Except what?” He grazes my jaw with his lips.

“You didn’t let me finish,” I laugh pushing him away, but his grip is
stronger and he pulls me back toward him. “I was going to say except
now when I see your face, I see our son looking back at me.”

“Oh, that is an acceptable answer.” He kisses me softly, pressing my
cheek to his shoulder. “You look beautiful for someone who’s had such
a restless sleep. How do you feel?”

“Wonderful.” I stretch into the warmth of his body and the mattress
cradling us closer. His skin and the muscles flexing under my
fingertips are imprinted in my fingerprints; I’ve touched and kissed
them so much. His manhood is flaccid and heavy on top of my thigh, the
coarse hair flaring below his belly scratching at my skin. “I always
sleep better in your arms.” He unfolds me from his embrace to push my
shoulders gently to the bed. He hovers above me, changing the pattern
of our legs by lifting his knee over my thigh to straddle me. “Again,”
I lift my eyebrows hopeful, running my fingernails down his chest,
tangling my nails in the curly hair. “I don’t know if I can handle
anymore of you.” I continue the descent of my hands between us over
his belly to cup him between his legs. “Can he handle anymore?” I ask
rolling my thumb over his tip, grinning naughtily.

“I think you know the answer to that,” he laughs, sliding his pelvis
eagerly into me. “But, I’m honestly exhausted.” He collapses beside me
on his back, pulling me with him. I sink my chin into his chest as he
starts sliding his hand up and down my back, stopping every so often
on the curve of my rear to squeeze.

Offering him a firmer grasp, I ask lightheartedly, “Is it still there?”

He chuckles, yanking me on top of him so that I’m staring into his
lazy, worshipful eyes. The stubble dotting the skin along the line of
his jaw adds a rugged, sexy light to his face. I miss this kind of
playfulness in bed with John. I love the intensity of our lovemaking
but I also love this—it’s hard to describe. With him, when I’m feeling
overwhelmed and lost in middle age issues, it’s a relief to relax into
his wonder, his child-like wonder. I have always been the one who
takes things too seriously; he never allowed me to do that. Noting the
weary look on his face, I start to kiss him slowly, curling my arm
under his neck.

“You are trying to kill me,” spills into my mouth as he slides his
tongue to follow his words. “I don’t mind it; it’s a wonderful way to
die.”

Breaking away to laugh at the sappy way he’s mugging me, I try to get
up with no luck. He holds me tightly pressed to his body, as if I’d
have a reason to go. I watch him, knowing that our intimate
relationship confuses the hell out of both of us; that every time I
make love to him, the promise I made to let him be free of me is
idiotic; that every time I part my legs and ask for him to combine in
our fevered passions that I’m not pushing him away, only pulling him
closer.

“Our children are very quiet,” I realize resting my head on him. Even
Pika’s distinctive noises, the scraping of nails along the floor, her
unmatched barking are hidden in the serenity of John’s bedroom. The
bedroom door is closed; I don’t usually sleep with any doors closed
with toddlers who love to climb into my bed at night. “It’s late.”
It’s after ten. Breakfast, baths, and snacks are usually had by then.

“Danielle,” he says lifting his eyebrows suspiciously, “spent the
night. She’s taken them for the afternoon. They’ll be back. I told her
that you needed to rest.”

Pangs of guilt collide with John’s reassuring fingertips down the
column of my neck. With everything that’s happened, Danielle and John
have managed the children around the quiet chaos of our lives.
Danielle especially has taken her role as baby sitter to a more
responsible nanny. I owe her a great deal of gratefulness because I
know in her hands that my children are safe.
“That was kind of you. I guess I owe you.”

He tugs on my hair, pulling my face up. “You don’t owe me anything
except getting better. That’s all the gift I require,” he says
selflessly. “Get well.” The way his lips brush my temple, lingering
and tightening his arms around my waist, is parental and reassuring.
He is the master of reassuring when it’s needed.

I count the number of beats that his heart takes under my cheek. By
the fifth thud, he calls my name, the heavy timbre of his voice
rumbling through my skin. I recognize the seriousness in his tone, so
I’m slightly prepared when he starts a conversation that I’d rather
not begin.

“You called me Alex again in your sleep.” It’s not an accusation. It’s
his intimate awareness of the nightmares plaguing me, and disrupting
his sleep as well when I’m lying in his arms. “Would you like to talk
about it?”

The concern is genuine and urgent but I’m not ready to discuss Alex. I
try a technique that usually works. “You heard, did you?” I wink
flirtatiously, covering the hand he has on rubbing my neck. He’s being
so sweet that I get lost and forget that I’m protecting him from my
demons. It is only his doing that I’m able to be so calm about
everything. “We’re going to have to get up soon, or at the very least,
get dressed. I have to get to the hospital for Noah’s feeding.”

He brings my face up yet again; I know—we both know I’m hiding. He
looks at me; no, he looks through me as he brushes my hair from
shielding my eyes from his. “We can do all of the above, but let’s
talk about your nightmares first. Please?”

The weight of that ‘please’ is heavier than carrying children pressed
in the haven of your womb. John’s pleading to help me is the burden
that I don’t want to share with him. He’s not ready for it; I’ve been
hiding it from myself.

But he’s always done this, hasn’t he? This isn’t a new condition
between us. With each other, the devotion to selflessness could
canonize us both. When I met him, there was such a need in me to make
sure that he was always well. Is this a sickness or addiction that we
have no control over? Or is this just the way we have to operate to
feel secure.

Without him actually saying so, I hear him saying that he’ll always
protect me. And in a flash, a voice just as clear: ‘Of course he loves
you, you’re a slut.’ Alex. He feels so near. I circle my arms around
John’s torso to get closer, to disappear making myself smaller in his
largeness, burying my nose against his skin. ‘But I know he loves me.
You never loved me. You only wanted to possess me.’

John shakes me out of my fog. My memory. I’m not quite sure what to
call the fact that I can hear Alex just as clearly as I hear John’s
voice. And myself speaking back, but inwardly. I must look startled by
it all because John frames my face and asks, “Honey, is he still
hurting you in the dreams? I mean is he hitting you.” He asks tightly,
rubbing the pads of his thumbs up and down the sides of my face.
“You’re always fighting in your sleep, crying out.”

Alex intrudes before I can answer John. ‘He can’t save you from me.
You’re always going to be mine. You don’t belong to him. You know who
you belong to, don’t you?’

“No,” I answer aloud, closing my eyes. Feeling confusion clouding my
thoughts. John’s voice enters on the edges of my confusion.

“It’s not him,” John tips my chin up looking down at me confused, “in
your dreams?”

I nod and pull his neck to bridge our mouths, to close off the
possibility of saying things that I don’t want to say. “I don’t want
to talk about this,” I mumble against his lips.

His fingers thread behind my head, digging through my hair. “No,
wait,” he pulls back. The pity moistening his eyes nearly kills me. My
pain doesn’t compare to what someone hurting me does to him. I’ve
always understood it that you protect those you love from things that
you can protect them from. You don’t borrow and trade hurt. But John
hasn’t learned that lesson. “I don’t want to push you into doing
anything. It’s just, I can’t take seeing you…” he lowers his eyes. I
can’t tell you why I know he’s trying to remain distant in the truth
in his words. We both realize simultaneously, eerily that he has to
take himself out of the equation. “I’m worried,” he tells me simply,
as if it could erase the fears I have in exposing the raw stories of
my pain.

“I know and you’ve been wonderful, honey.” I measure the temperature
of his skin with my mouth hovering below his chin, leaving a trail of
kisses from his jaw to the bottom of his ear. “You give me everything.
I haven’t been fair to you.” Except in bed—I can give him sex but not
my emotions. “I’m trying to keep my head above water. I have to…for
the children. I’m trying…” I hide my face against his cheek, combing
his wavy hair through my fingers at the back of his neck.

“To avoid me,” he decides is the better answer than the one I’m
giving. “You don’t have to hide from me. I’m here.”

“I appreciate you being here,” I breathe pitifully. I need him to
understand why I can only accept the comfort without discussing why I
need it. “I feel better knowing that the children have you. I feel
better having you.” Watching him absorb my words, nodding in
acceptance makes me feel awful about the way we’re keeping each other
sane in an awkward balance of intimacy and silence. The beautiful
compassion of a man that I’ve denied sharing my life with is heart
wrenching. The fact that he continues to keep me going with no promise
for our future contracts my heart heavily. It’s his selfless devotion
that has kept us tied together all these years.

We belong to each other in this awkward balance. We understand each
other implicitly, even when I wrap myself in duplicitous, ambivalent
feelings about us. “You didn’t have to step in when this happened
especially because I keep telling you that I can’t be with you. And I
keep coming back for this…love.” It’s an appropriate word. Just
because our relationship isn’t healthy doesn’t mean it’s not love.
“The only thing I am sure of is your love.” He forces my face back to
look into my eyes. He loves me so much that it almost feels like too
much. “That doesn’t make any sense, does it?” I ask looking down at
his chest, thinking of how powerful a heart as large as his must be.
Wondering how I can keep telling him, keep telling myself and the
outside world that I’m ready to move on from being the rhyme and
reason in his life. Thinking of how I can do what I believe I have to
do; wondering why, what part of me is afraid of John enough to want to
be away from him? He isn’t privy to my confusion.

He smiles awkwardly. If I had known love like the love John gives
unselfishly maybe I would have never mistaken Alex’s possession for
love. John doesn’t love with expectation; I think that’s a large part
of the problem. I can be selfish when I shouldn’t be without
repercussions.

‘You deserved everything. You made me the person I became.’

Shaking my head to rid his voice, his angry, dissonant voice, I pull
away from John to sit erect beside him. Clutching the sheet to my
chest, I still John’s massaging fingers that are kneading my back.
“I’m treating you so unfairly,” I confess, the pain so thick in my
throat that I swallow. “I’m sorry. You just have this way of making me
feel safe and not expecting anything in return.”

John glances up from the pillow cradling his tussled hair. “You’re in
pain right now, you’re not yourself,” he excuses me. Letting me be
selfish.

‘You are selfish. You took my life away when you left me.’

“I didn’t leave you,” I argue, covering my ears to block him out. “Why
won’t you leave me alone? Please…leave us alone” My voice isn’t my
voice; its wrapped tight with fear and child-like timbre. With my eyes
shut tightly, I’m back in the dark, cowering away from Alex’s hands.
The fear is choking me. Or is it Alex. “Not the baby…please…I want
this baby,” I whimper feeling my head hit a hard surface, happy that
it’s not my abdomen taking the blows this time. I reach between my
legs and know that our blood is soaking through the fabric of my
underwear; that the baby trying to survive the womb has finally lost
its battle to Alex’s war. “No…you can’t do this to again. I wanted
it.” I cry, shaking as my fingers rub my flat abdomen.

“Honey,” John’s voice overwhelms me and I open my eyes, trying to
shake out of my disorientation, out of the black edges of a memory
that I’m reliving. He soothes my hair, kissing my temple as he wraps
his arm around my shaking shoulders. I know him; he loves me. “You’re
okay. Doc, look at me.” He whispers pulling me deeper into the
recesses of his body.

I search his face for certainty. I know what I’m experiencing but he’s
confused. Posttraumatic stress syndrome comes at inopportune times.
I’ve been waiting for this like a patient child awaiting the return of
a promised parent. “I can hear him,” I admit panting frantically
against his cheek reminding myself that I’m not with Alex. I’m in
John’s arms. “He keeps taunting me.”

He rubs my hair as he asks, “What is he saying?”

“That you can’t save me,” I look into his sad eyes, “that you love me
because I am a slut with no morals.” The words are easy to speak
because I believed them. Alex used to make me repeat them while he
raped me. I hesitate because I can’t divide what’s new or old. If
these flashbacks are memories of the past, before John or Roman, then
Alex couldn’t be talking about John. No, that’s a dream or was my
nightmare. It feels so real. It feels as if he’s talking about John.

“Honey, he’s dead. He’s not here.” He assures me calmly, looking
around as if to remind me of where we are. He lets me catch my breath
before asking, “You said something about a baby. You said you didn’t
want him to take this one.”

I keep having the same dream. A child that I want to protect from
Alex, a baby that gives me the strength to want to leave him.
“Rachel,” I say shrugging because I just don’t know. “I just close my
eyes and hear him speaking. I hear myself arguing with him.” Well,
talking calmly to make him see how irresponsible he is to accuse me of
things that I’ve done.

“You were talking aloud.” He brushes a kiss across my chin and wraps
both arms around me. “I want you to talk to someone. You can’t keep
going like this.” He decides, curling his hand around my neck to draw
my face to his.

“I’m fine,” I sigh.

“You’re terrified. Look at you.” He lifts my trembling hand to lace
our fingers together. “You’re dreaming of Alex, even when you’re
awake.”

“John,” I lay my finger across his lips, “don’t do this. I’ll be okay.”

“I’m sorry, but you won’t,” he warns shaking his head. “I should’ve
insisted after it happened. After it all happened.”

“He didn’t rape me,” I remind him. “I don’t need therapy for being
roughed up. And further, you can’t insist on anything. It’s my choice.
James didn’t hurt me; he’s only shaken me up a little.”

“I’m talking about Alex,” he says sighing. “Have you ever really dealt
with what happened? The abuse…when you’ve talked about it, you’ve
said that he raped you. Maybe this thing with James is uncovering
those things.”

It hurts to hear him say that. “I don’t want to talk about it.” I
don’t want to hear him talk about it. “I know you don’t like…” he
doesn’t let me finish.

“Baby, I want to help,” he crushes me harder. “I’m dying here. I don’t
want to add to your pain. I’m don’t want to make you hurt anymore than
you have to, to get this out. I love you so much.”

His pain settles under my skin. “John, don’t.”

“Baby, he hurt you so badly that you can’t be with me,” he says
thumbing the fresh tears down my cheek. “I don’t blame you, baby. I
don’t. You’ve been through hell.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” he says loudly, “you’re in pain. I feel it, baby. I
don’t want to push you. I don’t.”

“Then don’t ask me…”

“Baby, you need to talk to someone.”

I tilt my head away from his shoulder, and smile up at him. “I’m
talking to you.”

“Then talk to me. You can tell me anything.”

I hesitate. “I can’t,” I say believing it.

“Don’t say that,” he breathes out in frustration, “I’ve done so much
work. I’ve put my entire being into being this man…the man who’s
sitting next to you. You have no idea, do you?”

“What?”

He looks into my eyes and tells me with so much honesty and pain that
I swallow and take on the force of his breaths, “I did it all for
you.”

“What did you do for me?”

He exhales before confessing, “Therapy…it works. I’m asking you to
consider this—for me. For the babies; for yourself.”

“Therapy?” I shake my head, shrugging the confusion out of my body.
“You’ve been in therapy?”

“Sweetheart, I was turning into the man who you ran away from, the man
your memory keeps running away from. I didn’t and couldn’t admit that
I was just as much to blame as Alex would be. I did abuse you, I’ve
told you that…but I had to get help to realize it.”

I drag my fingers down his face feeling his bones denting my
fingertips. “You went to get help,” I repeat to make sure that I hear
him correctly. “You…why didn’t you tell me?”

He bites into his cheek, shielding the intense pain in his eyes with
his eyelids. “You’re my life,” he says quietly, touching me to make
sure that I’m not moving away from him in his honesty. “You are the
only thing in this world that makes sense to me, and I had to make
sense of what was happening between us.”

“I asked you to get help,” I remind him, climbing onto his lap. “I
asked you repeatedly to talk to someone about what you were feeling.”

“And it was for that reason that I had to do this on my own. I didn’t
want you to think that I was looking for a quick solution to our
problems, baby. I hurt you incredibly. I did this for me as much as I
did for you. I didn’t tell you because I wanted to get better under my
own will.” He skims the slopes of my breast with his warm palms. “You
know we take on each other’s problems and use ourselves to brace each
other from hurts. You’d only find some way to make me think that there
was something lacking in you that made it possible for me to abuse
you. Not purposely but because that is the role you take in
relationships. You learned that from Alex.”

I stare in awe. I bite my tongue to block the words. His fingers grip
the front of my neck and I pull away at the uneasiness of a move that
reminds me of being choked. I’ve never been so reminded of it before.
John always clutches my neck in some manner, but in the light of his
confession, in his lap, it feels frightening.

“Why are you pulling away from me? I’m sorry if you feel I was hiding
this; I didn’t mean for it to be that way at all.”

“I’m not.”

“What do you think? Talk to me,” he whispers, pressing my head to his
shoulder as he embraces me. I hug back, holding on for dear life.

I can’t tell you the reason that I remember talking to a counselor
once about Alex’s abuse. It was after I realized that I was pregnant,
and hadn’t told Alex yet. I’d been terrified about his reaction. He’d
already caused me to miscarry one of our babies. How could I forget
that part, how could I forgot how I felt when the blood ran down my
legs as I hated both of us for losing our baby? I decided after losing
one baby, I wouldn’t have any children. I wouldn’t put their lives at
risk for my love, my need to change and fix Alex. But I got pregnant
anyway. I was so afraid that he would snatch the chances at life for
this baby that I knew I had to get away. And then I reasoned that he
was my child’s father, he had every right to be in its life.

I needed some reassurances about that. I needed to know that it was
okay to love a man who hurts you as a rule, not an exception. Her name
was Roberta Byrd, recommended by the gynecologist I went to confirm my
pregnancy. One who I didn’t see regularly, one who didn’t know Alex
but saw the bruises on my lower back, guessing what I was afraid to
say. I took Dr. Byrd’s card and made an appointment, risking Alex’s
wrath in my mysterious disappearance for the appointment.

She was very kind. She reminded me of a grandmother with her hair tied
in a neat bun in the center of her head. She wore a large floral skirt
that dragged the floor while she walked. She sat me down in that dusty
room that she called an office in the back of her house and told me
that my personality would always search out an abuser if I didn’t
learn through personal responsibility and enlightenment that I was not
meant to be abused. She warned me that Alex’s anger, which I was
always terrified of would cease once the baby came, but then continue
because abusers often rage and reward. There would be no happy
endings. Get out, she told me. Get out and save your baby. I think
that’s when I began to make plans to get out.

John pushes me back by the shoulders, searching my face. “Did you hear me?”

“No,” I shake my head, losing the images of Dr. Byrd’s to focus on
John’s. “I’m sorry, what were you saying.”

“Help? Take it…I need you to do this for all of us.”

I shake my head again, knowing how much truth rests in his words.
There’s something in my memory that could untangle why I want to
distance myself from John. There are memories that I have that include
a baby daughter who obviously lived through her father’s wrath. There
are facets of my past that need rehashing.

“Take this opportunity.”

“John, I’m afraid,” I cry, leaning against him heavily. “I don’t know
what’s there.”

“I’m here to help you,” he says crying with me. “I’m not going
anywhere, so you can push me all you want. I’m here. I’m just going to
push back.”

“Do you know how much I love you,” I mumble into his shoulder. “I love you.”

“That’s not an answer,” he laughs, stretching his hand across the
small of my back. “I’m going to be right there for you, but you have
to do this for you. You have to want to help you.”

“You sound like a therapist,” I smile against his skin, kissing him.

“I’m only the man who loves you.”

“Good,” I sigh, allowing the love that overwhelms me at times swallow
me whole as I fall apart in his arms.

Chapter 54

“Love makes your soul crawl out from its hiding place.”
Zora Neale Hurston

You’re skin is fevered. In your sleep, your jaw has a proud
gracefulness tempered by the ragged exhaustion crinkling the corners
of your eyes. You haven’t had time to manage your life because you’ve
become so immersed in mine. You’ve become exactly what I didn’t want
you to be; but you know that, don’t you. You know that even when I
saying no, I don’t mean it.

Why don’t you ever demand my accountability—I really wish you would.
You make me brave, even when I’m afraid.

I can’t stop myself from touching you, dragging my fingertips eagerly
over your naked flesh. My touch is light enough not to disturb you. It
was a long night. We’ve had so many that I count the hours of my day
from lovemaking session to lovemaking session. I continue to do this,
quiet you with my body, to protect us still. I am certainly happy to
crawl beside you every night and wait for the moment when you reach
across the bed for me to continue this silent healing of my fragile
sexuality. But more than anything, you’re solicitousness is appealing.
You love me to make me whole again. I love that about you.

I also love how much our little boy resembles you, not only his
physical features but in action. How he’s apt to rubbing my shoulders
when he finds me bowed in silence. He reads the words I continue to
hide from him. He frames my face and moves his tiny mouth against
mine. I love you, Mumma. Vigilant as ever, he asks questions that
neither of us can answer. He wants to know when he can go back home to
his room. Back to normalcy. How do I tell our little boy that I don’t
know what normal looks like; I’m not sure I ever knew.

You love me. I think that’s normal; I hope Nicky and Noodle can
decipher the rest. I’m still numb. I still cry why you’re not around,
which has been rarely. I still blame myself for Keema’s death. I still
cringe when I hear sounds at night. I still can’t sleep unless you’re
with me, preferably inside me; I feel empty without you.

But this house of cards will have to fold eventually. Eventually, I’m
going to have to deal with my life; my empty house and worried
friends; my workload; the children. Life outside of your embrace
scares me.

When you asked me to marry you again last night, you said all the
right words. You said if I was adamant about adopting Noah then he
needed a father just as much as I needed a husband. You did all the
right things. You put space between us so that we didn’t have the
excuse of caving to passion, saying things we didn’t mean in the heat
of the moment. You handed me the ring you gave me at our first
wedding, the first wedding between the real us. You promised me that
it wasn’t pressure. You left it open for discussion as long I didn’t
tell you no.

Don’t you think I’d love to say yes? Don’t you know that more than
anything in my life, I want you to be happy—even more than I want for
myself I want you to have everything you want. I want your heart to be
repaired from all the damage I’ve done to it. I want us to have a
healthy relationship that includes disagreements, love, and some
regularity. I want to end the madness. I want you.

I really want you. Lying beside me, breathing gently, do you know that
I’m still profoundly in love with you? That every time I walk away
from you, I’m wondering why. That I don’t want another man in any
capacity. That you fill me up, fill my sexual appetite, fill my life
with so much that I’m able to be overwhelmed by you. Don’t you know
that the first time I saw you, my heart felt as if you were always on
your way and I’d just been waiting for you to return?

Do you know how much I enjoy watching the evidence of our love running
around with my heart every day? Our Nicky and Juliana. That Belle, the
child we created in the prolonged passion between us, was never just a
baby who changed destroyed life with Roman. She was the sign that I’d
been wrong all along. Belle was the testament of something larger than
an emotional affair; she came through me with your help with the
burden of the truth. I couldn’t look at her without feeling the way I
felt about you, the deep connection that we hid from. You gave me
Belle, you gave me yourself through each of them, but with Belle, I
felt as if you’d sealed us together permanently.

I hated you. There were moments when you were holding me under the
guise of friendship and I wanted to hurt you so badly to make you feel
what I was feeling. When you loved others openly and without regard
for my heart. I hated you so much that I pretended, to everyone
including myself, that you weren’t the man I was meant to be with. We
both lied. I hated you for making me lie all those years. I hated you
for not knowing what I really wanted. I hated you for being blind and
careless with my feelings.

But I could never hate you, not for long. All it takes is seeing you
reflected back at me in our children’s eyes and I’m snatched right
back into the vortex that has always been the center of our feelings.

I didn’t tell you no. I also couldn’t tell you yes. That was enough,
you said. You could live with that.

I woke up this morning. That’s enough. That’s how it starts; the
healing begins with one foot, one action in front of the other. Doing
things that I don’t feel I have the strength for is exactly what I’m
going to do today. I’m going to slowly rebuild the comfort that was
snatched out of my grasp, without you.

I’m not that brave. I do have on your shirt and ring—on the opposite
hand. I also have sore thighs from your love. It’s a start.

Rachel

“He really is beautiful,” I say staring into the face of the baby in
my arms. “Look at this red hair. Where’d that come from?”

My mother looks over my shoulder smiling wistfully. She’s infatuated.
“I don’t know. He is the sweetest thing, isn’t he? And so alert…his
eyes follow you everywhere. It’s impressive for a newborn.”

Noah certainly is active. I’m mindful of the fact that he could be
searching for a face that isn’t in the room with us. I’m intimately
aware of the same longing. I don’t remember when it started, but even
with my grandparents’ well-intentioned lie I was always searching for
someone else. The road to hell is paved with good intentions is what
my grandfather often said. When I asked where my baby pictures were
when I was growing, he tugged my chin down and planted a big kiss on
my forehead. Well intentions to protect, not destroy me.

“I’m glad you called,” my mother squeezes my shoulder and reaches to
rub Noah’s cheek. She’s an affectionate person. I’m come to expect her
little touches and brushes. I enjoy the way she combs through my hair
with her fingers, the way she’s doing now as she watches me feed Noah
his bottle.

“I was a little worried. We both were,” I say watching Noah’s pull
hungrily on the nipple to free more milk.

“We?”

I forget that she’s so isolated from the rest of us. “Sami. I called
to see if she’d spoken with you since Keema.” It still feels odd to
have an alliance, even a sister. I grew up without siblings; it’s hard
to put myself in the vulnerable position of needing my sister to
explain what’s going on with our mother. She’s known her longer. “We
were going to send out the troops soon,” I joke, hoping to lighten my
mother’s suddenly somber face.

“When you burp him, put his cheek directly on your collarbone. For
some reason, Noah likes it there.”

“I don’t know if it’s my place to ask,” I begin slowly. I don’t know
how to have these kinds of conversations. My mother figure died when I
was sixteen. It’s an awkward place that I find myself in playing
daughter again to someone who hasn’t been here.

“You’re my child,” she tells me firmly but softly moving to stand
beside me. She tilts my chin up and I look into her mesmerizing golden
eyes. “Your place is always as my child.”

“Still, I just don’t know.” I mumble lifting the bottle from Noah’s
eager lips to prop him on my collarbone the way my mother instructed
me. “Are you okay?”

“I’m getting there,” she admits kneeling. Her fingers run up and down
my leg. “It’s been tough.”

I never know what she’s thinking. That’s something I noticed from the
beginning. She seems strong but weak. Breakable. I still remember
holding her when Nicky was sick. I thought she would never stop crying
in my arms. It was unnerving because I did feel connected to her
without knowing why. And every time I look into her face, I remember
that it was my father who made her forget me. That he hurt her in such
an obviously terrible way that she chose to forget our life.

“Keema’s death was hard,” I offer, knowing how difficult it must be to
get so close to a person and lose them.

“Among other things,” she shrugs casually. But she’s too light with
her words; they don’t match the seriousness crowding her usually
vibrant eyes. She bites into her lip—she does that when she’s nervous,
I’ve noticed. “Pat right between his shoulder blades, honey. He likes
that.”

When my mother says honey, the hairs on my neck rise. It’s a small
word that packs such power. In that small name, she offers such love
that I always feel I need to hide away from her and it. I’ve been
hiding from her because I’m afraid to lose her again. I know that
better than anyone does, and I’m sure she knows it as well. But she’s
not a pusher. She’s given me so much space to resolve my feelings that
I have to wonder if she’ll ever start seeking me instead of the other
way around.

“You’re not telling me something.” It’s the way she’s smiling. The way
she’s scaling my leg with her hand. “What is it?”

She stands up to take Noah. He shapes into her arms naturally and she
cradles his head against her chest to rock him. She circles his wrist
with her thumb and pointer finger, lifting his hand for a kiss.
“Babies smell so good, don’t they?” she whispers inanely. “My little
prince with the beautiful skin like his mommy.”

I shrug wishing she’d remember what I smelled like. I offer her the
rocking chair that I slide out of. She’s such a natural mother that I
try to imagine her holding me tucked so confidently to her chest. I
admit that I wonder about those memories after seeing her with my
little brother and sister. She’s so free with her affection with them,
so comfortable being a mother. I was her first baby. I broke her in
for the others.

Lost in memories that I don’t hold, that I wish I held, I rub Noah’s
hair. “Do you ever…” the thought ends before I reveal the yearnings
that I hide so well from her.

She looks up at me with such tenderness that it’s impossible not to ask her.

I bend close. I like to feel her warmth against my hand. “About me? Do
you ever wonder what it was like with me?”

She slides her smooth hand across my cheek. “Of course. I don’t have
to wonder though. I know it was wonderful. You were my baby. I’m sure
I did a lot of things wrong at first, but we probably got the hang of
it together.”

“When my father was bashing your brains out,” I stutter turning away
from her hand and gaze. “I’m sorry,” I say, wiping at the renegade
tears rolling down my cheek, “that was totally inappropriate.”

“No, it’s fine.” She comforts me with a pat along my back. “It’s not
like we don’t know that existed. Maybe it’s a good thing that we don’t
remember.”

I flinch automatically. “That was my life that you choose not to remember.”

She shakes her head dramatically. “I don’t choose not to remember,
honey. I can’t. I’d love to go back and have those moments with you.
Really, I’d adore knowing what we had, but such as it was with your
father, I fear those might be unrecoverable moments.”

“Was he really that bad?” I ask in complete innocence and partial
ignorance. I don’t like discussing him anymore than she does. We have
a silent pact not to do this to each other.

She grips my hand so snugly that I feel her rings indenting my skin.
This is the confession; this is the part of me that hurts her. This is
why I don’t insist on being a presence in her life. Between the bridge
of our bodies, turned inward and seemingly seeking each other out, is
Noah sleeping unaffected by it all. Her newest baby—that isn’t me.

“He loved me,” she whispers solemnly. Love shouldn’t make a woman have
the look of despair as she confesses it. “He didn’t have a healthy
image of love but he loved me in the best way he knew how.”

I read the underlying thread. “You have to love him, don’t you? Because of me.”

“Baby, I don’t have feelings about him either way.”

She doesn’t even use his name. “I guess that’s your right. You did
live through that hell.”

“It wasn’t all hell,” she tells me with a gentle squeeze. “You’re the proof.”

I encourage the silence that passes through us. I have to allow what
she says to sit inside me before I can respond. I don’t want to be the
consolation prize. But she doesn’t owe me any explanations. It was her
life.

“You don’t believe me, do you?” she reads my face. I always forget
that she’s a doctor, a head doctor, that both my parents were head
doctors. “Believe me; I couldn’t have married him if there wasn’t some
love there.”

I tug my hand away and stand up. “We don’t have to talk about this.”

“No,” she lifts her shoulders dismissively.

“It was years ago. Tell me about Noah. Tell me what you’re going to do
about him.” I change the subject swiftly. It’s the furthest we’ve
gotten into our past and it hurts. Not just me, but her. That’s unfair
to undo her with my questions.

“I don’t want you to think that you can’t talk to me about this. You
can discuss anything with me, baby.”

I like being her baby, but I don’t know how to tell her that. “No,
it’s fine,” I toss a hand up. The wall. I erect it at will.

“It’s not. I love you very much. You know that, don’t you?”

I nod childishly at her. The pain is underneath my tongue. The pain of
not always knowing her love, not always even now feeling her love.

“Honey, it’s just a bad time to get into this. But I promise, we can
when the time is right.”

I catch the shift in her tone. The sudden desperation lacing her
words. “This isn’t about Noah is it?” From what I see, my mother is
the perfect candidate for Noah’s care. She’s always fallen in love
with him. She’s well established. She looks good on paper. “You’d tell
me if something was wrong, wouldn’t you?”

She smiles. “Not if I was trying to protect you, honey.”

“Don’t. Tell me. What’s wrong? Is it John?” I’m aware of their
shifting relationship from the Colorado incident. From Sami’s words, I
gather that they’re inching toward reconciliation.

“No, John’s wonderful.” she boasts happily. She looks happier than she
did the last time I saw them together. “John’s been my rock.”

“What then?”

“It’s all well; I’m well.” She leans forward and touches my forehead
with her lips. “I’m the mommy, I do the worrying. You let me do that.”

“I can’t,” I bite my bottom lip and stop when I see her watching. “I’m
not used to that.”

“Get used to it.” she advises.

The sweet nurse who obvious keeps a maternal eye on Noah enters the
room with her arms folded over her chest. Edie I believe is her name.
She eyes us with a slight smile that doesn’t spread to her warm eyes.

“How’s our boy?”

“He’s wonderful,” my mother gushes, running her fingers down the side
of his face.
“Good,” Edie mouths quietly. “I see we have a new member of the
appreciation society of Master Noah here.”

“My daughter,” my mother introduces before I can say anything.
“Rachel. This is Noah’s guardian angel.”

“We’ve met.” I smile.

Edie looks between my mother and me. Undoubtedly trying to find ways
that we resemble. I do the same thing when I’m in the room with her.
I’ve found only the shape of my eyes seem to match hers.

“She’s a nurse,” my mother reveals proudly. “A great nurse.”

“Okay, that’s more than enough of that.” I say shyly.

Edie props her hands on her hips, turning toward my mother. “I’m
avoiding this, can you tell?”

“No,” my mother shakes her head. She looks the nurse in confusion.
“What’s the matter?”

“Ina Waters.”

The name is unfamiliar to me but strikes my mother still. She looks up
at Edie, searching her face for the joke that isn’t forthcoming. She
looks stunned. “Ina…she’s…what?”

“She’s been searching for Keema for five years,” Edie tells her softly.

“Keema’s mother. I thought she was…I don’t know what I thought. Where
was she?” she asks angrily. “Where the hell was she when Keema needed
her?”

My mother from what I know of her doesn’t curse. Anger isn’t her usual
outlet either. In fact, I’d say she was pretty passive. But the anger
that flashes in her eyes tells me all I need to know about Keema’s
mother. The mother cub in my mother has been unleashed. She hugs Noah
protectively to her chest.

“What does she want?”

Edie answers my mother sadly. “She wants her grandson.”

“She’ll have to kill me first,” my mother declares firmly.

Chapter 55

“There are victories of the soul and spirit. Sometimes, even if you
lose, you win.”
— (Elie Wiesel)–

Alex had small hands. He washed them so religiously that there was
little color to his smooth skin. Rachel’s hands remind me so much of
Alex’s. How could I have missed seeing the resemblance? It’s jarring
to notice with Edie’s news and Rachel standing here. It’s as if all
the pieces I’ve been holding together are unraveling and I’m looking
for familiarity. Rachel’s skin is stark like Alex’s. I missed that
too. And when she takes hold of my hand, threading her small fingers
through mine to help me up, I brace myself against her petite frame.
She’s remarkably smaller than I am.

“I’m sorry,” she tells Edie, “My mother needs fresh air. Keep an eye
on the baby?” Edie accepts by rubbing Rachel’s back. “Thank you.”

Speechless, I walk numbly with her down the hall. Away from the
sickness, away from the uneasiness. With every step forward, she
squeezes my hand reassuringly. I realize that our relationship has
always been this way. One-sided. The child mothering instead of being
mothered. Rachel accepts the role; and I shamefully allow that to
persist.

“I’m sorry.” It’s hollow. And I’m not even sure I believe it. If
Rachel does, she doesn’t acknowledge so; instead, she continues to
lead me out of the hospital doors, down the stairs to the garden of
tranquility. It’s a circular structure with rows and rows of flowers
surrounding a sitting area. We sit beside each other on the bench in
the center of the garden.

“It’s beautiful here, isn’t it? I love flowers.” She says wistfully,
loosening her arm for me to pull her hand into my lap.

I turn to her, basking in the familiarity of her face. In the small
features that are both Alex and me—if I search beyond my fear of
seeing him. But looking studiously, I can’t find him in my daughter. I
don’t see the cold distance that penetrated his eyes when she looks at
me. In fact, I see me, I see me when I was married to her father. Her
hair has grown past her shoulders. It’s blonder, especially under the
sun. Pieces of sun-touched strands hang loosely around her face. I
clear those obstructing my view of her eyes. “Which were your favorite
flowers?”

She smiles shyly, like the nervous child I was on the first day of
school. “I always loved roses and daisies. My mom,” she stops herself
and looks away. I don’t give her enough opportunities to sort through
these reluctant feelings. She had a mother before she met me again.
“I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be,” I encourage her, twisting strands of hair between my
fingers. “You can talk to me about this. Your mother, the woman who
raised you. She had a garden,” I deduce watching her.

Nodding yes, she looks into my eyes again after lowering her face in
our awkwardness. She licks anxiously at her bottom lip, as I do when
I’m anxious. “She had a rose garden in the backyard that we puttered
around in on Saturdays while Daddy washed the car.” Behind her eyes is
the excitement and love that I don’t have a clue about. The
relationship with her adoptive parents. “My mother loved fresh flowers
on the tables for meals and birthdays,” she laughs and tilts her head
back, “she never allowed me to wake up without roses at my bedside on
birthdays.”

“Sounds wonderful, honey,” I say hiding my sadness at not knowing that
about her. The sadness of not being there to give her birthday gifts,
of all the things that I’ve missed.

“It was. My parents did a wonderful job…” she hesitates. If she didn’t
inherit anything else from me, she’s earned my intuitive nature about
sparing feelings. My people-pleaser gene continues.

“You don’t need to edit yourself.”

“We’re not supposed to be talking about this,” she clears her throat.
“I’m supposed to be cheering you up.”

I circle my arm around her waist. “You always cheer me up, just seeing
this face.” Her face is warm underneath my kiss. “Just knowing that
you know I’m here. I know you haven’t wanted that, you’ve wanted me to
push. It’s why I keep my distance.” I explain. She’s more open but I
can see the caution. “I appreciate you being here.”

Rachel has another of my bad habits. She deflects uncomfortable
feelings. She enjoys nurturing and not being nurtured. “I know how
deeply connected you are with Noah. I know you loved Keema.” She
whispers, as her fingers play with the hem of my shirt. “You want the
best for Noah.”

“I do. I don’t think I can give him up.”

Silence.

“He’s had a long road here; his mother didn’t die in vain. I don’t
know what kind of mother could abandon her child the way Ina did. And
now the guilt is making her think that she needs to mother Noah. I
can’t allow that.” By the end of my diatribe, our hands have
slackened, more on Rachel’s end.

She sits up from the slight angle that she was tilting into my body
at. “It must be hard for her, though. Her daughter did die and she
never said goodbye,” she says releasing my hand.

The level of my insensitivity astounds even me, even as I sit and feel
Rachel’s pain pounding away in the sound of her heartbeats. The
dreadful sound of rejection and loneliness. Of the fact that her own
mother—me—abandoned her. It doesn’t matter how or why, she grew up
without me in her life. She’s still growing up and living her life
without me. And now, I’m sitting here talking about a baby that has no
real connection to me except emotionally. And my baby, my little girl,
having a front row seat to my antics about another child when it must
seem like I didn’t fight very hard for her.

Rachel stiffens. She rises from the bench and turns away from me. “I’m
not upset,” she reads my mind. “I’m really not. I’m being emotional.”

I reach out to her until she turns back around and sits back down.
She’s a pliable girl with vulnerable brown eyes. How could that not
break my heart, as her mother? Rachel stares at me, almost defiantly.
I swallow and remind myself to accept whatever she’s going to say
peacefully.

“I’ve been wondering,” she begins shakily, turning the ring circling
her thumb, “if you…I know you’ve said it’s impossible maybe to recover
memories.” She watches me as if she wants my approval to continue, to
make sure that it won’t hurt to ask. “Do you remember anything about
me? My birthday. My middle name. If I have any birthmarks?”

To lie would be unfair and to tell the truth will break her heart. How
can I explain that the trauma from my marriage to Alex is so deeply
imbedded into my brain that I slip into hysterical amnesia to protect
myself? How do I look at my child and say that I don’t remember
anything about her? That I haven’t even tried to recover those
memories. How do I tell her the truth without breaking her heart?

I don’t; she already knows.

Rachel closes her eyes and her shoulders seem to follow suit. Her body
slackens beside me. A puddle of emotions that’s being mopped over.
“You don’t, do you?” She opens her eyes. “It’s fine. I knew that; I
don’t know why I had to ask.”

The sadness drains my voice. “It’s not because I don’t want to,” I eek
out slowly. “I’d love to remember everything about you. I really
would. I just…it’s not that I don’t want it,” I tell her dejectedly.

“October 15. Grace. I have a crescent moon on my shoulder.” She says
dryly. “I had braces until I was 13. I called my father daddy until
the day he died. My mother was too shy to explain the birds and the
bees to me, which led to me losing my virginity in the back seat of a
car when I was 15. My fiancé was actually an asshole that probably
didn’t love me as much as I loved him.” The rambling is enlightening
but terrifying. The distant tone of her voice is such an Alex thing. I
hover and embrace every fact that she throws at me but it’s scary to
know these things. “When my mother died, I told God I would never
speak to him again. I swore I would never have children. And every
since I was 16, I’ve wondered if anybody in the world loved me,” she
reveals sadly. Eyeing me intensely, unashamed in her rawness.

I comment on the one thing that feels related to me. “Your brother has
a crescent moon, too.”

Rachel swallows hard and pushes my hand away. I’ve been stroking her
wrist during her entire speech. “God mom, when is it ever my turn? I
tell you all of this…and the only thing that matters is that my
brother has the same birthmark.”

Mom. “You don’t have to worry about anyone in the world loving you.” I
encase her resistance with my arms snugly wrapped around her. “I’ve
always loved you. Always. I mean, I may not remember that, but I know
deep down that, I would’ve never forgotten you—never—if I had any
control over it. Do you think I wanted to leave you? Do you think I’d
make a choice like that?”

Shrugging she says, “I don’t know,” against my shoulder.

“That’s fair, baby. You don’t know me as well as I’d like. But for the
record,” I pull us apart and brace her shoulders so that we’re facing
each other, “I would never leave you on purpose. I swear it. I love.
Don’t you ever wonder that again, okay? Promise me.”

“I can’t promise you that,” she looks down.

Tilting her head up, I ask, “Why not?”

She whispers, “Because I still don’t trust you.”

“What can I do to help the process along? What would you like me to do, baby?”

“Tell me that you’d trade your life for just one day with me again,
that you’d give anything to have me back.”

It’s an audacious thought. Trade my life, my present life with John
and the children to have her. It’s unfair to compare. I don’t want to
give any of them up. I want it all. I want every piece of me to stay
in a circle around me so that I can always look out and see them.

“Can’t we just live together now? I can’t give you the last 30 years
back, honey. All I can do is start from now, if you’ll let me.”

She looks into my eyes and asks a question that shatters something
inside me. “Do you really want that? You haven’t made much effort
since I found you.”

She didn’t find me. We found each other but I understand her need to
construct the details of our complicated relationship. The fact that
she didn’t want me before is irrelevant because she’s asking for me
now.

“I’ve always wanted it,” I say simply. “I’ve always wanted you.”

“Then will you try for me,” she asks seriously, “will you try to
remember what happened?”

“I’ll do whatever it takes,” I promise kissing her forehead and
wrapping my arms around her again. “And next time you call me mom, try
to make it a little less angry sounding.” I smile into her hair.

For Rachel, I’ll go there, a place I’ve hidden in my memory. I’ll
fight for her to show her that I’m open to whatever she has to give me
emotionally and otherwise. Whatever she throws at me isn’t going to
make me turn away from her. I’m also going to fight for Noah. I’m
going to be everything that they all need me to be without forgetting
what I need for myself.

It all starts with me. With now. Her middle name is Grace. We could
all use a little grace now.

[John]

My personal justification for buying Marlena a new house is very
simple. When my family is in such visceral pain, when a normally
decisive controlled woman to put it simply, isn’t, then I make
decisions. I act. The red-letter word from Ashton is structure. She’s
been immeasurably helpful in this otherwise chaotic time. I’ve come to
rely on her more. It’s easier now that I don’t have the guilt of
keeping Marlena out of the loop to ask for her advice freely.

I also see how easy it is for people to become dependent on the words
of ‘good doctors’. I vow to myself not to be as reliant on Ashton as
Marlena was with her doctor, but I can see—begrudgingly—how Marlena
got so caught up in Shalit’s healing. It’s comforting to have someone
there who always wants to help. Who seems to understand what you’re
doing, when you’re clueless; who has answers that don’t make you more
confused or feel isolated. I know that person used to be Marlena for
me. Before the storm, before the babies and separations Marlena was my
conscience, lover, best friend, mother, and healer. I can’t, I won’t
ever put another person in her role to the degree that she did with
Shalit. Ashton isn’t that person—she’s the key to our breakthrough.
Not to give her superior powers but Ashton shines a light into all the
dark places that I’ve refused to go even with Marlena.

I’ve been thinking hard about this, ever since I confessed about Ashton.

I’m the kind of man who lives to protect and shelter my family. For
me, it’s deeper than clothing, money, and housing. It means protecting
them from unnecessary emotions, especially mine. I have years of pent
up frustrations and demons that I’d rather not address. It explains
why I’ve been with a world-class psychiatrist for all these years and
not took an opportunity to really dig any deeper into my past. The
futile attempts we’ve made have been laughable. What am I afraid
of—that’s what I’m now asking myself. What keeps me from going deeper
than the surface? I hate being dug open for the world to see, maybe
even to Marlena. The vulnerability that it takes for real
introspection is painful. I mean on a spiritual level that I’ve never
been brave enough to face. That’s the whole truth of it—I’m afraid of
what is there under the surface.

So what do I do instead of internal digging? I react hyperactively to
protect my family.

The house and the ring are definitely symptoms of that. They’re both
about my need to make Marlena feel whole again. I don’t like the
fragile shell climbing in and out of my bed every night. Don’t
misunderstand my words, I like healing her body with mine. I like
holding her to extinguish the fear for even that short time. But I
don’t like knowing that she’s not really involved. She’s phoning it
in. Our lovemaking isn’t supposed to be superficial. If I wanted to
have someone in my bed, I could have anyone. But it’s never been about
that. I don’t enjoy making love to her because of the obvious things.
She is beautifully sexy, vulnerable, and enthusiastic about
participation. But those aren’t reason enough to explain why my body
begs to with hers. It happens because we’re chained to each other’s
souls. Chained—as terrible as it sounds—is the only way to describe
it. There is no key that can unlock the knots around our hearts. No
jailer to free us, no magic. I don’t plan to relinquish her—I couldn’t
if I tried.

She’s said in the past that she didn’t need me to marry her to feel
married. I feel married to you in my heart. I understand that but I
want legitimate legality. I want the world to know that she’s mine; I
want that on paper. I want my children to have my last name, legally.
I want my children’s teachers to see both their parents, address us as
Mr. and Mrs. Black. I want Nicky to learn that you marry the woman you
love; you stand by her and take vows before God to love and protect
her. I want Jules to remember seeing her mother and father in a
loving, stable marriage. I want my little girl to find a man who will
love her enough to want to marry her while nurturing the woman she is.

So I asked Marlena to marry me. She didn’t exactly say no and I don’t
understand the reluctance to say yes. We’re already living as if we’re
married. She’s been at my house, making it into her home. But I don’t
want this place to be our new home. I want a new place where we can
live as man and wife. I want to go back to Salem, where we started.
There’s a certain level of comfort there with all of our friends and
family. She’ll never feel safe enough to return to her house. I won’t
allow her to anyway. I’m not trying to thump my chest and be the
manbut as her man, I’m not willing to see her crumble without my
interference.

Ashton advised me to go slowly, but firmly. Once, that advice might
have been seen as me being an abusive Neanderthal, but she’s made it
clear that Marlena needs life to stabilize in order to recover from
the trauma of Keema’s death and her attack. I didn’t consult Ashton on
my plans to propose. In fact, I didn’t think much when I found the
engagement ring I originally gave her only a couple of years ago. I
took it as a sign. I’d been rummaging around her house grabbing things
that I felt she needed to feel more comfortable at my place. It was in
the cherry wood jewelry box I gave to her to house all the baubles and
jewelry I’ve given her over the years. What I remember about the ring
is that I’d never felt closer to her then when I gave it to her. We’d
overcome so much that I was sure we could get through anything. We
were an us. I wasn’t just anyone, I was the man she loved; and for
once, she wasn’t anyone’s wife. She was finally mine completely, not
just in her heart but also with her body and mind.

It just felt right. We’d made love. She was on my chest, waiting for
her body to calm down with her face angled up at me. She was smiling,
playing with the hair under her cheek. Her body was caked with our
sweat, our scents. Everything was familiar. I took a deep breath and
pulled her on top of me. It wasn’t that I needed a moment to decide.
It wasn’t that she’d wrapped herself around me with such trust or that
she cried my name as I pushed her to the limits. It was just her. I
felt jolted and knew it was the right moment. She looked confused but
completely trusting. She asked me why I was looking at her the way I
was. I pushed her aside and reached in the drawer for the ring in the
night table.

We’re so in tune that I read her as well as she reads me. She closed
her eyes. They were still luminous from lovemaking. Still slightly
more green than hazel. I closed my mouth around hers. You know how you
can hear something in your head before it comes out of your mouth.
That’s what happened to me—I pulled her face to my shoulder. Marry me,
I said into the depths of her sex-drenched hair. And almost as
quickly, I reminded her that I wasn’t pressuring her; that if she was
going to create a family for Noah then she needed a husband and
father. I could wait, just not for rejection. The longest two minutes
of my life passed as she sat up beside me and held up her right hand
for me to slip the ring on. I’m not saying no.

When I woke up and she was gone. That scared me, believing I’d scared
her enough to go back to her house. She left a note. It’s taped to the
mirror in the bathroom. All her little lotions and perfumes are still
scattered along my bathroom counter. It was comforting to come into
here and see them. Her nightgown, the one I slide off her every night,
is hanging on the back of the door. Her towel is draped over the
wrack. She’s here even when she’s gone.

She met Rachel at the hospital for Noah’s feeding. Even after reading
her note, I had to call and make sure she was fine. This is the first
time she’s left the house without me chauffeuring her, holding her
hand, or guiding the way. She only goes to see Noah. It’s all she can
manage. She’s fine though. We’re going out for dinner after she’s
finished spending time with Rachel.

I don’t know Rachel, but I trust Marlena in her hands. I don’t know
Rachel—it’s scary to me that I don’t. It’s even sadder that I don’t
choose to know her. Threatened by her presence and what it means; it’s
a reasonably pitiful excuse. I owe Marlena more; I owe Rachel even
more. She saved our son. And as hard as it is to say, she savedher
brother.

It’s her brother that barges into the bathroom where I’m shaving.
Clutching a piece of paper to his chest, he pauses near the sink
staring at the razor sliding up my throat. There is a mischievous
glint in his eye that lowers my razor to the sink. He’s smiling slyly,
confidently.

I turn toward him. “Nicky.”

He points to the razor. “Nicky shave too.” My little shadow wants to
do everything daddy does these days. He rubs his chin for effect
leaving his drawing to float down to the floor. He wants so much to be
a big boy. The Thomas the train shirt belies his wishes. He’s still my
little boy who has accidents and wears pull-ups. Growing taller but
also less lean, he reaches to just above my knees.

I kneel down and touch the spot on his chin that he rubbed. “It does
look a little shadowed, buddy.” I assure him turning his face from
side to side. I never want to be too busy for him to explore manhood
with me. Every son needs a father willing to stop everything to spend
a moment with them, to share manhood. I’m his daddy; no man will ever
teach my boy the basics of manhood except for me. I take a lot of
pride in sharing these traditions with him, even in his toddlerhood.
“Let’s get some shaving cream on you.”

Nicky’s eyes widen at the idea. He nods eagerly smiling up at me.
Lifting his hands for me to pick him up, he licks his lips the way
Marlena does. He goes back and forth between being my little twin to
being his mother’s. The smile, sly twist in his lip and dimpled chin
are such Marlena facets that I have to chuckle at the idea of him even
shaving. Marlena would hate this—her little boy doing manly things
that mean he’s trying to leave his babyhood behind. She realizes that
this is the last son that we’ll have. I hate letting go, too, but I
know it’s tougher on her because she is such a mom. She was built for
this: to nurture and raise babies. Nicky was the catalyst for so much
change in her life that she cherishes him and his life and she’d like
to keep him a baby forever. Time isn’t like that. The boy needs to
test the boundaries and learn about himself. He’s her baby, but he’s
my boy; those are two very different things. I see the man he’ll
become. When she looks at him, I think she sees only the little boy
who she gave birth to.

I lather some cream between my palms. “You’d better take off this
shirt,” I suggest smiling at him while he tries to maneuver his head
out of the shirt. Bony elbows poke through the blue material as he
fumbles. “Need help?” I laugh preparing to clean my hands to help.

“No, Daddy. Nicky big boy.” He declares yanking the shirt over his
head aggressively. “See,” he smiles tossing it behind me.

“I do see. You’re my strong man, aren’t you?”

His bird chest thrusts forward. “Like my daddy,” he boasts pointing to
my bare chest.

“Of course like daddy.” I say sliding the shaving cream over his chin
and cheeks. “It feels funny, huh?” His furrowed brow and agape mouth
match the curiosity in his face.

I grab a razor with a shield on and hand it to him. He paws it eagerly
as he twists around on the counter so that he can see his reflection
in the mirror. “Nice even strokes, Nicky.” I show him on my own face,
sliding my razor slowly down my skin and dunking it into the water.
“Got it?”

Nicky imitates me with an awkward swipe of his chin with the shielded
razor. He takes a small dab of the shaving cream with his razor and
drops it into the water. He looks up for my approval.

“That’s it, Nicky.” I continue shaving, keeping an eye on Nicky’s
progress. “You’re good at this. Maybe we can shave together more
often.” He nods and continues. “I was thinking, kid, I asked your
mommy to marry me again last night…would you like to be my ring
bearer?”

Eager to please, he says yes before realizing he doesn’t know what it
is. “What that?”

“Marriage or ring bearer,” I smile realizing that he doesn’t
understand either word. He’s too busy peering into the mirror to
answer. “Let’s have a one-on-one. Come here.” I turn him around on the
counter. He sets the razor down and looks attentively at me. “You know
I love Mommy, right?”

He agrees with an affirmative nod. It’s a simple concept for him to
grasp. He does it so causally that it seems like he doesn’t consider
another option.

“Well, I love Mommy so much that I want to marry her.”

“You no marry?” He squints raising his arms expressively.

“No, honey,” I admit feeling my own guilt rise. He’s too young to
remember what it was like when we all lived together under a roof that
mirrored the married life. We’ve given him this version of our lives
and to him it must seem normal. Marriage is the foreign concept. “But
I’m going to change that; I’m going to marry your mommy again.”

“Cause Daddy love Mommy,” he questions bracing his elbows against his knees.

“Yes and because I want to live with you, Jules and Mommy.” And Noah,
if that’s what road we were choosing. “Mommies and Daddies who live
together are married.”

“Like Colton’s Mommy and Daddy.” He has a short supply of reference
points. I bite back my bitterness to avoid expressing my distaste for
his buddy’s dad.

“Yes. I want Mommy to marry me in a church where she’s wearing a
pretty dress and you and Jules can be there. You can be the ring
bearer. And then we’ll live together in a new house. What do you think
about that?”

“New house?”

“Yes, with new rooms for you and Jules. A house where we all live together.”

“Mommy loves Daddy,” he says smiling. It’s a simple concept to a
little boy. “I marry Daddy.”

I chuckle at his confusion. “We’ll all marry each other. Let’s just
get your Mommy to say yes first.” I circle his body and pull him
close, causing him to erupt in giggles.

“Daddy, messy face,” he says through his laughter rubbing his cheeks
against my stomach.

“Sorry kid, we better finish this up.” I release him and turn him back
around to the mirror.

“Yeah, Daddy.” He slops another pile of cream into the sink. His tiny
hands do a good job of handling the razor after his first clumsy
attempts.

“My big boy,” I muss his hair and finish up. “We have to clean up here
so we can be ready for dinner.”

“Eat at Noodles?” His favorite restaurant.

I laugh, shaking my head. “No, we’re going to have grown up food. No
nuggets or fries for us guys tonight.”

Nicky looks unsure. “No?”

“Nope, we’re big boys. We have to eat big boy food. Right?”

He shrugs following my ritual of taking the access shaving cream off
my face with a towel. “Nicky like fries.”

“I know you do, kid. I like them sometimes, too,” I explain, swiping
the lather he missed off his chin with my thumb. “I also like
spaghetti, bread. Fish. Alfredo. Steak.”

Nicky rolls his eyes with all of his mother’s exaggeration when she
does the same thing. “Nicky like fries.” He grimaces patting down his
face to check his handiwork.

“Think of Mommy…she likes to go to these poo-poo restaurants where we
have to dress up to eat. She’s our girl; we have to make our girl
happy.” I know he enjoys making her smile. He inherits that quality
from me. “But we’re men; we’re going to have a manly meal. Maybe
daddy’ll introduce you to steak tonight.”

Nicky wrinkles his nose. “Steak?”

“Meat, pure and simple, son.”

“Okay,” he accepts reaching for me to help him down. “Nicky go find clothes.”

“Want daddy’s help,” I call after him. He’s already off on his mission
with no time for discussion. “Nicky?” I head out of the bathroom to
find Jules sitting in the floor with her doll in her lap. She looks up
at me, smiling so contagiously that find myself mirroring her.

With kids, there’s no opportunity for self-pity. It’s a beautiful
reminder in this otherwise dismal period that life isn’t about staying
stagnate; life is about pressing on and living for today. It’s
catching—Marlena left the house today without me. That’s progress.
She’s wearing my ring on the wrong hand, but she’s wearing it. I’m not
asking her for anything more than considering the possibility.

Jule’s favorite doll has her full attention. It’s Mimi, a dark haired
beauty that she drags all over. She lifts her up for my examination
when I crouch and rub her silky hair. “Hi baby. Are you putting Mimi
down for a nap?” I ask, sitting cross-legged beside her.

“Mimi’s hungry,” she explains laying her across my legs. “Mimi wan bubba.”

“A bottle.” I ask, tweaking her chin. “Well, maybe she can go out to
dinner with us tonight and eat there. What do you think?”

Climbing into my lap with pointy knees digging into my legs, Jules
leans forward and cups my cheeks between her chubby hands. Her
pigtails frame her bare shoulders. She sat very patiently to receive
them; I’m a proud daddy who can fix his little girl’s hair at her
urging.

“Mumma,” she asks me, scrunching her face in wonder. This is her third
time asking since waking from her nap.

“Soon Jules-Bear,” I say tapping her nose to see her wrinkle it
adorably. It dimples when she laughs. “Would you like to change into
an outfit suitable for dinner?” The icy pink ballerina outfit complete
with a skirt of white tulle and rhinestones is her favorite latest
outfit. “You can’t go out to eat dressed like a ballerina, sweetie,” I
tickle her belly, and she rewards me with giggles.

“Pwetty,” she lisps pushing my fingers away.

“Very pretty. The prettiest but daddy needs you to get changed so we
can go when Mama comes home.” Disagreeing with a pout, she climbs down
on her small legs to run away. Her awkward gait sends her to the
ground, flat on her face.

The sobbing is gut wrenching. “Dada,” she bellows, looking for me to
rescue her. Mimi is stuck beneath her. “Dada, hep.”

Crawling to her, I scoop her up. She’s more frightened than physically
hurt. I run my hands over her face checking for bruises and swelling;
and to settle her. Wet tears soak her face as she squirms from being
examined. She turns away to burrow against my neck. “You’re okay,
sweetie. Daddy’s got you, baby.”

Jules sobs quiet as I pat her back and lift her so I can see her face.
She cradles Mimi to her chest while pouting at me. “Boo boo,” she
lifts her chin up to show me an imagined bruise. I kiss it just the
same and wrap my arms around her. “Want Mumma.”

“You’re okay,” I remind her, taking her body close to me. “Daddy’s
going to take care of you and then we’re going to go see your Mommy.”

Chapter 56

Romantic love is mental illness. But it’s a pleasurable one. It’s a
drug. It distorts reality, and that’s the point of it.
–(Fran Lebowitz)–

Anyone observing my daughter and her father can see how tightly Noodle
has John wound around her tiny finger. As a daddy’s girl, she’s
learning the power of her unhappiness and easy tears over John; a
power that works on the toughest men like her father and all the other
daddies who melt under their little girls’ spells. My father told me
it happened at birth; the moment he laid eyes on me, he told himself
and me later on, that whatever I wanted and asked of him would be
given freely. All of my daughters have the same effect on their
fathers but my youngest learning the trade is priceless. With one
devastating look, she can pry anything out of him and one whimper and
downturned mouth later Noodle’s amazingly self-satisfied smile belies
John’s quiet frustration with her. She is clueless of course. It’s her
growth, her testing of bounds and self-exploration. It’s humorous to
see John defeated by his little girl. She convinced him of the
necessity of her ballerina outfit with the threat of tears, though, I
suspect John would have caved regardless.

These antics between father and daughter, the clothes argument that
will seem like a quiet storm once she’s a teenager, and Nicky’s
insistence that he should shave every morning, a battle that he chose
to have with me on our way to Maggie’s, are the kind of distractions I
needed after my emotionally exhausting day. I had to walk away from
Noah and Rachel who I felt needed me not to leave them. Yet this time
unlike any other when leaving Rachel, I didn’t feel like the door was
slamming shut. We earned some ground on the incongruous past we share
and don’t remember. We kissed goodbye and promised to see each other
again soon, this week. And Noah, that little angel makes it harder and
harder for me to leave him behind. But leave them I did, for the
comfort of Noodle’s giggles and Nicky’s stubbornness. For the weight
of John’s hand protectively covering the small of my back.

I was on the brink of a terrible night of analyzing Rachel’s untouched
anger and disappointment, of Noah’s guardianship. In fact, in the car
as I drove, I’d already planned to crawl into bed with John and the
kids. To surround myself with their unconditional love and forget,
just for a second, that all wasn’t perfect around me.

That was until I opened the front door to their wonderful faces,
calming elixirs to the sea of conflict that I’m wading through daily.
Amazing how it only takes walking into the place of your security and
stability to uplift your mood and change the trajectory of your day.
There is still pleasure found in the small things. The innocence of
childhood, illusions, and dreams not yet besmirched. Those are like
the quiet summer days of my youth spent unaware of evil and death. I
inhaled the air hungrily, hoping to fill my lungs with whimsy and not
the panic that steals my breaths.

It was easy to get lost in hope and lightness once I crossed the
threshold into our sanctuary. The utopia John has created inside his
home for me steels me against everything clawing to get me. Fear,
panic, hesitation, and sadness. What I know now is that demons can
have flesh and ghosts aren’t always dead; they have the power. And
they don’t always hide in the darkness, sometimes they’re everyday
people walking about, waiting to encounter their victims—except in our
utopia demons don’t exist beyond nightmares.

A man who loves to impress, John met me at the door looking handsome
in a dark tuxedo. That picture would have been enough, but then I saw
my daughter in her pigtails and pink tulle skirt with her legs wrapped
around John’s waist; and Nicholas at John’s side holding roses for me.
The trio of dark hair and expectant smiles sent any unhappy emotions
into retreat. Nicky’s little tuxedo brought a much needed smile to my
face in contrast to Noodle’s leotard and shiny black shoes which made
me chuckle. Their gesture toward a peaceful evening was so appreciated
by me that I decided to wait to share the news about Ina with John.

His gesture with dinner at Maggie’s was also sweet, even sweeter to
include the children who haven’t ever gone out to dinner with us in
such a romantic place. It was more practical than romantic, his
invitation. It’s concern. I can’t remember the last full meal that
I’ve had. Normally I would welcome shedding the five pounds that I’ve
lost if it didn’t make me look so gaunt in my clothes. The little
black dress that usually hugs my curves looks and feels like it’s
wearing me. Lipstick and loose hair bring a bit more liveliness to my
face but I know how tired I look. How sallow my skin must look to him.
It worries him; he’s been gently trying to get me to eat on a more
consistent basis. My appetite has been admittedly slack with the
running back and forth to Noah and the awful sleepless nights.

My appetite isn’t the only thing missing from my life.

I’ve been so preoccupied that I haven’t seen much of the children.
Danielle supervises them during the day. By the time that John and I
return home from the hospital, they’re in bed. I kiss them goodnight
but what benefit is it if they’re asleep. I’ve missed them. So the
suggestion to spend time with my family was completely welcomed when
John told me we would be eating out tonight.

I’m ready to breathe again. I’m ready to give myself over to life and
stop living in fear of it. I can’t even admit to John how paralyzed
I’ve been feeling since my attack. If it weren’t for John, I’d be
incapacitated. He has the genius craft of knowing how to mold me back
together. He knows exactly what I need, when I need it, all the while
I’m aimlessly trying to figure out what exactly it is. I love that
about him that he knows for me. I’m starting to remember all the
reasons I’ve always felt safe in his embrace. I’ve always trusted him
to take care of our children and me. Even when I left Salem, I
understand that I was always two steps from turning back around, back
to him. Somewhere, somehow I become lost along the way back.

I ran away, plain and simple. I packed up my life and made a life away
from here. The only place outside my parent’s home that has ever felt
like home. When did I deem it such a horrible place to be, this sleepy
town of connected families and close-knit enclaves? When did I get to
be so arrogant? Salem isn’t only the place I escaped to lick my
wounds; it’s a jewel in the treasure house of my life. I’ve associated
so much pain with it because what happened between me and John
happened here; I forgot how much I’ve always loved being there. There
is something comforting about a place that never changes, that never
shifts from its center. When I came here to live, it always felt like
I belonged, a place that welcomed me. I’ve raised my babies here. The
grade schools that Carrie and the twins attended are still standing as
well as Belle’s high school, where John and I watched in tears as she
graduated. The hospital where I spent a great deal of my professional
career, where I began a relationship with John remains. Even the
penthouse is still here. We had wonderful years in that penthouse in
the sky in this city that never changes. Nothing ever changes and
instead of being stifled by the impenetrability of Salem, I find
myself wondering why I ever left.

Salem. Friends. Love. Safety. Nostalgia can be healing.

Seeing Maggie was also wonderful, like Salem, she’s always open and
inviting. With her arms around me and mine around her, we understood
what wasn’t being said as she led us to our table. When someone
already knows, words are useless. She’s lived through so many of my
personal problems with me. She knows the ins and outs of my heartache,
of my happiness. I turned to her when John and I were having issues
over JT’s paternity. She’s been to every one of my weddings, held each
of my children. She’s an honorary godmother to them. When Maggie
hugged me, for a second I felt normal. Like my old self, carefree and
in love with my life, children, and husband. All the nights I spent
dancing under Maggie’s roof in John’s arms were some of the best John
and I have shared. We share that history with Maggie, with Salem. Our
life wasn’t always bad; in fact, the good outweighs any measure of
unhappiness I’ve felt recently.

Gratefulness covers a multitude; I’m grasping at the small things.

Noodle’s preoccupation with lifting her spaghetti noodles for
inspection instead of her utensils is how she ended up sitting in
John’s lap being fed by him without the benefit of any bib to protect
her clothing. Nicholas has his own distraction with the coloring book
in front of him. Bent over the book with crayons bunched in one hand,
he colors methodically with the other, unconcerned with the looks
passing between John and me. Noodle’s soft chattering is the only
sound floating around us. No band. Few people other than us. I’m
satisfied with just staring into John’s eyes, thinking of the night
we’ll spend undoubtedly in each other’s arms, without conversation. I
could tell him what I’m thinking but he’d only cover my mouth and
remind me that he already knows. That’s the kind of energy coursing
between us across the table.

“Mimi wan bubba,” Noodle states rather loudly. Her doll is tucked
between her belly and the table. She’s particularly sweet to Mimi,
mimicking the way we talk and take care of her. She pats her head
sweetly before kissing Mimi’s curly dark hair. “Mummy.”

“Yes, sweetheart,” I answer attentively propping my elbows on the
table and balancing my chin across my fists. Taking my eyes from John
to look into her face, I tell her, “Mummy didn’t bring Mimi a bottle.”
She’s shocked at my forgetfulness. When her bag is packed, usually
Mimi’s items make their way too. Unfortunately, her father doesn’t
know that. “I’m sorry.”

Heading off a tantrum, John intercedes. “Pumpkin, let’s not worry so
much about Mimi.” He pulls back her ponytail to avoid its collision
with the plate of spaghetti. “You eat and let Mimi have a bottle when
she gets home.” That stops Noodle. He inches his chair back, pushing
her plate forward a little. Her elbow keeps skittering dangerously
close. “I guess we should be happy that she’s trying more than her
usual,” John grins, purposely not mentioning her staple food in fear
of inciting a tantrum for it. Pushed aside is his steak that sits
untouched.

“Silver lining,” I smile watching her dig around happily into her
plate with her hand.

She scrunches the noodles into a fist, covering her fingers with red
sauce. With fierce concentration, she tilts her head back and opens
her mouth wide. A smile crosses her sauce-covered lips when she lets
the noodle drop askew, splattering her cheek with sauce. I cringe
imagining the stains that will undoubtedly be marking her pink bodice
before she’s finished.

“Are you being a silly girl?”

“Yes,” she giggles. “Mommy wan paghetti?” She shoves a fist full of
spaghetti at me.

“No my noodle bug, Mommy doesn’t want any spaghetti.” Undaunted, she
drops her head back against John’s chest and catches another noodle
while others hit their mark on both sides of her mouth. “I don’t know
if you really want them either. Honey, she’s going to make a mess.” I
warn John.

He uses his thumb to remove some sauce from her cheek. “She’s fine.
Right, baby?” he tugs her ponytail, “eat up for Daddy, Jules.”

“What about Daddy? He needs to eat, too.” I remind Noodle and John.
“Your dinner is getting cold. I can take her so that you can at least
taste your steak. It looks wonderful.”

Ever helpful, Juliana offers John food from her mouth. “No thank you,”
he says kissing her cheek. Noodle shakes her head at me and finishes
chewing. “We’re fine, you eat. My little girl’s a natural giver.”

“She gets that from me.” I needle him laughing.

“I’m starting to notice a pattern here. All good qualities seem to
come from you. And what does she get from me exactly,” he asks
grinning.

“The inability to eat correctly?” I reveal hiding my amusement.

“That’s all.” he frowns. “Surely, there has to be something else,
something more substantial that I added to this genius girl child of
ours besides hair color.”

Laughing, I tilt my head to inspect Noodle. “Beyond the hair and half
of her DNA, I don’t know. And don’t call me Shirley.”

His reaction isn’t what I expected. The playfulness disappears and he
begins eyeing me seriously. His eyes never lie; they always have the
whole story. “You look beautiful when you’re laughing. I’m glad you
took me up on my offer. We needed this.”

Self-conscious under his impulsive scrutiny, I smile like a schoolgirl
with the understanding that it’s been a tough time for both of us.
“Thank you,” I mouth peering into his eyes. He knows what that means.
It’s not as simple as two words. It’s deeper than I can express in a
public place. Thank you for not just for dinner or making me smile but
also for everything that he has never stopped being for me.

Our son has no idea that we’re on the verge of a serious moment. He’s
two. The world to him consists of his wishes and needs. He looks up
from his coloring book, “Mommy?”

“Yes baby,” I look to my side where he is sitting in a booster seat.

“You marry my daddy,” he states maturely. He drops his head carelessly
back to the coloring book. It’s a strange declaration for my two year
old. Up until now, I’ve never heard him refer to any state of
matrimony. I support his chin with my finger to lift his face to mine.
He reads my face. “What’s matter Mumma?”

“Nothing, honey,” I bend eye level to him. “You want me to marry
Daddy? Do you know what that means?” I ask, looking up to catch John
gazing expressionless.

He points to his chest, “Nicky ring boy. Mommy and Daddy live in
house. Noodle wan marry.” He looks at his sister expectantly, bringing
her into the conspiracy. “Sissy marry Daddy and Mumma?” Nicholas
shares with his preoccupied sister. She smirks back at him obviously
unaware of what Nicky is asking her.

“Eat eat?” she answers sweetly.

John chuckles as he turns away from my glare. “This would be your
doing,” I accuse with the hint of a smile on my lips. It’s cute. My
son is proposing for his father. “Are you making our son pimp for you
now?”

He shrugs. “Whatever it takes.”

Nicholas remains impervious to the conversation between John and me. “Mommy?”

“Yes, honey.”

“Marry us?” he asks sweetly, dropping his crayons and looking up.
“Daddy marry us.”

I push his chair back and offer him a seat in my lap, “Come here and
sit with Mommy.” Nicky climbs down slowly from the booster seat by
himself. I lift him up and put him into my lap facing me. He might
have my eye color, but he has John’s ability to mesmerize with deep
eye gazing. “Did Daddy tell you to ask Mommy to marry him?”

He frames my face and leans forward, inching his earnest brown eyes
closer to mine. “No, Mumma. Nicky wan us marry Daddy.” That’s
punctuated with a wet kiss right below my bottom lip.

I look over Nicky’s head at John and Noodle watching us silently. For
Nicky and Noodle, yes would be so easy but there are things that they
have no idea about as our children, as babies. But I try to explain in
a way that he and Noodle can understand. “We’re already married to
Daddy. We have been for a long time now, even before you were born.
Before you were inside my belly, I married Daddy. More importantly,
I’m married to Daddy,” I cover my heart with his small hand, “right
here. Daddy will always be daddy, just as I’ll always be Mommy.” I
explain without intending to deceive him. I do feel married to John.
It’s not about the paperwork. It’s what’s in our hearts. In my heart,
I’m John’s wife as surely as I’m Nicholas’s mother.

My son is very much his father’s son. My explanation is too cerebral
for him; it’s not enough. “You love Daddy?”

I tug at his chin and plant a kiss on the bridge of his nose. “With
all my heart,” I wink adding another kiss above his brow. “Daddy and
Mommy love you and your silly sister over there with all our hearts.”

“Love me-me,” Noodle sings pointing to herself, happy to be included
in the conversation.

“Yes me-me, Mommy loves you. Even with all that icky spaghetti sauce
all over your face.”

She frowns, reaching her hands across the table. “Wan Mummy.” Noodle
is somewhat anal about being dirty. Her daddy is sure that she gets
that ‘girliness’ from me.

I roll my eyes in exaggeration at her and John. Sticking my tongue
out, I ask laughing, “Why do you think I want you now all sticky, baby
girl?”

“Mummy,” she cries, hurling her body against the table indignantly.
“Mummy, me-me.”

“Hey hey, calm down,” John pulls her back. “You’re going to sit here
and finish eating then you may go to Mommy.” Frustration is missing
from his tone, only a soft, calming voice that is to settle and not
incite a tantrum.

“No Dada,” she whines squirming. “Wan Mummy.”

“It was too much to hope for,” I smile edging my chair back to let
Nicky climb down my legs so that I can handle his sister. “I’m going
to take little miss cranky,” I whisper over her head, “to clean up.
Nicky, do you have to use the potty?”

Affronted, he waves his hand. I keep forgetting how much he doesn’t
want to be my baby anymore. “Not with you, Mumma. Daddy?” he looks
expectantly at his father.

“How soon we forget.” I run the length of his lip with the tip of my
finger. “I changed your stinky diapers, honey. But trade me in, Mommy
can take it.”

“Mumma,” Nicky slaps his knees in amusement. “Nicky don’t stinky no more.”

“I bet,” I kiss him and lift an eager Noodle from John.

He wraps his fingers around my wrist before I turn to walk away. “I
wouldn’t mind you…”

I slant my fingers over his mouth and he draws them between his lips
to nibble at my fingertips. “Don’t finish that.”

John brings me closer and leans in to kiss me lightly. “Hurry back.”

“Come on princess me-me. You really liked the spaghetti, at least your
face did.” I nuzzle her neck opening the door to the bathroom. Caught
up in my giggling daughter’s powdery skin, I misjudge the space and
collide into the back of a brunette primping in the mirror. “I’m so
sorry, M’am.”

“M’am,” Kate turns around, smiling. “We’ve reached that level of
formality with each other? Hello, Marlena.” I unintentionally stiffen
against her body as she hugs me.

“Hello, Kate.” Whenever I say her name, I always hear John’s voice
calling her Katherine. A nickname is personal, but he calls her a name
that she doesn’t allow anyone else to call her—he called her a name
that he decided was special. It bothers me. But it doesn’t bother me
until I see her; I haven’t laid eyes on her in a long time. I’ve
forgotten how jealous she makes me.

Unaware as she always is of my true feelings, she covers her mouth
dramatically looking over my clingy daughter. “Oh Marlena, she is
adorable.” She’s always been a very put together woman. From her dark
nails and short skirt to the blonde chunky highlights in her blunt
bob, she would appear to have a love of trends. Even when we were
friends, I thought so. Catty, I don’t like, but she’s trying too hard
and in my estimation, it’s her trying that seduced my grieving
husband.

Another oblivious party to my inner dialogue, Juliana smiles up at
Kate from my shoulder as I wrap my arms around her tighter. “Thank
you. I think I’ll keep her,” I say wrapping her legs even tighter
around my waist.

“Do you know how much you look like your father? Its uncanny,” Kate
grins down at her, stroking her cheek. “Beautiful.”

I shouldn’t be annoyed that she says things that remind me about her
and John. In truth, I thought I was over this kind of reaction. But
Kate touches an emotion that I hate acknowledging. I don’t enjoy the
jealousy that I feel over knowing she was the only other woman John’s
been with recently. We used to be friends. We’d still be friends if
John and she hadn’t crossed the line with their engagement. Sleeping
with her was one thing, but offering her a life with him was and is
still too much to accept without being jealous. I’m as human as any
woman would be under the circumstances.

I have him now. It’s all that matters. “Thank you. She does look like
her father,” I accept watching for any sign of lingering feelings for
John. It’s only because I know what it feels like to love and be loved
by him. But I can’t fall into those thoughts. Positive. She has no
place in my life, our life anymore. “How have you been?” It doesn’t
cost me anything to be polite.

She’s always been happy to share how wonderful she is. She likes
tooting her own horn. It’s understandable after the life she’s lived.
She demands respect in order to etch away the times when she didn’t
respect herself. I can admit that her business sense is formidable;
John admired her keenness. “Oh, it’s wonderful honey. Work is
fulfilling, always has been. More stable than a man, unconditionally
there more than children. I love working.” As long as it’s not with
John, I can be happy about that. “The love life…” she stops biting
her lip coyly.

I’m unsettled at first by her easy transition into her personal life.
But I take the bait anyway, “What?”

She clutches her chest and turns her head to catch our reflections in
the mirror. “Sorry, it’s so natural to be…you were a great friend.”
She says convincingly.

Juliana has little interest in Kate anymore. She pats my back for
attention. “Mumma…bye byes.”

Kate looks genuinely apologetic. “I’m sorry to keep you. It’s just
been such a long time.”

“No, its fine. She’s just cranky and probably hyped up on sugar. Her
daddy doesn’t believe that sugar makes them hyper.” It slips out
unconsciously. And she’s instantly intrigued by my casual mention of
John, her former lover and fiancé. The man I’ve ceremoniously asked to
stay away from her as he’s asked me to stay away from Roman; this was
of course when we still felt we had the right to demand such things of
each other.

Ignoring the sparkle in her eye at the mention of John’s name, I pass
her for the open area of the bathroom. I set Noodle on the counter and
grab a paper towel, focusing on cleaning her face and not Kate’s
awkwardness behind me. “It’s amazing you didn’t get any sauce anywhere
except your face.”

Kate leans against the counter facing me. She smiles as I continue
cleaning Noodle’s face. “Kids have remarkable talents, don’t they?
Phillip could swallow a peanut butter and jelly sandwich three seconds
after it was given to him.”

We used to share those tidbits when Belle and Phillip were in diapers.
Somehow being in my husband’s bed makes me feel less than excited to
share anything about my life with her.”It’s quite amazing,” I smile,
aware of her scrutiny. Punctuating my words with a tight smile, I say,
“So, we’re going to be grandparents again. It’s wonderful, isn’t it?”
It’s the safest topic.

She shakes her head from side to side with a forced smile. “Will’s the
perfect grandchild; I wouldn’t mind another in his mold.”

Noodle pats at my mouth, hooking her pinky over my bottom lip to gain
my attention back from Kate. “Bye byes.”

I sigh, pulling her fingers from my mouth.”Noodle, don’t be rude baby.”

Kate straightens her body, smoothing her palms down the impossibly
short skirt that stops mid thigh. If I don’t know anything, I know her
inability to leave what’s best to the wind. She has to ask; it’s her
competitive nature that makes her such a force in business. “Are you
guys here with John?”

That interests Juliana, her daddy’s name. “Dada eat eat.” Noodle
answers her innocently.

“Yes, John’s with Nicky.” I scoop Noodle up and hook her to my hip.
And since the door’s open now, I use the pronoun that unifies my
family. “We didn’t see you. We’ve been here awhile.”

She tilts her head. “Our table’s in the back. Billie and I are
celebrating with Chelsea. Maybe you can stop by and say hello,” she
suggests.

I shrug, “How about you say hello for me,” I add, opening the door and
heading back to the empty table. “I really should get back. Enjoy your
dinner.” I exit the bathroom feeling her eyes on me the entire way
back to our table.

Noodle glances at John’s empty chair and pats my cheek. “Dada.”

“He’s still in the potty with Nicky,” I explain sitting her on my lap.
“Would you like to finish dinner?” She looks across the table at her
unoccupied plate. “Mommy will feed you so that you can actually get
some food into your belly and not all over your face.”
Scrunching her brows, she decides that’s not something she wants to do.

“Really, well how do you intend to finish without Mommy’s help?” I
pose to my daughter watching as she crosses her arms angrily over her
chest. She’s being independent tonight. She wants to exert it by
feeding herself.

She lifts her eyebrows looking around for John. “Dada.” He’ll save her
is what she knows. She can change his mind easier than she can change
mine.

“You’re such a smart ass,” I whisper into her hair to keep from
laughing and making her feel foolish. “No baby, no dada to save you.”
I pull her plate in front of us and loop some noodles around the fork.
She turns away when I bring it to her mouth. “You don’t want it?”

She shakes her head silently.

“Are you sure?”

“Dada,” she angles her head around my shoulder looking for John.

“He’s coming.” I say trying to turn her back around. She scoots
forward to twist around ending up on her knees looking over my
shoulder toward the bathroom. “Noodle, be a good girl for Mommy. Turn
around and have some spaghetti.”

“Dada.” She says softly pointing over my shoulder.

I follow her finger and see John hugging Kate near the entrance to the
hallway. He smiles and she drops her hand over his shoulder while
Nicky breaks free of John’s hand and runs back toward us.

One more stab at my jealousy. “Daddy’s busy, huh.” I whisper as Nicky
uses a knee to climb back into his chair. “Finish up. We’re going to
go soon.” I tell him, turning Noodle back around. “And you, my dear,
need to finish too.”

She moves her head defiantly side to side. “No eat eat.”

“Okay,” I put the fork down. She squirms against me, reaching behind
me to see John. “Noodle, he’s coming. Calm down and sit still,” I warn
firmer than I intend.

Not accustomed to my firmness, Noodle reacts rebelliously. Making her
body rigid, she attempts to slide down my lap underneath the table.
When I hold her steady against my chest, she kicks the table, tipping
her plate over to leave a large red stain on the tablecloth.

I push us both away from the table. “That’s enough, Juliana.”

Her tantrum must’ve been loud enough to catch John’s attention.
“What’s wrong?” John asks coming from behind us. “Jules-bear, what’s
wrong? Why are you kicking the table?” He bends down, making Noodle
reach for him aggressively.

“Take her,” I tell him pushing her into his arms. “She wants you.” I
soften my tone after he the glance that he levels at me for pushing
him into his arms angrily. “She was looking for you. She threw a fit
when you didn’t come back.”

“You okay?” he lifts Noodle from my lap and covers my knee with his hand.

I ask it even though I don’t want to. “How was Kate?”

He looks at me. A look that I can’t describe. One that understands
what I’m doing. “You saw her in the bathroom. She’s fine.”

[John]

She still gets jealous over Kate. If I weren’t so annoyed, I’d be
flattered. If she weren’t going through this tough time, I’d feel
vindicated with arguing with her. But. Life stops at ‘buts’ abruptly.

Marlena is reading Jules her bedtime story in our bedroom. She’s lying
against the pillows propped against the headboard with Jules nestled
to her chest. “Is she asleep?” I pull on my pajama pants, noting that
Marlena is wearing the top instead of her nightgown, and climb into
bed.

“She’s barely awake, but I’m going to keep her here until she’s
asleep. How’d Nicky go down?”
Our hands meet on Jule’s back to pat her gently to sleep. “He’s
knocked out with Pika. Only took three minutes after he hit the
pillow.”

“He was tired; so is she. I know because I’m worn out, too.” Her right
hand cups the back of Jules’ neck. Every time I see that finger with
my ring, I feel hopeful about a future that we share. “This is my
favorite time with them. They’re quiet and safe.”

I agree, bringing her knuckles to my lips. “So are you. Are you okay?”
I turn her wrist and plant kisses there. “You’ve been kind of quiet
since we left Maggie’s.”

“Just thinking,” she draws her hand to the top of Jule’s head.
Muttering in her sleep, Marlena whispers by Jules’ ear to settle her.
“Sleep baby, sleep so sweetly and peacefully.”

Jules’ eyes open heavily and stare up into my face. Kate told me how
shocked she was at how much Juliana resembles me. I never know how to
read her anymore. I thought I was good at reading her until I learned
how deceitful she could be. In all actuality, Juliana is both of us,
Doc and me. From looks to personality, she blends my humor with her
mother’s seriousness. My dark features against her mother’s warmer
ones. Her easy personality with a tinge of stubbornness.

“Zaza,” Jules groans against her mother’s chest.

I slide my hand across Marlena’s bare thigh. “I’ll get one from
downstairs.” I have an extra in the kitchen drawer. She hasn’t asked
for a binky in a while.

“She might just go back to sleep,” Marlena suggest as Jules slides her
thumb between her lips for comfort. “Wait…she was just talking in
her sleep.”

“She’s so fidgety,” I note as Jules’ legs fall on either side of her
mother’s thighs. She’s lying heavily against Marlena, one arm snaked
around her neck and the other holding her thumb firmly to her mouth.

“I don’t call her Noodle for nothing,” she stresses lowering her mouth
to rest on her forehead. “She’s asleep. Will you put her to bed?”

“You don’t want her to sleep here?” I’ve given up on a romantic night
since the tense exchange at Maggie’s. She wanted to start an argument
about Kate and I opted for peace. I stopped her with a kiss.

Her lips curve wryly. “I want you to take her and then come back to
bed.” Her voice is husky, the husky quiet one she uses for seduction.
“Here, take your daughter.”

This isn’t about romance. I know it by the alluring look. The touch
that warms my skin and sends my blood racing. She moves Juliana gently
into my outstretched arms where she grumbles sleepily. Marlena presses
a nurturing kiss atop Jule’s hand and takes a long look at her cradled
against me.

“Kate,” she starts running her pinky along Jules’ face, “was amazed at
how much your daughter resembles you.” She stops and slides down until
her back lays flat on the mattress. “It was a dig. She’s not over
you.”

That was quick, shifting from admiring Jules to being upset still at
Kate. “I…”

She raises her head, “Take her to bed please. I’ll be here.” I watch
her fluff the pillow and turn away to lie back down. She’s pissed.

I leave mutely. What the hell am I supposed to say? It’s an argument
I’d rather not have. Jules goes down without fussing. Just in case
she’s not asleep, I wait a minute, rubbing her clenched hand until the
suction between her lips all but stops. I pull her blanket to her
shoulders and tuck in the sides around her body. Before leaving to
check on Nicky, I switch on her nightlights and the other nightlights
lining the hallway toward Nicky’s room.

The soft sound of Nicky’s and Pika’s snoring greets me in the doorway.
Nicky and Pika share the bed on two different ends. Pika’s heaving
form is the bulge under the blanket at Nicky’s feet. I readjust
Nicky’s blanket and kiss the back of his head before leaving. He asked
me about Keema tonight. I’ve decided not to tell Marlena. I gave him
the story we gave Belle when her goldfish died: God wanted her to live
with him again. He was either too tired to question or my explanation
was enough for him. He accepted it.

I’m tempted, for a second to avoid the confrontation waiting for me.
Her anger works opposite of mine. It’s not loud or demanding. She is
probably never quieter than when she’s anger. But this is a different
anger. It made her forget that she’s still fragile about Keema and
what happened to her. But, I’m not a coward.

“Would you like to talk?” Entering the room, it’s my first question.

“About what?” she says softly without turning around to face me.

I climb back into bed, cognizant of keeping space between us. “The
‘come back to bed’ line didn’t have the effect it usually does,” I
tell her playfully. “Kate pissed you off?”

“No,” she sighs, still facing the wall. “You and Kate pissed me off.”

At least she’s not holding anything back. “Can you tell me why?”

She snorts derisively. “You fucked her. We could start there.”

Bewildered, I turn her shoulder until she’s on her back facing me. She
has so many things to be pissed about. Kate isn’t one of them but
she’s an easy target. She can’t conquer her nightmares or have Keema
back but Kate she can fight. She can be upset with Kate instead of
Keema for dying, at me instead of that asshole for attacking her.

“You’re not upset with Kate; you’re not even upset with me.” I lift
her by her shoulders up from the bed and turn her toward me. “You’re
upset over what’s happened.”

She cuts her eyes dismissively, cupping her forehead incredulously.
“Don’t psychoanalyze me, John.”

“I won’t,” I back off. She looks down sadly fingering the buttons of
the dark silky shirt. I pick her head back up to tell her, “I’m
sorry.”

“I am angry about a lot, but it did make me upset to see you with
Kate,” she admits bunching the shirt into her fist nervously. “It
still bothers me that you were together. You asked her to become your
wife.”

Our eyes follow each other to her right hand and the proposal that’s
hanging between us. “We’ve worked this out. I don’t love Kate; I love
you.”

“You loved her,” she reminds me sadly. It’s a weak admission. One that
steals the certainty from her usually strong voice. Her eyes reflect
the pain, not the anger of a woman who’s been cheated on.

“I did,” I say honestly.

It’s not something I planned to tell her out of spite. It’s the truth.
But the truth isn’t supposed to turn her eyes from sad and pain-filled
to the expressionless way she’s staring into me. It’s supposed to
endear her to me, that I can be honest about my mistakes.

She doesn’t want honesty.

I don’t flinch when she slaps me hard across the face. I don’t protest
when she does it again.

“I thought I’d gotten past this,” she cries hiding her face in her
hands. “I can’t believe how angry it still makes me feel.” She
justifies the acts of rage that have me still speechless.

Now I know a little something about your lover striking you
irrationally. About defenselessness, about feeling pity for the person
who needs to hurt you to make themselves feel.

“Say something,” she mumbles covering her face with her hands. “I’m
sorry. I’m so sorry I hit you.”

Chapter 57

The room sort of closes in around me in the scarce light offered by
the small lamp on the night table. John recedes into the darkness and
the only sound comes through breathing. I feel his weight beside me,
his thigh lightly touching mine. His sadness coupled with the
confusion of my open palmed blow. The silence is biting. I reach for
him, relieved when he trembles instead of pushing my hand from his
thigh. Guilt that I’m willing to exploit is why he doesn’t stop me.
Not at first, at first he relaxes into my touching. He groans as I cup
him quickly and glide my other hand down his chest.

Sex to close the distance my unacceptable behavior opened. Sympathetic
offerings of our bodies to tide us over until we can discuss why I’d
do something atypical of my character. It’s not as if I’m doing
something unusual in trying to arouse him. We do this. He hurts me; he
loves me back to a safe place harder. I hurt him; he forgives me,
showing me his commitment intimately.

I move slowly from his side and bring my knees to rest against his
thighs as I climb into his lap. When I look into his eyes, I see the
distance growing. He might be enjoying the economical pleasure of me
touching him but he, my enthusiastic lover, is nowhere to be found in
his eyes. His hands are lifeless, braced softly on my hips. I stop,
startled by the lack of interaction between us. I’m on top of him and
he’s backed against the headboard with his eyes closed.

“John,” I pull his face between my hands. He stares with wounded eyes
back at me. Is that what he sees in my eyes? Is that what I’ve been
reflecting to him every time he’s looked at me? “I’m sorry,” I attempt
apology again. I know I haven’t hurt physically. I know it’s internal,
the bruises that strike the heart; the bruises that don’t need marks
to prove they’re there. “I love you.”

“I love you too, baby.” He circles my wrist to pull my hands down. I
expect something else but he moves his legs to lift me from him.

“John, wait a minute. Wait, I want to be with you.” The whiny quality
of my voice is matched by the shaky hands that frame his shoulders. I
push into his chest with my body. My shirt, his shirt is a barrier to
feeling his skin touching mine. I pull his hands to my collar, looking
directly into his eyes as I wait for him to start unbuttoning.

He drops his hands and cups my hips again, this time to break our
groins apart. “Honey, no. I…”

“What do you mean no? I don’t understand,” I say too loudly, too
weakly. “John, please…”

“We’re not going to do this,” he says calmly. “We’re not going to hurt
each other physically and heal sexually. Not tonight. If you’re upset,
be honest.” He sounds too much like a therapist, enough to make me
angry and vulnerable. “You’re not mad that I fu…had a relationship
with Kate,” he cups her cheeks. I shake my head affirmatively. “You’re
not,” he adds decisively. “Talk to me.”

Talk to him. We haven’t talked, really communicated since my attack.
This has been our modus operandi. It’s usually how we handle anything
adverse to our relationship. Why—because we communicate better
intimately than we ever have vocally.

Honesty is great, but it’s also painful. I voice words that literally
taste badly in my mouth. “You loved her.” It’s a statement that should
be a question. I can accept lusting after her. I have accepted that
fact, but to add love, to say and admit that he loved her. “You loved
her?”

He opens his mouth, lowering his hands on top of my thighs. “I did.” I
react frighteningly. I slap him again and then seek his mouth. I loop
my arms around his neck, bringing our faces close. Our foreheads
touch, our mouths also meet in a wet, urgent kiss that ends when I
slide my tongue roughly across his lips.

“Stop…stop.” He turns his head. I find his throat and start kissing
there, tasting his sweat on the tip of my tongue. “Honey, stop,” he
says sadly, pulling my head back. “Stop.”

His cheek is red where I hit him. His eyes are shining with tears. My
heart is beating too fast. The silence is unnerving, unwelcome, and
agitating. I understand why he stopped me but I don’t acknowledge
that. I go for another angry rant that bruises my pride.

Hurtful isn’t the way I sound. I hear myself; we both do. It’s
unfamiliar, this jealousy over Kate. It’s unreal. “I don’t want to
hear you tell me that you’re in love with another woman,” I say
incredulously. “There is no statute of limitations on betrayal. You
blamed me for Dr. Shalit—you still blame me, and I’ve never even been
with him. You were with her; you wanted to marry Kate.” I repeat her
name bitterly, “Katherine.”

He watches me coming undone with no words. It makes me angrier.

I explode with no lid on my anger. “You made her a priority in your
life. You made love to her in my house. You tried to make our children
accept her as your wife. Everything about that relationship was
totally inappropriate.” I told a different sorry when I came back to
him. The forgiving wife who understood; I wasn’t only deceiving him. I
believed I didn’t mind it so much.

I climb away from his legs. Dropping my legs over my side of the bed,
with my back to him, I begin sobbing into my hands. I flinch violently
at the feel of his hand caressing my lower back. I go through a
lightening quick transformation from sadness to anger. “Don’t touch
me.” I say softly, stronger. “You hypocritical son of a bitch.” He
stops touching me. I don’t turn but I feel him behind me, feel the
weight of his knees sinking into the bed.

Frightened by my reaction, I know it’s possible to wilt into his arms.
I also know he’ll welcome me. I could let go of my anger, as I always
do and fall back and make love until I’m exhausted. He probably wants
me to do that and stop holding myself away from him. I realize I’m
uncontrollable at this point. I can’t stop myself even though I want
to stop hurting him with words and blows.

An infinitely patient man awaiting his sentence in silence. “You’re
jealousy has been as much a part of this relationship as love has
been. You expect me to be a virtue of innocence while you make love to
other women. Women,” I yell, twisting around to look into his eyes.
“You’re a hypocrite.” It’s said so coldly, remorsefully. He lowers his
head and then gathers another ounce of strength to hear more as he
looks back up. “Nothing to say. Completely speechless.” He tightens
his mouth into a stiff line in answer. “You’re not allowed to tell me
things like that. You can’t tell me that you love her. You can’t tell
me that if you’re in love with me.”

He finally opens his mouth. “Loved,” he corrects me firmly. “Loved her.”

I clench my fists and anchor them in my lap, twisting back around to
face the wall. “Then you can’t love me. You couldn’t do that to me if
you loved me the way you made me believe you did. You can’t love me
the way you said if you left me to have your child. You left me,” I
yell. I slide from the bed to the floor and pull my knees against my
cheeks. “You didn’t protect me. You left me and he hurt me. You let
him hurt me.”

[John]

Hearing her say that destroys me. I hop over the bed and get on my
knees in front of her. She’s sobbing hysterically, making her
shoulders quiver, and her entire body shiver. I think it’s a part of
the process. She hasn’t shown any real grief or anger over what’s
happened. The quiet resignation has been easier. But now she’s a
volcano of emotions, erupting in front of me.

Unsure, I don’t touch her or try to comfort her. She’s angry about
what happened to her but now I know she’s pissed with me, too. She’s
hurt and hasn’t expressed how much. I know that about her and still, I
just assumed this would be easy. I assumed that her healing was
through me, through our relationship but watching her crumbling I know
she has larger issues with us that need to be addressed.

“Talk to me,” I say after watching her cry for too long. I’m crying
too. I’m hurting from not her words, her harsh indictments but because
she’s been holding them inside for too long.

She lifts her head up and I wipe the tears away from her cheeks. I’m
not too close but enough to reach to drag my thumb beneath her eye.
She’s so good at hiding her emotions; how’d I not know that. Or did I
ignore them to make everything good between us again? There is real
hurt behind her eyes, jade in their sadness.

I stand up and reach out to her. She takes my hand and stands up too.
I move back to give her space and she sits on the edge of the bed
looking shyly at me. This woman who I’ve known all of our lives looks
unsure of what’s next. I wait for her again to speak hoping she’s
unleashes whatever she hasn’t shared. If I can just pull it out of
her, then maybe we can get past this.

But we’re parents first and Nicholas enters the room with his thumb in
his mouth and tears running down his face. Looking for a hug, he comes
to us and climbs up into his mother’s lap. She holds him to her chest,
kissing his eye, neck, and ears while rocking him. He’s heard us, but
like her, he doesn’t say that’s why he’s here crying. Instead, he
relaxes into her and settles for her body as comfort. She does that to
me; I give her permission to remain silent while she’s breaking apart
inside. Maybe it’s more damaging to be a willing partner in her
struggles. She doesn’t ask why he’s crying, she knows. She holds him
like she understands what it’s like to not understand why the people
around you aren’t being who you need them to be.

“I’ll put him to sleep,” she stands. “Do you want to kiss him goodnight?”

I kiss Nicky’s nose and cheek. “It’s going to be fine, kid. You go to
sleep. I love you.”

And like that, she walks away from the progression of her walls crumbling.

[Marlena]

Nicholas falls asleep easily. He’s against my side snoring lightly
having been rocked to sleep with my soft humming. Pika’s on her back,
with her feet in the air sleeping next to Nicky. I woke him up
screaming at John. I put him to sleep reminding myself of why I keep
my anger to myself. It does no good to any of us.

Both Nicky and Noodle are tucked into bed, sleeping heavily before I
pull both of their doors up and walk back to John’s bedroom. He’s not
there. I check the bathroom and feel panicked when he’s not there
either. I pull on a pair of his sweats. Maybe I’ve finally done enough
to make him give up.

Relief maybe it’s assurance that washes over me when I find that he’s
downstairs in his office. Standing quietly in the door, I pray
silently. I pray for a way to express myself without hiding behind my
mild-mannered mask; I pray for honesty. I pray for anger to move out
of our way. Love isn’t supposed to be this angry. It’s supposed to be
patient and kind, long suffering. But have we suffered too long and
too much?

It comes to me in a whisper. “That is the true season of love, when we
believe that we alone can love, when no one has ever loved so before
us and no one will ever love in the same way after us,” I recite
waiting for him to look up from whatever he’s staring studiously at on
his desk.

He smiles but it’s not happy. “That wasn’t me,” he refutes softly.
“It’s Roman that said that to you.” A tear leaks from his eyes. “I was
never struck that hour; with love so sudden and so sweet, Her face it
bloomed like a sweet flower; and stole my heart away complete…” the
rest dies between us as he searches my face.

To prove that I’m not confused about who’s sitting in front of me, I
finish what he couldn’t. “She seemed to hear my silent voice not
love’s appeals to know. I never saw so sweet a face
as that I stood before. My heart has left its dwelling place and can
return no more.”

His smile feels a little more genuine.

“John, I wasn’t confusing you with Roman.” I apologize clumsily. I
hate our awkwardness. “I know who you are. I remember every word you
ever spoke to me.” Every letter, poem, and sweet thing is cemented in
my memory; and I hold on lightly to the mean, hurtful hateful ones,
too. “I’ve never confused them with other words from men I’ve loved. I
never could.”

He folds his arms as if he can’t believe what I’m saying.

“I know that our life together has been complicated. You’ve been in
love with other men; I’ve been in love with other women. But the love
we shared was something special, Doc. There never was and never could
be anyone to fill the special place that you hold in my heart. I love
you. I know now I always have, and I always will.” I repeat perfectly,
with no pause or uncertainty.

He acknowledges the words that meant so much to me, that changed our
lives with a tiny grin. “The letter.”

I nod at him. “The letter.” I walk into the room and sit on the corner
of his desk. Our wedding album is opened in front of him. I pick up
the album. “When did you take this?” I had possession of it during our
separation.

He lays his hand across my knee. “When I was at your house. Look at
us? When were we ever those people,” he wonders wistfully, lost in
memories of then. “Look at the kids. We all look happy. And complete.”

“We were,” I remind him. I was totally in love with him. I wanted to
be his wife more than anything else in my life. I would’ve given up my
practice and everything that didn’t agree with that then. “I shouldn’t
speak for you…I was happy.”

The pictures prove it. I couldn’t fake that kind of happiness. The
only thing missing were Nicky and Noodle’s faces. Everyone else we
loved was there to celebrate what they’d always thought was right
about us. They were celebrating our togetherness. We shared our love
with them openly then. Whenever we were in the same room, you’d have
to be suffering from blindness to not see the energy between us. So
connected were we that I leaving parties early, sneaking away to
bathrooms and closets, and openly sharing intense kisses and constant
touching were expected by our friends and family.

“Were you?” A picture of Belle sandwiched between us in her adorable
flower girl dress has his attention. I grab his shoulder. “Were you
happy?”

He pulls my hand away to kiss my palm. “You know I was. I’ve never
been confused about where I wanted to be.”

I don’t know if it’s meant to be a dig but it certainly feels so. “Are
you saying I didn’t always?”

He answers simply, “No.”

I turn the page and find a picture of us staring back. The moment
sends a chill down my spine. I remember it vividly. His hands are
pressed against the small of my back as we dance. My arms are wrapped
around his back. The last dance before our flight. I remember the
hairs on my back standing at the feel of his fingertips digging into
my back. I was so eager to be alone with him that I whispered, “let’s
go,” and kiss his throat. He twirled me around and took me out of
there.

“I’ll always treasure that night. It was more than just being with
you,” I rake my fingers through his hair and tilt his head back. “I
felt like it was the first time I’d ever been with you in that way.
Like you’d erased all the years before that moment without erasing our
feelings. You loved me so much then.”

He frowns. “Loved? I still love you.”

It feels like a great place to ask. “Why do you want to marry me?”

“Why wouldn’t I want to marry you?”

“Maybe there’s too much baggage,” I whisper. Anger so forceful and so
hidden that I didn’t know it was so intense.

“There isn’t,” he pulls me into his lap. “There isn’t,” he repeats
flipping pages in the book. He points to our faces. Our happy, smiling
hopeful faces. “Remember those people.”

“Not all the time,” I confess sadly laying on his shoulder. “I want to
be them again. I really want to be that stable and happy again.”

He wraps his arm around me, pulling me into him. “I’ve never forgotten
them. That’s why I want to marry you again. I want to work together to
make our family happy and stable. I don’t want to do it alone. I want
you to work right alongside me with to put this back together.”

“It’s not simple….”
“It’s complicated, right?” he says knowingly. I’ve said it enough to
him. “It’s not though, baby. I still love you. You have all of me and
you always will.”

I squeeze him. “I know.”

“But, I have to be honest. Without some serious help, we’re going to
stay on this merry-go-round. You have some things that you need to get
off your chest; I do as well. And you have to deal with what’s
happened to us and to you.” He lifts my chin to look into my teary
eyes. His face swims before me. But I’d know those eyes anywhere. “I’m
willing to go through whatever you need to in order to heal. I want to
help you, baby, I swear if I could, I’d do it. But I’m not that man;
I’m not qualified to handle this.”

“You’ve been doing a wonderful job so far.”

“Because it’s killing me to see you paralyzed the way you have been.
But I know you need more than me. I don’t mind you asking for someone
else’s help.”

“John….”

“I don’t mind.” He says firmly. “I’m worried what will happen if you
don’t. But I think that you should deal with everything. Alex. Shalit.
Us. Everything, baby. If we’re going to put this family back together,
and possibly bring another child into this family, then we owe
everyone this. We need help.”

I find myself nodding, even as numbness overwhelms me. Until he starts
speaking again looking deeply into my eyes. “I still mean everything I
wrote in that letter. I still mean everything I’ve said to you. And I
still want you to marry me…on one condition,” he hesitates as he grips
both sides of my neck.

“What?” I whisper.

“You have to find some help…and you have to promise that we’ll be
together forever.”

I smile and brush his mouth with mine. Speaking against his lips, I
say, “That’s two.”

He chuckles and pulls me in for a slow kiss. “I mean it,” he tells me
breaking away from my mouth, “we have to find someone to talk to,
someone we both agree on.”

Snap decisions, gut instincts and the like, they all have their value
as do thinking things over until you’ve run every outcome past your
tests. I choose the first and inhale before burying my face against
his chest. “I have to ask you something first.”

“I can’t hear you when you’re hiding your face.” He lifts my face.
“What are you saying?”

I bite my bottom lip and turn into his lap further. “John, will you marry me?”

“I asked you first,” he bends me backwards and starts kissing me all over.

“Wait, wait…” I hold my hands up and pull back up. “You didn’t answer me.”

I expect this long drawn out, sentimental answer. Instead, I hear him
say slyly, “Yes, I’m going to marry you, you pain in the ass.”

I hold break away and sit above him on the desk. Holding my palms
toward me in front of him, I wiggle my fingers back and forth. “Well?”
I lift my eyebrows expectantly.

“I have to do everything,” he smiles taking my engagement ring from my
right hand. “I mean this,” he narrows his eyes and clutches my chin to
pull me forward, “you have to be sure. Are you?”

I’ve always been running right back to this moment, to this yes. Of
course, I’m sure. “I do want to adopt Noah. I also want Rachel in my
life; I owe her so much time.” Those are deal breakers. He has to know
my intentions where they are concerned.

“We’ll discuss that,” he says earnestly. “I’m with you.”

I loop my arms around his neck. “And I want to spend the rest of my
life with you. I’m absolutely certain.” After hugging him until my
arms grow numb from the pressure, I draw away from his body. “Can we
make love now?”

He chuckles, scooping me up and over his shoulders. “No, but I’ll
cuddle with you all night,” he taps my rear end lightly.

“No,” I ask incredulously, balanced across his shoulder.

“We’re going to do this the traditional way. No more until we’re
married,” he teases. “That way, I’ll know that you’re serious about
marrying me.” He pats my rear end again and carries me up to bed where
he holds me until sleep overwhelms me. No nightmares. No Alex. Only
dreams about John and our children. Of what’s ahead and not behind us.

CHAPTER END NOTES:
[Poems and the such are property of their owners.]

Chapter 58

“It is when your spirit goes wandering upon the wind; that you, alone
and unguarded, commit a wrong unto others and therefore unto
yourself.”
–Khalil Gibran—“The Prophet”

I have few unguarded moments, few times when I allow myself to be
unhinged. I risk sanity when those moments threaten to impede on my
otherwise steady composure. Ina Waters. Without the benefit of John’s
hand anchoring me to him, I might have shown a darker nature. Had I
ignored the place and purpose, I believe I might have accosted Ina
Waters with questions that aren’t necessarily mine to ask. Had I not
been warned by Edie of Ina Waters’ visit to the nursery, I might have
snatched Noah from her arms when I walked into the room. I didn’t; for
Keema’s sake, and Noah’s future, I quieted my angry urges and offered
a conciliatory greeting. I was the one taking the baby home; she was
the one desperately trying to connect to her own flesh and blood.

Questions bubbled around us in the room I’d grown quite familiar with
since Noah’s birth. Questions that Keema would ask. Questions that
Rachel could ask of me. Why, being the first in a line of painful
others. I had no right, and for that purpose alone, I grew silent and
allowed Ina the gift of nuzzling Noah’s soft hair against her nose.
Keema’s memory of her mother was stark but the dark hair she
remembered was vividly correct. Long waves of jet-black hair hung to
the bend of her elbow. The most striking element of the mysterious
stranger was the sad, almond-shaped hazel eyes staring at me. Keema’s
eyes came were Ina’s gift. I admit I searched for other facets of
Keema in the slender woman with expensive clothing and jewelry. How
had she faired so much better than her daughter had? I wanted ask if
she knew of the injustices that Keema had faced in her absence. But
instead, I couldn’t stop seeing things in her that weren’t Keema. The
long dark hair. Her peach complexion. The small mouth and high
sculptured cheekbones. If I had to guess, I’d assume she had many
ethnicities running through her blood—Native American or Mexican with
traces of African-American. Facts I wish I were privy to for Noah’s
sake.

When I stared to long, Ina Waters matched my gaze and spoke her first
words to me. “You can judge me if you want to,” her voice was strong,
“but I did it because I loved her not because I didn’t.”

If John hadn’t squeezed the small of my back, I might have responded.
Instead, I gave her a perfunctory nod that seemed to appease her. We
were both blindsided, I guess. Her child died, a girl who I loved
fiercely. Edie broke the tension when she slipped into the room for my
signature for Noah’s release. I reached for the baby, with my heart in
my throat.

I understood Ina Waters’ fear in that painful moment of her giving me
Noah. I understood her hunger for closure, and her promise to know
Keema’s child. I flinched unexpectedly when she said her name, feeling
very possessive of her memory and at that moment, her child.

I understood Ina as a mother, but I’m only choosing to forget it. When
I lost my children, it was never willingly. That part of me couldn’t
sympathize with her knowing I would’ve given anything to be there for
Rachel, the twins, and Belle in times when I couldn’t. It was that
part of me that pulled Noah into my arms without remorse for Ina’s
loss. She’d given her child up willingly, abandoned her, and not lost
her.

There were tears, I’m sure, when Edie informed her that we were being
granted a temporary guardianship of Noah. She hadn’t known anything
about us when she came to see Noah. My heart lurched for her again as
she pulled her Jackie Onassis-like sunglasses over her haunting
Keema-like eyes and watched us take her grandson down the long
corridor. I didn’t turn around to see what burned my neck and raised
the hairs; I held John’s hand tighter instead.
…

Guilt is fleeting but palpable and gnawing. Why are you really doing
this? You can’t make up for the past. It’s a voice I quiet within, a
voice that weighs intentions. The scale always tips heavier to guilt,
to making up for the past through a better future. I can’t make up for
the past. No, I can’t bring Keema back for Noah; I can’t remake
Rachel’s life so that I wasn’t missing from it. No, I can’t take back
all the horrible things I’ve managed to do within the framework of my
life.

No, but I can rebuild the bridges to all of our futures.

With Noah in my arms, everything fades away when I look into his eyes.
The guilt over taking him from his grandmother’s arms this morning,
the trepidation of starting over as a new family. Ina’s words: I did
it because I loved her—also fade. The stressful last couple of weeks
also lose power when I look into this sweet child’s face, calling
forth memories of holding Noodle and Nicky as babies.

“This is Noah,” I lift him, swaddled quietly in a receiving blanket,
for Juliana’s examination. He has a peaceful disposition that belies
his ever-searching eyes. Unable to focus on things successfully, he
lifts his eyes upward and parts his rosebud mouth. “He’s going to live
with us…” for a while fades before I give it power to cement and
stand between my hopes. This is forever; I hope. Noah has already made
his decision. A healthy grunt and dirty diaper showed his approval of
his new home minutes after John carried him into the front door.

I took a deep breath and reminded myself that this is what normal is
supposed to feel like. John’s home has become a sacred base for me.
Whenever home crosses my lips, it’s in reference to here—it’s ironic
that this is the very place that I once hated. Now, I feel as if I
don’t ever need to leave, as if I can’t and don’t want to leave. A
part of my comfort is the safety afforded under John’s watchful eye.
And the way he’s opened his home without restraint to me has endeared
the two-story structure that now contains my family and all the love I
can manage. It just feels like home.

A home is rarely ever just physical, spiritual possibly conscious but
rarely ever simply physical. My heart and soul feel at peace under
this roof. I’ve forgotten the days and nights I spent at my house
wishing to be here with John and the children. I don’t have to
fantasize anymore. This is our home because we all feel at ease here.

Nicky and Noodle have a lot to do with the ease in which we’ve
transitioned John’s home into ours. John always had space for them
when they were traveling between our places. It was never a total
bachelor’s pad. It has even less a chance of being thought of in that
way now. Noodle’s tiaras, tea set and table and chairs, and faux
pearls and bracelets share space with John’s otherwise masculine taste
around us. Nicky’s drawing easel and John’s flat screen television and
surround sound speakers share a wall. His trucks and cars have a
decidedly lower profile behind the recliner. John assured me when he
trudged their treasures from my house to his that it was perfectly
fine. He brought their things to make it easier on them, and I suspect
me, because of their questions about moving back home. I was skeptical
until I saw him playing in the floor with Nicky a couple times, and
dressing up for tea with a boa and tiara with Noodle.

I feel incredibly blessed that we’re adding Noah to this melting pot
of toys, love, and us.

“Baby,” Noodle’s eyes twinkle as she comes timidly toward Noah, a
moving baby doll as far as she’s concerned. I turn him and prop him
along my knee for her inspection. Careful prodding brown pools of
bewilderment roam over Noah. She’s the only baby she’s ever known.
“Baby…Mumma, baby,” she rattles, still perplexed.

Like his changing eyes, Noah’s skin has yet to settle on a true color.
He’s still pale except for the moon shapes framing his nails and the
core of his ears. These places have a decidedly darker hue. Edie
explained the differences I would see in him from an ethnic
standpoint. She touched his golden red hair and said it might change
form after a couple weeks; she said the slick fine pieces could curl
and lose their shine. I shrugged at her and kissed her cheek
gratefully. Edie’s words were meant to benefit and not sting; yet,
they did, settling in the pit of my stomach and in the back of my
mind. I’m not oblivious to differences; those things don’t matter to
me anymore than they did with Keema, and I told her so. Edie
appreciated my naiveté—her word—but didn’t let me rest comfortably in
it for long. Even if you raise him as your son, the world will see
whom and what he truly is; he’ll always be different. I thanked her
again and decided quietly that I’d never allow the world to intrude on
our family, not even friends with harmless intentions.

This is our family, our new family. And Juliana is understandably
shaken by the addition of a new baby. Her position in the family
precariously slipping from her, and I have the threat posed happily on
my lap. She’s not impressed.

“Noah is a baby,” I smile at Noodle. Complexity has given way to her
natural curiosity. By her enthusiastic face, I can tell how enthralled
she is by Noah’s smaller body. She outlines her own with keen hands to
measure the differences, twitching her nose at me endearingly when
logic doesn’t add up. “He’s a tiny baby,” I clarify, connecting the
scrambled dots for her. She shakes a confused head at me; she can’t
fathom how Noah is a baby but not as big as her. “He’s a newborn. You
were a baby this small once. Mommy’s shown you pictures. Remember?”

Not interested, or further confused, she backs away sucking her thumb.

This isn’t going as easy as I thought it would. The introduction to
Noah should have taken place long before I walked into the front door
with him. But his premature birth didn’t permit for introductions in a
baby unit with a policy that restricted children. I’ve done a bad job
of explaining a new baby to toddlers. I’ve done an even worse job of
preparing them for his homecoming.

Danielle was far more intrigued with Noah than the kids were. She
tried to engage Nicky in talking and holding the baby before she left
for the evening. Nicholas wasn’t interested. From the moment we came
home, his attention has been John’s ostensibly avoiding Noah, who’s
been sleeping my arms, and me. He followed his daddy out of the room
when he excused himself to make some calls in his office. Every now
and then, the sound of a truck’s ramming floats into the living room,
followed by John’s gentle chide for Nicholas to stop.

Noodle was napping when Noah came home. She’s just starting to shake
out of her fog and grasp the new person occupying my lap. She pokes
her chest narrowing her eyes, “I baby…Mumma’s baby.” Staking her
claim, she pulls herself onto the couch beside me and then lifts a
knee to climb into my occupied lap.

“Honey, of course you’re Mommy’s baby,” I assure her stroking the wild
ponytail of curls in the center of her head. She didn’t have the
preparation of seeing me with a big belly telling her about a new baby
for nine months. She’s had an hour to awake from a nap, watching me
rock and feed Noah. Nicky didn’t adapt immediately to having to share
me with her at first either. The one year old with no experience with
being replaced will need my reassurance. “Noah, Nicky, and Noodle are
my babies,” I ask more than tell her.

Noodle has a lot of her father in her—the proprietary way she wraps
her chubby fingers around my arm and pushes at Noah to move him away
is so John, in a cute, innocent way. “Mumma, me-me…” she sulks blaring
sullen brown eyes brazenly.

“Juliana,” I say softly but firmly, “you don’t push Noah, ever. He’s a
baby, honey. You could hurt him. Mommy has enough room for you here.”
It’s difficult to balance Noah in the crevice of one arm and the other
around Noodle’s waist; however, I do so to erase the unwelcomed anger
in Juliana’s face. My sweet girl’s face looks so much better with
smiles.

She’s getting good at making me feel guilty about her unhappiness. I
don’t know where my children learn it, but she and her siblings are
masters at tearing my heart apart by frowning and crossing arms over
their proud chests.

“Oh honey,” I kiss her hair, sighing gratefully when John walks into
the room with Nicky rolling a truck at his heel. “We might have a
problem,” I warn John looking at Noodle.

John doesn’t ask what, he reacts. The situation is obvious. He sits
down beside us and lifts Noodle from my leg to his. She burrows her
face into his ocean blue shirt, the one that intensifies his
wonderfully warm eyes, and kicks backwards at my leg.

“Hey,” he stops the pendulum swing of her leg, turning her around to
face him. He tilts her face up, cups her chin, and kisses her
forehead. “Hey, what’s wrong with Daddy’s girl,” he asks patiently.
“You don’t kick Mommy. She’s holding Noah. You have to be careful.”

“That’s the problem,” I whisper rubbing Noodle’s back. “I think she’s
a little jealous of Noah.”

John eyes her suspiciously, untrained at dealing with his little
girl’s jealousy. She’s been the baby of our family without having to
share us with anyone except Nicky. John tries his usual tactics.
Humor. John tickles her while asking what’s wrong. His stubborn streak
shines through her as she clamps her lips together, kicking to be let
down from his lap. She’s as stubborn as he is when she feels justified
in her limited comprehension of anger and jealousy. He doesn’t stop
her from hopping down and toddling away.

Nicholas is still quietly playing in the floor with his truck in his
own space with Pika nudging for his attention. “Do you want to see the
baby, Nicky?” He looks at me and shakes his head. “No?” I’m more
disappointed than I thought I could be by their innocent rejection of
Noah.

“Give them time,” John takes my hand encouragingly. “We sort of sprung
this on them. They’ll be all over him before you know it.” He thumbs
the engagement ring on my hand, watching Noah take soft breath in his
sleep.

Though reticent about our new responsibility to Noah, he’s been
supportive. He’s been the engine behind getting our guardianship of
Noah finalized so quickly. Wealth has its benefits, one of which being
access to great lawyers and influence. Without John, the child-care
system could have tied Noah’s homecoming up for weeks. He’s already
spent the first three weeks of his life in a hospital. I intend to
have him spending the rest of his life in my home with my family, his
family.

I love to see John take charge. I also love to see him staring at
Noah. It makes me want to be close to him, closer than he’s allowing
me these days. I tremble when he scales my spine with his fingertips
casually. A halo of sensation fills my stomach unexpectedly. His touch
startles and excites me without warning. He’s been firm in keeping his
oath not to make love until I marry him. I suspect the oath has less
than virtuous purposes knowing John as I do. He has a healthy sexual
appetite that rarely gets satisfied; he knows that the same is true of
me. The buildup from not being able to make love, to touch him even
will wear on both of us, eventually. But, I don’t know which of us
will give in first. We’ve made love so often over these last few weeks
that my body is in withdrawal from losing our closeness. Now every
touch feels illicit. Every kiss, slow in their beginning morphs into a
passionate struggle for more. He doesn’t kiss me often—he knows how
I’ll attempt to change his mind under the persuasion of my lips.

He isn’t aware of the quickening of my pulse from being leisurely
stroked along the small of my back. “He really is a beautiful kid,”
John’s voice distracts me from my carnal longing. He touches Noah’s
quivering chin; it twitches in his sleep. “I can’t believe we’re doing
this again.” It comes so easily that I know he didn’t have to measure
the weight of his words. My rising pulse dulls with his ambivalence.

“Honey, you’re not having second thoughts?” I ask losing the strength
of my voice by the end of my question. I keep my eyes on Noah, not on
John. To see anything other than acceptance would most certainly
unhinge me.

John’s palm circles my chin, pulling me to face him. Our connection is
so electric these days that I don’t need him to open his mouth and
speak. I know what the look is about; I can feel it. I close my eyes
to end the currents moving between us.

“Look at me,” he demands softly. “You know I’m in this with you one
hundred percent. I’m not having second thoughts.” His fingertips
indent my skin when my eyes falter from his, “I’m not. I love you and
I’m here to take care of us. I’m committed. Don’t worry, honey.”

I sigh, and tell him faintly, “I won’t…” worry about Ina and her right
to challenge strangers taking her grandson into their home; worry that
I said yes to marriage when I’m not ready; worry that opening the
wounds of my past will splinter and invade my present.

John has a magic way of looking those fears out of me. His eyes seize
mine and don’t let go until nothing else matters except being in the
same room with him at the same time with our children. You get lost in
looks like that. I have no guard against his unyielding certainty;
that’s what’s real, as real as his fingerprints tattooed in my skin.

And just as quickly, he changes the flow of our conversation. “I do
have a surprise for you,” he adds leaving a chaste kiss on my mouth
before getting up from the couch.

I lift my brows, reading him. “What did you do,” I smirk, knowing his
enormous spirit of generosity. “John?” He bends to take Noah, kissing
me again before he pulls me to my feet.

Apparently, the children are a part of my surprise. He rallies them
around us. “Let’s show Mommy the surprise,” he tells the children,
sharing a conspiratorial look as he leads us upstairs. Noodle avoids
coming to my arms until I use her tactics and pout sadly. She takes
pity and reaches out. I pick her up and remind her that I still love
her with sloppy kisses all over her face.

“What did your daddy do?” I whisper to a tight-lipped Noodle.

“Close eyes, Mummy,” Nicky commands as we step in front of our bedroom
door. “Close, Mumma,” he warns when I sneak a peek at him over
Noodle’s shoulder.

“Okay, okay,” I say laughing at Noodle’s clumsy attempt to cover my
eyes. I feel a small hand tugging mine into the doorframe. “Can I open
them now?” Noodle giggles pulling her fingers from my eyes. And, I see
John’s thoughtful surprise immediately.

Right beside our bed, a bassinet of white and blue lace and cloth has
found its home. Gone is a bookshelf that hugged the corner. A changing
table and medium-sized bureau are its replacement. I wrap my arm
around Noodle’s back and glance back at John, the perfect image of
fatherhood with Noah on his shoulder as he pats his back gently
flooding me with a myriad of emotions.

He wraps his free arm around my back. “You’re too good to me,” I
whisper, taking John’s mouth by surprise with mine. Slanting my lips
over his, I linger until he pulls away smiling and Noodle giggles
between us.

“I’d settle for thank you,” he tells me wiping my bottom lip with his thumb.

“You’re too sweet for just thank you,” I say walking to inspect the
new furniture. “Thank you, honey. It’s wonderful.”

“Let’s let him try this out,” he suggest as he puts Noah into the
bassinet. He adjusts the blankets around him and adds a soft kiss to
his forehead.

The tears fall quickly.

[John]

She takes me by surprise, straddling my lap and rubbing her cheek
against my chest kittenishly. “You smell so good,” she buries her nose
at my throat, twining fingers behind my neck. Not immune to her soft
curves, I brand my hands to her thighs resting outside of mine.
“Aren’t you tired of reading?” she asks playing with the hair at the
nape of my neck.

Easiness has slipped into the room, into our lives and the stress and
affliction of the past have faded. Marlena is coming back to her
center in slow degrees, stroking my ego slowly along the way—I feel a
proud sense of responsibility. She’s not walking around like she’s
dying inside anymore; I’m not watching her waiting for the next
breakdown.

She’s back to being playful and naughty. Her wicked sense of humor has
always been sexier than she knows—especially when she’s trying to
seduce me. And she’s definitely in the mood for seducing. But I can’t
take the bait.

“I have a couple more things I need to get through,” I breathe shakily
grabbing my paperwork again. Focusing on the merits of a new company
takeover and not the incredible way her body fits perfectly on top of
mine. Her hair smells like the lavender scented bath wash that relaxes
the kids enough to put them to sleep without much fussing. A safe
subject. The kids. “You get the kids all settled?”

She’s wearing a nightie. Her skin is smooth and fragrant. Not with the
usual seductive scents that she spritzes behind her ear and along her
collarbone, but the soft smell of baby lotion and powder.

Her lips press the corner of my mouth lightly. “The babies are
sleeping. They’re bellies are full, stories have been read, and
diapers have been changed.” The hazel of her eyes smolders green as
they roam my face slowly. “Now Mommy wants to be held by Daddy,” she
rubs her breast sinuously against my chest. “What do you say? Would
you like to put me to bed?” she takes the folder, coquettishly wetting
her lips.

The paperwork falls away as she releases them to scatter on the floor.
I ease my eyes down her face, taking in the sight of her partially
opened mouth and glistening lips. Her legs mold to mine tightly. She
guides my hands atop her thighs, leading me up and down the smooth
planes of skin. Her hair is twisted into a sexy knot on top of her
head, leaving her neck completely bare. Her pulse thuds under the long
column of her neck. The patterns of her breaths slow as our eyes meet.

“When did you change?” I inquire casually, careful to avoid her
hearing the hitch stealing my breaths.

She takes both my hands and rests them at my side as she stands up,
backing up slowly. Helplessly, I shake my head and take quicker
breaths. There is nothing motherly about the satin nightie barely
covering her thighs. She circles around slowly, giving me a full view
of the black nightie hugging her cleavage snugly and hanging loosely
around her hips.

“I hope you like it,” she climbs back into my lap, wrapping her legs
around my back. “I changed after my bath with Noodle. She’s just like
you, you know,” she informs me draping her arms around my shoulders.
“She doesn’t like to share me with anyone. I hope she knows how much I
love her,” her voice dips, “and our family. I love us. I love us all
so much.”

“She knows,” I assure her, dipping my mouth to nibble along her ear.
Feeling my willpower fading with each of Marlena’s taunting
fingernails raking my scalp.

“Do you know?” she asks with less sadness. “I miss you. Don’t you miss
me?” Our mouths magnetically seek each other. “Do you miss me?” she
asks breaking away.

“I know what you’re doing,” I warn yanking her mouth back to mine.
“It’s not going to work.” I say after stealing her breath and
separating.

“Well, do it with me,” she pleads pulling me into another kiss me. She
inches down my thighs, coupling our centers in the slow thrusting that
takes over our bodies. Lazy hands fall away from my neck and make a
careful trek down my chest. She distracts me with a kiss as she slides
warm hands underneath my t-shirt to smooth her palms across my
stomach. “Aren’t you tired? Let’s go to bed.”

I groan inwardly as she uses her weight to push my back against the
couch, bracing her elbows on my shoulders. “I am pretty sleepy,” I
yawn exaggeratedly, trying in vain to ignore her hands moving
carelessly under my shirt. “It’s been a long day.”

“Yes,” she murmurs under my jaw where she closes her mouth to gather
my skin between her teeth. “It’ll probably be a longer night.”

I stop her hands from slipping into the waistband of my pants. “No,
it’s going to be a short one,” I mumble easing us forward again. Her
chest is heaving; Her lips are red and kiss-swollen. “Why are you
making this so hard on yourself? It’ll be worth the wait, baby. I
promise.” I add kissing her temple.

“You’re very overconfident,” she laughs tossing her head back,
touching her chest incredulously. “Hard on myself…I was referring to
Noah’s sleep schedule. Not a long night of making love to you; we know
you’re not going to make love to me. Not you, Mr. chivalrous.” She
rolls her eyes animatedly.

“Not that you’re not doing your damndest to make that impossible,” I
smile tapping her thigh to get up. She climbs off my lap and sits
beside to me.

The corners of her mouth tip downward. “I can hear you,” she smiles
slapping my arm roughly. “Can you blame me for trying? I didn’t
exactly agree to this self-imposed break of yours,” she crosses her
arms underneath her breast, pushing her cleavage higher. “John.” She
stamps the floor watching me crouched in front of her, picking up the
papers she threw on the floor.

“What, honey?” I look up, smiling inwardly. She’s so horny she can’t
stand it. “What do you want me to do—throw you on the kitchen table
and make love to you?”

She tufts harsh air through her nostrils. “You’ve done that before,”
she reminds me, her voice a touch prickly.

“I did, didn’t I?”

“So this is going to go on until we set a wedding date?” She sits back
heavily, crossing her legs. “Or,” her eyebrows lift disbelievingly,
“until we actually marry?”

“Can you last that long?” I jibe stroking the inside of her ankle.

“That’s not funny,” she groans kicking my hand away. “This could be
considered cruel and unusual punishment.”

“I’ll take my chances.” I yank her ankle and kiss my way to her knee.
“Now let’s go to bed,” I pull her up and tap her behind as she crosses
in front of me.

Chapter 59

“The more anger towards the past you carry in your heart, the less
capable you are of loving in the present.”
–Barbara De Angelis–

[Rachel]

After my father–who I knew my father to be—died, I was taken to a
grief counselor who told me something I never forgot: Step one is to
embrace the unexpected.

Being skeptical is being fearful; I’m relearning to rely on bravery
and not fear. If I weren’t, I wouldn’t have accepted my mother’s
husband’s invitation to lunch today. I’m opening myself to the idea
that I don’t have to be alone, that I’ve only been choosing solitude
as protection.

I’ll concede for my own sake. And for the sake of acknowledging that
having two psychiatrists parents adds to my sense of analytical
warfare. I drove in suspended animation with my heart’s cadence out of
control, wondering for what and why John needed to see me.
“Thank you for meeting me,” he welcomes me with a warm smile that
feels paternal. A chill skates down my spine; I haven’t been smiled at
like that since I was a little girl. Awkward beats go by with us
facing each other while the world circles around us. John breaks the
silence. “I’m only sorry that I haven’t done this sooner.” He shakes
my hand and offers me a seat, and I slide into the booth across from
him.

There isn’t a preparation available to me for the sort of things that
run through my mind sitting across from him. Inexplicably, my mother
and my sense of her dominate everything else.
My mother’s adoration for intense men is a quirk I hope never to
inherit. My father must’ve been intense like John. Intense in
expression and actions where their family is concerned. My mother
loves this intensely engaging man with delving eyes. He doesn’t have
to speak to convey an emotion. He’s naturally—I can’t describe it.
What I understand is how she falls so easily, how she keeps managing
to be tangled into his world, how her heart is imprisoned by him. And
I wish again that I understood who she was better than I do. It only
takes a glance into his eyes and I know; I’ll never know her as well
as he does.

I guess I don’t know John well enough to interpret his face. I’m too
self-aware to pretend that we don’t wear masks to protect ourselves.
But he’s not hiding anything. It’s all over his face, his movements.
There are other things: the happiness that matches my mother’s happy
tone when we talk; the wedding band that he’s never taken off that he
keeps twisting with his thumb around his finger.

What I’m staring at is a man who would do anything for love—my mother’s love.

“You’re looking at me strangely,” he says settling into the booth and
bracing his elbows on the edge of the table separating us. “Are you
okay?”

Humbleness astounds me on any level, but coming timidly from John, it
stifles my words. Curiosity curls in the pit of my stomach and wraps
around my throat. What do I say? What’s the truth today? Am I okay?
Every other day, I can answer that honestly but days when what’s
natural gives way to unusual, days such as today, sitting across from
John Black, thinking of a way to share some part of myself with him
without feeling like I’m giving too much away; I falter. I fall short
of my education. My thoughts splatter to the ground in nervousness.

What was it that I wanted to say again? What is it that I should say?
What’s appropriate?

I think…“I’m fine,” I stumble out of my internal haze. “I’m…” probably
red faced and flustered.

He does something unexpected, of which I’m supposed to accept. John
reaches across the table. Nervously, I’m fidgeting with the salt and
pepper, having salt chase pepper in a tiny circle. It stuns me when
covers my hands and wills me to look clearly into his eyes. They are
probably the strangest shade of blue I’ve ever held under such close
examination.

Seemingly more in tune with what I’m feeling and not able to say, he
squeezes my hands reassuringly and tells me, as he leans forward, “You
don’t know what to expect. It’s okay. I’m out of sorts myself, but
it’s high time I stepped in and got to know you better. Your mother
has agreed to marry me again,” he tells me gradually, as if I hadn’t
heard it from her already. I don’t respond. “You know that?” he
smiles, “don’t you?”

An easy seamless transition washes over us warmly like his smile,
sending the tenseness away.

I mirror his beaming grin. “Yes, my mother told me. I think it’s
great…” I really do, even if I don’t sound like it, “…for all of you,”
I add, feeling a sense of isolation. Not purposely, but the reminder
of my mother’s family creeps over my shoulders like a threatening
cloud. Vulnerability takes shape so quickly that walls can’t protect
me; they allow everything in. I’m not Mommy’s baby girl, despite her
always calling me that. I’m past the skinned knees and crooked teeth
phases. I’m beyond being tucked into bed with a warm kiss to cool the
nightmares. I’m too old to participate in their dream…I wish I
weren’t.

Maybe, my place will always be on the outskirts, the lost child looking in.

“For all of us,” he says rather unexpectedly. I’m sure my mouth opens
and closes just as quickly when he taps the back of my hand. He’s so
free with his affection. I hope I don’t appear too eager in accepting
it. “I’m not exactly new at this,” he admits freely. “I helped raise
your brother and sister, even though they aren’t my children. And
Marlena raised my son Brady as if he were her own child. We’re not new
at step-parenting…” he lifts his eyes to my expectant face. I’ve heard
the stories from Sami. “I love your mother very much and I love
everything and everyone that ever came from her,” he pauses and my
heart seems to do the same, “I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like
you didn’t belong.” Sincerity reigns over his words. “Did I do that?”
he asks sadly.

A little, but not enough to hurt us both with that admission now.

He reads the answer in my silence. “I did, didn’t I?” Bowing his head,
he clenches his jaw and meets my eyes again. “You’ll learn that I can
be a stubborn son-of-a-bitch but my heart is in the right place.” The
expectation of our future burns brightly in my mind as his words
settle over me. You’ll learn. Will I give myself that chance?

Pulling his hand back, I miss his warmth immediately. I pull my hands
down into my lap and jut my chin proudly forward, the way my father
taught me. Always look people in the eye, Bunny.
Choose honesty every time. Those little words never meant so much.

I do look clearly into his eyes, and share my absolute honesty with
him. “I don’t believe my mother could love you otherwise,” I share
with him simultaneously realizing how much I truly believe in my
words.

There are chinks in his armor I’ve seen. Perfection has never been
attainable by any human being. We both know it, but he feels brave
enough to voice it. “I’ve done a lot of shitty things that don’t
deserve her loyalty…” he stops himself from revealing too much.

“And she’s done the same,” I remind him quietly. I more than anyone
would love to think of my mother’s greatest crime, even if by default,
was forgetting me. But as a person who has lived, she’s done worse and
better in all of our eyes. Still, it’s easy to turn her into a saint
by the sheer power of her nature, kindness, and beauty. We love to
make beautiful people into worship-wealthy models of perfection.
“You’re both human,” I remind myself as well as him. We’re all
terribly human.

“She’s my life…I hope you know that.” he implores as if he’s
supplicating for my permission to love the woman he lost his heart to
long before I ever came back into the picture.

I nod weak in my ability to say more. If only my father had been as
tender as John seems to be about my mother…if only what? It doesn’t
matter. My father is gone; John is the only father left to contend
with; the only person I have to consent sharing her with.

“You really love my mother, don’t you?” I ask him because I can’t stop myself.

Without a moment of hesitation, John reassures me of what I already
know. He not only loves her, he’s passionately in love with her. I
feel warm knowing that she has that kind of love after imagining the
kind of hell she went through with my father. She deserves love.

“Rachel, I know it’s soon but I’m telling you that I’m here for you.
Whatever, whenever…I’ll be there. You’re a part of this family. I want
your mother to be happy and you being in our lives makes her happy.
You make her happy.”

Not one for accolades, I shrug shyly, “I’m sure you have more to do
with her happiness than I do.”

He glances at me, a flash of seriousness invading the lightness. “She
loves you, Rachel.”

“I know,” I admit self-consciously, but with a smile that I’ve seen
light up my mother’s face. “I love her, too.”

“I suspected as much,” he smiles and the seriousness recedes. “That’s
why I’m here. We both love her. And when we get married, I want you
there. I want all of our children present.”

Our—that must include me.

“Of course,” I consent with ease and graciousness.

He holds up the hand with a ring declaring to the world that he’s my
mother’s husband. “There’s more to it than that. Let’s have some lunch
and we’ll talk turkey,” he laughs contagiously.

If this is embracing the unexpected, then I believe I can handle this.
One-step is the beginning of the journey. I nod and pick up my menu.

[Marlena]

To be quite honest, my concentration has been limited. I’m in my head,
back at home with Noah, Noodle, and Nicky. I’m missing the tiffs and
meltdowns, the dirty diapers and feedings. It was John’s suggestion
that I return to work. To prove my sanity and worthiness. To remind
myself of the powerful position I hold in others lives while I feel
the terribly weak. It feels like a gift.

Except, my babies are probably wondering where I am-especially Noodle.
She’s accustomed to breakfast with me again. Nicky will be tapping his
foot impatiently near the front door until I’m home again. Noah will
likely be napping and ready for a bottle when I return home. And John,
he’ll be lording over our babies like a good shepherd, waiting the
turn of my key.

Maybe this was a bad idea to return to work so quickly.

This is one of my needier patients. Her tone. She couldn’t know that
her voice changes when speaking about the situation overwhelming her
life. But what voice is appropriate for personal devastation. I can’t
recall if I sounded as desolate when I was living through this special
kind of hell.

“I think he’s having an affair,” she confesses rapidly, timidly. Her
voice shakes, matching the tremble twitching throughout her hands. She
amends that, “I believe there’s someone else.”

As if there’s a distinction between an affair and simply another
person. Unfortunately, it’s not my place to affirm or negate neither
her belief nor her insecurity.

“How do you feel about that?” The quintessential question. Without
hearing the distress or tension knotting her fingers around each
other, I’d know her answer. I know it intimately, from both ends of
this sad spectrum.

She’s been married to her college sweetheart for half her life. They
have children; a house with luxury cars; a vacation home in a prime
location; and jobs that are fulfilling as much as they are draining. A
nice tidy life and it’s slipping from her grasp. And all she can do is
bring the problem to me to help her decipher what her place now is in
all the shifting.

She wagers the outcome internally before admitting, “I don’t know.”
It’s not an easy feeling to align with. Betrayal is a cruel emotion to
overcome, betrayal that erodes the certainty that comes from loving
another person, knowing that person loves you.

“I think you do. I think you just don’t want to face your feelings,” I
remind her. Her patient file is filled with moments of flux. She wants
to confront issues until she becomes uncomfortable. And then, struck
by the impact of ugly truths, she falls back and gives up.

“You’re right,” she says after a self-imposed silence. “I’m not ready.”

Offering her a reprieve, I tell her, “That’s okay, we can discuss this
next time, if you’d like.”

I’m not here to change my patient’s minds; I only have to get them to
think, to consider. It can encourage a world of change. Once awareness
of problems arise, hiding from them becomes impossible.

She rises and gathers her belongings. I ask her to schedule another
appointment with the secretary on the other side of the door. When I
don’t hear the door open and close, I look up and find myself staring
at her anxious face.

“Dr. Evans, is this really helping me?” She asks standing with the
doorknob in her hand. “Will I ever be strong enough to face all these
problems?”

The truth trumps. “Yes, I truly believe you will. Everyone’s pace is
different; you have a right to set your pace.”

She shifts her weight against the door. “What if he is cheating on
me?” falls sadly past the grim line of her mouth.

What I wouldn’t give to offer the truth that I know, that all broken
hearts know; instead, I remain clinical as I depart detached advice to
her. “Then, we face the reality of his infidelity and your reaction to
it. And then, my dear, we work on you. We work on finding your footing
around what’s happened, if in fact it has happened.”

“I’m afraid,” she admits biting her lip timidly.

“That’s why I’m here,” I remind her. “You don’t have to face this
alone.” I smile motherly at her. She isn’t exactly my junior but my
experience makes me feel older, wiser.

“Can I ask you a personal question,” she asks looking as if she knows
her next words are a gamble. “Not as Dr. Evans, but as a wife and
mother.” She glances across the line of photos baring my children’s
faces on the desk. “As a wife,” she clarifies with a solemn look.

The possibility frightens me. “I don’t know if…”

“Please,” she pleads.

“Okay,” I sanction her unusual request simply by the familiarity I
have with the look in her eyes.

“What would you do?”

“If my husband cheated on me?”

She nods.

“Live,” I say honestly. “The act of infidelity doesn’t diminish the
man he was before he cheated. The tide of feelings that come from
infidelity will shake you out of your complacency. Anger, betrayal,
and hurt. All those ugly emotions that we try to keep out of
relationships, if we can help it, will hit you hard and then you’ll
find yourself bottoming out eventually. But, it’s a hard path to
tread. I’m not saying it’s easy, but it’s possible to recover from
infidelity.”

She quietly shrugs and then nods a hard fought acceptance. She waves
goodbye, smiles timidly again, and then leaves.

Expecting to see her again after a small knock on the door, I’m
surprised to see Reese Scott closing the door behind him. Saddled in
blue jeans and a crisp white shirt, he appears youthful and vibrant.
He has a certain energy that is unnameable, and it distracts my
initial shock.

I drop my pen with a thud that makes him flinch. Questions bubble up
but stop on my tongue. Why is he here? How’d he know? I know I need to
ask those, but for a moment, I’m positively thrown off by his
presence. And about the time that I feel able to say something, he
stops me.

“Before you say a word,” he shows me both palms, “I promise you that I
have a real issue that you can fix.”

Mildly intrigued, I extend my hand toward the patient chair and watch
him sit and cross his knee over the other. Sandals. I don’t know what
it is about sandals and men that doesn’t feel appropriate. I follow
the line of his curved body to his face. He is handsome and easy to be
around. The few times we’ve been together have been pleasant and easy,
unassuming. Probably because I’ve always known, that John and I would
reconcile. Reese was safe; he was never a threat to John. I haven’t
given him a proper goodbye and I’m sure that’s why he’s sitting across
from me, not because he believes anything should arise from our meager
meetings.

“You look comfortable behind that desk,” he tells me smiling with his
eyes and mouth. “Sexy. Powerful.”

I shield the warmness in my cheeks with my hands. Is it possible to be
affected by another man so easily? It shouldn’t be. And suddenly, the
easiness between us stops as Reese’s eyes slide to my engagement ring.
The legs uncross and the corners of his mouth drop.

“Was that there before,” he points to my ring, “us?”

“No, it just happened,” I find myself stuttering, shamed face. “I’m
sorry,” I explain quietly, “It’s my ex-husband. We’ve reconciled.”

His courage slinks cruelly away right before my eyes. “Congratulations.”

“I’m sorry,” I say reading the defeat in his body. “I didn’t intend to
lead you on. And so much has happened that I haven’t had the chance to
explain my actions. I…I’m not careless—I didn’t mean to be careless
with your feelings.”

Reese scratches at his chin, tilting his head in amusement. “So maybe
you can’t help me with my problem,” he laughs uneasily. It feels as
false as it sounds. “I was going to tell you how much I really wanted
to get to know you better. I was going to demand that you tell me
about your children and your parents. And ask you to lunch today. So I
guess, lunch is out of the question?”

“I’m sorry.” Other words that I’m not sure of die before they cross my
lips. Other words to defend my indefensible actions.

Reese studies me with his gentle eyes. “You don’t have to be, do you?
That’s why you’re such a great woman because you have the sensibility
to apologize. Whoever this guy is, I hope he knows how lucky he is
getting a woman like you.”

“He does,” I assure him without being boastful. Without being
overzealous of my love for someone, that isn’t him.

“I wish you luck then,” he says rising. “I really do.” It feels
genuine, and then a smile that feels authentic creases his mouth.
“I’ll leave you to your work.”
I mirror the smile that erases the unnecessary tension between us. We
could have been great friends, nothing more. But telling him now seems
cruel and unjust, and having just apologized for previously feeling
that way, I stand quietly with him.

A hug seems appropriate.

I walk him to the door, my arm draped innocently around Reese’s waist,
his hand resting comfortably on back. Of course, when the door opens,
I’m in John’s direct line of view. Of course, he’s sitting with a
picnic basket at his foot. Of course, he’s eyeing the stranger
touching me.

In the past, I’d expect John’s reaction to be less than accepting.
Sullen even. He’s possessive and it’s not something that we admit
freely or enjoy acknowledging but it’s our relationship.

Taking initiative, I decide to introduce them. “Honey,” I say
purposely, to clarify for both of them, “this is Reese Scott. Reese,
this is John.” I step back, out of Reese’s hold, closer to John where
my shoulder touches the hard line of his arm.

John crafts a vague expression that I read as neutral while Reese
extends his hand graciously. I step aside while they exchange
greetings. When John loops his arm around me and leans closer to kiss
my neck, it doesn’t surprise me as much as it amuses me. Always the
alpha male staking his claim in case there is any confusion on Reese’s
part.

Reese doesn’t flinch at the pointed affection from John. “She’s a
great woman. I heard about your engagement,” Reese says.

“I’m not letting her get away again,” John tells him with a confident smile.

“You’re a lucky man.”

“I am,” he nods. “And I know it, too.” His hand lowers to my back, the
small of my back where Reese’s hand lay before.

The exchange ends with Reese adding a chaste kiss to my cheek. John’s
grip tightens almost expectantly. We walk back into my office quietly,
the picnic basket in John’s hand. The questions bridged between us.
John closes the door behind us, adding a wink for the sake of my
secretary. He’s never been to my new office. It’s clear that he
charmed her with his warmth and humor otherwise, she would have
informed me that he was waiting for me.

“So,” he finally says after I’ve taken my seat behind the desk. I
watch, waiting for the shoe to drop, as he lowers the basket to the
ground behind my desk and props his behind on the edge of my desk.
“That’s him.”
“Reese,” I nod avoiding his eyes. I close my last patient’s files and
start clearing away my desk. Anything not to have a conversation about
Reese Scott. Once I’m able to see my desk calendar, I remember the
picnic basket sitting expectantly at John’s feet. “Was it your idea
that we’d have a picnic here?”

He nods. “He’s an okay-looking guy. Actually seems like a nice guy,” he decides.

I’m either too smart to take the bait, or too invested in peace. “I guess.”

He’s unsatisfied with my two words. “What was he doing here? Isn’t it
out of the ordinary for you to see a patient that you had a personal
relationship with?” He asks without the hard edges of anger lacing his
words or actions. He’s drawing lazy lines up and down the span of my
arm.

“Not entirely, no,” I remark sarcastically, looking up. He curves his
back to lean closer.

A kiss accompanies his words, “Nice touch with him kissing your cheek.
What else happened before I got here?” They aren’t angry or sarcastic.
When I pull back, I see the hint of a cocky smile.

Leaning back, I tap my chin dramatically as if I’m calling up vivid
memories. “Right before we walked out, I had the most earth shattering
orgasm right here on my desk. He took me right here.” I hit the top of
my desk with an open palm, watching his eyes instantaneously. I laugh
and he sits back up, obviously missing the humor.

“Well, what do you expect me to say?” I question calmly, pulling away
from lingering fingertips along my arm. I grip the sides of my chair
and take a deep breath. Maybe it was insensitive.

“Not that,” he tenses up.

Another sarcastic retort runs from me, “No?”

He finally smiles. And just as I read the falseness in Reese’s smile,
I read it more clearly in John’s. I take another deep breath to calm
my suddenly rattled nerves. He mistakes the technique for something
else, something I don’t know. “Marlena, don’t…”

Misunderstandings looming, I cup his knee. Not as a way to undo the
confusion but to bridge the divide threatening to separate our points
of view. “John, I had lunch with him once, barely lunch. Besides,” I
divide the space between us, leaning across his legs, “my heart was
always with you. You know that.”

The knowing and accepting don’t reign as true for John as they do for
me. But there is less confusion masking the handsome lines of his
face. A spark of defiance, humorous defiance replaces the mask. “You
had a hot date with him,” he lifts his finger to trace down the side
of my neck, “and I got to finish what he obviously started. Or what
the alcohol started.” He uses his higher position to push me into the
chair. I roll to him with ease accommodated by the grip he has on the
armrest, and settle between the cradle of his parted knees. “How’d he
know where you worked?”

Still leaning into the comfortable folds of my chair, I tilt my eyes
toward his face. “He’s a smart guy,” I say coyly.

“That he is,” he agrees, pushing back loose hair from my eyes.

The shift must’ve occurred before I realized. He isn’t jealous, only
reasserting his possession. The beating of the chest, unnecessary. The
angry make-up, reassuring sex, unavailable. We only have words—and my
unconscious strumming along the hard ridges on the outside of his
thighs. He pins one hand while the other continues moving, looking
into my eyes with reflections of unwavering trust.

He speaks again, voice distant and strange, rounds the hollows of my
ears. “You’re toying with me here, aren’t you? You’re being cute and
flirtatious about him to get me worked up, aren’t you?”

I bite my lip flirtatiously, dragging my tongue across my top lip
slowly. “Not really, but now that you mention it, will it make you
forget about this sex diet?” I ask only half-joking.

He covers my other hand. “Marlena?”

I know that look. I know that pressure. The hard pulse thumping
against my skin with the barrier he holds. “Now that you mention it,
if I told you that he did in fact want to have me on this desk, would
you remind me why I don’t need anyone else in that department?” I ask
with a doleful smile.

He laughs my question off before stopping to study me. “Doc?”

Without hesitation, I allow my next set of questions free unafraid of
their impact. “Would you stop being thick headed and worried that I
would ever hurt you like that again if I told you that your jealousy
is unwarranted? That I don’t have any intention of letting any man
back into my body because I couldn’t stand their touch. That I need
only you? Would those things make a difference?”

He adds another smile to our exchange. “They might.”

Frustrated from our abstinence, I break free of his hands and move
closer between his legs. He’s affected. The slight rise along the seam
of his pants alerts me to his growing arousal. I slide my hand slowly
between the valley in front of my face and trace the ridges of his
zipper. He jerks forward groaning but he doesn’t attempt to still my
slow strumming.
I realize by the eager twist of his face that he’s losing control.
That’s something I allow him to have when we’re making love. I follow
his instincts, knowing the extent of him bringing and taking pleasure.
He’s not in control right now. He’s aching for a coupling as much as I
am. He has been mildly affectionate since he told me of his plan to
wait for marriage until we made love again. Small kisses that could
pass for bedtime kisses I hand happily to the children. Hugs with no
warmness, no closeness of our bodies tucked comfortably against each
other. In bed, he wants me in t-shirts and long pants.

But we’re not in bed and he’s surrendering to my stroking without
hesitation. “What if I said that I wouldn’t marry you again unless you
made love to me again? That I want to sample the merchandise before I
buy it?” I ask drawing his zipper down over his straining manhood. His
hips lunge forward, stealing a smile from me. I like feeling the power
of making his squirm from my touch. He’s always been able to do so to
me; I’m enjoying being the one who’s doing this for him.

Unbuttoning the single barrier to his body and my hand, I catch his
eyes and ask him, “What would you say?”

He strains his answer. “I’d say you’re marrying me for my body.”

I shake my head slowly, slipping my hand into the slit in his boxers.
The fact that my office door is unlocked, with a person on the other
side isn’t deterrent enough. I circle his length; the warmness of his
flesh cradles my palm. “No, it’s just what if we’re not sexually
compatible. What if we get married and find out that we aren’t as
perfect for each other as we’ve been thinking? What if I don’t enjoy
making love to you? What if we’re bad at it?” I ask squeezing him
before sliding down his shaft to his base. “What if I don’t please
you?” I ask bending forward to taste the trickles of pearl liquid
shining across the head. He buries his hands in my hair, frightening
me with the possibility that he’ll come to his senses and stop me. He
doesn’t. His fingers weave into the strands of my hair and pull me
roughly over his length. I gasp at the unexpected entry.

He pulls my head back, my mouth sliding slowly back up his length. He
slides his hands down my cheeks and draws my face backward. “Then I’d
demand an annulment. In fact, I’ve been thinking that you should sign
a pre-nup. I have to protect my money, don’t I?”

Licking my lips, tasting the salty evidence of my mouth on him, I
smile. “Maybe.”

He pats my head paternally and adjusts himself back into his boxers.
“You’re good. I’m not worried,” he tells me shaking his head. “You’re
so good, I nearly forgot my promise.”

Pouting, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. Having just a
taste, feeling the warm puddle dampening the valley between my thighs,
I stare into his eyes.

“What if you aren’t as virile and good as you used to be. We haven’t
been married in a long time. I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be
with you as your wife. I think you should have to prove it again.” I
brush against the unforgiving bulge between us. “Just a taste.”

“I might not mind that so much if I weren’t sitting here thinking that
your ex boyfriend turned you on enough to make you this needy,” he
says amused. “Be good, baby.” He asks taking my hand from between his
legs to kiss my fingers.

Try as I might, I can’t hide the disappoint at the abrupt end to my
seduction. He’s absolutely right. I’m needy, achy, and ready to feel
his weight over me again. I’m ready to taste the sweat that beads
around his nipples after we’ve made love. My disappointment comes out
sassy and playful.

“Oh, that wouldn’t be fair to you. Maybe, I should call him back,” I
push my chair back and stand up.

He snatches me against his body, parting his knees for me to stand
between them. “Where are you going,” he asks brushing my lips.

“To call my ex-boyfriend,” I whisper. “I wouldn’t want to be inconsiderate.”

He cups my neck firmly. “Forget about him.”

“I can do that,” I tell him before kissing him. When I pull away, I’m
met with possessiveness. “I wish you could remember that I love you.”

“I do remember that,” he assures me.

“Good,” I kiss him again. “You taste rather delightful.”

“Delightful, that’s a new one.”

“You do,” I trace his bottom lip with the tip of my tongue.

“I love you.” He breathes harshly into my open mouth. “I love you so much.”

With my eyes safely closed, I ask, “Do you?”

He pulls back, forcing my lids open. “You have to ask.”

Biting his lip, I smile and wrap my arms around his shoulders.
“Sometimes I forget. Maybe you should remind me how much.”

“Baby,” he chides me circling my waist to cup my rear firmly in his hands.

“I’m not going to betray you ever again. You have to believe that.”

“I believe you,” he says solemnly.

“I’m committed to you,” I press very firmly into his mouth. “Even if
you won’t make love to me,” I add smiling under the pressure of his
fingers digging into my rear.

“Good. Now, stop trying to seduce me so we can have lunch.” He taps me
lightly and lets me go.

Chapter 60

“Do not seek the because – in love there is no because, no reason, no
explanation, no solutions.” —Anaïs Nin (Henry and June)

A mysterious envelope arrived with a blindfold and John’s
distinguishable scent coating the paper on my desk just before I took
lunch. My secretary had handed me the package, smiling. She’s still
impressed with her encounter with John. Being impressionable, she’s
happy to believe he’s always in this prince charming mode, always
surprising me with mysterious envelopes and blindfolds. He certainly
has encouraged her impressions. Every morning, he chauffeurs me to my
office and walks me to my office door; and at the end of the day, his
hand is enclosing mine as I say goodbye to her and the office on my
way out.

The simple directions were penned in his hurried scrawl: A car will
arrive at three and bring you to me; wear the blindfold—no cheating.

Knowing John’s penchant for romance, I actually shiver at the idea of
spending time alone with him. I remember what he’s like when he’s
conjuring the romantic nature I’ve come to love. How many dinners and
trips has he planned with romance in mind? No details go unchecked.
From flowers to jewelry and everything in between. I have to stop
myself from assuming that the blindfold means romance and that he’s
going to whisk me away for a romantic weekend. True to his word, he
has not succumbed but being the woman who has spent hours in his bed,
I can’t help but hope to end this drought.

He is surprisingly better at sustaining from our usually passionate
and frequent sex than I am. Living with him and not being able to
express our love more than verbally, not being allowed more than hugs
and chaste pecks on my lips has me wound up tightly. I look for
reasons to be held and to hold him. I watch him doing idle things, and
I can’t stop myself from staring and fantasizing of being with him.
I’m impressed with his ability not to take advantage of our closeness,
which only occurs when we’re sleeping. It’s the closest he allows
himself to be. I curl my body as close as he’ll allow me, loving the
feel of his front caressing my back. He still insists that I don’t
wear the revealing nighties, bought for and enjoyed by him. He’s
cautious. In his wakefulness, he can command his body’s response to
me. When he sleeps, his body reacts naturally to the tight fit of our
bodies, to the unintentionally sexy movements of my backside brushing
into him, invitingly. I often wake up, smiling because he isn’t as
strong as he thinks he is.

With everything that’s happened and still happening—the unending cycle
of life—I miss the intimacy. I miss the nights, the playfulness. I
miss him. I miss him now more because we don’t have the luxury of
time. There are so many things between us, not pulling us apart as
they had before, but pulling us closer together. There are still days
when I want only to stay in bed surrounded by our children and him. On
those days, I have his steadiness as a reminder. He gives me one of
those looks and I remember why it is I have to get out of bed and find
other things to keep me happy. He encourages me to work and find a
groove, to maintain my autonomy so that my life will keep balance. We
both understand what happens when the balance in either of our lives
is off kilter. Unhappiness sits at the edge of unbalance, and I’ve
decided to avoid them both.

I think John’s still afraid of what my unhappiness means. He believes
I was unhappy as his wife before; that I was seeking something outside
of our relationship when I hurt him by kissing and having a deep
connection with Dr. Shalit. I can tell him and have said how
differently I view our relationship now, but he’ll always be
suspicious of those kinds of things. And I have to allow him to be so.

He’s also aware of the three little people surrounding us, needing my
time as much as he does. When I’m working, it’s John who stays home
with them. Danielle helps but I feel some pride and overwhelming love
in John’s decision to conduct business from home so that when Noodle
or Nicky have a boo-boo, they don’t look for Danielle to fix or kiss
it, because Daddy is there, down the hall or in the kitchen fixing
them lunch. The kids have a new sense of security they maybe never had
while we were separated. They finally have us both. If I’m not home,
then Daddy is there. When I get home, they crawl happily over me as if
I’d never left. It lessons my guilt over needing to work as much as I
need to be their mother. It feels wonderful to call home and have John
answer the phone, knowing he’s taking care of them while I’m doing
what I feel is necessary for me to feel adequate. It’s richly
overwhelming.

Our children need me as much as I need John. Having a newborn at this
age is much easier than it is in your twenties. We understand,
especially in this case, what’s important to us. Our children’s
stability and security includes a little boy learning his way around
our lives. He’s a peaceful baby. Noah’s transition into our family has
been so seamless that I find myself wondering if this—our life—will
always feel so effortless. I miss sleep, energy, and sex but I crave
the feeling of completeness and purpose when I’m holding either of our
children. On those nights when John is holding me, and one of the
children are having a bad night, I make room beside me and tuck their
backs to my front, feeling their daddy’s protection curling around us
both. And like a good father secure in my love for him, he welcomes
those children without envy. His ccommodating is another reason I
can’t bear to be in his presence without wanting to pull him into bed.
He’s such a sexy man naturally but when I see him fathering, I’ve
never seen a sexier sight.

I didn’t have to worry about him loving Noah. I was certain he would
come to love him as much as he loves our biological children. I did
worry that he would feel overwhelmed by the burden of another woman’s
child. It’s one thing to love my children whom I’ve given birth who
are not his children. That’s not asking much of him, but to love a
stranger’s child as his own, I wasn’t sure if he could love the baby
as intensely as he loves Noodle and Nicky.

He does. He loves Noah as much as if I gave birth to him, as much as
if he gave me him from his body. I can’t document the time or place
when it happened. I don’t know when taking care of Noah became less an
obligation and more natural fatherly instinct. He bathes him, taking
time to talk directly to Noah, watching with those guilelessly noble
eyes of his. Noah coos and acknowledges the man who will be his
father, who he’ll eventually call Daddy. He likes his voice. With no
other way to communicate, he follows the sound of his comfort and
familiarity when he’s in my arms, by searching for John with his eyes.
John’s bond with Noah is so strong he beats me to the bassinet at the
first sound of Noah’s unhappiness. He admits sheepishly how much he
missed doing that when Noodle was Noah’s age. He’s making up for lost
time, he says. But I know it’s more than guilt that wants to find out
why Noah’s distressed. He’s in love with our children, all of them and
I’m so grateful for this time in our life.

I look down to stare at the picture of him on my desk. A recent candid
shot I took myself of him lying on the couch with Noah sleeping on his
chest and Noodle nestled to his side. Pika’s sleeping on the floor
below. Nicky’s back is turned toward the camera but his devotion to
his father is more than visible. I’m tracing the picture when I dial
John’s cell, needing to hear and connect with him.

He answers in his no-nonsense voice. The deeply masculine near growl
he uses in business transactions. “John Black.”

“Yes you are,” I say without having the ability to stop myself
smiling. “I have this mystery message on my desk. You wouldn’t know
anything about it, would you?”

His voice looses the slight hint of hardness. “Oh, you have a secret admirer.”

Twisting the phone cord around my finger, I eye his picture and say,
lowering my voice, “You know how much I hate and love your surprises.
It’s unfair though. Is this a romantic mystery? If it’s not, then
you’re being a tease and I don’t enjoy being teased.” I remind him,
recalling how I tried to seduce him on the desk I’m now leaning
across.
“There have been a couple of times when you haven’t minded my teasing.”

“Yes, but I was an active participant. Now, you’re the one in
control.” I bring his envelope to my nose. “It smells just like you.
I’m sure this has nothing to do with breaking your agreement not to
have sex with me.”

He laughs and I blush. “Have sex with you? Do you kiss your mother
with that mouth?”
“I don’t kiss anyone,” I whisper, “but I’d change for you.”

Our banter is a nice compliment to the sexual tension building between
us. And it’s been easier to be silly with him, teasing him about his
purity than to think of why he won’t make love to me.

“Are you finished?” He asks still laughing softly.

“I am. How are my babies? What are they doing?”

“Nicky is napping. He’s been a little cranky all day.” He’s been
cranky for three days. While Noodle and John snacked on popsicles, he
laid lethargically in my arms whining. “He’s been a little slow all
day. Danielle thinks it could be a summer cold. He has been coughing.”

Of all the children, I don’t enjoy Nicky’s being sick. Even if it’s
just a common cold. It reminds me too much of the serious illness we
face every time we go for a checkup. “My poor baby.”

John hears that fear in my voice. “He’s okay, baby. It’s just a cold.”

“Are his ears bothering him?”

“No, he’s been sleeping for about an hour.”

“You’d better wake him up if you don’t want him to be up all night.”

“I will.”

“Maybe we should stay close to home tonight,” I suggest, touching the
blindfold. “Nicky doesn’t like to be with anyone else when he doesn’t
feel well.”

“Honey, he’s fine. I’ll check his temperature and if I need to, I can
call the doctor. Don’t worry.”

Telling me not to worry is useless when it comes to the children.
“Where are the other babies?”

“Right here. We’re in Noodle’s bedroom feeding Noah. She’s been very
helpful today.”
“Is she? And how is that going?” I ask, imagining her chubby face set
with her father’s determination while holding Noah’s bottle to his
eager lips. “She had a tantrum when I wouldn’t let her change him last
night.” Her little face scrunched up so tight and she stamped her feet
to show me how unfair I was being in not letting her put Noah’s diaper
and one-sie on. I tried firmness but the pout and crossed arms made me
smile and forget what I was going to say. “Be careful of how much the
milk flows through the nipple.”

To help make Noodle feel secure about Noah’s presence, we’ve been
allowing her to help with his care. The downside is having her try to
feed and diaper him while we’re not paying attention. The idea that
she has a living doll under our roof appeals to her more than the idea
of a new brother.

“She’s a pro. He’s not fussing, so we’re going to assume its fine,
right Princess?”
I hear Noodle’s muffled affirmation in the background. “They’re mighty
quiet.” I say, wishing I were there to see how cute she and Noah look
with each other. “Is he in your arms or the chair?”

“He’s on the floor and Noodle bent over him stuffing his mouth with
the bottle,” he teases.

“Is that funny?” I ask stifling my amusement. “That’s not funny, John.”

“You know how your daughter is when she’s focused and you know how our
boy doesn’t let anything get in the way of his meals.” It’s natural
for me to want to affirm John’s quiet declaration of Noah being ours
but I allow it to float on without affirmation.
“So she’s my daughter because she’s focused while Noah is our boy
because he’s greedy? You’re such a man, John Black.”

“And don’t you forget it,” he says with gentle warning. “Now, finish
up your work. I have things to do before I see you.”

“I’m interrupting?”

“You’re my worse distraction.”

“Okay, honey, but don’t be surprised if I’m not feeling very
affectionate when I see you later.”

“I’m not worried.”

“Check Nicky’s temperature when he wakes up and keep an eye on Noah
and Noodle to make sure they’re not coming down with something as
well. Who’s going to watch the children while you surprising me with
this little mystery? Danielle?”

“Goodbye,” he says ending the call.

I hear a light tapping on my office door when I replace the phone on
its cradle. I know I don’t have another patient today. I intended to
finish some paperwork before going home and knew I had told my
secretary but when the door opens and Ina Waters is looking down at
me, I realize my secretary must be away from her desk.

“Do you mind? I didn’t see anybody to buzz me in.” Ina says peeking
through the space she’s opened in the door.

Shocked, I’m able to keep my composure enough to welcome her to the
seat across from my desk. She takes careful strides across the short
distance, sinking heavily into the leather chair.

Before she says another word, Ina Waters looks me over cautiously. “I
knew you were a doctor. I wanted to know what kind and when I found
out, I thought, what better way to have this conversation with you.”

Her manner of speaking is so pointed and rapid that it takes me a
moment to digest how much she looks and actually sounds like Keema. In
our first encounter, I was still so raw in my loss and guilt that I
wanted her not to be anything like Keema. I regard that child as pure
and innocent as undriven snow; Ina has to be the selfish, evil
counterpart. But I was so wrong; I was looking at her through the
wrong lenses. Where else had Keema gotten her beautiful face, a face I
look into every night when I’m putting Noah to bed.
“I’m not sure this is a good idea, Ms. Waters,” I say aligning my back
upright against my chair. My legs and arms stiffen. I don’t want to
offer her any warmness or make her feel welcome in my office. “There’s
nothing we really have to say to each other.”

“I know,” she admits leveling her arm across the top of her legs.
She’s dressed impeccably in a stern black suit. Her raven hair is
pinned into a low ponytail. I see a collection of diamonds on her
wedding finger reflecting the sunlight shining behind her. I hadn’t
noticed them before. I picture the husband, faceless and clueless
about her abandoned daughter. But I don’t know the truth, and
honestly, I do want to know. “I don’t know what I wanted to say to
you. I went to KeKe’s grave,” I flinch at her familiar use of a
nickname I’ve never heard spoken, “and talked to her for a bit. I took
her flowers. Daisies. She always liked to draw daisies.”

The better strain of my humanity won’t allow me to remind her that she
probably hadn’t been lucid enough or present when Keema began drawing
pictures. “I’m sure she liked that.”
Ina bites into her bottom lip and looks intently at me. “I can’t tell
what you think of me. You’re always very polite and professional. It’s
daunting.”

“Daunting? I’m not quite sure I understand what you want me to say to
you, Ms. Waters.”

“Ina. It’s the least you can call me, after all, you are raising my grandson.”

Feeling a wash of anger splash over my face, I recognize that I’m
going to stop being polite before I can help it. “I also helped your
daughter with the agonizing decision to have Noah, your grandson.”

She doesn’t take offense to my snarky words. “I like the name Noah.
Did Keema choose it before…”

“Before she died,” I finish leveling all the pent up anger I’ve had
over Keema’s situation at her.

“She chose a lot of things before she died, least of all, my husband
and I becoming Noah’s guardians and parents.” I turn the photograph of
Noah and the rest of my family from her eyesight. “She didn’t have
anyone else.”

Ina lifts her head and looks at the wall behind me. “She had me. I
wanted her to know how much she always had me. Time ran out for us.”

“Look, Ms. Wat… Ina, I can’t clear your conscience for you. Keema’s
gone now. She can’t clear it for you either. So, I’m not exactly sure
what you want me to do? Absolve you of your sins? You’ll have to find
clergy for that. I’m not going to discuss Noah and Keema with you.” My
hand moves to cover my mouth of its own volition.

“I wish you would tell me about her. What was she like? How did she
turn out? What’s the baby like?”

I take a deep breath and settle my eyes on the beautiful face of a
woman I’ll never find respect in. I take into account the fact that
addictions are diseases and diseases often tear families apart. I also
give her the benefit of not knowing better, of not being better
qualified for motherhood. But I can’t forgive her shameful disregard
of her daughter in the time when she should have been protecting her.
I can’t forgive the expensive clothes and jewelry. I can’t forgive the
sense of ownership she lords over Keema. I won’t allow her sins to be
expiated through mothering the child of the child she abandoned.

“As hard as this must be… I’m not pretending not to understand your
situation; I just can’t allow you this…moment of redemption. You owed
your child more and I can’t forgive you, and I say so knowing it’s not
my position to even offer, but I can’t for Keema.”

“We’re similar,” Ina surmises, with something horrible lurking behind
her eyes, “because I know your story, too. I know you’ve abandoned
your children as well. I know you understand what it’s like to want to
be there and have no way to be there.”

I nod, allowing a small smile to crease my lips. “You only think you
know. My life is my life, and it’s not for you to judge. I didn’t
leave my children to your care. I don’t owe you any explanations.”

Ina sighs. “You owe Keema. Didn’t you say I owed her something? I
think we both do; she would’ve wanted me to have Noah.”

Tapping my feet underneath my desk helps curve the anxiety that would
allow me to raise my voice. Instead of sarcasm, I simply say, “she’s
not here to say so and she never said so while she was.”

“She didn’t know I was looking for her.”

“This is getting us nowhere, Ina. I’m sorry. I don’t think we have
anything else to say to each other. As it stands, I don’t think you
should contact me again.”

“I have no choice. This is my last chance to get it right. I’m sorry
but I can’t give up on him. I need to make this right.” She sounds
desperate.

I nod and shrug. “Then, I guess we’ll have to disagree and let the
courts decide, if it comes to that.” I watch her stand before me, wipe
her cheek, and walk out of my office without acknowledging me again.

Instead of terror, I feel relief. She’s going home with the sense of
unknowing; I have the privilege of going home to my family. I feel
able to love Noah even stronger, to fight even harder for him, if the
need arises because some mistakes can’t be repaired. But deep down, as
I’m packing my things to go, her summation that we were similar isn’t
far from my mind. She’s right, of course. I have abandoned my
children. I have walked away from them when they needed me most, and
watched life ravage their naiveté mockingly. But all of those times, I
had no choice. I never willingly went away from either of them, not
the way Ina Waters did to Keema. And for whatever reason she has for
needing to make things right, I have to believe what I’m doing for
Noah matters more. What we’re doing for our family matters more.

***
John’s driver tells me that his instructions are not to pull off until
I’m blindfolded. This takes a large amount of trust on my part. To
allow myself to be blindly led in the backseat of the town car with
tented windows that was waiting for me. I know John wouldn’t do
anything to make me uncomfortable. And with my complete trust in him,
I cover my eyes and tell the driver to take me to my husband, editing
only inside my head that he’s really my husband-to-be.

The drive is long, as any drive with no visual mark in the journey,
would be. I relish the quiet though. The thought of what’s ahead of
me, not just this surprise but the wedding and life I’ve committed to
sharing with John feels as natural as taking a breath involuntarily. I
touch his ring, and remember what he looked like when he asked me to
be his wife again. I can smell him and sense him without him actually
being there. I see images of our children standing around us in a
circle of love. I hear the devotion in his words. I feel safe and
protected, knowing that, when I open the car door he’ll be there to
take my hand and lead the way.

And he is, when the cars stops moving and I hear the door open.
Without a word, I offer my hand to him, knowing the shape and feel of
his hand so well, that I don’t hesitate to allow him to help me from
the car.

“Hi, baby,” he says softly near my ear enfolds me into his body.
“You sure know how to put on a production,” I tell him, holding on
tight. “Where are we?” I feel his hands close over my shoulders and
pull me apart from him. I try to listen for clues of our whereabouts.
The slow lull of the car is the only thing that reaches my ears. “Can
I take this off?” I lower my voice, “Or is this part of the surprise?
Are there any clothes to go along with this blindfold, or are we going
to go natural?” I ask with intentional seduction lacing my voice.

“Stop being bad,” he warns sliding his hand down my back to tap my
reproachfully across my rear. “We have company.”

I laugh, tapping my lips. “I’m sorry. This is what you get when you
keep denying me what’s rightfully mine,” I deliver sexily.

“Sorry sir,” I hear John say, “she’s out of control with lust. Thank
you for your help.”
I reach out blindly to whack at John but he’s out of my reach. “I’m
not usually like this,” I announce proudly, “but my husband is being…”
John’s lips cover mine. “Is this my husband?”

“You’d better believe this is me,” he says turning me around swiftly.
He covers me from behind, wrapping his arms around my abdomen.

“The blindfold,” I say anxiously.

“So impatient. Okay, okay.” He unties the blindfold and slowly pulls
the dark covers from my eyes.

I blink until my vision returns without any blurring. John’s arms are
sealed around me, his chin is resting in my shoulder. It takes me a
moment to take everything around me in. I realized why it was so
quiet, turning my neck from side to side. We’re on a street, standing
near the curb. But it’s not just any street, it’s a cul-de-sac, and
the houses are situated at comfortable distances away from each other.

“Well?” John asks expectantly. “What do you think?”

“This isn’t what I think it is,” I whisper, covering my mouth and
turning around in his arms. Cupping his face, I ask smiling, “You
didn’t, did you?” I bury my face against his neck and then bring my
lips to his throat. “I can’t believe you did this.”

I look around again. A large gate stands before us at the edge of the
driveway where we are standing. It’s open. I can see the house, my
surprise.

“I’ve been listening,” he explains, taking my hand to lead us up the
stony drive toward the large brick colonial house with a red ribbon
slanting the doors. “You wanted a home. A place for the kids to play
and feel safe, for the older kids to come here and feel welcome.” He
stops short of the stone walk that curves around to three stairs
leading to the double French doors. “This is it, honey. This is going
to be home.”

John wraps himself around me from behind again. “Honey, I can’t
believe you did this…” I barely murmur feeling the warm outline of his
lips lingering on my neck.

“I know…”

“Wait a minute,” I tell him, pulling away. “Just let me take this all
in, let me…breathe.” I step away from John, close my eyes, and exhale.
He was listening. I told him that thinking back to when I was truly my
happiest happened to be my little life as Dr. Marlena Evans, wife of
the cop in the house with a mortgage; a safe neighborhood with
children up and down the block; a backyard for barbecues; enough room
for the kids, all of them, to come home if they ever need to; and us,
together as a family in that home.
The house is in the middle of the circle of the cul-de-sac; it is
large but not imposing, with rows of symmetric windows squaring off
the perfect angles of the house. And for reasons sentimental and
incomprehensive, it has a comfortable feeling of something that
resembles my childhood home. Besides, in John’s arms, I haven’t had
the consistent feeling of comfort. But to me, he feels like home.

He asks me surveying the grounds, “You’re not upset, are you?”

I have tears leaking down my face that say otherwise. “No. I’m
just…speechless. You always do this to me.” The flush rises naturally
to my cheeks as I walk back into John’s arms. “I love you for knowing
exactly what I need.”

“I need you,” he says softly. “I need you and our children.” He kisses
the top of my head.

“Follow me please. There are a couple of other things inside. It gets
better than the bow, baby.”

“You look like your son when you’re plotting and planning. What else
could you possibly have done?”

He shrugs. “Let’s honor tradition here,” he says, bending to curl my
legs over his arm as he lifts me up.

“What are you doing?”

“Carrying you over the threshold.”

“We’re not married.”

“Yet,” he reminds me.

“Yet.”

“Allow me this, would you?”

As he’s playing chivalrous knight, I’m scanning everything about the
house. The expansive yard, endless property to the side and behind us.
It’s the kind of house John Black would buy his family, with my
provincial nose for regularity.

“I’m so shocked,” I say again when he opens the door and carries me
inside. It’s completely empty of furniture, which makes me cry more.
“You didn’t decorate, it?” He lets me down on the hardwood floors of
the foyer.

“No, I thought you’d want to do that. I know how you’re all into your
independence now.” He says, grinning slyly. “I wouldn’t want to take
anything away from that. This is going to be our home. And you’re
going to do everything to make it ours.”

Shaking my head, I snatch his face again, asking against his lips, “Do
you know how much I love you?”

“Hold that thought,” he says, dividing our mouths and backing out of the room.
My eyes take in the careful fixtures of the stairwell, a near replica
of the stairwell that Rhett Butler carried Scarlet up. Though not as
many stairs, it slants upward leading to the second floor of the
house. From my limited knowledge of architecture, I realize it’s very
southern in design. Intricate carvings and delicate chandeliers
hanging from the ceiling of the second floor. I walk out of the foyer
to a room immediately to my right. The large open area is sectioned
off by a fireplace hugged by built-in bookshelves. The walls are
papered in a rich maroon color with gold patterns of fleur de lis.
Wood paneling divides the bottom half from the wall papered top. I can
already picture where I’ll put our Christmas tree. I envision Nicky
and Noodle chasing after Pika across the burnish wood floors. I see
little Noah crawling and then toddling along. And I can hear my
granddaughter’s voice reverberating from the walls. I hear her little
feet pattering across the floors.

It’s not until I feel her torpedo into the backs of my legs that I
realize it’s not my imagination. It’s Claire, hugging the back of my
knees tightly.

“Claire, baby girl,” I turn to lift her up. She wraps her legs around
my waist and lands a few sloppy kisses under my chin, across my
cheeks. “What are you doing here, my love?”

The amazing thing about children is how quickly they transform from
reliant to walking talking little people. I watched her being born. I
created her mother and here she is growing exponentially,
unapologetically. Her tanned arms circle my neck, allowing me to bury
my nose in her neck, inhaling her goodness.

“Poppy brought me,” Claire replies giggling. “We have a surprise for
you.” She turns my face toward the arched entry of the living room.

Standing with her father with his arm wrapped around his shoulder is
Claire’s mommy, my baby girl. The tears that never stopped falling
continue and I have to hold Claire tighter not to run to Belle and
pull her in my arms, protecting us from the awkward uncertainty of our
newly complicated relationship.

“Hi Mom.” Her voice trembles, her lip follows suit.

“Hi, Belle. I’m so happy to see you.” I make the first move toward
them but she starts walking too and before long, we meet in the
middle. John hangs back, allowing me to have her. I don’t pull her
into my arms, even though the urge is strong. I resist by touching her
face. “You look so grown up,” I tell her, running my fingertips along
her brow. I feather my fingers through her hair. “I can’t believe
you’re standing here. What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to be here. I missed you.” She finally wraps her arms around
Claire and me. And we both start weeping ridiculously.

Claire moves between us. “Why are you crying Mommy? What’s wrong Grammy?”
I wipe my face and start laughing. “Grammy? Is that my new name?” I
ask Claire, not giving her and Belle room enough to breathe. “I’m
crying because I missed you and your mommy. I’m happy, baby girl. I’m
just so happy.”

Claire frames my cheek and her mother’s. “We missed you. My daddy
missed his mommy and daddy, too.”

Covering her hand, I say, “I bet he did.”

Claire shakes her head. “Daddy’s at Grammy Hope’s.” She looks at her
Belle. “Mommy, are we going to see them before we go back.”

“She’s a talker, Mom. Every minute of the day.” Belle says stepping
back and taking Claire. “We are going to see your grandparents. Poppy
wanted us to see the new house.”

Her poppy. I look over Belle’s shoulder, shaking my head
disbelievingly at John. I jab a finger toward him and mouth thank you
before hugging Belle again.

“Mom, this is just the beginning.” Belle warns knowingly. “You know Daddy.”

That, I do.

Chapter 61

“It is time for parents to teach young people early on that in
diversity there is beauty and there is strength.”
–Maya Angelou

They call me daddy with confidence. They also clamber to my lap and
mold around me under this open sky in the front yard, asking me to
tell them stories about the stars and the animals and people found in
the constellations. When they’re older, I hope they remember sitting
in the lawn on a blanket with me. Like a photo album stuck in their
heads that they can flip through when I’m gone or when they’re missing
being safe in childhood.

I never knew I wanted to be a father. Never, until I saw the images of
my children in Marlena’s eyes. She showed me I was capable of
fathering. I never knew the extent of unconditional love for someone
other than Marlena, not until she put Sami into my arms that first
time. Sami and Eric made it easier when Brady came and then it was
Belle being handed to me as her mother assured me that I was her
daddy, and years later, when it was Nicholas, then Jules.

I gave Marlena my heart and in exchange, she gave me these beautiful
babies to look after with her. It seems unreal but she’s still
performing miracles, still handing me hearts to look after. My Carrie,
Eric, Sami, Brady, Belle, Nicholas, and Juliana. They’ve increased my
life exceedingly, really shaped the man I am today. It hasn’t always
been easy being daddy, being needed as much as they all have needed me
from time to time. You have to forget yourself for your children;
sometimes I forget to do that for them. I’ve been selfish. I’ve been
wrapped up in my own life but always, Marlena brought me back. She
reminded me of my responsibility, not through harsh words but through
seeing her with them. By reminding me how parenthood is a gift, not a
given.

I think I’m better with parenting our kids as babies and toddlers. At
these ages, daddy is a magician who can bring about smiles with my
smile. Jules looks at me sometimes and I feel her belief strengthening
me. That sort of thing leaves you once they get old enough and learn
how mortal daddy is. Brady and Belle would admit they’ve learned this
lesson, never more than when my marriage to Marlena ended. But I have
these moments to frame memories that can stand against any other bad
ones.

Those are stars, I show them tilting back. Nicky is lying with his
cheek and body turned inward, across my chest. He’s sluggish from
cough medicine. Covered up with a blanket, he turns his neck a little
to the side to see why Jules is chattering so much leaning her head
back on my chest with Zaza poking out of her mouth.

They’re a contrast. His slowness against her incessant energy. I can’t
help be reminded of how much their relationship reminds me of Belle
and Brady as children. The way Jules looks out for Nicky and he, for
her. And slowly, they’re both coming to realize that Noah isn’t going
anywhere; so now, they’re both looking out for him. It’s Jules who
keeps a steady eye on the baby monitor, checking for his potent cry by
lifting it to her ear—she’s her mother’s daughter. Caring and
compassionate.

I’ve been thinking about my children a lot these days. All of them.
They’re all doing their own thing but from time to time, they stop,
turn around, and remember where it is they learned everything they
know about life. And as their father, as daddy, I couldn’t be happier.
What happens to us, their mother and me, happens to them. We’re a
family. And with two new hearts to hold, Rachel and Noah, I consider
every one of them while I’m planning the future of our family. And
each of them, the older kids, knows what that plan is. It’s for them
that I want this marriage and family to be better than it ever has
been. I want each of them to participate in the next couple of days of
our lives.

The house did exactly what I needed it to do. Belle and Claire helped,
too. It’s a distraction from the bigger goal. I don’t care if we get
married in a judge’s chambers or in a church, but I do care that we do
it soon. I have a sense of urgency I can’t explain. Maybe it’s being
connected to Marlena again, with nothing standing between us anymore.
Or the fact that we have little Noah to take care of along with Nicky
and Jules. I just have a deep need to have her be mine in the eyes of
God, the law and most importantly in the eyes of our children.

Jules is mesmerized by the idea the dark sky being linked with bright
stars. “Pretty Daddy,” she points upward. Her words are muffled by
Zaza. “I wan.” She reaches up wiggling her fingers in exasperation.
“Daddy…” she grumbles when she realizes it’s impossible to touch the
teasing trinkets out of her reach.

But for her, daddy can do anything. She angles her neck so that she’s
looking upward at my face awkwardly. Her brown eyes are begging me to
do everything in my power to make this happen for her.

“Close your eyes,” I say sliding my thumb across her fluttering
eyelids when she does. I push the tangle of curls from her ear to
whisper, “Starlight star bright, come down and be Juliana’s star
tonight.”

Jules opens her eyes, shifting her body around in my lap to look at
me. Only a daughter can hold her father in that light and trust that
pours into me from my little girl’s face.

Nicky coughs, wheezing lightly against my shoulder. “Nicky too, Daddy.”

I repeat the rhyme for Nicky, feeling the tightening of overwhelming
love inside my chest. Holding them this close, it’s hard to remember a
time not being so involved in their daily lives. And it’s something I
plan never to have them live through again.

“Nicky wan Mummy,” my boy whimpers sleepily.

He might be my boy, but he knows where to look for comfort, the kind
he feels he needs, when he’s under the weather. She promised him she’d
be home to put him to bed. She’s been at the new house trying to get
everything together; it’s only been a day since I showed her the
house. I feel bad letting her handle everything but I remember how she
felt when I bought her the penthouse. She appreciated the gesture but
a woman wants to make their home a home. I’m trying very hard to know
my woman and what she needs, what she wants.

I lean forward to kiss the little boy who came from us in his soft
hair. “She’s coming, son. Does your throat hurt?” His eyes are glassy
when he lifts his head to answer. “We have popsicles. Should daddy get
you one?”

Nicky lays back down, shaking his head no. “Daddy, I wan my mama.” I
rub his back and pull the blanket to his shoulders.

When Marlena gets home, Nicky is in the middle of our bed lying on his
stomach. She walks into the room and I can’t do anything to stop the
panic mounting her face. Nicky being sick is too much reminder of his
leukemia. And I hate seeing how easily she’s taken back to that scary
couple of months. Something as simple as a head cold snatches her
right back into that dark time.

“He’s been throwing up?” Marlena notices the trash pail I have near my
foot. She sits down beside Nicky to feel his forehead and cheeks.
“He’s not warm. Have you called the doctor?”

I remain calm to remind her. “It’s a stomach virus that’s going
around. I called Dr. Sampson. I gave him some pedialyte.”

“Isn’t this getting worse?” She slides her fingers down the back of
Nicky’s head and then presses her lips to the back of his neck. Near
the crescent birthmark.

Nicky lifts his head slowly from the pillow. “Mama, Nicky frowed up,”
he informs her, sitting up with her help. She pulls him into her lap
where he wraps his arms around her back and allows her breasts to
pillow his head.

“I’m sorry you don’t feel well, honey.” She kisses his head. “It looks
like daddy took care of you. Is your tummy still upset?”

He answers with a nod then mumbles into her chest, “Nicky sleep with Mama.”

She doesn’t hesitate in assuring him a spot in our bed tonight. She
holds him a little longer, completely fearless of being inundated with
the virus or vomit. She has that look—the fierce lioness protecting
her cub. Despite being at work, then going to the new house, the tired
look I saw in her face is gone. Mothering recharges her batteries in
ways that even I can’t fathom.

When Nicky is finally asleep, she pulls the comforter back and slides
him into the warm place where he’ll sleep between us. “I think I want
to take him in for an office visit.” She starts pulling off his pajama
bottoms. He protests kicking until her kisses quiet him down.

“When will you have time to do that? Give this another day, and then
we’ll see if he has to go. Okay?”

She sighs and looks Nicky over again. “We’ll see. I’m going to take a
shower,” she says, stretching the muscles in her neck. Then she looks
at me for the first time since she came into the room. A woman looking
at a man, not at her children’s father. She smiles and rubs the top of
my thigh. “I feel like I haven’t talked to you all day. As soon as I
scrub my day away, let’s do that.”

She’s right; I haven’t talked to her much. I grab her wrist and we
meet over the middle of the bed, over our sleeping boy for a quick
kiss. “I’ll be here.” Before she can stand up, Noah lets out a healthy
cry. It’s bottle time. “Don’t worry,” holding my hands up because I
know what the look on her face means, “I’ll feed Noah. Go shower.”

She cringes, hesitating. “I feel awful,” she sighs. “You’ve been home
with them all day. Nicky’s sick. I haven’t seen Noodle and now the
baby…”

I stop her rambling, “Aren’t we a team?”

“I’m not pulling my weight,” she says.

“Doc, go. I’ll handle this.”

She doesn’t walk away until I have Noah in my arms with the bottle
between his lips. The rocking chair that she used for Belle and the
other babies is in the corner of the room. I take the baby there
because he enjoys the motion with his bottle. He likes watching. He
likes staring into my eyes. There’s something about a baby’s
dependence that wraps itself around you.

“I wonder if you’re wondering who I am,” I whisper. There are times
when I’m holding Noah and the only thing I see is his need for
protection and love; but there are other times where I see those
unpleasant things.

“I hope you don’t feel too different,” I say, still quietly, examining
his skin. These are those unspoken things that people like me aren’t
supposed to acknowledge. It’s like that song, Children will
Listen—careful what you say around them. But is it any better to think
these things, and not acknowledge them?

He wraps his finger around my pinky finger. The weak asking for
strength but also the stark contrast between my pale skin and his
defined color. “It doesn’t matter to me what color you are but I don’t
know if it’ll matter to you.”

I can raise him—I can try to at least—colorblind. I can call him son
and he’ll call me daddy. I’ll hold his hand in public and bring him to
school, buy his first car, and send him to college, as his daddy, but
when the world sees me doing all that, will they allow him the luxury
of remaining colorblind. Can we give him a strong sense of himself
enough to let him ignore the differences he’ll start to see?

Abe has been a great friend of mine, and when I look at him, I see
Abraham, my friend—not my black friend. I want people to see Noah as
my son, not my son who happens to be black.

I put him on my shoulder and start patting his back. “In case you’re
wondering, I’m daddy. You hear that, son? I’m your daddy.”

“He knows exactly who you are,” I hear Marlena say. She’s standing in
the bathroom door, pulling a t-shirt over her head. “Babies just know
those sorts of things.”

I wonder if she heard my insecurity before she heard my confident
declaration. “What are we going to tell him when he starts asking
about the differences?”

She looks truly confused. “What differences?” she asks walking toward
us and kneeling at my side.

After he burps, I lay his body along the length of my thigh. “I’d like
to remain colorblind too but I don’t think it’ll work.”

“I’m not colorblind. When I look at him,” she shapes her hand over his
cheek, “I don’t see anything but a little boy who needs and wants us.
The only thing we have to tell him is that we chose him and that makes
him a very special child. Our very special child.”

“I never thought about color, not until I thought about his future. I
never cared about people seeing our children as different from us but
Doc, it’ll be different with him. We both know that.”

“His grandmother came to my office,” she comes clean, looking at Noah
to avoid looking at me. She doesn’t want me to see her fear. “She
thinks she owes it to Keema. I understand why, but if we start looking
at him as our different child, maybe Ina wins. Maybe she’ll have a
point about her raising him.”

“She abandoned her child. I don’t think anyone will care about her
sense of wanting to make things right.”

“Still…”

I tilt her chin to make her look up at me. “He’s not going anywhere.
I’m not asking these questions because I think he’ll be better off
with her; I just want to prepare us for what comes.”

“It’s a bright future with us…that’s all that comes. He’s going to
have the wonderful life denied to his mother. We’re going to take
wonderful care of him.” She kisses his forehead. She stands up, sweeps
her thumb across my forehead and leans to kiss me there too. “I love
you.”

“I know.”

(Marlena)

John’s deep concern for Noah’s future is just one more reason I keep
falling endlessly in love with him. He cradles Noah to him and I know
by the way he looks him over and holds him tight; he’ll protect him
for the rest of his life.

These are the moments.

My children nestled in the shelter of our love. John surrounding all
of us. I’m not sure why I’m so blessed, but I’m trying to deserve it
all. This is the life I’ve been working towards and it’s so
comfortable, I have to keep reminding myself this hasn’t been the way
before. The house and Belle being back, coming home to this every
night, has been wonderful. With life, I’ve learned to give it the
respect it deserves.

“I’m want to kiss Noodle goodnight. I know she’s asleep, but I need to
see her.” Once I’m in her room, I climb into bed with her and pull her
little body close to mine. She smells so good, feels so warm. Belle
used to smell the same way. She also used to shape herself against me
the same way Noodle is doing.

I haven’t had a chance to sit down and talk with Belle. She keeps
assuring me she won’t be leaving anytime soon. I want all my daughters
to gather together and just feel the safety in our connection. I want
Rachel to have a chance to speak with Belle. In time, everything will
work itself out. That’s what John keeps telling me. That’s what I want
to believe. It’s hard not to trust a man who wakes you up after
falling asleep in bed with your daughter by kissing your forehead.
It’s impossible not to fall deeper in love when he carries you to bed
and lays you on the other side of your sleeping son who he’s looked
after in his sickness.

“You must be exhausted.” He shuts the lights after making sure Noah is
asleep and climbs on the other side of Nicky.

“Noodle was so warm. I was just holding her and fell asleep.” I
snuggle Nicky close as I turn toward him and John. “I don’t like
getting home after they’re asleep but I’m glad you’re here for them.”

“It’s all good. They’re all fine. Even the germy one here,” he laughs
softly. “Seriously, you don’t have to feel guilty. You’re getting our
place together. I did kind of spring that on you.”

“Yes you did. But I’m having a wonderful time putting everything
together. I love it. It’s one of those great girly things. And you
knew that.”

“I did.”

“Have I thanked you enough?”

“We’ll discuss that at a later date. But I do want to talk to you
about something else.” I can’t see his face in the shadows. I can hear
him breathing and feel him. His fingers keep dancing along my forearm.
“I have something for you.”

“The house wasn’t enough?” I ask half joking.

“It’s a part of the whole thing.”

“What whole thing?”

“The surprise.”

I sit up on my elbow and look into the darkness. “I think I need to
see your face,” I flick on the lamp and turn back to him. “Now, what
are you up to?”

“You,” he grabs my chin and pulls me down to kiss him. “I’m up to you.
Remember how you told me you would marry me?” I nod and he continues,
“Well, prove it.”

Our brows meet. “How?”

“There’s a plane leaving here in two days for Hawaii. On that plane
will be our family and I’d be more than happy if you joined us. Will
you?” he asks against my lips. “Will you marry me in Hawaii?”

“John?”

“What?” He asks fixing his face into a goofy pout. “Yes, in two days.
You, our kids, Hawaii, and me. Okay?”

It’s not something I have to think about. “Of course. Yes,” I kiss him
hard, “yes, wherever you want me. I’ll be there.”

“Okay, but there’s something else.”

“Nothing else,” I say closing my eyes. “It’s too much.”

“Listen, baby…”

“You want me to cry, don’t you?”

“No, I want you happy.”

“I am.” I squeeze him as best as I can manage without disturbing
Nicky. “I’m happier than I’ve been in a long time.”

Chapter 62

“The work goes on, the cause endures, the hope still lives and the
dreams shall never die.”
Edward Kennedy

“There is only one requirement in this room,” she told me in a voice
reminiscent of catholic school nuns, “and that’s to be nothing less
than honest.” I should trust her. She looks trustworthy, infallible,
really. However, I know how misleading believing in anyone else’s
infallibility.

Judith Taylor. A therapist. Another therapist, I should say. I don’t
say that begrudgingly. It would discredit my own practice. I do say
another therapist followed by the long traces of a sigh, a flowing
breath between the madness and sanity of my life. I’m stronger than
I’ve felt in ages. But Judy—I’ve been told to call her that—still
believes she can hold me accountable for my future and the possibility
to make positive choices.

And, she says in a clear, calm voice, to deal with my past, that
elusive treasure box of memories and images that have led me to this
current state of being. This is John’s gift and requirement before we
leave tomorrow. I made a deal to follow him wherever he decided to go
with faith and trust. And I do so unyieldingly.

“I don’t want to unnerve you,” Judy warns, leveling her blazing,
compassionate chestnut eyes on me, “but I can’t give credence to your
degrees and occupation in here. In this room,” her long fingers capped
by cherry red polished nails make a full circle over her head, “I’m
the leader. You have to follow.” She smiles after saying so, which
eases the crowding butterflies in my belly. I’m nervous. I’m alert and
cautious. It’s no way to enter a therapeutic relationship. “Don’t look
so timid,” her eyes seem to read me through the red framed,
rectangle-framed glasses edging her thick nose.

Judy lowers her eyes to comb through the file on her lap. “I’m a
little nervous,” I admit. “But I’m ready to do this. I’m ready to
heal, for my family’s sake.”

She looks up slowly and I can see the thoughts percolating in the
bright compassion gleaming from her eyes. “I’m here to help you heal
for your sake. Have you ever heard of the author Toni Morrison?” I
nod, thinking how much Judy resembles her. With the exception of not
having twisted locks of gray hair, Judy could be a relative. Her smile
is wide, her chin strong. Cinnamon skin. “She once said: If you
surrendered to the air, you could ride it.” She waits until I seem to
have some understanding of what Ms. Morrison meant. “Surrender.”

“Surrendering requires a great deal of trust.” Trust is something I
surrender too greatly, with little requirement from the person seeking
it. “I trusted my ex-husband and he abused me.” She’s looking at the
files again. These facts are in there. I filled out the patient
history forms detailing my amnesia, the attack, and Keema’s death.
These are the central things. The unresolved issues John can’t find
the strength to swim through on his own. “I also trusted my neighbor,
the world if I’m being frank, and the world absolutely let me down.”

Judy’s face gives no sign of sympathy. She pulls the thick waves of
her copper hair behind her ears, revealing the l-shaped scar in front
of her left ear. “You know what my mother told me, Marlena…” she uses
my name comfortably, as if we’re friends and not this other thing …
“she said, ‘I’m going to tell you the truth right now: life is a
bitch. It’s tough and many of us won’t have the strength to muddle
through.’”

I’d never tell my children, especially my daughters anything so
counterproductive. My incredulity at the force of her advice must
color my face because she smiles quickly and shakes her head. “It
wasn’t meant to frighten me; she was teaching me to put my naiveness
in my back pocket and wade through the reality of life. It’s harsh.”
She traces the scar I’ve been staring at by her ear. “My husband’s
gift for flirting. It’s not a coincidence that your husband chose me.
I have an extensive background in domestic abuse. It sort of gives us
a level playing field.”

“Have you talked to my husband?”

“No,” she says. “He made the appointment through my secretary.”

“Then how do you know my husband chose you and not me?” I ask, eyeing
her skeptically. My instincts run toward mistrust with good reason.

Judy shows me the patient history I filled out, telling me slowly,
“It’s written in your own handwriting.”

She hands me the paper. In my neat cursive I’ve written: Husband’s
suggestion. I’d forgotten that quickly. I also didn’t realize or
understand why I wrote in such clipped, clinical language. Husband’s
suggestion. I’d also written in the process of adopting
African-American baby boy, daughter from abusive first
marriage—hysterical amnesia hinders inability to recall her early
life, remarriage to ex-husband. These succinct notes of my life dance
on the tight line designated for helping Judy learn more about me.
Psychiatrist. One suicide attempt. Twin sister murdered. Facts that
poured unknowingly from me; things needing to be purged, without me
consciously knowing, written by some inner part of me asking for help.

Judy’s touch brings me her back to my attention. Her soft hand closes
over my fingers when she takes the paper away from me. “This isn’t
you; it doesn’t define you. These are only the things which have
happened to you.” She holds the paper up between us. We’re about four
feet from each other. She’s leaning forward on the soft brown chair
cradling her tall frame with her elbows resting atop her knees. I’m
relaxed into the recesses of the camel chair. It’s comfortable and
soft, the pillows swallow gather me into its softness. It’s not a
chair you’d find in a therapist’s office, but in the living room of a
home. “This is what you bring into the sessions,” her fingers start at
the top of the sheet with a small rip, “but we’re not going to take
them out of here. They’re only the edges of your past,” she continues
shredding my history, “and we’re here to fill in the rest.”

The paper falls in quarters between us. Stark white paper with inky
black words forming a sea of confetti on the chocolate carpet. The
office is perfect, I decide, looking from those pieces of paper around
me. The earth tones, the African art, the plants hugging the
windowsills add to the essence of Judy Taylor. Earth mother—nurturing,
strong, and inflexible.

There are moments when you know who you are, and you accept that
person as the truth. Then there are moments like now, where you
understand that age doesn’t mean you’ve grown into who you were always
meant to be—you can still grow.

Judy’s unorthodox methods stop jarring me after speaking to her for
about fifteen more minutes. In those fifteen minutes, she asks
questions that only intimate friends should; and the most surprising
thing is that I answer without reserve. She wants to know if I blame
myself for Sam dying; yes, it should have been me. Am I adopting
Keema’s son because I couldn’t save her; yes, I owe her. Do I have
things I wish I could tell my parents without hurting their feelings;
yes, but I’m their daughter and it’s not my place. Do I understand the
difference between love and sex; I thought I did. Have I ever used my
sexuality as a weapon; more than I care to admit. Do I allow my
children to use guilt to coerce me into doing things; yes, mothers are
supposed to make their children happy. Have I ever allowed John to be
more than he should be in my life; yes, but I couldn’t admit it to him
if you asked me to. Do I believe in what we’re here to do; I didn’t
know it before, but now I’m sure.

And thus, our journey began with her telling me to forget everything I
ever knew or assumed as good and bad, and accept what is. She
encourages me with her hands hugging mine to enjoy the next step in my
life—my marriage and the ensuing therapy—and come back to see her as
soon as the honeymoon is over. With a terrifying knowing, she assures
me of her belief in the kind of woman I am. The kind of woman I am. I
tuck her words into myself and allow her arms to wrap around my
shoulders as she leads me to the door.

“Tell me something quickly,” she looks at me. “If you could think of a
song to describe your life, what would it be?”

I have a discomfort with Judy’s fierce eyes but the trust is already
crowning between us. It’s another one of those moments. I turn in
order to look—bravely—into her eyes. “In my life.”

Finally, an amused smile parts her full lips. “When we’re finished,
it’s going to be different.”

Intrigued and a little afraid, I narrow my eyes and ask her, “To what?”

“We’ll see.”

[Rachel]

It is true
I was created in you.
It is also true
That you were created for me.
I owned your voice.
It was shaped and tuned to soothe me.
Your arms were molded
Into a cradle to hold me, to rock me.
–Maya Angelou–

We were summoned to the new house later this evening with these
delicate purple, a blushful lavender, invitations by John for an
engagement party. The thing I’m learning about my mother’s husband is
the dedication and adoration—it’s never ending. I think it increases
every day. I feel as if he wakes up looking at her every morning
finding new ways to cherish her. She deserves to be cherished.

I was aware of the party before the invitation arrived. I was aware of
the house, even before my mother was, thanks to him. John created a
network of sisterhood for his purpose of surprising Mom with the house
and wedding in Hawaii. He sent emails tagging Sami, Belle, Carrie, and
me to keep each of the daughters who call Marlena Mom in the loop. He
sent photos of the house. We each approved through our separate
connections. In some of the responses, Sami or Carrie would address
something I’d written as a suggestion, saying it was exactly what Mom
would want. The fact that Belle never did bothered me more than I
should let it. What did I expect of her—she’s the youngest of the
elder sisters, the baby who has always had Mom and John mostly to
herself, from what Sami says. I shouldn’t expect her to understand—and
I wouldn’t, if Sami hadn’t told me that Belle was probably our most
levelheaded sibling, the most caring and considerate of the bunch. I’m
still waiting for some of that compassion.

John invited me to the surprise unveiling of the house, where he’d
snuck and hid Belle and her little girl away while my mother waited
unknowningly for her surprise. I declined. There are some things and
places I don’t wish to be a part of; Sami understood this, and so did
John.

But getting out of one the other pre-wedding celebration before the
party tonight was out of the question. First Sami called to insist I
show up at the luxury spa day John planned for us. Us—Mom, Carrie,
Sami, Me, and Belle. And when I told her I would try in answer, Carrie
called. We’d only had one or two conversations through email. To hear
her voice shocked me into an awkward silence, which she made no bones
about pulling me out of. She said we were sisters in this wacky
family, and there was no way out once we were in. I tried not to laugh
at the mob reference, but appreciated her trying to make this
transition easier. I don’t know what it’s like to share my life with
people who care if I show up for family functions. I’m not familiar
with caring about hurting people’s feelings through unintentional
disregard. I’m learning, though. Having sisters is like having a group
of relentless friends. Friends who make for awkward siblings.

I didn’t want to admit that seeing Belle with Mom might bring up all
those jealous feelings I keep at bay when I’m licking my loneliness at
my own place, trying to be grateful for the time Mom gives me. I also
didn’t want to tell Carrie how rejected I felt by Belle’s inability to
accept me. I only said again, I’d try.

John phoned last. He’d been sent by my sisters. I knew I’d have to
deal with Belle sooner or later, but I was looking forward to doing it
with a lot of other people around—at the party. John must have gained
an inner sensitivity to women from being surrounded by all my sisters
and mother, because he called and knew exactly why I was begging off
the trip to the spa.

“You’re a part of us now,” he told me. “Your mom will miss you if you
don’t show up.” I had no control over huge smile bending the corners
of my mouth at his use of ‘your mom.’ He’d meant every word he’d told
me at our lunch. “And, you should talk to Belle. I think you two can
find some common ground. I know your sister,” another nice reference
to belonging to them, “and I know how much she’d miss you not being
there. Okay, kid?”

I wanted a dad who loved his daughters this much after my dad died. I
needed a man—truly—who had this level of adoration for the daughters
in his life. It was lonely not having a father to measure boyfriends
against. But in this man, in mom’s husband, in my sisters’ father, I
could see every bit of the kind of father figure I needed. And to some
extent still wanted.

“You don’t make it easy to say no.”

“I’m nothing if not forceful. As the father in this family, I want all
of my girls in one place getting all dolled up with all that makeup
and spa crap.”

I had to chuckle at his description. “I’m not promising anything,” I hedged.

“Then I want you to promise me,” he insisted.

I couldn’t say no. I looked inside, around my apartment and knew. I
had to go. I had to continue to face my new life and my past demons.
“I promise…I’ll go.”

Promising him I’d show up was half the battle. I spent twenty minutes
in my closet trying to find the perfect outfit. Nothing felt right. I
tried on dresses that made me look shapeless; too skinny, too fat.
Stumpy and squat. I only realized how ridiculous it all was when I
plunked down in front of my mirror yanking a sundress from my head. We
wouldn’t even be dressed half the time. I slid into a pair of leggings
and tunic, threw my hair into a clip, and found the courage to walk
out of the door to the car John had sent ahead.

I was the first to be picked up. It was a relief to get into the
backseat and relax. The bottles of champagne were uncorked. I don’t
like alcohol but in this case, I couldn’t resist mixing up a mimosa to
sip while we drove ahead to pick up my mother from her first session
with a new therapist. She was a little nervous about it by her own
admission. That was another discussion in the sisterhood network. John
told us beforehand about being concerned of how well she was dealing
with things and that he’d asked my mother to see someone. He sent me a
special email to assure me that this therapist should help her deal
with what had happened with my father—something I hope will unlock
those memories of me for her.

When my mother emerged from the building, I had to remind myself to
stop holding my breath. Her beauty still takes it away. I’m the little
girl watching her mother dress in the mirror from the doorway. I’m
mommy’s baby girl, wishing for the blessing of beauty and the gift of
unconsciousness to its affect on others. That’s my mother. That’s the
woman I wrapped myself around when she slid in beside me and removed
all the trepidation I had about the spa day. She held my face and
reminded me of my own beauty. She kissed my nose and said she was
excited to share the next couple of days with me.

I couldn’t help but smile. Words blocked by emotion moved back down my
throat. Tears welled instead, and I laid my face against her
collarbone, accepting all that warmness. I let her mother me until the
other girls came to take their turns.

[Marlena]

The scent of your body was the air
Perfumed for me to breathe.
Mother,
During those early, dearest days
I did not dream that you had
A large life which included me,
For I had a life
Which was only you.
Time passed steadily and drew us apart,
I was unwilling.
I feared if I let you go
You would leave me eternally.
–Maya Angelou–

I have daughters and it’s a mirror; a reminder of what it was like to
have a sister who looked exactly as I did. Not that they all look like
me physically, but their spirits feel identical to mine. Their eyes,
all different colors and shapes, see and hold things in the same way
that my eyes do. The power of motherhood is elusive. It happens to
carry the link of blessing and cursing, of hate and love, hurt and
pain. I’ve never felt so powerful until I gave birth to babies, and
then looked into their eyes and felt how little power I truly held.

My daughters are all very different individuals. It’s true of all of
my children, including my boys; they are distinct and distinguishable
from the next. From Rachel, with her tender heart and Carrie, sweet in
nature and deeds, with Sami’s fierceness and indomitable drive, and
Belle, filled with empathy and quiet intelligence, to my last dark
haired baby girl, my Juliana, adoring and infectiously joyful.

Pieces of me. Pieces of my heart walking around the world, defining me
as a woman and as their mother. It holds too much power over them and
me. I’m opening myself up to the truth of them being their own people,
outside of me, outside of our family. This is because they’re learning
to define their place in the world with their own voices and truths.

As their mother, I want to see them moving into their lives without
the stress and tension they’ve often seen in my life. I want them to
have a man who loves them as much as John loves me. I want a man
who’ll fight for them, the way John continues to do for me. I want
them to have babies with our beauty and intelligence. I want them to
know happiness.

But most of all, I need them to love each other.

It’s not hard to imagine an invisible thread of sibling rivalry; but
it is hard to sit back and allow those threads to break with their
acknowledgement, not mine. I would love to force these
relationships—mainly Belle and Rachel—into a smooth, loving sisterhood
but having had a sister, I know, you treasure your identity and the
relationship with your parents as a sole entity. It’s not easy to
share. It’s even less easy when you’ve been misplaced by so many
others. I understand Belle’s timid way with Rachel; they’re both
afraid to open up to each other.

I have to watch them from my mama perch, praying for them to move
together instead of apart. I know John. I know his intentions for us
to get beautiful for our engagement/renewal ceremony party isn’t the
only reason for this day. Without me even mentioning it, he knows what
our family needs. He knows that the girls will benefit from spending a
couple of hours together.

But how will I continue to watch without interfering? I don’t know.

Sami has no hesitation in her interactions with Rachel. It makes me
indescribably happy to see them. The easy rapport binding them
together. They’ve been working in my absence toward each other. “You
should get used to this, our step-father is the king of grand
gestures,” Sami warns Rachel. The pride in her eyes is as apparent as
her belly. Pregnancy agrees with her; she’s beautifully full of life.
Her skin is effervescent and glowing.

“I’m learning that. Has he always been so giving?” Rachel asks, eyes
shining. The wish for that kind of love in her own life.

“Even when he wasn’t a millionaire,” Sami shares laughing as she rubs
her belly, causing Rachel’s eyes to move to there.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes…” she laughs tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Could you be
worst than Lucas? Don’t look so concerned. Your niece or nephew will
be fine. Their mother on the other hand is getting hungry.”

I lean forward, looking to my right where Sami and Rachel are sitting
in the sauna chairs getting pedicures. “You okay, honey? Have you
eaten breakfast this morning?”

“Are you kidding?” Carrie says from my left where she and Belle are
having their pedicures. “She inhaled a bagel and oatmeal before you
guys came.”

Sami widens her wide eyes at Carrie. “Pregnant woman over here,” she
declares to her sister with an affectionate smile that reminds me of
when she was too young to have a baby. “Where’s the sympathy. I’m
eating for two.”

I smile at them both. “It’s true. We have to excuse her. But we should
order you something else. In fact, I think you all should have
something.” Mama bear is never far, especially with all my cubs around
me. The sweet girl who has been attending to us moves from her perch
to take orders. Liz writes down each of my girl’s orders. Belle,
sourdough toast with apple jelly; Carrie and Rachel, grapefruit and
pineapple; Sami, omelet and toast. Rachel insists that I order
something to hold me over until the party. “Who’s the mother,” I ask
her getting some fruit just to appease her. “I’m a little jittery
anyway. I don’t have very much appetite.”

“That explains that fabulous figure after Nicky and Noodle,” Rachel
adds twisting around to smile at me. She’s a tiny thing with a small
waist and short legs.

“I eat. I also run after toddlers and have midnight feedings again,” I
remind Rachel and Sami, as they’re the daughters staring at me as if
my excuse is too thin. “When Sami and Eric were babies…” Rachel’s
conscientious watching steals my words. I don’t have that to give her.
“Does it bother you when I’m talking about spending time mothering
your siblings?”

“I guess,” she pauses thoughtfully waiting until words come easier,
“it’s a little hard. But tell me what you were going to say. What
about when Sami and Eric were babies?”

“I never had a meal when I didn’t have one of them in my arms or on my lap.”

“Two babies will do that to you,” Sami chimes up.

“They were brats,” Carrie says. She adds her sweet smile and Sami and
Rachel both shake their heads. “Of course, they were my brats and I
loved having little baby dolls that actually breathed and moved.”

“Just like Noodle with Noah. She thinks he’s a new dollie. It would be
cute if it weren’t frightening.” I look at the one daughter who hasn’t
added anything to the conversation. She barely holds my gaze. Belle’s
quietness feels so strange in the flux of all the other conversations
swirling around my head. I consider for one moment that from an
outsider’s view, it would appear that they were all very close; that I
raised them all under one roof with my guidance and support. I, at one
time or another was the source of the foundation of all of their
worlds and now, they are returning the favor by being with me when I
marry John. But my baby girl’s insecurity is dimming in the otherwise
bright picture.

“You have beautiful daughters,” is the opinion vocalized by my
pedicurist. I agree quietly, smiling at Trixie. She doesn’t look any
older than Belle is. “How did you manage to raise all of them to be so
close?”

She sees what they might miss being the insiders. They are all close,
tightly knit—insecurity and all. Rachel’s eyes follow Sami’s mouth
through every word as though she’s mentally documenting them. And Sami
pulls her sister’s hand to the round belly holding my grandchild,
holding Rachel’s appreciative smile with her own. Belle listens
attentively to Carrie, her body turned toward her, accepting of the
warmth Carrie emanates naturally. At least there is the thread of
unbreakable things tying them together. Carrie loves Belle, Belle
loves Sami, and Sami loves Rachel. It all equals the same thing at the
end of the day.

I look down at Trixie, touching my heart. “Just very lucky.”

[Sami]

You smiled at my fears, saying
I could not stay in your lap forever
That one day you would have to stand
And where would I be?
You smiled again.
I did not.
–Maya Angelou–

Belle will never be anything more than my baby sister. The ring on her
finger, her marriage, and being a mother. She’ll always be my
blonde-haired blue-eyed baby sister with her parents wrapped around
her little finger. We all have roles to play; I’m the big sister. I
can’t help but feel responsible to say what I have to say.

There’s no easy way to say something unpleasant or to call someone on
the carpet for behavior that is unreasonable. “Don’t you think you’re
being a little hard on Rachel? This isn’t easy for her either. She was
thrown into this as much as any of us. It’s not her fault.” I’m not
being mean; I’m being—for once—the peacemaker. I’m over watching how
hard she’s avoiding our sister. “It’s not your fault either, but I
expect a little more from you.”

I don’t usually speak harshly to Belle. Usually, I reserve mothering
to my own child and the parenting of my siblings to Mom but my sister
has always had Mom and John hovering over her; she’s always gotten
away with a lot. I know she doesn’t mean to be so dependent on that
past, but she is. It’s not helping the gap between Mom’s memory of her
and Rachel. But unlike Belle, I know what blaming others for things
they can’t help does to relationships.

The awkward silences between her and Rachel have been politely ignored
by the rest of us; we have all been paying attention though. Mom,
Carrie, and Rachel are on the massage tables getting hot stones
smoothed into their skin. Belle and I are sitting next to each other
getting facials.

“I’m not being hard on Rachel,” Belle says, looking genuinely shocked
at the idea. “I don’t know her as well as you do.”

“Do you want to know her?”

Belle hesitates. She was always an awful liar. “I don’t know,” she
admits, squeezing the panels of her robe together tightly. “I don’t
know how to…”

“Hi Rachel…I’m your sister,” I say mechanically. “Welcome to our
family. Take this from me: I spent many years trying to affirm my
place in mom’s life destructively. I didn’t want to share her with you
but there was no way to say that, so I pushed her out of my life. It
didn’t help either of us. I know you have it in you to be sweet and
accepting,” I tease.

She pokes her bottom lip out and I grab her hand because of the sheer
cuteness of it. She is my baby sister. I haven’t liked her always, but
I’ve always loved her. “Why do you think you know me so well?” she
asks tucking her fingers into my hand.

“Because, you’ve forgiven me for being a bitch all of your life.” I
remind her. “Because, you’re more like Mom than any of us and because
you owe it to Rachel. She lost mom before she even knew her. Mom
doesn’t even remember her. That’s why.” I look into Belle’s eyes.
She’s crying. “Don’t cry. Just fix it. For Mom and John. Fix it.”

For Mom. Years ago, I would’ve done everything in my power to ruin
this moment. I would’ve refused to be a part of this celebration. I’d
probably be plotting some way to make Mom feel guilty about being
happy with John and not with my father. But, I’ve learned many lessons
from my behavior. I don’t have to make anyone feel miserable because
of insecurity. I know how much my mother loves me. Finally, I know how
much all of us love one another.

It wasn’t a sacrifice to allow her to see the smiles and affection I
have for her, not the way it used to be. I don’t know when I started
looking at her and seeing someone I hadn’t seen before. She turned
into this strong force of nature that I could do nothing but respect.
Other women who’ve been in Mom’s shoes might have not survived
everything she has. But Mom comes out on the other side of those times
victoriously. I think my anger has been replaced completely with
admiration and love. When I learned to open up and let my family love
me, then I started to love myself just as much. It’s a lesson Belle
and I both learned as our mother’s daughter. One I don’t mind
reminding her of.

“I don’t think you have a problem with Rachel, anyway,” I tell Belle.
“I think you’re pissed at Mom and Rachel’s getting the brunt of it.”

Belle considers that silently. I know her as well as she knows me;
that happens with sisters without being able to help it. She looks
over her shoulder at Rachel, coming to terms with what’s really going
on inside of her.

Belle finally looks back to me, grinning. “And you say I’m the most
like Mom. I think you should consider a job in counseling, Dr.
Roberts.”

[Rachel]

Without warning you left me,
But you returned immediately.
You left again and returned,
I admit, quickly,
But relief did not rest with me easily.
You left again, but again returned.
Each time you reentered my world
You brought assurance.
Slowly I gained confidence.
You thought you knew me,
But I did know you,
You thought you were watching me,
But I did hold you securely in my sight,
Recording every moment,
Memorizing your smiles, tracing your frowns.
–Maya Angelou–

“I don’t know honey,” Mom twists her lips indecisively, catching my
reflection in the mirror in front of her. “I don’t know if I can keep
up with blonder. I used to have time for hair appointments. I know
three little people who’d take umbrage if Mommy spent time getting her
hair colored instead of with them.” She lifts her hair above her neck,
deciding on which way to have it styled for tonight.

“You need to add some zest to this,” I touch her honey hued hair.
“Just a splash lighter,” I suggest.

“You can pull it off,” Jacque adds. He leans over her freshly tanned
shoulder pursing his lips. He’s a flamboyant stylist. “Look at this
skin, honey. It’ll be beautiful with sassy highlights. You have a
wonderful face, great skin with no lines.” He prods Mom’s chin and
forehead, surveying the smooth skin with his fingertips. “You don’t
look like you even have four grown daughters….and a grandma,” he
tosses his head at Sami in a chair down the line, “You are doing
something right.”

Mom drops her hair to her shoulders again. The soft waves drape down
her back. “John loves my hair down. I just don’t know if I want to go
through all the fuss of having it colored.”

“Do it,” Jacque coaxes her. His over the top lisping has my mother
looking him over slowly. “I mean it. I implore you to do everything to
make your man happy.” When he snaps her fingers above her head, I
cover my mouth and the laugh threatening to spill out. “What’s the
occasion?”

“My engagement party,” she shows him her ring.

“We’re flying to Hawaii tomorrow for the wedding,” Carrie adds from
the shampoo bowl. “I say go for it. Light hair flatters you.”

“Now, I’m wondering if I look matronly with this color,” Mom jokes,
lifting a piece of hair. “It’s suitable.”

“Weddings in Hawaii don’t need suitable,” Jacque says gripping his
hip. “They need pizzazz and sexy. You are bringing the sexy already.
Let’s amp it up a notch.”

Mom laughs deep from her belly. It’s endearing the pleasure and
happiness in that laugh. “I have babies in diapers, Jacque. I don’t
think I need to amp anything up anymore.”

The stylist drops his mouth and cranes his neck dramatically. “I hope
you bring birth control to that island. My lands. ”

[Carrie]

In your absence
I rehearsed you,
The way you had of singing
On a breeze
While a sob lay
At the root of your song.
The way you posed your head
So that the light could caress your face
When you put your fingers on my hand
And your hand on my arm,
I was struck with a sense of health,
Of strength and very good fortune.
You were always
The heart of happiness to me,
Bringing nougats of glee,
Sweets of open laughter.
–Maya Angelou–

You have to believe in love with parents who consistently show you how
to never forget. For every bad, awful thing that’s happened to them, I
can remember three good memories. Good, solid stabilizing memories
that sustained most of my childhood and all of my adulthood. When I
need to remember what love looks and feels like, I only have to look
into their faces to know.

Seeing Marlena standing in front of the mirror brought back so many
memories of a wedding day, many wedding days actually. I feel as if
I’ve been there for everyone, unlike the others. Every ceremony was
different but had the same feeling. My parents have an undeniable love
for each other. They’re large enough to allow others to witness it,
gracious enough to show us the way to achieve it. You have to continue
loving when everything else around you seems to be saying it’s not
enough. Their love for each other has always been enough; they’ve
forgotten but always have enough sense to remember.

It’s all over her face, reflecting back at us. The girls as I’ve
dubbed us. John calls us his girls. To Marlena we’re her daughters. I
more than happily gave the title of oldest to Rachel, as I’m sure
Belle has relinquished the baby role to Noah and Juliana. Rachel is
new to this love story but as much as we’ve all always eaten it up,
she’s no different. Our oldest sister covers her throat after
realizing just how gorgeous Marlena is; she’s always been like a
living Barbie to my sisters and me. She still has the power to take
our collective breathes away.

“John sure knows how to pick them,” Sami sums up what we’re all
thinking. “That dress looks amazing on you.”

Marlena circles around to face us. We’re lined up like good
bridesmaids in front of her. She presents herself to us: lightly
tanned skin, newly colored hair, flawless makeup, and the never-ending
smile. This feels like a new tradition being born.

It’s only the engagement party dress but it’s astounding and perfect.
And John chose it, which is why it fits in all the right places. An
icy lavender spaghetti strapped number that pools to the floor. The
back cuts just short of the small of her back. The square cut bodice
compliments her cleavage. John knows what he likes on her. He has
years of experience of knowing. Any man worth his salt knows what
looks great on the body he’s been admiring for any amount of time.
John and Marlena have years of love between them. A healthy sex life
that never surprises me anymore; as a kid, it agitated me how much
time they spent in their bedroom. I married, and learned the secrets
behind their closed door. Now, it’s only with appreciation that I
smile and acknowledge that John knows exactly what would look good on
Marlena.

Echoing my thoughts, Marlena bends her wrist up to secure the clasp on
her diamond bracelet and tells us, “He is very particular about what
looks great on me. Most of the time he’s absolutely right…but we
won’t tell him.” She winks a smoky, dark rimmed eye at us. Jacque’s
fabulous job on her hair accentuates the dramatic makeup.

“No, we’ll just show him.” Belle steps forward to plant a flyaway
strand of honey blonde hair back into the perfectly sculpted mess of
big curls and waves. “You look stunning, Mom.”

“Thank you,” Marlena tells her, then looks toward the rest of us.
“Knowing John, I know you all have had some parts in this beautiful
day, this house,” she looks around the empty bedroom that will serve
as her and John’s when they’re back from their honeymoon. “I love you
all for being here. And for being with us for this final wedding.” She
moves to hug each one of us. “I promise this is the last one.”

Underneath us, the house has been prepared for a small, slightly
formal party. The music is filtering throughout the hollow rooms, from
the tent in the yard behind the house. John wanted to get the
housewarming and engagement celebration out of the way, so that he
could come home from Hawaii and simply enjoy his family. It’ll be
fully furnished when they return.

As usual, no expense has been spared. Every inch of the tent is bathed
in soft purple light, from the corners above to the centerpieces on
each long table. The ivory dance floor is at the center of the tables
and chairs swathed in silk ivory bunting. A beautiful chandelier with
purple and ivory crystal looms above the floor. The live band, all
suited in white tuxedos, occupies the stage. Behind them are
photographs of our family over the years, images that embarrass and
make me happy to be a part of this family. There’s one of John holding
Marlena from behind; I was their baby girl then. We were and still are
that family, only we’ve added to the bunch. In all honesty, I wouldn’t
have our family any other way.

“So everything looks great downstairs.” I reach for Marlena’s hand.
“You look beautiful. John and the boys are gorgeous in their tuxedos.
Especially Nicky and Noah.” I’d peeked in on them in one of the guest
rooms. “Eric had Grandpa Evans fixing his tie. Even baby Noah has on a
tie.”

“Oh, I can’t wait to see them all.” She can’t help the gushing. She
has this extraordinary way of being, of loving. “My men sure know how
to go all out. And you all look beautiful, as well.”

“No tears,” I warn seeing them welling in her eyes. “This is a happy
day. We’re all so glad to be included. Enjoy this, you deserve
everything.” I kiss both cheeks and squeeze her one final time. “I’m
going to check on Juliana and Claire, and then we can go downstairs
together.”

[Belle]

During the years when you knew nothing
And I knew everything, I loved you still.
Condescendingly of course,
From my high perch
Of teenage wisdom.
I grew older and
Was stunned to find
How much knowledge you had gleaned,
And so quickly.
Mother I have learned enough now
To know I have learned nearly nothing.
–Maya Angelou–

I’m not as courageous as I should be. In fact, confrontation has
always scared me. I don’t have my dad’s quiet anger or Mom’s
certainty. I guess all they’ve given me is this gut instinct about
right and wrong. They’ve also taught me the importance of family.

I’ve been waiting for a moment when it seemed reasonable and necessary
to grab Rachel and finally discuss the tension between us. I’ve taken
to long. Now we’re all heading down stairs to the party Daddy has gone
all out for. Mom has Claire and Juliana’s hand about to lead us out of
her bedroom. They’re dressed alike in sleeveless red and white ladybug
dresses. Full skirts of red, white, and black tulle. Adorable
ponytails on top of their heads with red ribbons holding them in
place. Each of them looking up at Mom like the beautiful living doll
that she is.

However, something feels so false about the way I’m smiling at them.
At my sisters. At my mother. All the while, I’m ignoring my mother’s
first daughter. “Wait,” I speak up, feeling the weight of my words
heavy on my tongue. “Can I speak to you…alone,” I ask Rachel. She
looks as suspicious as anyone would with a last minute attempt to
clear the air.

We’ve been around each other all day but I didn’t and probably still
don’t have the words to say to her. Its more than just warm feelings
making me reach out. It’s my guilt. If my little girl can welcome her
as an aunt without wondering or second-guessing, shouldn’t I have the
same reaction? Shouldn’t I be Claire’s example, instead of the other
way around? Claire has been in and out of Rachel’s arms. She’s a
natural charmer who loves to kiss and hug. But, I’ve noticed whenever
my daughter goes to do either of those things to Rachel she looks for
my permission first.

“Go on,” Mom nods her acceptance. “We’ll wait downstairs for you.” She
gathers the girls up and opens the door. Before they move, Mom gives
me a look for encouragement. With her as my mom, I understand there is
no excuse for not making this right. Carrie and Sami also glance their
approval before shutting the door behind them.

They all file out of the room so quickly I don’t have a chance to
gather anything to say before Rachel turns to look at me. “What is it,
Belle?” She has every right to be a little upset but her face
indicates sadness. I’ve hurt her. But whom can I kid besides myself; I
knew I was hurting her by ignoring her presence all day. It was
glaringly apparent.

When I can’t speak, she does instead. “Excuse me for a moment, I mean
how careless of me to have been born and uprooted your perfect life.
How could I be so selfish?” Her words aren’t poisoned by venom. Just
sadness; the rejection I’ve shown her is unacceptable. And I can’t be
upset at her for feeling that way.

“I don’t feel that way.” But I do.

“What could I have done? She’s my mother, too. Would you rather I
hadn’t started coming around?”

The saddest part is I want to say yes; I don’t want the dynamics of my
family to keep changing. First, there was Rachel and now there’s Noah
but in between came Nicky and Juliana. I miss the family I grew up
with; I’m not comfortable with change.

She interprets my silence. “You would? You’d rather she didn’t have a
life before you?”

“No, I just don’t want everything to change. I wasn’t raised to have
to share Mom. I was the baby,” I confess softly. I hope it doesn’t
sound as weak and snotty as I know it must. “Mom was the only constant
in my world. I had Brady and there were other kids but I also felt
like I had her full attention.”

Rachel is unsympathetic to my excuse. The ire is so thick. Her eyes
fill with anger. “Then you were lucky, honey. I lost my parents when I
needed them most—hell, I didn’t know they weren’t my parents. I
thought their deaths were the last chance I had to have a family but I
have a mother; she loves me and I love her. I’m not giving that up for
anyone.”

“I know.”

“I don’t know how to make you comfortable with me and I don’t feel
it’s my place to do. I’m going to be here, like it or not. I’m not
trying to take your place. She has enough room in her heart for all of
us.”

“Rachel, I’m not…I’ll learn to like it but you have to allow me some time.”

She doesn’t agree. “No honey, you have to allow me some time. I can’t
give my mother back. She’s mine as much as she belongs to all of you.
In fact, I had her first, if that means anything…and I’m going to
remain in her life. Maybe you should play catch up.”

When she walks out of the room, the door closing behind her makes me
flinch. Downstairs my entire family is assembled. My grandparents have
flown in from Colorado with my brother. Brady’s here. The extended
family. Maggie and Alice. Hope and Bo. The Carvers. People who have
watched me grow up and watched my parents’ tumultuous relationship.
People who know us.

But I walk out of that room, not understanding myself. I take the
stairwell, counting each step until I’m at the bottom with my family.
I slant my eyes to the floor, away from my mother’s and sisters’
penetratingly inquisitive staring. They would love me to say all is
well, but by the look on Rachel’s face, it’s obvious we’re not. And I
don’t know how to make it so.

[John]

Let me thank you
That my selfishness, ignorance, and mockery
Did not bring you to
Discard me like a broken doll
Which had lost its favor.
I thank you that
You still find something in me
To cherish, to admire, and to love.
I thank you, Mother.
I love you.

“Is this all too much,” I ask her. We’re dancing in the circle
everyone has created around us. I’m holding her tight, close—probably
too close—enough to feel every curve of her body against mine. “I hope
it’s not too overwhelming.”

“As if it would matter,” she whispers, dropping a kiss below my ear.
She pulls back from the neck up. It’s the eyes of the crowd that keep
me from touching the long column of her neck with my mouth. “It’s all
been wonderful. I’ve enjoyed everything about today.”

“You look beautiful.” The dress looks the way I thought it would,
hugging her curves in all the right places. “I love your hair. And
your neck,” I dip to the hollow of her delicate neck, “smells
delicious.”

“Are you trying to seduce me,” she lifts her eyebrow.

“I’m trying to make you mine forever, not for a moment.”

She does it—takes that little breath and circles her arms around me.
“I am yours forever. Don’t you know that by now?”

My children are watching us, hopeful. Our friends and her parents. “I
do know that, baby. Tomorrow, when you promise to love me forever,
that’s it.”

She untangles us. “That’s it,” she tells me cupping my face. I don’t
pull away too soon when she leans her soft lips to kiss mine.

Chapter 63 (NC-17)

(This story was based in part on this song; the ideas expressed in its
lyrics remind me of J/M)

Girl I’m in love with you
This ain’t the honeymoon
Past the infatuation phase
Right in the thick of love
At times we get sick of love
It seems like we argue every day
…
I know I misbehaved
And you made your mistakes
And we both still got room left to grow
And though love sometimes hurts
I still put you first
And we’ll make this thing work
But I think we should take it slow
…
We’re just ordinary people
We don’t know which way to go
Cause we’re ordinary people
Maybe we should take it slow
This time we’ll take it slow (
This time we’ll take it slow
…
This ain’t a movie no
No fairy tale conclusion ya’ll
It gets more confusing everyday
Sometimes it’s heaven sent
Then we head back to hell again
We kiss and we make up on the way
…
I hang up you call
We rise and we fall
And we feel like just walking away
As our love advances
We take second chances
Though it’s not a fantasy
I still want you to stay
…
…
Take it slow
Maybe we’ll live and learn
Maybe we’ll crash and burn
Maybe you’ll stay, maybe you’ll leave,
maybe you’ll return
Maybe another fight
Maybe we won’t survive
But maybe we’ll grow
We never know baby you and I
…
We’re just ordinary people
We don’t know which way to go
Cause we’re ordinary people
Maybe we should take it slow
We’re just ordinary people
We don’t know which way to go
Cause we’re ordinary people

“Daddy’s being mean,” Nicholas Black informs his mother, dragging
himself into his parents’ bedroom. His mouth is perfectly pouted as he
stands in front of the rocking chair. His mother is feeding Noah not
paying attention. He stamps his feet to gain it. “Mama.”

Looking more like John than she’s ever seen her heart constricts, as
she regards Nicholas carefully. Gone is the tuxedo he happily kept
reminding everyone at the party was just like his daddy’s. He’s back
to looking like her little boy, scrubbed clean from the bath his
father gave him. His hair is spiked in dampness; his cheeks are rosy.
With his pout, the hollow between his chin appears when he tilts his
neck back to look into his mother’s face.

He’s obviously upset. She’s more concerned about his chest being
opened to the air without a shirt and his hair being damp while he
sleeps. “Honey, where is your pajama top?”

“Mommy,” he grunts at her, stamping his foot again. “Daddy’s mean to Nicky.”

He finally has her full attention. She flattens her bare foot to stop
rocking. Noah is sleeping but still sipping his bottle lightly. She
tugs at the nipple, ceasing when Noah jerks awake in protest. Leveling
his bottle against her chin, she bends forward expertly balancing it
and Noah as she ascertains the irritation in Nicholas’ face. She can’t
miss Nicholas’ jutting lower lip. Biting back the smile threatening to
disarm Nicholas’ adorable frustration, she motions him closer grabbing
his wrist. He walks until his belly hits her knees. “Now, why is daddy
being mean?” She rubs his cheek, checking the temperature of his skin
discreetly. “What did daddy do to make you say that he’s being mean,
Nicky?”

Nicholas considers his reason quietly. His mother will understand why
he’s unhappy. He is counting on how much she likes to make him happy.
“Because…” he mumbles, casting his hazel eyes low, “…cause Daddy’s
mean…” is all he can tell her. His father told him during bath time
that he couldn’t sleep with them because Daddy was taking Mommy away
tonight. His father promised Nicky that Nana and Papa would put him to
bed. Nicholas loves his grandparents but would rather have his Mommy
home, holding him until he falls asleep. Last night, he’d fallen
asleep between both his parents and woken up with his mommy’s lips
kissing his nose. He likes his mother’s soft lips kissing him when
he’s pretending to be sleep.

Marlena tilts her son’s chin up. “Your daddy isn’t mean. He loves
you,” she explains, clearly not understanding what happened between
him and John. She’d left them in the bathroom after putting Juliana to
bed. Her baby girl had exhausted herself on the dance floor. She made
sure to dance with each of her brothers, including Nicholas, and most
importantly to spend a couple of songs in her father’s arms. “When I’m
finished feeding Noah, we’ll get a top on you and then climb into bed
and read a book. How’s that sound?” Noah’s lips are tugging softer
around the nipple. She pulls the bottle slowly from his mouth and
places his head in between her neck and shoulder. “Just as soon as I
burp your brother.”

Unconvinced, Nicholas’ sulking persists. His mother is apparently not
listening to him. He decides to try something else. “Don’t go bye bye,
Mommy,” he pleads. “Stay with Nicky and baby.” Nicholas grips his baby
brother’s foot. Usually when he does that, the baby starts kicking
back at him. But he doesn’t move and Nicholas is further upset. “No
bye bye.”

Marlena watches her son crossing his arms over his little chest. She
draws Nicholas to her side. “I’m not going bye bye, baby.” It’s been a
long day for everybody; especially the younger children and tomorrow
won’t be any different. She’s exhausted and all she’d like to do is
put everyone to bed. They’re plane is scheduled to take off early and
there are still things she has yet to finish. “If you want, you can
sleep with Mommy and Daddy again.” As she’s making this promise, she
sees John.

“I should have known,” John enters the room smiling at Nicholas. His
son is leaning against his mother’s arm with the pout he’s perfected
for manipulating her. “Actually, we are going somewhere.” John shows
Marlena the overnight bag in his hand. There are only essentials in
the medium shoulder bag. The rest is already taken care of. “So,
you’re trying to work on Mommy?” he asks Nicholas, kneeling behind
him.

Marlena glances over Nicholas’ head at John. “What is he talking
about,” she whispers. “What are you talking about?”

“He’s right. We’re leaving tonight for the islands.”

“We just came home,” she reminds him. She barely had a chance to pull
off her heels before Noah needed his bottle; she’s still wearing her
beautiful dress. The plan in her mind after putting the children to
bed isn’t going to Hawaii tonight. Their suitcases are lined up in the
hallway along the wall, waiting for her to fill them with clothes for
the trip. “I have to pack their suitcases and get us ready for
tomorrow.”

“It’s taken care of. You have other plans.”

“We can’t have other plans,” she raises her eyebrow pointedly. “We
have three children. We can’t just pick up and go to Hawaii tonight.
We’re leaving in the morning.”

He adores the confusion coloring her face; and how maternal she can’t
help looking with Noah nestled to her chest and Nicholas pressed
possessively at her side. “We are picking up and going to Hawaii
tonight.”

“No Daddy,” Nicholas protests sharply. He turns watery eyes on his
mother. “Nicky
no want it.”

Before Marlena can fall to his unintentional manipulation, John hoists
Nicholas up and turns him around so that the near mirror images are
looking eye to eye. “We talked about this. Mommy and Daddy need to
have time to ourselves.” They may have but Nicholas still has a
problem with letting his mother leave him, even for his daddy. John
knows Nicholas does not intend to cave without shedding some tears. He
tilts his son’s face up from burrowing into his chest. “Mommy and
Daddy need time together, just like we spend time with you and your
brothers and sisters. I want Mommy to myself tonight.” He explains to
the little boy who rarely has to spend nights away from his mother.

Nicholas crosses his arms defiantly across his chest. “No, Daddy. No.”

Marlena is tickled by the negotiation between her son and his father
for her hand. Both of them have the same amount of persistence and she
would love to appease them both. “Honey—” Marlena tries to intervene
but John stops her.

“Yes, son; I’m going to have to use my daddy powers here.” John says
firmly. “We’ll only be gone one night, and then we’ll see you
tomorrow.” He promises planting a kiss on Nicholas’ forehead.

With Marlena, he might continue to protest but with his father,
Nicholas won’t. He looks into his daddy’s eyes with his own guileless
eyes. “Tomorrow?”

“Yes, tomorrow. You’re going to fly with Nana, Papa, and everybody
else to see us.”

That appeals to Nicholas. He likes flying and airplanes. His daddy has
one. “With Jules,” he asks hopefully. “And baby?”

“Everybody.” John assures his son tucking him back into his chest.
“So, give Mommy a kiss and say goodnight.”

John sets Nicholas back down, loving how his boy drapes his arms
around his mom, without disturbing the baby. He watches proudly as
Marlena nurtures his boys with her warm kisses and constant touching
because she knows how much they’ll miss it until she’s with them
again. What little boy wouldn’t want to stay forever locked in her
arms? If he didn’t feel the same way, he wouldn’t have orchestrated
this plan for one night away from everyone else. Just one evening to
cherish her without distractions—not that his children are
distractions. He wouldn’t spend a day without them if he didn’t feel
this time with Marlena was so important.

“Say goodnight, Mommy,” John tells her. She isn’t ready to relinquish
her boys, not either of them. But John standing expectantly with his
hands poised to help her up is convincing. Nicholas backs away from
her hug and kiss and John picks him back up. She stands up glancing
John’s triumphant grin. She purses her lips flirtatiously his way,
bending back when he attempts to connect their lips.

“Such a tease.”

“So, I’m supposed to just let you kidnap me,” she asks him over her
shoulder as she places Noah into his bed. “No questions asked?” She
smirks in spite of herself when her mother ambles slowly into the
room. It’s a conspiracy. “I should have known. You two were eye
dancing all night,” she shakes her finger at her mother. “I see you’re
involved in this nefarious plot, too Mama.”

Martha Evans’ smile is as wide as the span of her arms when she opens
them to pull her daughter close. “Love looks wonderful on you, baby
girl.” She hasn’t seen her daughter look this well in a long while; a
lot better than those dark days after her heart surgery. She’s never
seen her more happy or stable. Martha knows her daughter has always
been happiest being a wife and mother. Tonight, being surrounded by
her children as has much to do with the glow in her skin as much as
the anticipation of marrying the man Martha has watched her loved for
more years than she can remember. Selfishly, Martha allows that she
also helped fix the radiant smile on her little girl’s face, the extra
sparkle in her eyes.

Marlena cranes her neck to rest on her mother’s shoulder. “This is it.
We’re really going to marry…legally and forever.” She whispers
solemnly. She believes her words as sure as if they were written in
some holy script thousands of years ago. “I nearly can’t stand how
happy I feel. What if we do something to mess this up?”

Martha draws her daughter back from her tired body. There aren’t many
more moments like this left, she thinks. Not pessimistically. She
knows her age is nearer to death than birth. It does her troubled
heart good to know that if she has to leave her daughter, she’ll be in
perfect hands with a man she’s learned to trust. “Don’t,” she warns
her as if it’s a simple task. “Now go be with John. I’ll take care of
the babies.” She reaches out for her daughter’s hand; John has the
other. “Come to Nana,” she reaches for Nicholas. John hands him to her
and she sets him down beside her. He’s heavier than she remembers. He
slinks behind her leg and curls his arm around it burying his face.
“Granny is going to take good care of her babies. Then we’ll see Mommy
and Daddy tomorrow.” She says as assurance for her clinging grandson.
He’s as attached to his mother as he was as a baby, reminding her of
the time she spent with him when he was first born.

Martha shoos John and Marlena from the room. “Go. We’ll be fine.”

Marlena turns to John, squeezing his hand. “I’m ready…I think,” She
bites her bottom lip.

“You are,” he assures her, brushing his lips against her cheek and
handing her shoes to her. “Let’s go.”

***

Sometimes things fall apart—have to fall apart—so they can come back
together. That’s the only explanation I have for the time we’ve wasted
not being together. I think of all those days of wanting this: being
in perfect peace with John. Time has this way of stopping when we’re
alone. The past and future part for the quiet moments of togetherness,
making for a powerful bridge of then and now. If we take each of those
and stir the pot, it all evens out to a wonderful life. We have a
wonderful life.

“What are you smiling about,” he asks me, deepening his own. The
dimple in his chin parts, as Nicky’s did when he was sulking about me
leaving him. I slide a finger across the ridge and lift my shoulders
coquettishly.

He’s feeling very satisfied with himself. If it weren’t for the fact
that I’m just as happy to have been kidnapped, I wouldn’t allow him to
be so annoyingly smug. For once, I’m not feeling guilty about leaving
the babies alone. Mama and Daddy are there; if I’m any indication of
their parenting skills, my babies are in good hands. I am however,
anticipating seeing all of our family tomorrow on the island. But
tonight isn’t about our family; it’s about us. I remember that looking
at John.

“I’ve been thinking,” I take a sip from my flute of champagne staring
into blue pools of familiarity, “about our life together. About how
much you and I have gone through together. It’s been impossible not to
think about all we’ve gone through.” My head dips under the intensity
of his gaze. Those magic blue eyes. It never fails; when he tips a
finger to lift my chin, I gasp at the contact. A surge of need and
ease settles under my skin.

“I don’t want to think about any of that,” he mumbles into my wrist
after pulling my hand to his mouth. His lips linger at the bend in my
wrist. “Let’s concentrate on now, right now.”

An interesting request considering we’re on the plane. This plane
where we conceived Belle. I’m sure it’s not by chance. He wants me to
be reminded and I appreciate the gesture. It doesn’t take much for me
to be right back there—20 odd years ago—begging him not to leave me. I
take in the air. It smells the same, feels the same except I’m not
desperate to make him stay. I’m not desperate at all. We’ve grown
beyond twisting and tying ourselves into knots to convince each other
of our connection. There is so much evidence to that fact. We’re
actually grandparents. We’re sharing one life. I’m not pretending to
be happy with someone I no longer feel the same about. I’m with the
someone I want to be with. I’m not wanting or needy; I have everything
I need and want sitting next to me on this couch.

“Thank you,” I mumble into his soft hair. He’s kissing my collarbone.
I’m trying not to lose the little resolve I have not to ask him to
make love to me. “Thank you for making me brave all those years ago.”
I’ve turned that night into so many things. The genuine version ends
with us being so in love that the only solution was to make love; we
had to get it out of our systems.

His mouth lifts from my skin for a moment, considering the
conversations we’ve had about this. We’re in a safe place. I know when
he lowers his head and whisper, “For giving you Belle,” as he breathes
into my shoulder, slipping a finger under the strap holding my dress
against my skin.

I navigate a rocky path to his mouth from his forehead. “For making me
honest…for making me truthful.” I lean back to catch my breath. His
mouth tastes like mint, champagne, and smoke. “Have you been smoking?”
I ask, wiping the traces of my lipstick from his mouth.

“Are you kidding?” he asks, pulling me back to him.

I tease him. “You smoke?”

“A cigar,” he mutters. “Abe brought a batch for us to celebrate.”

“I didn’t see you smoking.” I rest my forehead against his, looking
directly into his eyes, but holding my mouth away in the tight space.

“Marlena, shhh…” He slides his thumbs down my cheeks and starts
kissing me again. “I didn’t smoke around the kids. We were outside the
tent,” he tells me, feeling the resistance in my lips. “Now can I have
another kiss?”

I start loosening up again, smiling as I allow him to kiss me deeper.
The cigar talk deadened the serious conversation that we were having
about our past, about Belle’s conception. It’s for good reason, I
think. He’s right to want to focus on what’s ahead of us, but I can’t
forget that night on this plane—it’s a seminal moment in our lives.
But looking past John, I realize that there is nothing especially
romantic about the plane. He didn’t as he’s done in the past, have it
transformed into some grandeur version of a flying hotel room. No
candles burning, no beautiful lighting, or music, and no bed, like our
honeymoon. It’s only our memories and us.

He leaves me panting when he pulls away from me to unbutton the top
three bottoms of his shirt. His jacket is tossed aside already. His
tie disappeared between the engagement party and Nicky’s bath. He
reaches for his champagne draining what’s left in his glass. I notice
the way he turns away from me when he turns back around to sit back
stiffly. That’s not going to fly with me tonight. Our kissing is like
being drugged into lovemaking. They’re too indolent, too affectionate
not to want to pet and lavish more on each other. But obviously, he’s
still sticking to our ludicrous fast from sex.

“I’m sorry.” I match his body’s stiff posture and look across the room
at the wall that seems to have his attention.

“For what?” he looks apologetically at me, reaching for my hand in the process.

“You know. You have a way of persuasion unlike anyone else.” I dance
around the awkwardness of wanting to make love and not being able to
do so. “I wouldn’t leave my babies for anyone except for you.” I put
my champagne on the side table and twist back around to him. “This was
a nice idea.”

With a gentle kiss, he says, “Good.” An economical peck that speaks of
our deep connection, not one to encourage lovemaking.

It’s useless. I still want to feel his lips on mine. If we weren’t
here, I wouldn’t be so strongly reminded of what he feels like on top
of me. I’ve felt that on this couch. I know how good it feels to have
him between my thighs, holding him inside of my body. But I clear my
head of that and try something innocent. “Am I going to know any of
the details of the wedding besides just putting on my dress and
meeting you somewhere in Hawaii?”

“I can share some things with you,” he offers grinning. “After all, it
is also your wedding.”

I smile, facing him. “After all, it is.” He’s drawing lazy lines in my
palm, watching my mouth as he decides what he’ll tell me. I wonder if
he remembers what my mouth can do for him.

“It’s on the beach.”

I’m studying his mouth now. “A beach wedding…”

“Right by the water with our family standing with us.”

I picture this wonderful image of John holding my hand, the way he’s
doing now, with our babies barefoot and dancing around the older kids
with my parents standing around as well, smiling as we exchange vows.
“That sounds wonderful. Are we staying at the same hotel we stayed in
before?” I don’t think before I ask, but I remember suddenly what
happened when we came to Hawaii on our honeymoon. It’s only a brief
second, but those memories are potent.

He shakes his head seemingly knowing what I’m envisioning behind my
eyes. “I rented us a beach house on Oahu Island, sits on the ocean.
Beautiful view. The kiddies can play in the sand. Secluded beaches.
Everyone should be satisfied.”

I love this man for being so accommodating. And for knowing what being
in Hawaii could do to me, at the same place I nearly lost him. “A
beach house?”

“We’re traveling with a circus, baby. We can’t do the luxury hotels
anymore. We have to be more accommodating,” he teases me with his
unbearably adorable grin.

“So, all of us will be staying under one roof while we celebrate our honeymoon?”

He grins. “Your mind is cranking with dirty thoughts, isn’t it?”

“No,” I laugh, slapping his chest. “I’m just wondering how that’s
going to work.”

“Let me handle this, okay?”

“You’re lucky I have such trust in you,” I add kissing him quickly.
“Are we going straight to Hawaii?”

His hand curls behind my neck. “Did you have somewhere else in mind?”
I mouth no moving into his lap. He snakes an arm around my waist. “We
can stop in California.”

“For?” I tip my forehead against his chin, toying with the hair at his nape.

“Shopping…I don’t know; you’re the one looking for outs.”

“No, I’m just enjoying this…being here with you. I just wish we had
time to change.” I slide my palms down the lapels of the shirt
confining his upper body. “These aren’t very comfortable traveling
clothes. What do you have in that overnight bag? By chance, are any of
your comfortable tee shirts in there?”

“No, I’m enjoying you in this dress.” He admits discreetly thumbing
the naked skin of my shoulder. “You have no idea how beautiful you
looked tonight.” He’s grinning seductively but I don’t know if he
knows how much that turns me on or if he’s trying to turn me on.
Nothing is going unnoticed in the close proximity of our bodies. The
soft caressing along my warm skin. My rear seated in the firm grip of
his lap, near the core of his body.

“If you mean to not keep your promise, you’ll keep touching me like
that,” I encourage arching into the soft caresses along my back. “I
loved tonight. It was…” I’m losing my thoughts to his lips nipping
the side of my neck…“everything I needed.”

His next sentence nearly brings me out of the state of mind I’m in.
“And your session with Judith Taylor.”

“Also good,” I answer quickly. Not because I don’t want to discuss it,
but because, I need to have him kissing me more. When he claims my
mouth again, I don’t let him get away with chaste kisses. I urge my
tongue past his lips, thrusting back and forth between our mouths.

“Baby…” he grips my head to pull away from me.

“Mm mm,” I lower his hand. “I love you. I remember being right here.”
I break apart slowly from him, lifting off his lap. I want to feel his
weight on top of me. I cover his shoulders and pull him down with me
as I flatten my back against the couch. “I love you so much. Just kiss
me, please.” I don’t think he realizes it, but the battle is over. I’m
past the point of being denied. By his touches, I know he is as well.

We haven’t been together like this in weeks. So, I catalogue each
touch. They’re soft and firm. Worshipful and lustful. He’s trying to
be gentle but I’m needy for something outside of the careful touching
that tentative lovers who have been absent from each other’s touch.
“Kiss me,” I insist, making the meeting between our lips less gentle.
I pull his weight into me, pressing hard against his mouth. “You won’t
hurt me. You couldn’t,” I remind him breathlessly.

He pulls back unable to conceal the secret thoughts overpowering him.
The way he looks, the lazy eyes that trace slowly over my face say, I
treasure you. I missed you. I need to be with you as much as you need
to be with me. We did this once before, on this exact spot. We’ve done
it several times since. He stops the urgent pulse of our inevitable
lovemaking. He props himself above me on one hand, using the other to
grip my chin. He measures my face with the corners of his warm
fingertips. He combs the soft curve of my cheek to the bottom of my
ear. I touch his face, too. I palm his cheek and brush my fingers
across his forehead, down his nose to his lips. I rest my index finger
on his top lip, waiting for him to move again towards me.

“I love you,” he tells me.

I arch my neck so our lips can touch. He doesn’t resist it; he falls
steadily into the groove of thrusting and grinding of our mouths, of
my eager tongue. I grip him closer inflamed by the connection of our
bodies. My body bends voluntarily into him. Knowing the angles of him
well, I inch my knees over his hips, gasping under the slow crawl of
his fingers as they push my dress up my leg. His quiet desperation
couples with mine as our skin blends feverishly through our clothes.
But it’s not enough.

I push against his chest to disconnect. “I know you promised
yourself,” I barely manage to say watching him sit back on his heels.
I follow prying my legs from beneath him and stand up. “I know you
think you’re honoring me by sustaining.” His eyes follow me as I plant
my bare feet firm. “But I miss you so much. I want you so much.”

Without words, he stands. Upright and tall under the dim lights of the
cabin. You would think I should hear the lull of the engine; the heavy
winds outside the windows; or our sharp breathes dancing. No. I swear
I hear two things, distinct and twining: our heartbeats colliding.

Then there’s the rush of wind when John reaches behind me, slowly
gliding my zipper down. I shrug out of the soft material and let it
pool at my feet. I stand uninhibited as he undresses me, piece by
piece. His eyes center on the transparent underwear shaping my rear
and the triangle between my legs. He threads a finger through the lace
at my hip and slides them down my legs. I surprise myself with telling
whimpers as he does a slow crawl with his lips back up my leg,
stopping just below my belly button. I bite my bottom lip feeling
decadent under the heavy pull of his eyes when he stands back up. I
reach behind to unsnap my bra never lifting my eyes from his face. I
pull the confining material away from my skin and drop it at my side.
John’s eyes open wider looking at me standing nude before him. He
licks his lips, I feel the delight of a man happy with my body, and
its shape burst through me.

“Should you tell the pilots not to disturb us,” I ask reaching out to
unbutton the rest of his shirt.

“It’s a long flight.” He snatches me my wrist, holding me tight
against him. “I didn’t plan this,” he says earnestly. “I just wanted
to be alone with you.”

I sink my teeth into his chin. “And I just want you to make love to
me.” I continue with his shirt until it’s opened, baring the soft
tufts of black hair along his well-defined chest. I circle his nipple
and then add a kiss, smiling to myself at his reaction. “I bet he
feels very neglected,” I moan into his neck, cupping the swell between
his legs. “It’s been so long.”

“He’s been doing okay,” he laughs deep in his throat.

I frown. “I’m hurt. I thought he at least missed me.” I toss his shirt
away and move to unbutton his pants. “I know I’ve missed him.” John
looks surprised when I go down on my knees in front of him and unzip
him. I slide his pants and boxers down his legs in one fell swoop.
“Are you sure you didn’t miss me?” I ask him, stroking the crown of
his manhood gently with my fingers. Looking up, I catch John admiring
my devotion to his impressive anatomy. “Didn’t you?” I kiss the very
tip, tasting his salty essence on my tongue. Sexy isn’t being shy.
It’s having confidence to take your love to these uninhibited levels.
I slide my tongue along the hard pulsing skin of his maleness, closing
my eyes to the perfume of his arousal. It’s intoxicating.

“I don’t think he’ll last very long if you keep doing that,” John’s
voice croaks.

I take my chances and start stroking him again. He feels so heavy in
my hand, the veins straining under my touch. He threads fingers into
my hair. I know what that means, and I oblige without him asking me
to. I open my mouth to welcome him back as John feeds me inch by inch.
I brace myself against his rigid thighs and lift my eyes upward. I
know there’s nothing more erotic than seeing himself inside my mouth.
He likes to watch me suckle him for as long as he can stand it. He
used to tell me to act as if he was ice cream—that’s how he helped me
learn to please him. To think of him inside my mouth as a treat, not a
chore. I find a rhythm between my mouth and his thrusting. A
deliberate game with one ending in mind. This could never be a chore.

He twists his fingers into a tangle of my curls. “Baby…”

“I know…” I manage to say around him. “Let me.” I continue lapping the
hard shaft in my mouth, bringing him to the very back of my throat and
then pulling him back out, looking confidently at him every time. His
thrust encourage me to squeeze harder and suckle faster. He’s going to
release himself in my mouth and it’s exactly what I want him to do. I
dig my fingernails into his thighs and tighten my lips around him as I
increase the speed of my mouth.

“You’re amazing,” he groans pulling the strands of my hair harshly.
The soft murmurs sound like a secret song. My name, my pet names,
encouragement to continue, moans. I feel him swell, feel the heavy
pulsing running the veins, and then feel his release deep in my mouth.
His body is not his own. It belongs to me as the result of my going
down on him renders him speechless and mindless. “You did good, baby.”
I kiss his tip and ease him back toward the couch on my knees still
where he falls heavily into the seat.

“You’ve still got it,” he breathes heavily, petting my cheek as he
finds his voice again.

“Did you think I’d lost it?”

“Shut up,” he whispers playfully yanking me by the wrist onto the
couch. I fall sideways into his body and he lays us down spooning me
from behind. His chest is rising and falling behind me. I smile into
the palm of his hand below my chin. “It’s going to be a while before I
can do what I want to do to you.” He cups the throbbing damp cleft
between my legs. I’ve missed him touching me so much that I lose
myself quickly in his strokes. My arousal fires through into the
divide of my legs. “I wish it was me inside you.” He whispers over my
shoulder, pushing my hair back to drag the skin at my neck between his
teeth. He uses one finger to stroke, the other to glide into the
barriers of my core.

“More John…harder,” I plead quietly. I cover the hand between my legs
and manipulate him into harder strokes. “I need you so much.”

“I know baby. Just relax.” He slows his stroking and thrusting. “I
can’t wait until this is me inside you. I’m going to love feeling you
wrapped around me again. You want that, baby?”

I bite my lip, nodding eagerly.

“You’re doing a good job, baby. All of this,” he slides his blunt
fingers up and down my cleft, “just from pleasing me?”

“Yes,” I breathe sharply, laying my head back for him to kiss my neck.
“All for you.”

I’m totally lost between the hand between my thighs and the teeth
marking my neck. I want to be lost. I think to protest but I have no
way to express anything except voiceless sounds that echo animals
mating. I remember in the haze of what’s happening that we’re not
alone, and drag John’s free hand to my mouth. As my insides tighten
and coil from John, I steal two fingers and suck on them as I shudder
against John’s hand moments later.

…

I let her sleep for as long as I can before I can’t stop myself from
touching her again. She fell asleep to me stroking her belly. She
likes petting. I like petting her. Right before she dropped down to
her knees and took me in her mouth, I was remembering that. I was also
wondering how I managed to go all those weeks without making love to
her. I was wondering and then she closed her sexy mouth over me and
all thoughts went right out of my head. But this is surprisingly the
best part of making love. The moments after when she’s sleeping next
to me, breathing lightly and every so often reaching out to make sure
I’m still with her. I am; I’m not going anywhere ever again.

It is risky lying here naked but I love looking at her body curled
into mine, seeking my heat and comfort in her sleep. I packed a little
flirty dress for her to change into but I don’t want to see her in
clothes just yet. I want to see her eyes open and hear her voice
again.

She was right; it had been too long. When she rolls over in her sleep
lifting her knee over my hip, I’m happy that she did the seducing, the
reminding of what we can do to each other. I inch back from the tight
fit of her damp center against the rising between my legs. She shivers
tossing her head back to expose her neck to my waiting mouth. I’m
always shocked at the bruises I put there. In the act, I’m so turned
on that I don’t realize until it’s too late to stop. A red welt the
size of a dime burns angrily at me. By tomorrow, it’ll be purple and
obvious. There are two more near that one.

“What are you smiling at?” the softness of her voice is coupled with
sleepiness. “You’re so damn arrogant.” She yawns and stretches her
neck against my mouth.

“What?”

“I know what you’re thinking,” she grins.

“What?”

“I was sleepy. You didn’t knock me out with love,” she tickles my torso.

“I’m shocked you would presume I would think such disgusting
thoughts.” I kiss the freckles dotting her cheeks and nose in secret.
“I was just enjoying the view.”

“I bet.”

“I’ve been waiting for you to wake up.”

“Why? Are we close to the island?” She frowns when I dismiss that
notion. “I was dreaming about the children, about Noodle. I didn’t
kiss her goodbye.”

I love her for being this kind of mother, even if it gets in the way
of our time together. “You’ll see her tomorrow. She won’t even know
you’ve been gone.”

She shrugs. “I was expecting one of them to be tugging on me when I
woke up. Imagine my surprise when I opened my eyes to you studying my
naked body.” A soft smile curves her mouth.

“It is a nice a body.” I seek her neck again.

“Thank you, but if you put another hickey on my neck I’m going to have
a really hard time explaining it to my father.”

“You’re no fun.”

“Yes I am,” she steals a kiss. “I’m the one who made you forget that
idiotic vow of celibacy.”

“You did.” I start stroking her belly again. “You like this, don’t
you? You like waking up naked with me, don’t you? You love this.”

She sighs, shaking her head. “Presumptuous.”

“Really?”

She shifts our bodies until I’m on top of her. “I like waking up with
you on top of me.” She widens the space between her legs. “I like it
when you kiss me.” I answer that with a firm kiss. I reach between us
to make sure she’s still ready for me. “I like it when you…” I glide
into her tight heat and she can’t finish her sentence. We’re both
silent for a moment while I enjoy the feeling of her closing around
me.

“You like that,” I ask, pinning her hips. She’s squeezing her eyes
tight, grimacing. It’s been so long that I’ve forgotten how I much me
pushing into her requires. I pull back a couple of inches to make sure
she’s ready for the intrusion. “I’m sorry, I forgot. Are you okay?” I
brush her lips softly.

She barely has enough breath to answer me. “It’s fine…” her ragged
breathes tumble out.

I smile down tenderly at her, kissing her soft lips and quivering from
the tension it takes not to move my hips, as they’re naturally
inclined to do when I’m tucked so tightly inside of her. She says its
fine but I see the pain twisting her face. I hate that this has to
hurt her. I progress from her lips down her neck to distract myself
from needing to move. I’m sheathed within her, breathing as ragged as
she. The tight skin on the column of her neck is pliable between my
lips.

“Not my neck,” she mutters, wrapping her arms around my waist. “I
can’t wear my hair down every day.”

I laugh into her skin and move down to the creamy swells of her
breasts. Taking my time getting to know them again, I lap and stroke
each peak with my tongue before taking her nipples into my mouth. She
arches under me in offer. Her breasts are sensitive. She’s always very
responsive to the indulgence I lavish on them. I feast like one of our
children, burying my face into their warmth.

“Honey, I need you to move. I’m okay.” She frames her hands over my
rear to pull me deep into her. “More…don’t stop.”

I ease back slowly from her forceful push and then piston back into
her. Our hips start rocking slowly toward each other. Each time I
glide in and have to ease out, I stretch back, feeling her fingers
tattooing my back to pull me closer. She’s crying, begging for more. I
position my hands behind her on the arm of the couch. Changing the
angle of my penetration, I answer her cries with quick tilts of my
hips. I know by the competing signs taking over her body that she
can’t take much more. She can hardly breathe as she drops her arms to
her side, turning her head from side to side frantically. She tightens
her legs around my hips, crossing her feet behind my back. I close my
mouth over hers when her body closes around me, pulsating and
squeezing me as she shatters beneath me whimpering.

I keep moving, though slower than before. “Go ahead,” she whispers
bracing for the finish I’ve been holding back. I keep my mouth drawn
to her lips, catching her whimpers and moans. I thrust my hips faster
and faster, slipping into a numbing climax inside her. As always, I
close my eyes and lose myself in her body and our finish. I don’t know
how long it’s been when I finally start feeling her soft strokes
across my back. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” I find the strength to mumble before collapsing
harshly on top of her.

…

I hear a familiar call in my sleep. I don’t want to tempt fate by
answering; I keep my eyes closed.
It’s a dream devoid of images. And it couldn’t possibly be morning as
I feel as though I just closed my eyes minutes ago. It echoes again.
There has been a melody of strange sounds foreign to my ears ever
since we snuck into this beach house under the cloak of night. It
isn’t the ocean drumming the edges of the rocks below us. That sound
soothed me into the love-quenched sleep I fell into after making love
to John; perhaps, it was John making love to me. In either case, I’m
not interested in moving. Further, it’s all a dream, I decide. I’m not
mommy right now. And it’s not the true voice of my children.

It has to be a dream.

Convincing myself of this until I hear the sound again, an
unmistakable dent in my presumed dreamland; I startle until the memory
of John locking the door last night—he warned of intruders with our
DNA—relaxes me back into the unhurried movements negotiated by
vacation sex. I’m utterly exhausted and slaked. John’s torso is my
pillow; his fingers are tangled in my hair. And our youngest daughter
is standing outside the bedroom door resolutely calling for me. She’s
drowning out the ocean and John’s sleep induced breathing. It’s not
Mommy, but pitiful Mummy.

It’s been a couple of hours since I was Mummy, Mommy, Mom, or Mama.
No, I’ve been the goddess of sex: Aphrodite luring her lover to her
bed. Well, John did some of the luring, much of the seducing, and
plenty of satisfying. Vacation does this to me, this loosening of my
self-contained nature. Actually, John does this to me but being away
from everything helps. I admit to becoming an unencumbered wanton
woman in these circumstances. When there’s a quiet house with no
babies, taking advantage of the uninhibited sexuality that arises has
redeeming, self-satisfying qualities. We can’t do this at home. I was
happy to unwind underneath him here, especially after his idiotic
sustaining as if we were virgins who could live with not touching each
other. We’re far beyond those days. He brought me here last night,
with the time difference there were still couple of hours of darkness.
We took advantage of them and the empty house. I made love to him on
the lanai overlooking the beach. I wanted to make love by the
fireplace in the great room but we couldn’t find the energy. After a
nap, I was awakened cradling his head between my sore, love-bitten
thighs. I do believe the sun was peeking when we finally couldn’t do
anything besides fall into each other’s arms and sleep.

“Mummy.” This call is clearer. It’s Noodle; we’re not alone anymore.
“Open,” she demands.

I open one eye, squinting at the impossibly bright sun blazing from
the skylight above the bed. Last night or this morning, I’m not sure
which yet, I didn’t have a chance to see my surroundings. I saw the
door, the bed, and the balcony all shadowed by night. Salmon walls
with bamboo-vaulted ceilings greet my full vision after I stretch
against John and open both eyes.

“Mummy,” Noodle whines. It’s followed by soft knocking that only her
hands can produce. “Open for me-me.”

I press my lips into John’s side. “The babies are here,” I whisper.
“The honeymoon’s over for a while.” Untangling his fingers from my
hair so that I can search for something to put on, I tap his stomach
and manage to sit up when his hand falls to his side. “I’m coming baby
girl.”

My muscles protest as I climb out of bed and grab John’s shirt. It’s
hanging across the chair in the corner of the room. Passing the
wardrobe mirror confirms the tenderness I feel on certain strategic
places on my body. I often wondered what the intention of marking me
could be other than serving to restrict my clothing choices, which
generally, the more flesh, the better. There won’t be any bikini
wearing, as my thighs look like a road map toward my nether regions.
My neck and collarbone are sporting nice round indentations from his
teeth. I suspect it’s a plot to force my hair down, the way he likes
it, instead of up and out of my way, the way I like it.

“Mummy.” Noodle pounds the door hard with her and then kicks it with her foot.

“Okay, little grumpy one. I told you Mommy’s coming.” I shrug the
wrinkled shirt full of John’s scent over my shoulders, looking over my
shoulder at him. It never fails. Sex reduces him into a lazy pile of
muscles. Juliana hasn’t disturbed his sleep at all. I button the shirt
to my neck, making sure to cover all markings. Evans-Black children
have inquisitive minds and questions.

“Nice,” John grumbles sleepily. “Come back to bed. I have something to
give you.”

I wave my finger, smiling down at him when I cross to the side of the
bed. “I should’ve known you weren’t sleeping. You’re daughter is at
the door,” I warn him after being pulled back into bed. “I bet there
are other people walking around downstairs as well. Let’s do this
later.” I propose when he deepens the morning kiss and slides a hand
under the shirt. “John…Noodle.” I twist my neck trying to free my
mouth. “She’s going to have a meltdown…” John’s lips swallow my
excuse. He moves quickly to push me on my back and climb over me.

He stops kissing me long enough to say, “Nope. The rule is no kids
until the ceremony.”

I furrow my brow, eyeing him suspiciously. “I didn’t agree to any
rules. She’s probably upset at me for not being there when she woke
up. She hasn’t seen me in hours. Come on,” I tap his shoulder to let
me up. “I have to get her before it turns into a tantrum.”

“No,” he says with unyielding strength on top of me. “I’m serious,
honey. My soldiers have their marching orders.”

I point to the locked door, startling when she kicks her foot again.
“Someone forgot to tell her.”

He sighs, turning toward the door. “Jules, why are you kicking the
door, sweetness?”

“Wan Mummy,” she cries pitifully behind the door keeping me away from her.

“Where’s Nana?”

She ignores his question. “Wan Mummy.”

“Honey, open the door.” I jut my lip out the way my children do when
they want something from me.

“We have a strict policy today. No little people until the ceremony.”
He decrees, moving aside but holding me in place. “That’s the rule.
You’ll see them later.”

I watch and wait, just to see if he’s teasing me. How could I possibly
be in a house with my children and not see them? “John, I’m serious.”
I tell him a little firmly. “Just for a minute, please. Then it’s
whatever you want,” I acquiesce softening my voice and tilting my
head.

He sighs in defeat and jumps out of bed. “Just for a second and then
she’s going back with your mother. She has plans today. All of them
do, just like we do.” He tells me, sliding into his boxers. He’s
watching me when he turns the lock and opens the door a fraction
before leaning down to peek at Juliana. “What do you want?” he teases
her grinning.

“My mama.” She tells her father just in case she didn’t think her he
understood. He steps aside and she torpedoes past him. She hits the
edge of the bed hard and then leaps into the center where I’m waiting
with my arms opened.

I hold her close, kissing the soft curls hanging loose on top of her
head. “Hi baby girl. I missed you so much.”

John’s not upset. He comes to the bed and rubs her back saying good
morning. “They’re as irresistible as you are,” he whispers over her
head.

“Now that, she definitely gets from me.”

Chapter 64

CHAPTER NOTES:
FYI- I intentionally switched to a past tense narrative
My beloved is mine, and I am his.
Song of Solomon, 2:16

You can dream; it’s a gift taken for granted. I did, as my parents’
baby girl, of what kind of life I’d have. I imagined the kind of man
I’d marry; I visualized the way my children would look-I wanted a boy
and a girl; a rewarding life with a nice home, stable family, and a
loving environment. I wished for the kind of husband found in
succor-laced fairytales. A prince charming. I had no perception of
anything outside of fairytale love; I believed as only the child of
loving parents could dream. A fairytale.

I’ve just begun to realize how dreams are bound only by a person’s
actuality, by their reality. What I knew was as simple as an
elementary equation: I wanted a man to love me. Consequences and
conditions hadn’t crossed my naïve mind. It was a boundless prayer. I
thought God answered those prayers with Alex, Don, and Roman; I’d be
remiss to avoid adding the other men I’ve had dalliances with as well.
Without them, the picture wouldn’t be as clear nor would the path be
obvious. I think the saying goes: some prayers are answered sharply,
while others take their course. With free will, God hands you choices;
what we do with those are up to us. I chose to believe, sometimes
rebelliously, in love, though strong, not even half the measure of
what I would come to know once John had my heart. But I’d asked for
him, and forgotten. John was the result of a prayer I’d prayed
kneeling beside Sam in our tenth year. It wasn’t until I woke up this
afternoon and felt Juliana draping my chest, sandwiched between her
father and me, that I remembered my words. “Dear God, let me marry the
man you have for me.”

This prayer came out of the deepest recesses of my soul, a place I
hadn’t begun to understand at ten years old. That place is the part of
myself that is doubtless and fearless; I’m learning to embrace it.
When I opened my eyes with the proof of love greater than all the
tragedies of any one life lying across my heart, my prayer resonated
back to me, loudly. Had I been listening to my true compass, I
wouldn’t have been distracted by the illusion of false soul mates. I
am not, nor would I ever discount my love for my ex-husbands neither
their love for me, yet I admit to being blinded by the popular belief
of real love. The equitable relationship between boy and girl who turn
happily into man and woman together. The girl who falls in love in
high school, who stays in love past the fortieth class reunion. That
wasn’t the story I was meant to live. That’s not our story.

What I know for sure is that John is my heart and soul, my soul mate.
Even if I had never found him, I would have believed him into
existence. Regardless of the others who came before and between us, we
were destined to find each other. My children have important roles in
this unfolding tale as well. There was always going to be a Sami,
Eric, Rachel, DJ, Nicholas, and Juliana; and with a little more
patience, they would have all been John’s biological children. I truly
believe so.

And so when I opened my eyes to his love, his lips covering my
shoulder and his hand covering Noodle’s back, I thanked God for grace
and forbearance through the stumbling and failures. I thanked God for
sending me the man made just for me.

***

As promised, John sent Noodle protesting along her way and informed me
brunch would be on the balcony. He promised by sundown we would
legally belong to each other. And then he promptly carried me into the
shower to make love under the water to drown out the telling sounds of
our exuberant lovemaking. We stopped only to catch our breaths and
save energy.

We ate fruit and drank mimosas on the deck. Below us, I heard the
faint sounds of my children laughing and enjoying the balmy weather
hugging the air. The sun was high above us all, caressing my bare
shoulders with its enviable warmth. I saw Noodle and Nicky running
with Brady across the beach, holding their hands. Claire and Belle ran
behind them. Mama and Rachel stood at the edge of the water dipping
Noah’s feet. I didn’t realize I was crying until John leaned across
the table to brush away my tears.

“Why are you crying, baby?”

“Don’t you know?” I took his hand and pressed my lips to his knuckles.
He watched me strangely, an awkward observation that lasted a moment.
I held his misty blue eyes, searching for something in the cloudy
storm regarding me. I looked for any sign of uncertainty. I knew I had
none but I wanted to be sure of he didn’t either.

I took his hands and climbed into his lap, straddling his parted legs.
“There’s nothing between us anymore.” I matched the tips of our noses,
brushing my lips firmly across the soft curve of his mouth. “For the
first time in my life, I feel burden free. I’m marrying you with every
intention of making forever work.”

His eyes imprisoned mine in silence but his mouth stayed linked to
mine. His words seemed lost. I read the slight uncertainty in his
silence but I wrapped my arms around his neck and he bridged his hands
together at the small of my back as I spirited my assurance into him.
“I’m tired of being afraid to hope. I don’t have any fears now. I know
you’re the man I belong with.”

Those words tightened his grasp behind me, making his eyes more cloudy
and impenetrable. We sat that way for countless minutes. I was lost in
his eyes, too far gone to recall how long I stayed there. All I’ll
ever know is without the benefit of words we communicated everything
we needed to say before we said so in front of those gathered to see
us married. With my silence, I gave him a guarantee I’d never given
any man before. I held him as my heart let him know it was only
because of him I could have a future. I kissed him, reminding him of
the sacred intimacy of our love. I squeezed my tender thighs around
him, a memory of the trust he provided me as an unselfish lover. I
turned his face to our children, sealing the image of our progeny in
his mind. I fed him my love, mistakable and pure. He carried me back
into our room and gave me everything back through pleasure and
worship.

***
He left me asleep. Mama and the girls woke me holding the simple,
beautiful dress I would wear to marry him. I was only slightly
embarrassed by the condition of my love-sore body and the obvious
sex-rumpled sheets. I draped the rumbled bed sheet around me and
excused myself for another shower to remove the potent mix of our
essence from my body. A smile bent my lips at the vivid memories of
being under the spray with him. He’d held me so closely; we looked
like pups in a womb, slick and hovering together. I noted the slow
move of our bodies toward each other. The urgency had died. The
desperation had ceased. I grabbed his face to keep his lips from
leaving mine but he slid down my body. The next thing I’d felt was the
shower door pressed against my back and his fingers lacing through
mine. I couldn’t stop the flush warming my cheeks and neck when I
stepped out of the shower.

An embarrassment of a different vein grew under the widened eyes of my
daughters and mother. I’d stepped out of the bathroom in underclothes
with my hair piled on top of my head exposing the love bites on my
neck. They were glaring admissions of my post-coital pre-marriage
activities. I could only smile sheepishly at Mama. That was until
Noodle pointed to the love bites along my inner and outer thighs,
amazed. She thought I’d drawn with magic markers on myself. Belle
informed her baby sister their Daddy had drawn on Mommy, shaking her
head. There was even an oval shaped nip on the inside of my ankle. I
looked at the oval at Noodle’s insistence and gently pulled her
investigative fingers from further squeezing protesting muscles. I
shrugged and wacked Sami and Belle for not suppressing their amusement
like the rest of the self-contained group watching me stammer through
explanations to a curious Noodle.

Never was I more grateful for John’s eye for the classic then when I
touched the ivory crepe-back satin dress, a perfect light material for
a beach wedding. It flowed and slenderized; a strapless bodice with a
slightly flared bottom. They helped me into the dress and we pulled my
hair down-covering John’s love bites-with loose curls around my
shoulders. When I looked in the mirror, I couldn’t believe how
believable I looked as a bride. I kept the thought to myself and
thanked the girls and Mama for their help. We weren’t wearing shoes.
We would be in sand and to Noodle’s delight, the use for shoes proved
unnecessary.

My girls wore pale yellow strapless dresses with white ribbons
adorning their waists. In keeping with tradition and their
questionable humor, Sami gave me both of my old wedding bands,
courtesy of John. Carrie gave me her old band from Mike, my something
borrowed. For something blue, Noodle handed me a sucker that she’d
snuck past her Nana; I happily took some swipes off the lollipop
before handing the sweet treat to Mama. We were laughing; it fit with
the casualness of the day we were having.

But then Belle presented me with my charm bracelet, and I knew this
was the moment when the water works started. She clasped it around my
wrist, saying this wasn’t the old part of the tradition. The girls
each were each given a charm bracelet, courtesy of her. She handed me
two new charms for my bracelet, an ark for Noah and a nurse’s cap for
Rachel. Her gesture undid me. I had no way to stop the tears then.
When I looked at Mama, she started up, too. To each of her sisters,
Belle handed a charm of their initials, including Noodle. When we
could stand ourselves falling apart no more, Mama perked up and asked
if I had any more room on my bracelet for any more children, breaking
the spell of our tears.

It was Noodle leading the way as we left the bedroom. She’d said,
“Come Mama, marry Daddy.”

***
At just before sundown, with the orange haze of the sun reflecting off
a private beach of Oahu, Daddy took my elbow and followed the conch
shell blower, who announced my arrival blowing into the four
directions of the Earth. A beautiful hollow sound echoed across the
beach. It was a Hawaiian tradition of bringing all good thoughts,
energy, and love toward the couple getting married. Daddy led me down
the sand where my daughters had treaded before with the sand crunching
beneath our toes.

We’ve done marriage ceremonies before but I was completely
heart-struck when my eyes found John. He was standing in a vibrant
circle of yellow and red flowers in white pants and a shirt. I was
awestruck. I lost the ability to breathe, literally. I felt him pull
me into the circle of flowers, another Hawaiian tradition, and I
remembered the act of breathing by watching him do it so well. It felt
as if we were the only people in the world for the three minutes or so
that the musician played, “I’ve got the World on a String.” I felt
hypnotized eyeing him. He slid his fingers up and down the hand he’d
taken as I stepped into the circle.

Our moment was interrupted by Kahu Reverend Alalani Hill. She smiled
at us after she’d cleared her throat more than once. “Welcome, John
and Marlena.” She said as she tipped her head toward us. Rev. Hill was
a warm woman with long dark hair and caring eyes. “Welcome to your
family, seated here with us.”

I chanced a look around, knowing the affect it would have. They were
seated behind us in white chairs. Mama and Daddy held hands as Noodle
sat in Mama’s lap. Rachel, Carrie, Sami, and Belle, holding Claire
were seated respectively, while my boys sat beside them. Nicky was in
Brady’s lap. Eric held Noah. Will was at the end. I swallowed the
threat of tears and turned quickly back to look into John’s eyes. He
reached and wiped the lone tear that slid down my cheek.

“We have a traditional chant to begin our ceremonies. It’s an ancient
chant called ‘Oli Aloha,” Rev. Hill said. She spoke the words
stridently.

There was a seeking of the lost, now it is found.
A mate is found, one to share the chills of winter.
Love has made a plea that you two now become one,
here in Hawaii, is a perch, a perch in heaven. You are
to be wedded and the prayer has gone its way.

When she ended the prayer, she held two beautiful leis on the ends of
both her wrists. “The exchange of these wedding leis signifies your
open hearts and love for each other. Once you exchange these, you will
be spiritually weaving your own lei of life in this sacred circle.”
She lowered her arms toward us and we each took our leis. The
beautiful plumeria flowers were twined with purple vanda orchids.

Without words, John lifted the lei over my head and brought the
flowers down around my neck, lifting my hair as he went. I did the
same for him. Unable to resist the closeness expected in the exchange,
he kissed me swiftly when he lowered his head for me to place his lei.

“An eager groom,” Rev. Hill teased.

“You have no idea,” John told her, stealing another kiss.

I was too full to say a word. I spoke with my fingers, pressing their
weight into his hand. I feared that sobbing would overpower anything I
had to say. I worried when I would have to say our vows, if I could
handle even that much.

“As I understand, this isn’t a new marriage for you.” Rev. Hill was
rewarded with swift comments from the children. “And I see you all
must have been on this rollercoaster of love with your parents the
entire way. That is the wonderful part of love; it’s a journey.
Through the years, what matters most is not what happened on the
journey, but what you learned on that journey. I don’t have to tell
you how to be married. It’s obvious by this family and the way you
look at each other that you know what is required. What I want to say
is simple. Just remember to love.”

I absorbed Rev. Hill’s words the way I’d absorbed every person who had
ever officiated my weddings. But this time, I swore to myself, and to
John, I would remember that simple command. Remember to love.

“Your family has chosen some passages to bless and encourage this
union,” Rev. Hill said. She looked toward our children. My parents. I
touched my chest and prepared for the deluge of emotions I expected to
come with whatever my children and parents had chosen to say.
Mama and Daddy stood first. Daddy settled his eyes on me and repeated
with Mama by memory the Irish wedding blessing that had been spoken at
their wedding. Juliana stood by his side, peering up into his face in
awe.

May the road rise to meet you, May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
The rains fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of his hand.
May God be with you and bless you; May you see your children’s children.
May you be poor in misfortune,
Rich in blessings,
May you know nothing but happiness
From this day forward.
May the road rise to meet you May the wind be always at your back
May the warm rays of sun fall upon your home
And may the hand of a friend always be near.
May green be the grass you walk on, May blue be the skies above you,
May pure be the joys that surround you,
May true be the hearts that love you.

John caught the first tears that leaked down my cheek. I felt his
weight beside me, holding me up when Rachel stood next. She blew a
kiss our way and touched her heart. “Mom and John, this is called the
Blessings of the Apaches.”

Now you will feel no rain,
For each of you will be shelter to the other.
Now you will feel no cold,
For each of you will be warmth to the other.
Now there is no more loneliness for you,
For each of you will be companion to the other.
Now you are two bodies,
But there is only one life before you.
Go now to your dwelling place,
To enter into the days of your togetherness.
And may your days be good and long upon the earth.

She took her seat and watched Carrie rise next. Carrie smiled at us
and then bravely recited her passage by Khalil Gibran.

You were born together, and together you shall be forevermore.
You shall be together when white wings of death scatter your days.
Aye, you shall be together even in the silent memory of God.
But let there be spaces in your togetherness,
And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.
Love one another but make not a bond of love:
Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.
Fill each other’s cup but drink not from one cup.
Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf.
Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone,
Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music.
Give your hearts, but not into each other’s keeping.

Sami stood and clutched her protruding belly as she added the
selection called “Love is Enough” by William Morris to the loving
tribute of words.

Love is enough: though the World be a-waning,
And the woods have no voice but the voice of complaining,
Though the sky be too dark for dim eyes to discover
The gold-cups and daisies fair blooming thereunder,
Though the hills be held shadows, and the sea a dark wonder
And this day draw a veil over all deeds pass’d over,
Yet their hands shall not tremble, their feet shall not falter;
The void shall not weary, the fear shall not alter
These lips and these eyes of the loved and the lover.

Belle lifted Claire to her hip and her voiced trembled through a poem
by Pablo Neruda that she said reminded her of us.

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz, or the arrow of
carnations the fire shoots off. I love you as certain dark things are
to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms but carries in itself the
light of hidden flowers; thanks to your love a certain solid
fragrance, risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you
straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;

So I love you because I know no other way than this: Where “I ” does
not exist, nor “You”, so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

Brady and Nicky rose next. Nicky wasn’t sure of his purpose until
Brady lifted him up and allowed him to look at the piece of paper
containing his tribute. A thoughtful selection by Madeleine L’Engle.

Ultimately there comes a time when a decision must be made. Ultimately
two people who love each other must ask themselves how much they hope
for as their love grows and deepens, and how much risk they are
willing to take. It is indeed a fearful gamble. Because it is the
nature of love to create, a marriage itself is something which has to
be created. To marry is the biggest risk in human relations that a
person can take. If we commit ourselves to one person for life this is
not, as many people think, a rejection of freedom; rather it demands
the courage to move into all the risks of freedom, and the risk of
love which is permanent; into that love which is not possession, but
participation. It takes a lifetime to learn another person. When love
is not possession, but participation, then it is part of that
co-creation which is our human calling.

Eric stood last with Noah nestled peacefully against his chest. Will
also rose with a piece of paper. The two of them divided a beautiful
reading called “Desiderata” by Max Erhmann.

Go placidly amid the noise and the haste, and remember what peace
there may be in silence. As far as possible without surrender be on
good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and
listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant, they too have
their story. Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep
interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession
in the changing fortunes of time. Exercise caution in your business
affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let not this blind you
to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and
everywhere life is full of heroism. Be yourself. Especially do not
feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all
aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass. Take
kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of
youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born
of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle
with yourself. You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees
and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is
clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore, be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be. And
whatever your labors and aspirations in the noisy confusion of life,
keep peace in your soul. With all its sham, drudgery and broken
dreams; it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be

“Now, John and Marlena, you have the words and love of your family,”
Rev. Hill said when we turned back to face her, “and the promise of
this bond between you. Where are your rings?”

I looked nervously to John. I had no idea that it was Nicholas’ cue to
hop down from his brother’s lap and skip toward us in the sand.
“Nicky’s got em,” he informed Rev. Hill. He rooted around his pockets.
A box emerged. “Nicky didn’t lose em, Daddy.” He handed John the box
and looked up at me. “Nicky did good, Mommy?”

“Yes, sweet boy,” I whispered, bending to kiss him. “You did a good job.”

“Okay,” he said. “Nicky sit here and marry Daddy and Mommy.” He
commenced to sit down outside the circle with his elbows planted in
his thighs. He didn’t understand the considerable chuckling that came
from his siblings.

“Sit there and be really quiet,” John said, turning back around.
“I come,” Noodle cried out, kicking her way from Daddy’s lap to be
near her brother. “Mummy.”

Now this is what my wedding should include, I thought, beckoning
Juliana over with my finger. She scurried through the sand and sat
beside Nicky in the sand.

“Quiet,” John reminded them with a finger to his lip.

“We promise,” Nicholas assured him holding mirroring John’s pose.

Rev. Hill chuckled lightly at my two youngest children before
continuing. She took the box from John and removed rings I had never
seen. Simple bands of identical weight and width. She placed them in
her palm. “I want you to take these rings, and repeat after me.”

I took John’s ring first and held his hand as I waited for her words.
Expecting the usual marriage vows, she asked me to recite words I was
familiar with. I took a breath and looked into John’s eyes, sliding
his band over his finger as I told him, “My beloved is mine, and I am
his.”

Simple and touching, but enough breadth to express exactly what we felt.

John took my band from Rev. Hills palm and grabbed my hand. His eyes
bore firmly into mine as he said, sliding my band over my finger, “My
beloved is mine, and I am hers.”

Our mouths were drawn to each other. I wrapped my arms around his neck
and he encircled my body with his strong arms and lifted me from my
feet as we kissed with applause raining over us. The slow strain of
“At Last” pulled us out of our kiss, but I didn’t want to let him go.
I wanted to stay wrapped in the feeling pooling through me. It was a
lightening. A renewal. I didn’t feel differently. I’d never stopped
loving him. I realized a long time before now I would always love him
and seek him. And I knew he’d do the same for me. I started kissing
him again.

“Stop kissing my Mommy,” Nicky said, tapping John’s leg. When John
pulled away from me, he bent low and scooped Nicky into his arms. I
reached to grab Juliana. “We married?” Nicky asked.

“Yes, we’re married.” John said.

“Forever,” Nicky asked.

I looked at him in his father’s arms and his sister in mine. I felt
the comfort of the other children surrounding us with hugs and love. I
looked over their heads, and said softly to John. “Forever.”

~The End~