Disclaimer: I do not own Passions, its characters, or its locations. They belong to James E. Reilly and NBC.
A/N: This story takes place sometime during the summer of 2005, though presumably not during the tsunami.
PENANCE
Gwen and I don't sleep very well anymore. We've tried everything – top-of-the-line mattresses guaranteeing a good night's sleep, special pillows promising to have us fast asleep as soon as we lie our heads down, even sleeping pills. Nothing works.
I mentioned our problem to my mother one day in passing. She just smiled at me and told me it came with being a parent. Then she went to go fuss over Jane while I mulled over her statement.
In a way, she's right. If Gwen and I were to pin down one thing and one thing only as the cause of our insomnia, parenthood would definitely be it. Only, it's not exactly the way my mother thinks. Not that Gwen and I don't worry about Jane at night, because we do, a lot. Jane just isn't the main thing that prevents us from sleeping.
At night, my wife dreams. I wish that I could say that they're happy dreams, full of flowers and butterflies and rainbows, but they're not. They're nightmares, in which she is forced to relive the loss of our children night after night after night. She'll cry out their names, begging Sarah and Nathan and Ashley to come back to her, to come back and rest peacefully in the safety of her arms.
They never do.
Tonight, she dreams about Nathan. Gwen tosses and turns beside me, her cries for her little lost boy punctuated by strangled sobs that tear my heart into a thousand pieces. I wrap my arms around her, whispering softly in her ear, trying to get her to calm down. I'd tell her that everything will be all right, but that would be a lie.
I would give anything to bring back Sarah and Nathan for her. After Gwen has quieted down a bit, sleeping somewhat tranquilly before the next nightmare hits her, I think of all of the things that I could have done to prevent our children's deaths. I think of what would have happened if I'd fought Theresa off that fateful night that Jane was conceived. I think of how things could have turned out if I'd refused to adopt Little Ethan, therefore sparing us Theresa's fury.
I think of how I should have been more firm and forced Theresa to see that I was serious about my marriage to Gwen. How maybe now we'd be watching our Sarah walk and talk and pick us flowers to stick in our hair. How maybe now we'd be talking about having another child, a baby brother or sister for Sarah.
I know, deep in my heart, that this is all my fault. I will never admit it to anybody out loud, but I know that it's true. I married Gwen because she was pregnant. She told me not to propose for that exact reason. She told me she'd just move to New York and raise the baby herself, but I had to do the noble thing. I had to prove that I was nothing like Julian, the man I'd believed to be my father for over twenty years.
I wonder what would have happened if I'd just let Gwen go and married Theresa.
It's not that I don't love Gwen. I do, very, very much. She was my first love, and for many years, my only. It's just that, now, as much as I wish otherwise, someone else has taken her place in my heart.
Sometimes, at night, Gwen will cry out my name rather than one of the children's. She'll beg me not to leave her all alone in whatever terrifying landscape surrounds her in her dream. Even she knows the truth, deep down. But she'll never admit it, either. Not out loud. If she doesn't, then she won't have to give up the last remaining piece of our fairytale that she has left.
If I were strong, I would let Gwen go. I'd let her go on to find a bigger, better fairytale that hasn't been torn to shreds by another woman's fantasy. But I'm not strong. I am a weak man, struggling to hold on to that same fairytale world where I am a powerful, wealthy member of one of the greatest families in America, revered by all for my honesty and honorability.
I wish to God that I were strong enough to let go of Gwen. I wish that I could let her know how it feels to be loved completely and unconditionally by a man that she loves back. But my prayers must be weak, too, because I've yet to receive any strength.
Until I receive said strength, I have my penance to keep me occupied. Until I can find some strength somewhere inside of my weak self, I must listen to my wife's cries, my wife's pleas, and know exactly what I must do to comfort her, and be unable to do so. Maybe, eventually, her cries will lead me to that place where my strength lies, dormant.
I'm afraid, though, that that strength is non-existent.