3 Nice and Easy
"He has your eyes," he says as he cradles him while pacing around the room. "He has my hair, my nose, my chin. Yup, he's mine alright."
He acknowledges that I'm listening, and I can't help but feel that he finds this an incredible moment, trying to reassure himself that this has finally happened, one of his dreams finally coming true in our lives together. The baby starts to become fussy in his arms and he knows better that it's time he return him to me. I take the little bundle and he instinctively begins feeding, as his father joins me on the bed. He hasn't slept all night long, and as soon as he gets comfortable, he tells me,
"I don't want to go to sleep. I can't take my eyes off him."
"What are you going to name him?" I ask.
He didn't want to think of a name until he came out. The way he helped find the right name for our daughter, he wanted to do exactly the same thing for our son. It was remarkable how we both came up with our first child's name. It indeed helped me to erase some of the fears I had of motherhood. All I have to do is say her name, and I'm reminded of the time I learned how to survive, and the person who lead me there.
"Let's give it a couple more days, I'm sure it'll come to both of us. I want it to sound strong, not like my name," he says and we both chuckle. I'm sore all over. I'm sure he is too, having to stand beside me for several hours.
I kiss the wavy hair against his forehead and say, "Thanks for doing a great job all these months, and hanging in there with me."
"Always," he says rubbing his son's pudgy arm, "Always, always…..." yawning and trailing off into sleep against the cushiony-soft, propped up pillows.
There is something about nursing a child that forges such an immense surge of sensations throughout my body, and its overpowering effect often stirs a potent mixture of emotions within my chest. If I am not careful, I can let the bad surface to the fore of my thoughts, and then I begin to fear the future. That happened with my daughter, and it was difficult to put myself back together. She felt it, and would flail around while she suckled on my breast. It was unpleasant for both of us.
But once we found her name, all I had to do was say it over and over again, and the good thoughts would break through like the sun rising over the clouds of my dark past, and I'd remember all the happy moments I had in my life. That's why I am willing to wait and search deep in my thoughts for meaning that will help me name our son. We made a promise not to name our children after loved ones who passed on. A name shouldn't hold a person to perpetuate the memorializing of the no longer living, but for our sake, my sake, my history, my losses, he insists that we choose one that gives us hope, that reminds us to not only live, but to enjoy every single second of what life has given us.
So my thoughts take me back more than 18 years ago to the woods, after my meeting with Gale.
I mull over his return to District 12. I found myself taken aback by the emotions stirring inside me. Surprisingly, I felt guilty, angry, happy, and confused all at once. Guilty, that I am contemplating not mentioning our exchange to Peeta, angry that he decided to meet me out there instead of at my house where it would be less indiscreet so that I wouldn't have to feel this guilty as if I've done something scandalous. Happy, that I might get a pardon, and confused because I had no plans to travel or felt constricted of being confined to 12. I never once entertained the thought of needing a pardon.
Just the thought of Gale and I together would undoubtedly set Peeta back in some way and threaten the radical therapy we had assigned ourselves to, since our relationship had taken a slight intimate course.
I take my time walking back to think of how it started between Peeta and I, to relish all the wonderful sensations that I can conjure before I return to admit everything to him. I know, I'll never be able to hide my guilt from him, and he will be upset, and I have to see we get through this, just as he patiently sees me through a new nightmare and those difficult mornings of unrelenting crying.
This is the opposite of a nightmare when I would wake up from a dream crying, having no memory of the source of my sorrow, but feeling an immense emptiness that a flood of tears must eventually fill. Only then do I stop, can I stop, when he's there, catching every drop, absorbing the senseless pain I feel, holding me together so that I don't fall apart. Then it's my turn when he has a flashback. They've returned more frequently as we decided to take our relationship to another level. It may return today so I brace myself with good thoughts.
It started with the book. At first, sitting close to him as he drew and painted was an excuse to make physical contact with him. I longed for his warmth, but I could tell he wasn't trusting his emotions and my intentions. I had to keep it friendly.
Several times, I would place my hand, then my cheek on his shoulder, to seem that I wanted the closest view. To appear determined to make sure he did the drawings right, I'd ask questions.
"Hmm, let me take a closer look." I'd trace the drawing with my fingers, long enough to get a good feel of his warm, muscular shoulders underneath my other hand. "It's right." I say and give his shoulder a light squeeze.
Once he called me over asking, "What do you think?"
I immediately did my shoulder-cheek thing and this time reached my other arm across to his other shoulder. I wasn't sure whether he froze, detecting that I was trying to steady him so I could really study the painting, or because I was invading his personal space. He hurriedly left my house as soon as I said'
" It was perfect."
Later that evening, I knocked on his door, but got no answer. The lights were on, but no one was stirring in the house.
So I call for him, "Peeta?" trying to sound playful even though I'm sure something's wrong because this is the first time we haven't eaten dinner together in weeks. Greasy Sae has been off duty ever since Peeta took over my kitchen.
Haymitch yells from across the yard, "Went into town, Sweetheart!"
I didn't want to seem anxious so I decided to walk over and have a brief conversation with Haymitch. "You should see the book. Peeta's doing a great job with the drawings." I say.
Haymitch fills a glass with wine, sniffs it, swirls it around and says, "What are the newest additions?"
"You, and your geese. Just the other day, we got the idea when we saw a goose snatch your sandwich while you napped here on the porch." We both eye the plate where nothing but crumbs remain, and a muddy webbed-foot print.
"No matter, they'll end up on the plate one way or the other," he says before taking a noisy sip of his wine. "Do me a favor, will you? Since you're heading into town. Can you pick me up another bottle of this delicious tasting wine?"
He hands me some money, and walks me down the porch. "Nice and easy, sweetheart."
"I'm not the one whose drunk, Haymitch," I say as he keeps one hand grasped on mine, walking down the short steps. Then he lays it on me.
"I'm talking about you and loverboy. This is the real thing now, Katniss, not some budding romance charged up to increase sponsorship. So take it, nice and easy. It'll get there. In the meantime, keep the affection light and fun. After all, you're still young." He says all that while adeptly swaying his wine glass to the tune of his advice with his free hand.
Before he lets go of my hand, he admonishes me, "The venom knows when to attack. It's attacking his fear of letting go of his doubts about how he had loved you."
"Is that why he left all of a sudden? He usually lets me help him with the flashbacks," I regretfully admit.
"He's got to get over the venom making him distrust you. Your touch sets him off. It's like he's blindsided, and then it's triggered."
"He told you this?" I ask and Haymitch makes a vague explanation that Peeta walked straight over to his house, doubling over as soon as he opened the door, grabbing the edge of a couch. He figured out what transpired as Peeta recounted the innocent scene through clenched teeth.
Our Hunger Games mentor could be given a trademark knack for having this ability to make romantic gestures a tactical maneuver.
"The boy puts an unusual heavy weight on this emotion because the Capitol made you both feel this way, to die for love. You've got to reverse that."
"How?" I ask feeling like an eager student for the first time, constantly amazed with the wisdom of our habitually semiconscious mentor.
"Don't make a move on him without letting him know." I blush even as Haymitch attempts to say this as flatly as he can.
Keep it…." We both say it, "Nice and easy."
To be continued….