I remember tussled hair and sweat pants. Eye lashes without make up and cheeks with natural blush. I remember lazy Sundays and midnight walks. Goodnight kisses and joint good morning showers. I remember ice cream shared on a stormy night. I remember intense breathing and Scrabble on Tuesdays. Naps with our babies and “I love you” on the phone. I might have forgotten a billion tears, but I will forever remember your every smile. I have forgotten arguments that I thought would damage our relationship forever, but I still remember what I was wearing the first time we danced.
I used to be able to predict the next word that would slip through your lips. You knew that my tears would be dripping down my cheek, before I even knew that I was saddened by something. I was hardly ever surprised by your kiss, yet still every time your lips grazed mine; it felt like the first time, at the same time so wonderfully familiar. You don’t feel familiar anymore. You don’t remember our granddaughter’s baptism, or your favourite pair of running shoes. Your hand doesn’t seek mine every time we walk out a door. You take off my coat without kissing my neck. You watch me tell you goodbye without expecting me to tell you that I’ll be back.
I observe you with the same eyes I’ve seen you with for what feels like my whole, entire life. I watch your dark blue eyes follow my every move. They say that the eyes are the windows to ones soul, I used to agree. But when I look into those windows now, I don’t see the soul I’ve been sharing my life with for the past twenty years. I see the soul of a stranger. A perfect stranger wrapped up in the perfect body of my perfect husband. And I want you back.
Our daughter has your eyes; or rather she used to have your eyes. I am not so sure anymore. It might sound like an outdated cliché, but the light in your eyes truly disappeared the day you went away, and I am still waiting for it to come back. When we would bring our children to the park, people would casually remark those eyes. “Your daughter surely has her daddy’s eyes.” And I would counter with a bright smile that would confirm their observation. Yes, our daughter truly does have her father’s ocean blue eyes. I now realize that the similarities had nothing to do with colour, and everything to do with character and spirit. She shares your love for life, and your ability to love unconditionally. She even has your sense of humour. Though I wonder at times if she laughs at your bad jokes, or the way you ever so enthusiastically enlighten us with your charmingly horrible jokes.
“The little blonde one…” Do you remember? Do you remember calling her that? I want to ask you, but I fear your answer. In some ways the not knowing is much easier to cope with than the hideous truth. My mind knows that you cannot remember, still there is some small part of me that is blissfully ignorant to these new circumstances. That small part of me still looks at you and expects you to reach out and touch me places that only a husband would dare to touch his wife. But then you turn around and I remember…You’re not here.
***** ***** ***** *****
“Are you serious?…He really said yes? “ My youngest daughter replies with a mixture of something that sounds like both astonishment and pure happiness. And I can’t help but wonder how much these past few months have marked her soul. She might not be a child anymore, but she is still young, and she has experienced fare more in her short life than most people have to endure through a long lifetime. I would like to believe that her father and I have given our sons and daughters a stable and loving life these past years. But from experience I know that what our children has been through, what we all have been through, has marked our lives in more ways than we have any way of knowing.
“Yes sweetie. He said yes. He really said yes,” I hear my self replying. And I can’t help but notice that I sound just as surprised as my daughter does, and I realize the depth of our situation. Only months ago nothing could keep my husband from saying yes to my proposition. But things are different now. He’s different now.
With hands and arms packed with suitcases and bags, I nearly stumble out f the elevator, as our doorman takes a few hasty steps towards me.
“Easy there Mrs. Black, wouldn’t want you to break anything, at least not on my watch. I don’t like being sued right after Christmas.” Barnes, our very British doorman starts reloading the different sized bags from my body, and I busy my self with trying to keep from falling of my ridiculously high heels. Whatever possessed me to wear those heals in the first place? It’s not like I need to add those few extra inches to my height. But they looked nice with my chocolate brown dress. And it’s not like I’m going for a hike or anything. All I have to do is transport my self from the elevator and into the waiting car parked outside the heavy glass doors.
“Thank you Mr Barnes. I guess I over packed…again.” And the truth of my life settles inside me yet again. It’s the silly little things that remind me of the life we are leading. I am carrying my luggage alone. My luggage. Every suitcase and every bag consists of my clothing, my shoes, mybooks, my magazines, my…everything. And I start missing him again, -not that I ever stop.
“Going fare?” He asks, and I can’t help but smile at his extraordinary accent. He sounds so formal, yet warm and friendly at the same time. He has the kind of voice that makes you want to sit down and ask him to just talk. His looks remind me of a very archetypical English Butler. Not particularly tall. Rather chubby, close to balled, and with eyes that tells you that he has seen it all. And he probably has, I remind my self as images of my husband and I pressed against the elevator walls, run through my mind.
“Uhm. Yeah, we finally made time for that family vacation that we have been talking about for years.”
Mr Barnes smiles, and shows no signs of wondering questions and puzzlement as he carries my suitcases towards the door. And I feel no need to further explain our family situation. And quite frankly, it actually feels good to have someone believe that everything is just wonderful, perfect almost in the Black household.
“Well. Give my best to Mr Black and your children. And have a delightful trip.” He places the last suitcase in the car, takes of his hat and bids me farewell. My left palm rests on his upper arm as I tell him to take care and watch out for women with oversized suitcases.
I step into the waiting car, I remove my leather gloves; and with a smile I can’t seem to hide, I ask the driver to take me to the Salem airport.
“We have arrived Mrs. Black,” the driver announces, opening the car door. I can feel the cold winter air hitting my face. And as I gaze upward, I can clearly make out the first stars of night. I look toward the terminal and remember a different time with different circumstances.
“So, how do you like it so far?”
“How do I like what so far?”
“How do you like being my husband. . .so far?”
“Seeing that I already knew what I was getting myself into, I can’t complain. But ask me again when we have consummated this thing. Who knows, maybe you’re not good in bed.”
“Ohh. . .I oughtda. . . .”
Yes. Different times all together. I want them back.
My heels make sharp sounds against the hard floor as I rather swiftly make my way through the crowd. A tall, dark haired man dressed in a grey suit smiles my way, and I mechanically place him in the “patient box” in my head. I can’t remember his face, but he must have been a patient at some stage during my twenty years of practicing. Though, I begin to wonder as he drags his eyes from my face and downwards. . . .
“Mom-mom!”
That voice. Only as sweet as a child’s voice can be. And also as loud as only a small child can muster. My eyes frantically seek the source of the sweet outburst. As my eyes search through the crowd, I realize that I am somewhat nervous, it’s surprising. My stomach is in knots and my palms are clammy. Why am I nervous? He is my husband! He is the man I have been living my life with for years. He is the one I have shared my bed with for decades. And still my mouth is dry and my cheeks feel flushed.
“Mom-mom!”
As I make my way through the mass of people, a whirlwind of tussled dark curls and purple clothing comes running towards me. She maneuvers her hasty steps like a pro, though she just barely avoids crashing into suitcases and random people. I have to bite my lower lip to keep from bursting out a laugh at the desperate look from her father; whom is chasing his daughter a few feet behind. But the little one has an obvious advantage—she is indeed little.
I put one of my bags down as the small child runs into my awaiting arms. She places her head on my chest and I inhale the sweet baby smell from her curly hair as I repeatedly kiss her darling face.
“Hi mom-mom.” She pulls her face from its resting place on my chest, and smiles at me with white even teeth. Mom -mom. As independent as only a Brady-Black child can be. A while ago Belle and I tried to explain to her why Will calls me Grandma when Sami and Belle call me Mom. I told her that I was her mom’s mom and Sami`s mom, and that was what made me a grandmother. But where’s the logic in that? So Claire took matters in her own hands and started calling me mom-mom, mom`s mom, which is actually far more logical than Grandmother or Grandma.
“Hi baby,” I whisper as my lips disappear beneath the mass of dark, soft curls.
Claire wraps her small arms around my neck and presses her nose against mine, and I thank the stars for this small child, someone who has yet to be damaged by circumstances, vengeance and retribution.
“Where`s pop-pop?” She asks; her hazel eyes looking franticly behind me. Again, I remember; in our granddaughter’s eyes we are one. Pop-pop and mom-mom belong together.
“He’ll be here soon sweetie.” I whisper as I place my lips against my granddaughter’s soft cheek. How do you explain a three year old that her grandparents are having some “issues,” and that her grandfather can’t seem to remember his favourite book, or his wife’s favorite ice cream? You don’t. You don’t explain. You just pretend. And through her young eyes you live her fantasy. Your fantasy.
My son-in-law finally manages to work his way through the crowd. “I’m sorry Marlena. Looks like small people do have a definite advantage at airports.”
I can’t help but smile at his worried, yet still amused eyes. I remember seeing those eyes countless times before, the eyes of a father whom is desperately trying to keep his child from disappearing into thin air.
“Get used to it Shawn. She takes after her mother. Belle was actually perfectly content sitting on the floor, playing with her toys up until the day she learned how to walk. After that she couldn’t sit still for more than five seconds.”
“I always suspected that she was a closet wild child.” Shawn replies as he starts to gather my suitcases.
I place Claire’s tiny body on my right hip and she tightens her hold around my neck, just like her mother, and just like her pop-pop before that, always more content being as close as humanly possible. How I miss being that close. I remember telling him that whenever he had his arms wrapped around my body, I knew that no harm could possibly come our way. I suspect, on some hidden level, our granddaughter feels the same way.
********
“Hi mom!” Isabella walks towards me with a bright smile planted on her face. My smile.
“Hi baby girl. You all set?” I ask as I kiss her forehead and rest my palm on her soft cheek. She returns my smile and I wonder who she got those dimples from, those adorable dimples.
“We’re good to go. Now we just have to make sure that Claire doesn’t run off and end up on a plane to Bangladesh or something. I’m telling you mom, that girl can move faster than a speeding car. Shawn and I are seriously thinking about putting her on a leash.”
Looking at the desperate look on my daughter’s face I can’t help but laugh as I recall her father suggesting the exact same thing when Belle and Brady were small.
“Any signs of your father yet?” I enquire as my body tries to hide the rather obvious effects of nervousness.
“I`m here…”
******
“John. . . .” I whisper as my head slowly turns towards the source of the sound. All signs of nervousness long forgotten, as I listen to that all too familiar voice.
“Not too late am I?” He inquires as his intense blue orbs unite with mine.
Before I have a chance to register what is going on, my lips are resting against his warm cheek. “Thank you for coming,” I whisper; my mouth still close to his warm, inviting skin. As I pull my self away from him, my eyes rest on his face, looking for some trace of my husband, but finding little.
He looks at me. His gaze moves from my eyes to my mouth, my neck, and downwards—stopping at random places, as if he’s searching for something that lies hidden beneath the surface. I don’t understand what he’s doing, still I’m not uncomfortable.
“I like your shoes.” He remarks before walking toward my luggage.
“I know you do.” I whisper, only for my own ears to hear. I don’t know if that’s why I choose to put them on though.
I walk across the white marble floor, and can’t help but notice that we wear matching colors. His dark brown turtle neck a perfect match to my knee length wraparound dress.
My eyes move across his form; I can still feel the way his toned muscles feel against my palms. All I want to do is cross the distance between us and wrap myself around him. But I don’t. I stay perfectly still and watch him start to collect my luggage.
“So Blondie, looks like we might never come back” he remarks, desperately trying to balance the countless bags and suitcases in his arms.
“Oh stop whining. This is the perfect opportunity for you to show the world that your muscles still function.” I reply with a smile, walking toward him, patting his upper left arm. In that small fraction of a moment, everything is like it used to be.
“I help you pop-pop.” Claire walks over to her grandfather with a determined look planted on her face. She takes a hold of the handle on one of the suitcases, using all her strength to drag the case.
“Mom-mom have too much clothes.” She declares as she yanks the suitcase on the floor. The adults burst out laughing at her statement. Realizing that she must have said something funny, Claire joins in on the laughter, feeling mighty proud that she is the source of her family’s smiles.
“I’ll give you a hand with that. Why don’t you take that little pink suitcase with wheels? That one looks like it might be yours. And I’ll take care of your grandma’s clothes,” John replies, pointing to the tiny carrier that holds Claire’s toys and stuffed animals.
“OK pop-pop.” The small girl replies and runs towards her parents.
“I take this one. Huvvy mommy, I wanna fly.”
”I thought you said we had a private jet? This crowded thing doesn’t look particularly private if you ask me. Or is that little old lady my long lost stepmother, and that charming old man my uncle on my stepfather’s half sister’s side.”
Sarcastic. And I actually find it quite endearing. What is happening to me? Have I become so desperate that I find sarcastic statements charming? Baffled; I gently shake my head from side to side, trying to force my thoughts on to other matters.
“Yes John. We do have a private jet. But I let the Brady’s use it for their trip to Ireland. Bo is still not well enough to fly commercial. And I am sure that flying first class will meet your expectations,” I reply, rolling my eyes at him. I can’t help but notice the small, almost undetectable smile that adores his lips. I know he is trying to keep his appearance intact, but I know his every look better than I know my own reflection. He wouldn’t be able to hide a grin from me if he had a paper bag over his head.
Gathering my belongings, I start walking towards gate 29. Twenty Nine. Of course. You do everything in your power to store every fraction of a memory away, but find that it’s indeed impossible. No matter how far you run, there will always be a pier 29. Always a charm bracelet, and always a song.
“Here, let me help you with that.”
I feel my husband’s palm as it rests on my lower back, almost dangerously close to where he hasn’t been for what seems like forever. I want his hands. I crave his hands. Stop it. Stop anticipating. Stop dreaming. Stop wishing. Just stop.
“I’ll take these.” With what almost sounds like thoughtfulness, he starts collecting the rest of my bags, before walking to our gate.
“Hey Blondie, have we been here before?” He asks as his eyes fall upon the flashing red sign that reads “Gate 29.”
Do I dare to hope? Is he remembering something? One of our countless trips and getaways? Our honeymoon? Shared French Fries in the airport cafeteria? Our embrace when we reunited after that hideous ordeal a few years back? Our lovemaking on a grey leather couch? My cheeks feel flushed.
“What do you mean John?” I ask, almost afraid to find out if he is in fact remembering something from our past.
“Um. It’s nothing. I just…Forget it. It’s nothing.” Frustration. But I am not the frustrated one this time. His eyes are still glued to the glowing sign. He can’t seem to move his gaze. Confusion. His mind is desperately searching for answers. In that moment he looks so much like the man I first shook hands with in a disinfected hospital room somewhere in time. Sadness. He is trying to remember, I know he would decline if I called him on it. But I know. I know by heart.
He might not know me, but I know his every thought. His every feeling. He might have lost his ability to remember. I remember. I remember every kiss, every touch, every laughter and every tear. And until the moment he is able to share those memories with me, I will keep them safe.
“Yes, John. We have been here numerous times in the past.” I reply as I start walking with a quicker speed, my heels click-clacking against the solid floor. Face to face, I close the distance between my lips and his neck. And with a small voice, I whisper for only him to hear, “…and you made love to me right over there, behind those walls.”
I detach myself from him, and start walking to the gate. “Twenty nine”, I whisper to myself before turning around, facing my family.
“You coming?” I ask with a cheery voice as I turn around. Belle’s eyes lock with mine as she walks hastily towards me with a puzzled look on her face.
“Mom. What did you say to him?” She whispers as she points at her father. I can’t keep from grinning, watching my husband’s transfixed form, his face glued to a large white wall.
“Nothing for you to worry about baby girl,” I whisper with a smile before tucking a strand of blonde hair behind my daughter’s ear. “Now. Let’s go!”
“John. Are you coming?” I ask, his eyes still glued to the same spot on the great wall.
“Hm?”…What! Yes. What?”
Trying to hide the giggle that threatens to escape my lips, I turn around and walk towards him again. “John. We have to go.”
“Wait. One queston.” Pulling at my arm, he brings my body close to his. “Were we always that. . .ya know. Were we always that. . .I mean. At the airport. . .I mean. . . .” In that small moment, he looks so much like a young Brady the first time he asked me how it felt to kiss a girl.
“Yes John. We were always that. . .I mean. Yeah. I mean.” I reply matter-of-factly, mimicking his stutter. With a smirk plastered on my face, I poke my index finger in his rib.
“Now. Let`s Go!”
********
“Belle, Shawn I think your seats are over there. Ours are right here.” I reply as my daughter and her husband search for their seats. Who would have thought that finding the right seats on an airplane would prove to be quite the task?
“If this is 54 A and B. Why on earth are 53 C, D and E all the way over there? I might not remember ever being on a plane. But something tells me that this is messed up.” John replies as he picks up one of my bags and places it in the over head compartment.
“Window seat?”
“I miss our plane.” I whisper, careful so that no one can hear my voice, knowing that I sound completely snobbish. But my statement has little to do with seating and comfort, and everything to do with privacy and history.
“Window Seat? Hey, Blondie!” John’s words snap me out of my state of reminiscing, and I turn to him. “Hmm?” I ask as I remove the heavy off-white coat from my body.
“Did you wanna sit by the window?” He asks, looking somewhat annoyed.
“Geez. No need for the look” I whisper as I walk pass him and plop down in my seat.
“There is no look. Just making sure that the lady is comfortable.” He replies with a smirk.
My mind struggles between slapping the smirk off his face, or merely kissing it away.
I choose neither.
*******
****
**
*
“Hey…Blondie. You awake?”
Well I guess some things just don’t change after all, no matter how much you can’t remember. My mind flashes back to countless times when I had drifted off to sleep, only to be awoken by the hushed sound of John’s words in my ear.
“Do you know where my black blazer is? Did you lock the door? Wanna catch a movie tomorrow night.” Forever the romantic.
“What John?” I reply, refusing to open my drowsy eyes. I wrap my coat tighter around my now chilled upper body, and rearrange my legs. As I pull the coat closer to my face, I realize that it is in fact not my coat. And I breathe. Breathe in the scent that I have inhaled every day for as long as I care to remember.
“Psst. Blondie.”
I finally give into the man beside me as I warily open one of my eyes and offer him a look of annoyance. “Honey, they have turned down the lights. That means that we’re supposed to be asleep. Asleep baby. Now, close your eyes and just rest,” I whisper, not paying any attention to the terms of endearments that ever so naturally slip from my heart.
“But Marlena…”
In a state of both asleep and awake, I wrap my arm around John’s waist, my head somewhat contentedly resting on his shoulder.
“Marlena…”
“Oh my God, What?!” I reply as my head abruptly leaves its resting place on my husband’s shoulder. I open my left eye, too drained to open both of them. “What?” I ask again, my right eye struggling to get used to the barely lit room.
“I’m stuck!”
“You’re what?”
“I’m stuck on you.”
“You’re what?”
“My shoe laze is stuck on that thing on your shoe. And I had three Long Island ice teas before we went to sleep. “
I laugh, though I am barely awake. He still has the ability to be unknowingly cute. I groggily bend down and remove my shoe from my foot, as does John. He takes the shoe from my hand and starts the “shoe lace operation.”
I rest my head against my seat as I look down at my salvation from the dreaded air conditioning. I fully realize it’s not my coat. I lift my gaze from the heavy garment, and our eyes lock midair.
“Thank you.” I whisper, knowing that he understands what I am thankful for.
He rewards me with what can only be described as the most genuine smile I have seen since I removed him from that hideous laboratory.
“You looked cold.” He whispers as he places my shoe back on my small foot. His fingers and hands carefully working the shoe in its place. And I can’t help but wish that his hands would never leave.
“Hold my seat,” he utters before disappearing down the hallway.
I pull his coat closer to my face, inhaling him. Closing my eyes, my mind drifts off to other times. Other plane rides. The circumstances might be different, but the feelings are still the same.
I love him like never before.
“Honey no!” The sun kissed blonde shrieks as a dark haired man with piercing blue eyes ducks her head under the cold water. Merely seconds after being drenched in the chilled water her head reappears again. Her blonde mane a total mess, as she struggles to pull loose strands of golden hair from her clammy skin. “You’re such a brat! I would be very careful if I were you, you hear? Very, very, very careful,” her body delicately floats to his as she speaks the words.
“I’m always ready baby,” he replies as he wraps the blonde in his arms.
“I can feel that,” she whispers before letting her tongue lazily grace his wet lips.
“I love you”
“I love you.”
“Take me home.”
******
“Home…” I can hear my self whisper, and my eyes snap open as the steady aircraft makes a sudden move. And I can’t help but wonder how much of my exhilarating dream has been shared with my travel companion.
My eyes searches frantically for his, needing to find out if I have shared our joint moment in the sun with the one that can’t remember. He is resting the side of his face against the dark leather seat, his eyes transfixed on mine, and I wonder.
“What do you see when you look at me?”
My voice only a whisper. And I am scared that such an intimate questions might withdrawal him from me completely.
He doesn’t flinch, nor does he look even remotely inhibited. His lips are closed, but they still manage to form a slight smile.
I move my palms from my lap and tuck them underneath my chin. The leather feels rough against the side of my face, but still serves as a way of making sure that I am conscious, and that this isn’t yet another one of those dreams that seem to invade my mind every time I close my eyes.
“A pretty lady,” his voice such an intimate gesture that it causes tears to form in my eyes.
Pretty lady. How I long for him to call me that, though I understand why he doesn’t. Still, knowing that he is thinking it serves as some sort of comfort.
I carefully move one of my hands from underneath my chin, my thumb positioning itself on his dark eyebrow. Slowly I watch my fingers caress the small scare that adores his temple.
“You were bleeding” I whisper, as my thumb keeps tracing his warm skin.
“I watched it happen. I ran over to where your body lay lifeless on the cold asphalt. I spoke your name, but you wouldn’t answer.”
I watch him watch me. He is listening. He wants to hear.
“I told you that I love you. Over and over. I begged you not to leave. You were bleeding…”
It’s harder to breath. I move my other hand from underneath my chin, and I watch my fingers making a tight fist before touching my shivering lips. Don’t cry. But then I realize; I am not doing anything he hasn’t seen countless times before. Memory or no memory.
“Don’t cry.” He whispers as his palm caresses my cheek, his fingers catching the droplets that fall from my eyes.
“Don’t cry Blondie. I don’t think I liked seeing you cry,” he whispers as the tears keep falling. And in that small moment he is my husband again. My love. My everything.
“You used to call me that,” I tell him, offering him a slight smile. “You used to call me pretty lady.”
My hand is still resting against his face, my finger caressing his toned skin.
“I can see why,“ he replies as his gaze traces every freckle on my face. Being watched by him has never felt this intoxicating.
“Why did you love me?” He asks me, looking almost shy.
The tears are welling up in my eyes again, and I bite my lip, trying to control my emotions.
“Love you John. I love you. Not past tense, -present. Nothing can ever change that. I loved you twenty years ago, and I love you today, if possible; maybe even more so today than ever before.”
His hand is still caressing my face, and I watch his eyes follow the path of its movements. He pulls a strand of blonde hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering on my neck. I wonder if he is wondering how it feels. How it feels to be able to touch me without feeling guilty, without having to justify his every move.
“It’s ok” I whisper, not even sure if he has heard my words.
“It’s ok.”
He moves his fingers from my ear and further down my neck with something that can only be described as a painfully slow speed. I arch my neck even closer to the leather seat, giving him more access to my heated flesh. I can feel my pulse quickening, and I am positive that he can feel it against his fingers. I want his lips on my skin.
“Where we happy Blondie? Truly happy?” His hand is still caressing my neck, and he looks intently into my eyes. “The honest truth.”
Afraid that I’ll give him an answer that won’t fully satisfy his confused mind; I pause for a moment before replying. I move my hand from his face and lay it on top the palm that is resting against my neck.
“How do you feel when you’re with me?” I ask, expecting an honest reply. The man sitting in front of me might have sides to him that I do not recognize, but I believe in his honesty.
“I feel good.” His short answer bringing a smile to my face.
“You feel good?” I counter with a smile.
“Yes. It feels nice being around you. I don’t know… It’s just… Being this way, not even remembering if I have tasted what the kid calls a P&J Sandwich. Hell, I don’t even know what a P&J sandwich is! But I know that being around you feels good.”
Unable to hide my delight, I grasp his hand a little tighter in mine. “Good… Good is good.” I whisper as a single tear slides down my cheek.
“I still don’t know what the heck a P&J sandwich is though!”
I laugh at his remark and ask; “Do you still want to know if our lives together were a happy one?”
“Yes”
How can he not remember me and still look at me with such familiarity?
“You would never leave me, even for just an hour without kissing me. I would call you between patients just to tell you that I adore you. You know I can’t cook, and you love me enough not to eat whatever I tried to make in the kitchen. We never pretended, and valued honesty above all other. We never went to bed angry, and neither of us ever slept on a couch or in a guestroom. We share children and grandchildren, but most importantly; we share their lives. You love them like you love me, unconditionally. What we share is rare, and we’re smart enough to know that. There is nothing neither one of us could do that would ever put an end to us, because we have no end. So to answer your question John, -Yes. Yes, we were truly happy.”
Knowing that I am the only one with these memories; sadness me to no end. I don’t feel strong enough to do this. I am so unbelievable appreciative of the fact that he is here with me, but at the same time so painfully aware of all the ways he is not here.
“I believe you,” he whispers, his perfect face adorned in something that looks so much like love.
His lips feel soft against my skin. “No more tears.”
He withdrawals his mouth from my cheek, and carefully caresses the side of my face. “Let’s try and get some more sleep.”
He pulls his coat tighter around my body, and again brushes a lock of hair away from my forehead.
“Sweet dreams my love” I whisper before closing my eyes, finally giving into the darkness that surrounds us.
I abruptly open my heavy eyes, when a loud cough wakes me from my peaceful slumber. The bright sunrays are floating through the small windows, and my eyes struggle to adjust to the dazzling light.
“You did that on purpose” I grunt as I look over to the man sitting beside me.
“No…” he replies beaming, not even trying to hide the fact that he is lying through his teeth.
“Sure you didn’t.” I reply as I roll my eyes in his direction while I rearrange my sore body in the plane seat. Time certainly does not fly when you’re flying.
“I’m bored,” a quite voice states as he looks at me with the same fed up look Belle and Brady always gave me from the backseat when they were getting tired of our road trips.
“You’re bored? And what do you suggest I do about that?” I ask, a small smile taking over my still groggy face while memories of our shared past still floats through my mind.
“Entertain me,” he replies with a voice that almost sounds suggestive. And my thoughts drift back to times where he would surprise me at work, and bring lunch for us to share on the small couch in my office. I can feel my pulse quickening as I remember what we always ended up having for “dessert.”
“My, my Blondie, are you blushing?” he asks, his blue eyes traveling my face.
“I don’t blush…” I reply, before turning my face away from his suggestive stare.
How can someone that knows me intimately make me feel like a young school girl simply by looking at me? As I question my self, I remember experiencing this same exhilarating feeling before; the first time he made love to me.
“Entertain you?” I ask with a hushed voice, as images of our entangled bodies blur my vision. I can’t help but wonder how he would react if one of these enthralling images would travel from my mind to his. What will he do when he remembers? The thought almost frightens me. All I want is his arms around me, though I will not ask him to embrace me.
“Wh…what did you have in mind John?” I ask, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.
“I was thinking in the lines of us getting to know each other better, or rather, me getting to know you a little better. But if you have other ways in mind, I don’t think I would mind trying those either.” His facial expression has me fooled; this is not the face of a man with memory loss. This is the face of a man that knows the exact spot on my neck that makes me loose any rational thought. This is the face of the man whom makes love to me against a wall in an airport lounge.
What are we doing? When did we go from heartache and tears in a sterilized hospital room to this? I am not sure I mind though. What I do know, is that these past six hours appear more like an emotional rollercoaster than an innocent plane ride.
Our life together has always been a captivating combination of tears and laughter, anxiety and acceptance, love and hate; though we never hated each other. We both created unbearable circumstances for the other to live through, but we never did it with anything but love in our hearts. So maybe it’s a good sign that we can still go from serious to this in a blink of an eye? Maybe “us,” and the way we were is not buried so deep after all? I am hopeful. And the feeling is foreign.
Rinsing my voice, I ask him ever so ingenuously; “so, how do you suggest that we get to know each other better?”
Again, with the look of someone that knows me thoroughly, he simply counters, “by asking and answering questions.” And we are back. Back to being a man and a woman that are struggling to find their way home, and finding their way back to each other.
Telling him I find the idea appealing, I ask him if he wants to go first. He nods his head, before lowering his eyes to his hands in concentration, as if really wants to come up with the perfect question.
“OK, here goes. You ready Blondie? This is the one hundred thousand dollar question.” He adds the last few words with a wink, and I nearly choke on my drink as his innocent words slip through his lips. The one hundred thousand dollar question. Why not the ten thousand dollar question? Or the one million dollar question? Am I becoming so desperate that I find hidden meanings and hidden memories behind his every word?
“Hey, earth to Blondie! You still here?” He asks, placing his index finger on my chin, and moving my face towards his.
“Yes. Yes, sorry. I was just thinking about something.” Should I tell him? Or should I play the good doctor, and let him remember everything by himself, in his own time, and on his own terms? I don’t want to harm his recovery in any way, nor do I want to pressure him. But I doubt that by sharing a small fraction of our past, I will damage his revitalization. So I tell.
“You once donated money to share a dance with me.” I whisper; emotions from reminiscing effecting my voice. These days I can go from laughter to tears in the split of a second. I watch him gaze at me with confused eyes.
“Then I suppose you’re a good dancer”? He replies, again bringing a smile to my face.
“I don’t know about that. Or maybe you were just too much of a gentleman to complain” I reply as I shift my body’s position in my seat.
“And how much did I pay to dance with the pretty shrink?” He asks as he takes the bottle of water that is handed to him by the stewardess.
I doubt that him knowing the amount of money will damage his recovery, so I lean towards him and silently whisper in his ear; “one hundred thousand dollars…”
“One hundred…WHAT?!” he replies, his words so loud that the man sitting across from us turns his head and smiles in our direction.
“One Hundred thousand dollars?!” I can’t help but laugh at the look of utter disbelief that has taken over his entire demeanor, though I have to admit that his act from our past must sound rather extreme.
“I must have really wanted that dance…” He states as he takes my hand in his and gently clutches my small hand in his larger one. I can feel what my granddaughter describes as “butterflies” moving around with a hasty speed in my stomach.
“I guess you did,” I reply softly, as I watch our fingers entwine.
I have missed our hands locked together like this. It might sound pathetic, surreal even; but I always felt such a sense of empowerment when his hand would grasp mine, like an unbreakable bond. I guess I didn’t know then what I know now. Bonds do break. Lives are torn apart.
“Do I get a discount if I ask you to dance when we get to wherever you’re taking us?” His question brings me back to reality and as his sincere blue eyes searches any trace of discomfort on my face. I am still not used to it. Still not used to seeing this look on my husband’s face, the look that tells me that he fears my reaction. For the most part, I can still read him like the back of my hand, but for him; it’s different. He has no memory of ever asking me to dance, or even reaching for my hand as we walk out a door. Every memory that I have of the two of us together is yet another confirmation of how little he does not remember. I ache for him. I ache for the frustration I know he is carrying. The ache he is still somewhat reluctant to let me help him with.
“I’ll do it for free.” I reply as I lift our joint hands to my lips and kiss the top of his palm, before adding with a glee; “…dance with you that is!”
“So, you’re the generous type.” He states with a bright smile before asking me if I am ready for more questions, and his ongoing project of getting to know me better.
“What is the one thing you want me to know about the two of us as a couple?”
He looks comfortable, which warms my heart. All I want is for him to feel at ease.
“We loved each other from the first time we shook hands. We haven’t always been together, but we were never really apart either. We have both been with other people; but you always had my heart, and I always had yours. We have been separated more times then you can ever imagine, but we have always found our way back to each other. So if there is one thing I would want you to know about us, it would be that no matter what, no matter how; we will always find our way back.”
Much to my surprise, I don’t feel bitter or alone when I share these thoughts with him, I am not sure I understand why though.
His voice is only a soft whisper when he looks at me and say; “I loved you when I fathered someone else’s child.” His words do not sound like a question, more like a testimonial. And for a short time he seems lost in time. Where does he go when that look travels his features? “I loved you…” he repeats. The words seem to bring him out of his state of not physically being present, and his eyes are searching my face again. “… I loved you …”
“Yes.”
“You loved me. “ Emotions cloud my voice as our eyes lock yet again. I grasp his hand in mine, as my leg brushes against his.
He holds his breath for a minute, before emptying his soul in my hands.
“My mind is like a pitch black winter’s night. I hold my palm in front of my eyes, but I can’t see it. I try to walk, but I don’t know where I’m going. I’m looking for something, someone; but I don’t know where to find them. I know they’re here, but I can’t see them.”
He does not expect me to understand, yet I do. I have walked those same streets in that dark night. I have felt what he is feeling. I am feeling what he is feeling. I never realized how comparable our pain is. We are both searching, both trying to find our way in the dark.
“I don’t remember marrying you. I don’t remember you giving birth to our child. I have no memory of ever waking up with you in my arms, or falling asleep with you in our bed. I don’t know how it feels to celebrate a birthday, or watching our children getting married. The first time I held our granddaughter after the accident, it truly felt like the first time. I had no memory of ever holding her before.”
My heart is breaking for the man in front of me. What he does not realize though; is that for every breath he is taking he becomes more and more the man that he truly is. My palm finds his tanned skin, and I let my fingers caress his face.
“…But I don’t think I have forgotten how it feels to love you.”
The moment those few words slip through his lips, I can feel my breath being forced out of my body. Though, I am not sure I fully understand what his words imply.
“I don’t remember one second of our lives together Marlena, but I can feel our past. I feel you…in here.” As the last two words floats from his mouth to my ears, he places our joint hands on his chest, before he softly whispers “… I feel you here.”
Before my mind has any way of registering what is happening, my body falls into his arms.
“I love you.” I whisper with my face resting on his shoulder. I can feel the soft fabric of his shirt being damped by my tears.
“ I know you do…” he replies as his hands wrap them selves around my upper body. His lips graze the top of my head, and I can feel him breathing in the scent of my hair. Without breaking the physical closeness of our bodies, I move my head from its resting place on his shoulder, my chin arches as my eyes seek out his blue orbs.
“Thank you.” I whisper before planting a kiss somewhere between his lips and his chin. My face again positions itself below his neck, and I can feel his arms tighten around me, pulling me even closer against his warm body.
He is coming back to me.
I can feel his palm resting on my lower back as we slowly make our way through the mass of impatient travelers. How can his touch feel so wonderfully familiar when he himself is so incredible different from the man I married? As I focus on putting one foot in front of the other in the crowded area, I fail to notice that the man walking in front of me has come to a sudden halt. I can feel my body crashing into his back, and before I have the chance to register what is going on; John has wrapped his arms around my waist, preventing my fall.
“Are you falling for me,” he whispers in my ear, his breath tickling the back of my neck. His voice is a playful mixture of amusement and truth. I have heard that line before, but in my astounded state I can’t for the life of me figure out where or when it was said it to me.
He uses his grip around my waist to help me regain my footing, and with my body still resting in his embrace, I am able to locate my composure and turn my head towards him.
“Who knows…” I whisper with an innocent smile before I hesitantly start moving from his arms.
As we slowly make our way through the crowd, I can feel his palm again finding its resting place on my lower back. I remove my left hand from my coat pocket and without consideration, and ever so naturally I lock my fingers in his hand which is resting on my coat covered back. I can feel him grasping my palm, before using his fingertips to caress my pinkie finger. He moves his touch over my skin and his hand caresses the golden wedding band that he put on my finger not so long ago. I can feel tears burning my eyes, as a voice from our past echoes through my mind. With this ring I thee wed.
I never removed my rings after he died in my arms in a cold hospital room, not even after he came back as someone that didn’t even resemble my husband. Circumstances demanded that I removed it a short while after we got married over twenty years ago. So when he put that golden band on my finger again, I swore that I would never take it off. Memory or no memory; my heart and soul belong to him, and the circle surrounding my finger is a symbol of that undying love and devotion.
With our hands locked together behind my back, we slowly make our way through the crowd. I want to tell him that I love him. I want to share his kiss. I want to wrap my arms around his neck and never let him go. I do nothing. But as I look over my shoulder and smile at him, he smiles back at me. And that’s enough, for now.
**********
“Why don’t the two of you bring Claire to the hotel? Blondie and I will stay here and wait for the rest of your luggage.” John walks towards our granddaughter who is resting her small body in her father’s arms. His large hand caresses her dark tresses as he watches her the same way he did the first time he held her in his arms. I remember when he first told me that she had my eyes. She still does. But she looks more like John now than she does me. I love that. All of our children, biological or not; are light-colored. I love the fact that we now have one that shares his darker appearance. And who also seem to share my husbands love for life.
“Are you sure you’re OK with that? We don’t mind waiting. And besides, Claire is fine. Isn’t she Shawn?” Belle crosses the distance between her self and her husband before petting her daughter’s cheek to make sure that she is resting comfortably.
“No. Sweetie, you and Shawn should take your daughter to the hotel. Daddy and I will get the rest of our suitcases. And besides, this looks like it could take a while.” I reply as my eyes travel around the crowded airport lounge.
“You sure you don’t mind?” Shawn asks as he starts to gather some of Belle’s belongings, careful not to wake the sleeping child in his arms.
“We’re sure. We’re sure. Now go!” I state as I hand Belles bag to her.
“You have the address right?” They both nod in our direction before they start walking towards the entrance.
With one last thank you and promises of calling each other in the morning and scheduling a joint breakfast; they are out the door.
“Alone at last,” I can her John mutter as he struggles to find a free spot in the jam-packed lounge. I can’t help but laugh as he cautiously places his left leg in between suitcases and strollers.
“Sure.” I counter between giggles as I start walking towards one of my bright red suitcases that has just appears in the distance.
“I’ll get that.” John says as he struggles to make his way through the mass of people.
“My hero!” I reply with a little more than a hint of sarcasm as he makes his way towards my suitcase.
*********
The car comes to a sudden halt and my head rapidly moves itself from its resting place on my husbands shoulder. “You fell asleep.” He states as he removes a strand of blonde hair from my drained features. “I suppose I did.” I whisper, as my eyes struggle to get use to the hotel lights which are forcing its way through the dark night and into the car windows. It’s close to midnight, and I can tell by my body’s exhaustion that we’ve been traveling for hours.
Our driver opens the door and John steps out of the large black vehicle. After planting both his feet safely on the ground, he reaches his hand out for me to grasp as I remove my worn out body from the black leather seat. Two tall, dark haired men clad in black suits and crisp white shirts are walking hastily towards us, looking a combination of importance and diligent. Before my mind has had the chance to register who the suit clad men are they have started collecting our infinite number of bags and suitcases. And I secretly appreciate them for not striking up a conversation. I feel somewhat rude for having such thoughts, but somehow the idea of a comfortable bed seems fare more appealing than having a conversation in a language that I am fare from fluent in.
As we walk through the striking looking lobby, my mind can’t help but long for days when we would sneak off to some hidden paradise for a few stolen days of just being us. I feel unfair for again being drawn in by our past, but I can’t seem to help it.
”Buona sera,” a lively looking woman; most likely in her fifties greats us in the lobby as we slowly make our way to the check in point. We must look worn out, because she simply passes John the key, and with a dazzling smile; bids us goodnight.
My arm locks itself in Johns as the elevator door closes. He turns his head and looks down at me. My heals have long ago been removed, and when I am standing there in my wrinkled wrap around dress and flip flops, I feel so much like a young girl in love, and can’t help but wonder if he shares my thoughts. It’s a new feeling. Doubting my own husband’s feelings is a new feeling, and something I have never done before. And I am again reminded of how intricate our situation is. We have had our share of problems in the past; I will be the first to attest to that. But no matter how loud we screamed at each other, not matter how many tears we both cried, our fights always ended with I love you. I never knew how much I appreciate having him say those words until he stopped. Three small words, yet such a meaningful phrase.
I want him to remember. I want him to recall every moment we have spent together. I want him to remember loving his family, loving our life and loving me. But as days go by, I am not sure that will ever happen. I have tried everything in my power to bring back the man I married, the father of our children and the man I have know for so many years, but he is still not here. And on some hidden level in my mind, I have doubts that my John will ever reappear. I am not loosing faith, nor have I given up on him. But my profession makes it difficult for me not to consider the fact that the “old” John might very well be gone forever.
The elevator signals that we have reached the top floor, and again I feel his hand on my lower back. I silently wonder if it’s a simple reflex; his body recognizing something he has done his entire life, or if his touch has some hidden meaning behind it. I don’t know which one I prefer. Him touching me because he truly wants to, or his body remembering something his mind can’t.
***********
We walk without sharing a word, and I appreciate the fact that the comfortable silence that always existed between us still lives. John comments on the beauty of the hotel and I reply with a tired, yet heartfelt smile that I am glad he likes it. As we enter our penthouse hotel suit, a hushed gasp escape my lips as I take in the sheer beauty of it all.
“Beautiful,” I utter as we examine the premises with my arm still locked in his. I slowly unhook my self from him and walk towards the French balcony doors. I can feel my breath being sucked out of my lungs as I gaze out on the fair city lights that are dancing in front of us.
“We always wanted to come here,” I state as I feel his presence behind me. I slowly open the large glass doors and let the light breeze leisurely enter the room.
“Why didn’t we?” He asks as he moves even closer to me, but still without our bodies touching.
“I don’t know,” I whisper as my eyes trace the brilliant lights below us.
I can feel his hot breath mingle with the gentle wind, and I want him. In that short moment wanting him has nothing to do with our mutual past or the way we used to be. I want him for the man he is now, and for whom he is turning into.
“Would you turn around?” His voice is meanly a whisper and if weren’t so physically close at that moment, it would have bee impossible to hear the hushed sound of his voice. As his words echoes through my mind, my body leisurely turns itself towards him. I am almost afraid to look up. Afraid of what I know will happen if I do. I can feel his hand lifting my chin upwards, and I close my eyes. With the breeze softly flying through my hair, he gently places his other arm around my waist, and I slowly move my body closer to his.
“Open you eyes,” I hear him speak, and our surroundings reappear in front of me, I see nothing, though I still see him. For the first time in months; I see him. I don’t see the man I married. I don’t see the amnesiac from twenty years ago. I don’t see him on our wedding day. I don’t see the father of my child. I see him. And that’s enough.
His eyes are searching, and when he finds me, I’m lost, lost in the sensation that only he and I can bring. His fingers are still caressing my face, and his arm is still holding my body close to his. I move even closer. His breath tickles my nose, and I smile.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispers; his nose merely touching mine. I lift my arms and let them drape around his waist. My cheek is resting against his, as my lips caress his warm skin. I can feel his scent inviting my body as I kiss his neck. He loosens his grip around my waist and creates a short distance between us. I wonder if he recognizes the look on my face the way I recognize his. His hands make their way up my body, and I shiver as I feel the inside of his palms caressing the soft material of my clothing. His hands reach the neckline of my dress and his fingers slowly touches the naked skin resting underneath the dark material. I can feel my breath quickening as his face travels closer to mine, and I cry. I cry for every heart wrenching moment we have experienced these last few months, and every moment we let slip away, time we should have spent loving each other.
“Don’t cry Blondie,” he whispers with a quiet voice before his lips grazes my drenched cheek. My arms enfold themselves around his neck and our bodies melt together in a wave of both wretchedness and reinforcement. His mouth makes a trail of kisses from my jawbone to my eyes, and ends its journey on the tip of my nose.
“You must be exhausted,” he quietly states as he wraps his arm around my waist, and together we walk away from the French patio doors. Our moment is lost; and I realize that I am disappointed. His hands disappear from my body; I yearn for them. His kisses leave my skin, and I miss them.
“Why don’t you go get changed, and I’ll turn down the bed?” He smiles as he crosses the floor, and just like that; his presence is gone from the room. I enter the master bathroom and I am again struck by the pure beauty of our surroundings. I swiftly discard my clothing and change into a short purple nightgown. I run my hands through my hair and leave the room, too worn out to even consider taking a shower.
When I enter the master bedroom John is nowhere in sight, but I hear the shower running in the distance. I tiptoe on my bare feet towards the large windows and again loose my self in the bright lights of the city. I rest my head on the window frame and cross my arms over my chest to keep the cold air from invading my body.
I am forced back to reality when I hear my name being called from across the room. I have slowly gotten used to my new nick name, and to be quite honest, I rather like it. Though I wonder if it is in fact the man or the nick name I adore more.
“Aren’t you cold?” He asks as he starts walking over to where I am standing with my back facing him. I finally turn around and my eyes seek his face in the barely lit room.
Mad physical attraction. His words from the past echoes in my ears as I watch him walking towards me. I can feel my barely clad body reacting to his presence, and I secretly wish that he won’t notice the affect he has on me.
“You really shouldn’t stand by the open window dressed like that. You might catch a cold.” he says without really looking at me, and I can’t help but wonder where his sudden change of character came from?
“I’m just fine John,” I reply with a small smile as I struggle to make eye contact with him.
“Are you OK? I ask when he turns his body towards the window. He is resting his bare arms against the window frame. I watch him detach him self from me, and I wonder how it is possible to go from the way we were just moments ago to this in a blink of an eye?
“John, talk to me. Is everything all right?” I ask again as my arms place them selves on his naked back. I watch Goosebumps appear on his skin, but his body’s reaction doesn’t surprise me. I have watched him react to my touch for decades. It’s a known fact, an appreciated fact, but a known fact none the less.
“Marlena, please…” I hear him whisper in desperation as he moves out of my reach. His naked feet hardly make a sound as he crosses the floor and walks over to one of his suitcases and rapidly starts searching for something. I am left standing by the window with a look of utter confusion on my face. What just happened?
“Talk to me!” I declare a little louder than I intended as I quickly walk towards him. We are way pass silent treatments and going to bed with dark clouds hanging over our heads. I cannot for the life of me define our current relationship, but I refuse to have him break promises that we made together simply because he can’t remember. As my thoughts progress in my mind, I realize that I am being completely unreasonable. But still, I need for us to talk, and for him to share his sudden change of behavior with me.
“Will you please just look at me.” I ask with a voice much calmer than my irrational outburst just seconds ago. “Please…” I whisper and I feel tears burning my eyes.
“I don’t trust my self around you.”
I listen to him speak and all of a sudden every puzzles reaches its rightful place.
“I know.” I whisper as I walk closer to him, my palm resting on his shoulder. “I know you don’t.”
I watch him turn his face towards me, and gradually his body follows. I don’t know what to tell him; all I know is that I need for him to realize that I recognize and understand his emotions.
My palm is still resting on his upper arm. His eyes follow every movement of my hand, and finally his gaze seeks out my face. We stay that way as he listens intently to the words escaping my mouth.
“You used to give me charms.” I whisper as I try to overpower the emotions clouding my voice. I watch a look of bewilderment fall upon his face, to keep him from asking any further question born out of confusion, I continue.
“Years ago you gave me a charm bracelet for Christmas, and that bracelet has always held a very special place in our hearts. For every special occasion we have experienced together, you would give me a charm that signified that special moment. When we celebrated our third anniversary, you gave me one charm for every year we had been husband and wife. You gave me the sun, the moon and the stars. And as you were explaining the meaning behind those three symbols, I remember you telling me that I was your centre, your anchor and that you were drawn to me like the tides no matter where you go.”
As those last few words slip through my lips, I realize that those few, small words signify what we have been to each other for all these years. It doesn’t matter where we go, or what might happen as we go along. I am his center, his anchor, and he is mine. No matter how fare apart we are, no matter how many memories lost; we will always be drawn to each other.
I open my eyes and watch him gaze at me intently. And I realize; he’s still here. I haven’t seen him in those eyes for months. If it is me watching him from a different perspective or him changing; I cannot tell.
I watch him lift his palms, before gently placing them on my face. He takes one more step and moves his body closer to mine. I can feel his naked skin grazing mine, and as the sensation runs through my body, I realize just how much I have yearned for him these last few months. He runs his hands down my face and neck before he gently embraces me. I have never felt so small, yet empowered in my entire life.
“Thank you” he speaks into my neck, and I can feel him breathing in the sent of my hair.
I wrap my arms around his back and pull him even closer to me.
Long minutes pass before he starts speaking again.
“There are so many things I don’t understand about the John that you have told me about, your John, your husband. I don’t feel him in me. I don’t recognize his feelings, and that scares me to death! When you introduced me to my family, our children; I felt nothing! And in that moment I wanted to die. I saw no purpose in living a life surrounded by people I knew nothing about. People that kept telling me that I loved them and cared for them, but whom I had no memory of sharing my life with.”
For the first time in what seems like forever I watch tears fall from his eyes. I lean forward and kiss his cheek. I feel the hot, salty liquid on my lips, and memories and images of weddings, funerals and child births run through my head.
“Your face, your voice and your body is the only thing I feel any real connection to. Your eyes, your hands and your words are my first memories.”
It feels like I have just been struck by lightening. I have heard those words countless times before. In-between heavy breaths in our bedroom, in-between angry words in heated discussions, and even whispered between hushed breaths when he thought I had fallen asleep.
“I long for you without knowing what I long for Marlena. I miss you without having memories of what I should miss. And I can’t understand that!”
The last few words are being forced out through clenched teeth. He looks so hurt, so desperate and so incredible vulnerable. I embrace him and hold his shivering body close to mine. I can feel the light breeze caressing the thin material of my nightgown as is flows around my upper thighs.
…” Kiss me …” I can hear my self whisper as I press my body even closer to his.
I feel his hands loosen their grip on me, and before I have the chance to register what is going on; his blue eyes emerge in front of me. He smiles, and I can hear the sound of my heart beating. His fingers begin to repeatedly draw an odd pattern against my bare skin. For some indescribable reason this movement seems to calm my nerves, and allows me to ease back into the feeling that has always surrounded us when we have been together like this. I watch his eyes looking for some trace of regret or even doubt in my eyes. He won’t find any.
“It’s okay,” I whisper, cupping his face in my hand. My fingers trace the small scar that still marks one of his eye brows. “It’s ok,” I say repeatedly, my voice merely a whisper.
His lips brush against mine, and the instant sensation causes my hands to wrap them selves around his neck. A deep sigh of satisfaction escapes me as his tongue runs slowly over my upper lip. He’s being cautious, hesitant even. He’s still somewhat indecisive. So I encourage him again. My hands move gently over his body, from his waist to his chest, before ending their journey around his neck.
His fingers are caressing my face. I can feel them trembling slightly. I cup my hand over his fingers and gently press his palm against my cheek. Our eyes lock, and my gaze reassures him. He moves his face closer to mine, and his hot breath tickles my face. My eyes are closed and I can feel my lips instinctively being drawn to his mouth again.
Our lips began to move together in familiarity. My heart rate escalates the way it always does when we are together like this. Parting my lips, he enters my mouth and I caress his tongue with my own. I take a breath and gasp as he captures my bottom lip. His teeth gently nibble on it, causing a wave of pleasure to flow through my body.
Where we ever apart? In this small moment; neither past nor future exist. It’s just us, him, me and this moment that we are creating together.
We slowly pull apart and a few heavy breaths escape my lips before I am truly able to realize what just happened. I watch him tuck a strand of loose hair behind my ear and I smile at his tenderness. He doesn’t say anything, nor do I, there is simply no need for words.
My hand finds his and together we walk towards the large bed. He pulls away the covers and helps me rearrange the large amount of pillows before joining me. Hi pulls the covers over his body while he watches me getting comfortable between the soft fabrics. The room is dark, but I can still make out his features. He moves closer to me, his arms pulling my body against his. I rest my head on his naked chest and I wonder if being next to him always felt this intoxicating?
“Sweet Dreams Blondie” he whispers as I turn my face towards his. “Good nigh John” I counter, my lips grazing his as I say his name in the dark.
I recall being a young girl, unfamiliar with life and pain. I wonder how I was like back then. Back when heartache and sorrow hadn’t been a part of my experience with living. She feels so foreign to me now, that girl with innocent eyes and impossible ideas. We all walk through our childhood carrying images of how we wish our lives will eventually turn out. My imaginary scrapbook was filled with pictures of smiling children, white houses, apple trees, cats and dogs, lunch boxes and school bags. Images of a man and a woman wrapped in each others arms unaffected by life and sadness. I never imagined tears and harsh words. We never dream and wish for sorrow. When your sleep gives you beautiful dreams you choose to remember them. When you wake up form a night mare you choose to forget.
What do you want to be when you grow up? My answer was constant. A doctor. That has been my answer for as long as I can remember. My parents took so much pride in that small word. And eventually I learned to be proud of my reply as well. I have always felt good about my choice in profession, though I haven’t always felt good about my achievements. There are times when even a shrink gets tired of hearing her own voice when trying to make sense of senseless situations. I still question my capabilities and ability to heal. I have days when all I want to do is gather our family photos and walk out my office door without looking back. I have moments where I can no longer remember why I even bother. Did I do that before my children? For some remarkable reason I questioned my self less when I was still new in the field. I felt more confident in my conclusions, more convinced in my replies. Why, I don’t know.
I have watched my daughters outgrow their pink dresses; my sons outrun their soccer shoes. I have carried them close to my heart and watched them fight their way out of my embrace. I have told bed time stories, and eventually watched them tuck their own babies to sleep. I have taught them everything I think they should know, and shielded them from what I fear will harm their souls. And as they grow, I grow with them. As they learn, I learn the same lessons. They will go right where we went wrong. They will live what we were afraid to experience.
_________________
My body aches, and I have to mentally scratch my head to remember the reason. I feel his presence. I feel his palm resting on my stomach as his left arm cradles my body closer to his warmth. We used to sleep like this. I remember old conversations about sleeping habits with Kayla and Hope. I recall having to justify our sleeping arrangements. It appears that it’s not “normal” to sleep in your lovers arms the night through. Books, as well as my closest friends claim that most people fight their way out of their lovers’ arms during the night. Apparently it has something to do with personal space and feeling smothered. I feel smothered when I don’t have his arms around me, suffocated by my own thoughts and countless images that are floating around in my head.
Though, after sleeping alone for so long, my body seems to need some getting used to being tangled with a second set of arms and legs. I move my leg as careful as I can muster from being trapped in between John’s thighs. His body stirs and he pulls me even closer to his naked chest.
Would he do this if his confused thoughts were present in the room? Would his body look for comfort in me? Sadly, I anticipate a negative answer to my questions. This feels wrong, though so right in every way. I don’t want his oblivious, sleeping form to take comfort in my closeness. I want him to fold his arms around me while actually knowing what he’s doing. I need to know that I’m in his embrace because he wants me to be there, and not just because his body is doing something it has done for decades. I don’t want to be loved by reflex. So I wake him.
Had our lives been ordinary, I would have woken him up with kisses and caresses, I don’t do that anymore. I whisper his name against his skin, and I watch him stir in his sleep. He has never been a heavy sleeper. I remember him literally shaking me from my sleep when the twins, Carrie, Belle or Brady acquired their mother’s presence. His eyes flutter open and his confusion is suddenly present in our joint bed. “What?” he mumbles, his voice heavily affected by resting for hours. I untangle arms and legs from his body and move further away from him.
“Something wrong?” he asks, and I watch him struggle to get used to actually being aware. I rest my hands underneath the pillows as my face places it self in the soft fabrics. “What time is it?” He turns around looking for the alarm clock, and I can’t help but wish that it’s my husband, and not this John that is looking for the sharp green light that used to irritate my eyes in our penthouse.
“It’s not there John” I tell him, signalling the clocks` lack of presence.
“Marlena, it’s still dark outside,” he whispers as his eyes threaten to give in to the darkness surrounding us. “Come closer and let’s go back to sleep.” He mumbles as my body disappears in his embrace. It shouldn’t be this easy. Being welcomed back in his arms shouldn’t be this easy. I can feel his lips being placed against my neck as his palm returns to its resting place on my stomach.
“I’m hot.” I utter between heavy breaths.
“I know you are” he replies between a few short breathy chuckles.
“No! I didn’t mean…John, no. I mean, I’m warm. It’s too warm in here.” Again I untangle my self from him and move to the fare end of our bed. I watch a look of confusion fall upon his face as his hand places it self on his neck. My husband used to do that. He placed his hand on his neck and told me I was giving him grey hairs. I can feel a small smile form on my lips, as he asks me to indulge him in my lack of consistency.
“I’m just warm.” I can hear my self speak, realizing that I sound far from convincing.
“You’re warm?” His eye brow is itching to travel north and I can’t help but root for it to do so. I need some sign that my John still lives in this creature I am so afraid of being charmed by.
“Do you want me to open a window? Turn the air condition on? Get a lighter blanket? Draw you a cold bath? Get a fan? Blondie, I need some help here. I lost my memory; I can’t remember what women want when they are hot…I mean warm.” He’s being cute; I’ve missed him being cute with me.
“It’s not the heat John. It’s us! Last night before we went to bed, you told me that you didn’t trust yourself around me; or rather you didn’t trust what your hands or any other parts of your body would do when you were close to me. But don’t you think that feeling is at least a little bit mutual? I look at you and I remember everything. You say and do things that my body can’t react to the way it normally would. When your hand is caressing my hair I have to force my self not to kiss you. You touch me and all I want to do is drag you to our bed and ask you to undress me. I can’t be with you like this John. Don’t you see? It’s just too damn painful.” My arms travel back and forth to emphasize the words that are floating through my lips.
“You’re just as messed up as I am,” I hear him say. My mind struggles to decide whether I should slap him or kiss him. “I told you…” I respond as I lower my eyes to the mattress.
“You’re a much prettier mess though.” He shifts his body closer without taking his eyes off my features. He uses his hands to lift my gaze and I feel moisture on my face when he looks at me. “You need to tell me these things Marlena.” He whispers as his hands travel my skin. I feel tears disappearing from my cheeks and I watch them wet his fingers.
“It’s too painful. Embarrassing even.”
“What’s embarrassing? Telling me that you love your husband? Showing me that we used to be happy together? I need for you to talk to me, for you to give me a reason to fight to get back.”
“What the hell do you think I’ve been doing all this time John?! I have done nothing but told you about all the happy memories we have created together. But you keep telling me time and time again that that you’re not that man anymore. You keep saying that you’re different now, and that I should get used to the man you are now. So why in God’s name should I keep telling you things that you clearly feel like you will never remember?” My voice is loud and I realize that I sound irrational. But it’s late and I’m tired. Tired of fighting, tired of having to justify my every move, my every word.
We’re close, physically that is. His hands are still touching my skin and his eyes are searching for answers on my face, I know he won’t find any.
“I don’t want you to tell me Marlena.” He whispers and I can feel his words literally causing a sharp pain in my chest. I abruptly move my body from the bed as I try to swallow the lump that is threatening to steel my breath away. Before I have the chance to reach my unknown destination, I feel his arms wrapping them selves around my waist. He presses his body close to mine and I resist. My arms and legs are fighting him, fighting my heart.
“Leave me be.” I whisper between trying to catch my breath and fighting to remain standing. “I can’t do this! I can’t live like this. Let me go.” Tears and emotions affect my voice, and even I have difficulties understanding the words that are seeping through my lips.
Something shifts. I don’t have the strength to fight him anymore. I feel my self being lifted in his arms, and I hide my face in the safety of his warmth. I feel my skin being caressed by the soft material of the mattress as he gently lets my body go. We’ve been like this countless times before. His hands are touching my cheeks and he looks at me with the same eyes that have adored my entire being for so long.
“Are you still warm?” He whispers as his finger traces an invisible pattern on my skin. I can feel my head signalling a positive answer to his question. His hands are gripping the hemline of my night gown and I feel the fabric disappearing from my body. His lips are feather light against my skin, so much so that I don’t even know if they have touched me yet.
Why is he doing this? I don’t want to be made love to merely because he can’t stand to see me in pain.
“I need to feel you. I need to know that these feelings I am having for you isn’t just my body reacting to your beauty. I can’t get away from you Marlena. I can’t turn you off in my head, god knows I have tried! It’s not supposed to be like this. I wasn’t supposed to feel. I am sure of that. I am supposed to be cold, to be without emotions.”
I watch him emptying his soul in front of me, and I ache for him. I lift my hands and bring him closer to my naked body. I melt into the feeling of being like this with him again; I never expected that I would. His lips seek out mine in the darkness and I let my bottom lip being drawn into his mouth. He lowers his entire weight on me and uses both his arms to lift me closer to his chest. The feeling of our naked flesh pressed up against each other is exhilarating.
“It is supposed to be like this John.” My reply to his statements barely a whisper in the dark.
“No one will break this. This is how it has always been, how it will always be. Don’t have doubts. Just feel…”
Our lips collide in the night, and I feel my entire being come alive as he caresses parts of my body I never thought would feel his touch again. A soft moan escapes me as his tongue touches my breasts. He removes the last peaces of our clothing and pulls me even closer to his skin. Our panting grows heavier as our tongues struggle to overpower each other. My hands draw his mouth closer as our kisses prolong. I wrap my legs around his back as he inches closer to my middle.
“I need you”
I don’t know who voiced the words first; all I know is that I finally feel at peace. He moves in me, and I struggle to escape the feeling of letting go. Sweet words are being whispered to me as we bring each other closer to the edge.
“You feel as good as you look” he utters between breaths, a large grin plastered on his wet lips. I can’t help but giggle at his corny comment.
“It’s not like you can compare me to anyone. You haven’t had anyone else.” I breathlessly reply as the chuckles keep continuing.
“Well, that’s true.” I hear him counter before capturing my lips with his own again. He is still moving inside of me, almost at a painful slow speed. I wrap my legs tighter around his torso to invite him even closer. His breath quickens, as does our speed.
“Beautiful…” the word travels through my head. He must have said something more, but I can’t concentrate. The way his breath keep tickling my skin, his constants kisses, the way he is touching every part of my body and his palm moving between our bodies is causing me to feel alive in a way I never thought I would experience again.
Our bodies keep moving together as I bite my lip, trying to control the moans that are escaping my mouth. I hear my name being repeated time and time again before his strong hands cradle my body so close that I feel my breath being sucked out of my chest.
“Deeper…” I breathe as my open mouth places it self against his neck.
“Marlena…Marlena…” It’s sexy, so sexy.
And we’re gone. My lower back is lifted from the bed as he presses my lower body even closer to his.
We’re emptied, though I have never felt more filled.
He stays in me, and I appreciate it.
“Don’t leave me” I whisper, my words holding a deeper meaning than those small words can express.
He understands.
“Never” he replies as his lips rest against my warm mouth.
Never.
The Jarlena Journal 