This story was inspired by Train's "I'm About to Come Alive." Listen to it while you read this for an enhanced reading experience.
And then please read, hit that pretty little button at the bottom, and review!
Oh, and special thanks to Accidental Beauty; this probably never would have been posted without your encouragement.
Chapter 1: Damn Cold Night
2005
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My foot was cold.
Despite the sleep-induced haze surrounding my brain, I found that I knew these two things: the room was dark and my foot was cold.
Unearthing my face from the drool-dampened pillow oasis, I opened one eyelid halfway to peer in the direction of the nightstand, where blurry red numbers glared defiantly back. The three glowing twos confirmed my earlier assessment; it was, indeed, the middle of the night.
One mystery solved, I wiggled the toes on the offending foot slightly, trying to determine why there was cold air where there were usually warm blankets. It was this simple act that brought me to realization: Monica wasn't there.
I slid my leg further across her side of the mattress, just to make sure she hadn't simply rolled to the outer edge. Instead, I found only that her covers had been thrown back haphazardly, in a most un-Monica-like fashion.
This, more than her absence itself, caused me to roll to a sitting position, my heart dropping with a dull, anxious thud. For as many years as I'd shared a bed with my wife, I had never known her to vacate her side without first conscientiously straightening the sheets and blankets. Her inability to restrain from aligning the duvet perfectly with the pillows, even when she planned to return within minutes, had been the source of numerous jokes since the secret days of our relationship.
I reached to tidy the disarray, more for me than for her even, if just in a futile attempt at normalcy.
'She'll be back in a minute,' I reassured myself, leaning back against my own misshapen mound of pillows. The thought eased me enough to close my eyes and give into the drowsiness still whispering my name.
I dozed for a second, a minute, or even an hour, but still I was alone when I reopened my eyes. Fully conscious now, I coaxed my reluctant body out of bed, not bothering to search for my slippers, then regretting the decision as I padded across the master bedroom's chilly hardwood floor in nothing but my bare feet.
There were no lights in the bathroom, nor in the nursery, but I checked both anyway. I didn't find her, of course, and the sense of dread in the pit of my stomach grew more insistent as I turned toward the stairs.
I descended slowly, carefully avoiding squeaky floorboards and, in the process, feeling like an intruder in my own house. My hand firmly grasping the railing, I paused on the midway landing and searched, heel-first, for footing on the next step down.
Creeeeaaaaakk!!
The stair gave a telltale squawk and I froze in mid-step, sure that the noise would wake the neighbors, not to mention bring Monica running to investigate. But there was nothing.
When I was finally able to hear over the blood pounding in my ears, I thought I could detect a low murmur from the kitchen. I took the remaining steps two at a time and stopped at the bottom without rounding the corner into the kitchen.
Recognizing the cadence of her voice, its familiar rise and fall, I sagged against the doorframe in relief. A nagging little voice prodded me to analyze my irrational fear that she'd gone, but I refused, choosing instead to simply be thankful she was, in fact, here.
I moved to enter the kitchen, but something in her tone stopped me. I couldn't make out her actual words, exactly, just the rhythms of her voice, but there was definitely a catch, a stifled sob. I hadn't yet wondered to whom she was talking, but as I squinted into the shadowy room, illuminated only by a shell-shaped nightlight, I could see her petite form tangled in the long white phone cord and her hand wrapped, white-knuckled, around the receiver held to one ear, as if it were a lifeline.
She didn't see me; her back was to the doorway, and even from my position a few yards away, I could tell she was trembling violently, though whether from cold or emotion, I wasn't sure.
I wanted to go to her, to comfort her. Every instinct screamed to do just that, but something in her stance warned me to stay put. It wasn't me she needed—or wanted—just now.
It was me she had abandoned in a warm bed in exchange for a cold kitchen and a furtive midnight phone call.
Ducking back into the safety of the foyer, I had every intention of returning upstairs.
But I didn't. Instead, I found myself leaning back against the doorframe where I could watch her surreptitiously. The eavesdropping was wrong, I knew, yet still I leaned into the dim kitchen, straining to hear her muffled words.
"I know it's ridiculous," she was saying into the phone. "I just don't think I can do this anymore. I...can't."
Her voice broke on the last word and she lifted a shaky hand to soften the escaping sob. The words, though such a definite declaration, had no sense of strength behind them, but merely a reluctant acquiescence of uncharacteristic weakness.
She listened for a moment, nodding as if the person on the other end could see her.
"Yes, he's here. Upstairs, asleep."
My heart soared at the realization she was speaking of me and then plunged as she continued.
"But you don't understand. It's not him. It was stupid of me to believe that everything was going to be okay afterwards. Sometimes I think…"
She paused and the weight of her words wrapped mercilessly around my heart. I echoed her shuddering breath as I heard her speak her next thought.
"Sometimes I think that I should just leave. It might even be better for him that way. I'm so alone, anyway."
The last sentence was whispered to herself more than to her intended recipient, but the response from the person on the line caused Monica to square her shoulders resolutely and turn halfway toward me. I silently stepped backward around the corner, out of her line of vision, hearing her offer the standard "the baby is crying" excuse to get off the phone.
I should know. I've used it hundreds of times myself.
I didn't stick around to hear her say goodbye. Instead, I hurriedly crept up the stairs and into the nursery, where I paused for a second to catch my breath before tiptoeing across the carpet to the crib.
The dinosaur lamp—a gift from Ross, naturally—cast a warm glow over the infant's body and I couldn't resist extending my index finger to touch one tiny, soft cheek.
"Hi, there," I whispered to my son. His eyelash fluttered, brushing my finger and I held my breath in anticipation of his cry. He only smacked his rosebud lips dreamily, and I exhaled, relieved.
Even after ten months, I was still unable to believe that he was mine, that He Belonged To Me. The fact that we had not physically conceived him had never diminished my intense feelings of possession; he had been mine—ours—since before we had laid eyes on him.
A few years ago, Monica and I had conferred on our mutual disbelief in soul mates, that we didn't need destiny or fate cosmically sealing our love for each other. But this, this love I felt for my child, was different. From the first time I held Daniel, my son, I knew he was meant to belong to us.
Now, I moved my hand to rest on his back, finding serenity in the steady rhythm of his deep, even breathing.
'In, out. In, out,' I chanted silently, my thumb caressing his chubby arm.
So intent was I in this mantra that I didn't notice Monica behind me until her soft question broke the stillness.
"Is he awake?" she asked, peering into the crib to see for herself.
Torn between the impulse to engulf her in my arms or to turn on my heel and leave, I did neither. Instead, I shook my head needlessly and removed my hand from the crib, feeling as if I'd done something wrong.
She glanced up at me and our eyes met and caught. I knew I was searching for answers to the questions I couldn't bear to ask out loud, and she froze, a look of vulnerable indecision flitting across her face.
And just as quickly, her guard went up, almost visible in the ice blue of her eyes. She focused her gaze on the baby before I could read her expression.
"You should get some sleep," she advised me feebly as she fussed with tucking the blankets securely around Daniel.
I nodded, feeling the dismissal—and rejection—in the statement. I knew I should pry, maybe for the sake of saving my marriage, but I couldn't bring myself to ask for a list of reasons as to why I was no longer good enough.
Muttering goodnight, I turned to head back to our vacant bed, knowing somehow that she wouldn't be returning that night. I looked back at her and saw I was right—she was all ready settling into the rocking chair with the baby in her arms.
I wasn't expecting to say the words, wasn't even sure why I felt I had to say it at all, but feeling it was necessary just the same.
"I'm sorry," I offered in a low voice, unsure of what exactly I was apologizing for.
For a moment, I wasn't positive she had even heard me. But then, I saw her shrug listlessly.
"It's not your fault," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
And yet I couldn't help feeling that it was, somehow.
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I can hear you downstairs, crying on the phoneTelling someone that I'm here, but you still feel all alone
Maybe we were too young, goodbye, I've gotta go
I can hear the baby waking up, gotta get back to the life I know
Maybe I'm not, but you're all I've got left to believe in
Don't give up on me, I'm about to come alive…
(I'm About To Come Alive; Train; 2003)