WARNING: Spoilers for Hellboy 2.
The Estrogen Complex
With an expanding belly comes escalating insecurity, a trait common for pregnant women I'm told. Along with new breasts, I've developed a rampant desire to be reassured. And not about simple matters, like our future or the fate of the planet. In the end, I suppose there are worse cravings; fried pickles with duck sauce come to mind. And so I indulge in the habit because holding it in requires too much effort for a twin-carrying, pear-shaped, excessively bloated balloon called Liz. This extra estrogen, meant to prevent miscarriage and nurture growth, must have given me a complex. So I ask. And he always finds an answer.
"Red, why do you love me?"
"Because you put up with me."
A week may pass without resurrecting the question. Occupied with the hurried building of our cottage on a grassy hillside, I can let the insecurities exit the highway of starting over. Our prospective yard includes boulders that rise to form supernatural gateways to a place where I chose my lover over the welfare of the world. A place where he was lost to me and then regained. A place where another's dawning love was extinguished. We've selected colors and patterns, but no names. His sole request is that I don't saddle them with monikers like his own, the one I never use because the reminder of his origin is misleading. Nothing forged in Hell could be as wonderfully crafted as my love. Although no angel, the father of my children will not bring the world to apocalyptic ruin. Mankind is proficient enough in that task all on its own.
"Red, why do you love me?"
"Because you're better looking than Abe."
He's not entirely comfortable with complimentary overtures. They are forced from his mouth in a kind of embarrassing halt, flowery verbs not eagerly strung together by a manly, action hero sort. But he does it a bit more freely now, as he knows I struggle to equate this body with adjectives like 'lovely' and perfect' in its disfigured state. I am a tiny girl encased in my own private landmass. I hate the kinship I suddenly feel with whales.
"Red, why do you love me?"
"Because you're a better shot than me."
He promised me early on that he wouldn't stop me from living my life as a capable, able-bodied woman. That resolve gets shakier everyday, somewhat proportionate to the working of my bladder. When I stoop at unnatural angles to reach a dropped item, he has to sit on his hands to keep from helping. When I stand on tip toes and then threaten to topple over, the massive red demon tries to blend into the wall to disguise his laughter. 'Wait to be asked,' that's what I told him. In truth, we play at being retired, both knowing this attempt at establishing domesticity won't last. They need him, the bureau and the world it serves. Just not as much as I do. 'But only when asked,' he teases. And then bellows when I use my tray-table stomach to hold a plate of fried pickles with duck sauce.
"Red, why do you love me?"
"Because you've never killed a cat?"
Admittedly, he's running out of answers. I've yet to run out of self-satisfying reasons to ask. Confidence will return with a flat stomach, I hope. Otherwise, I might drive Red crazy with this uncharacteristic neediness. The clock hands spin toward delivery day, a Wednesday (child is full of woe) currently circled in green on the kitchen calendar. Abe's valiant attempts at easing Red's new pre-dawn pacing habit are admirable but ultimately wasted. He's a wreck; the expectant father worrying privately about things he doesn't discuss with the woman who's too busy fretting over her loss of attractiveness. So tonight, I made a concerted effort to keep the question in mental chains. Cradled against him in the silent anticipation of our new lives, the need for reassurance was reigned in by only the most sincere lip biting. I sucked out any trace of moisture, leaving chafed rawness that added to the dread over my appearance. And damn it, I just had to ask.
"Red, why do you love me?"
"Because you saved me."
And somehow it's enough. Because I no longer doubt.