Journal Journeys: Doubts
Dr. Tash had advised that when Julia entered her seventh month of pregnancy, she stop working in the morgue, thus she had been a stay-at-home-mother-to-be for a week. She already missed being at work. Fortunately, there was plenty to do here as they were to move to their new house next week, and there was much packing to do. Admittedly, most of the items to be packed were actually hers – William had brought very little when they moved in here at the Windsor House Hotel. She was also busy buying items for the new house … and she did find that she got so very, very tired. Her back hurt, and her feet too. Most evenings, William tended to her, cared for her, rubbing her feet, massaging her back. "He is absolutely lovely," she thought, "or at least he had been, but there had been a shift lately … Was it since she had stopped working, or from before then?" she pondered. "When was the last time he had bought flowers, or massaged her sore back or her aching feet?" she asked herself. Now conscious of such thoughts, a sadness settled in her heart, for she felt a loss. Disturbed by her feelings, she laid the dress she was packing down over the box and sat. She could not deny it; she was worried.
Out of the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the vanity mirror, turning to look herself in the eye. "You are being unreasonable," she said to herself. She sighed – she was not convinced. She felt so unattractive … And tonight of all nights, she had to dress-up and go out to an awards dinner with William, for George – the constable had won a prize for his second book. It had been difficult to purchase a dress for the outing, knowing she would only wear the dress once, and it was only made worse by the fact that the best dress she could find looked like she was wearing a tent. As she imagined herself on her husband's arm, with him looking strikingly handsome in his tuxedo and her looking … fat and unshapely, her eyes swelled into tears.
He hadn't touched her for days. He didn't seem to look at her anymore, and certainly not in the same way he used to. She wiped her eyes and pushed herself to pull it together. After a deep breath she went back to packing, but her mind still tormented her. There were no new murder cases, yet he had stayed late the past few nights. "Working on his files," he had said … and yesterday evening William said he had stopped by the house to talk to the contractor, but she had spoken with the man earlier in the day and he had informed her that they would be finishing up early because the paint would not be available until today. She had struggled with the courage to ask William about it, and he had explained that when he got to the house, the men were gone, but then he had taken a ride on his bike through the park, feeling the exercise would do him good.
She felt herself bordering on panic and worked to pull herself back. "Take a deep breath," she coached herself. "William loves you. He is a good man," she reassured herself. "This constant fear of being abandoned must be hormonal," she figured. Wanting to get her mind off of all of this, she decided to go out for a while. She needed more boxes – and she had a craving for some ice-cream.
Walking down the hall to their suite, too early, having left George's Awards Dinner before he had received his award, William knew George would be disappointed that they had gone before his speech. What he did not know was that part of George's acceptance speech was directed at him, and thus everyone at the dinner would have noticed that the Murdoch's had left early. The couple maintained a stiff distance from each other and Julia's crying was the only sound to break the tortured silence.
William unlocked the door and opened it for Julia to go through first. He closed it behind him and stood with his back to it watching his wife fall apart before his eyes. She seemed to crumble as she placed her hat and bag on the table and finally released the dam of tears she had been holding back. Through the restricted breathing and swollen airways she squeaked out, seeming to be telling only herself, "Oh my God, it hurts so badly." She unbuttoned her coat, struggling with the tighter buttons across her very pregnant belly…
William had removed his hat, held it in his hand and tried again, his voice low, "Julia please … It meant nothing."
His words only served to collapse her more … the sounds of her sobs ripping at his heart. Finding it unbearable, he pleaded, "You are being unreasonable Julia. You are over-reacting." He heard her take a deep breath and he braced for her fury. It never came. Instead she ran as fast as her pregnant legs could take her to their bedroom and slammed the door behind her.
He could hear her, bawling into the pillows on the bed. Terror threatened to take him, pull him down into useless guilt. Any minute now, she would have cried so hard for long enough that she would need to go into the bathroom and throw-up. She needed to stop – she's hurting herself, and possibly the baby. Never did he ever think he would breach a door she had closed between them in anger or hurt, but he did now. He decisively opened the door and walked in. She was face down in the pillows on the bed, still in her elegant gown and didn't notice he had come in. He sat on the bed next to her. She immediately demanded that he get out. "I won't," he said calmly. "Julia, you need to stop crying like this. You are going to make yourself sick. And it can't be good for the baby."
"I am NOT making myself sick – YOU made me sick," she demanded, sitting up and smacking a pillow. But when she looked at him, the anger fled, and all she was left with was the pain and devastation, and she burst into sobs again. He took her in his arms and she protested, wriggling and trying to punch at him to no avail for he was too close for her strikes to have any force. He held her and she cried harder, seeming to give up fighting him. "I'm going to throw up," she warned, and he released her and she rushed to the toilet. He followed, held back her wayward curls for her, as she vomited violently into the echoing water.
Finished, he had hoped she would be done crying, but she sat on the bathroom floor, and fell back into spasms of tears. He sat on the floor behind her, the tails of his tuxedo swept out to the side, his back to the sink cabinet, and he scooped her up and pulled her tightly to him. Weak, she had nothing left to fight him with; she just cried harder. "Julia, please stop. Please," he pleaded. He kissed her hair and she pulled away.
"Leave me alone William," she pushed the order out through her tormented lungs and throat.
"I will not," he stated plainly. "You need to stop crying like this… Julia, think of something else…" he waited, forced himself to take a deep breath, but her wailing kept up. He heard himself say it aloud before he was even conscious of the idea, "Julia, how many bones in the human wrist? Hmm?" he asked.
From in front of his chest, he heard the turmoil calm just a little, her torrents easing as she sniffled and answered, shoving the word past her pain, "Eight," before her body twitched and shook as she laboriously sucked in some more air.
"Good. Good," he replied, "And how about teeth? How many teeth do humans have?"
She took a shaky breath to pull in the air she would need to answer. Her voice squeaked as she said, "It depends on how old they are."
He chuckled, of course she was right, but more importantly it was working. She was breathing better. He took a deep breath and said more specifically, "Let's say it's an adult."
She knew he knew this one, but answered anyway, "32."
William took a deep breath, hoping she would follow suit, and asked, "How about vertebrae? How many vertebrae do we have?"
She listed them off by section, starting at the top, "7 cervical, 12 thoracic, 5 lumbar… " Then she paused and said, "I'm better now. Please go." And she made an effort to stand. It annoyed her that he jumped up and helped her, but she found it very difficult to get up from the floor while seven months pregnant. Once she was up, she handed him his toothbrush and a container of toothpaste and then went into the bedroom and dug out some bedding for him to use on the couch. He retrieved his pajamas. She piled the bedding into his arms, plopped his pillow on the top of the pile, and he left the room in silence.
On the other side of the door, he turned around and softly lay his forehead on the door. Listening, he was relieved that she did not seem to be crying anymore – at least not so hard. Nausea swirled around in his gut while that one, hair-raising, violin note continued to sear in his head. The episode replayed again, running through his mind, against his will, forcing him to experience it all over, in seemingly slow motion and minute detail – His focus, on the derriere of the waitress behind them, after she had flirted with him mere seconds before, stirring an urge in him. He could see her, Julia, the love of his life, blurry, on the sidelines of his periphery. He imagined walking up behind the waitress, pulling her close, breathing in her scent, feeling her swoon and buckle with his touch. His body demanded he slip her bloomers down, bend her forward … As if hearing it while underwater, Julia's voice touched him, "She is quite beautiful, is she not?" Anticipating the pain, he shoved the memory away before he could see the look on Julia's face again, barely noticing his anger had clenched his jaw so tightly he nearly chipped a tooth.
He pushed away from the door and took a seat on the couch, the pile of items in his lap burdening him with the reminder of their rift. He felt so dazed, and dizzy – and so vehemently angry with himself. His fingers were drawn into fists, threatening the integrity of the toothpaste container. He imagined punching a wall with his other hand. Instead he slapped himself repeatedly, hard, in the side of his head. "How could I be so stupid?!" he accused himself. Throwing the pile to the couch, he jumped up. He needed to get away, get out! He would go for a walk, even better a bike ride! After removing the jacket and cummerbund of his tuxedo, he grabbed his jacket and put on his hat. His hand on the doorknob, he stopped – he could not go. He could not leave her when she was this upset. What if she started crying so violently again? He needed to be there to watch over her, albeit from a distance.
Incessantly it played in her mind's eye, although her subconscious need to analyze the situation had shifted the memories to earlier, from before he had been so enchanted with someone else that he lost control of his eyes, among other things. She had looked on, watching, as he held the waitress' eyes and asked, "Would you recommend the apple pie or the chocolate cake?" Julia's temper flared as she remembered the waitress wiggling at William and brashly flirting with him, "Oh definitely the chocolate cake – to go with those dreamy brown eyes of yours," the woman had replied. And then she had dropped her eyes down, admiring the look of him. Couldn't she see he was with her – and that she was obviously very pregnant – with his child! My God, the man even wears a wedding ring! Exasperated and furious, she sighed. She couldn't help but wonder, if this woman preyed on her husband right in front of her as she did, what must it be like when she is not around? William had acted like he didn't even notice, like he usually does in such circumstances, but only moments later she saw him stray. She started to cry again…
Abruptly she stopped herself. "He's right, I need to think about something else," she coached herself. Remembering that she had a novel she had started reading in her night-table drawer, she pulled it out and started to read. The distraction worked.
William tried to distract his mind from its torments by reading a science journal, but he found he was still plagued by the repeating images. His hands rubbed through his hair, rough and harsh, he knew he needed to move, to exercise, in order to cope. His weights were in the bedroom closet, where he could not go to get them, so he decided to do pushups. He changed out of the rest of his tuxedo and then put on his pajama bottoms. Then, to increase the strain, he put his feet up on the back of the couch and did pushups until he collapsed, exhausted and sore, then he moved on to sit-ups, then back to pushups until he was incapable of doing anymore. He cleaned up in the suite's half-bath and tried to sleep, resorting to the proverbial counting of sheep. Just before he drifted-off he thought, "I wonder if this works because it imitates the side-to-side eye movement I have seen when a dog runs in his sleep, or even when Julia is having a dream?"
It seemed so real, his dream:
"Julia," he called out into the empty morgue. "Dr. Grace," he tried. "That's funny," he thought, "I'm sure I saw the two of them come back from lunch." He turned to leave, but then turned back. The voice in his head spoke, "Yes! That is Julia's dress. Why is her dress hanging on the wall in the morgue?" On Dr. Grace's desk he found a business card. It was pertaining to the case he was working on – it was for a stripper club. "She wouldn't," he thought, remembering discovering Julia naked at the nudist camp.
Next, he found himself outside of the stripper club. He tucked the business card in his pocket and braced himself against what he expected to find – his wife up on the stage stripping for a room full of disgusting, hooting men. He pushed the door opened. It was dark and smoky, and raunchy music was playing. A huge man, likely the bouncer, nodded to him, allowing him to pass. By the time he walked down the hall and entered the showroom, his eyes had adjusted to the darkness. Out of his peripheral vision, he saw that there was a blond woman on the stage. Her back was to the audience. She was still somewhat clothed. His body nearly boiled with the mix of emotions – anger (she was HIS wife!), and shame (that she would put herself in such a lowly place in such a sordid establishment), and … to his own shame, a burst of lust and pride (his wife was stripping down to that gorgeous body of hers, in public – and although he wanted no other man to ever see her sensuous naked body, he also knew that it was only him that would make love to her. He was certain of it).
He walked over to the bar, noticing that the smell of liquor and smoke repulsed him, and he ordered a spruce beer, garnering the usual disapproving looks from the bartender. The catcalls and whistles exploded, drawing his eyes to the stage. He nearly fell to his knees with the sight, the jolt to his groin surged throughout his whole body, and his head began to spin. Oh my God – she had turned her back to the crowd, and then bent over, and … lifted her skirt, and … she had nothing on underneath it, and … the view was magnificently, overwhelmingly enticing, and … his body tightened, and … he wanted nothing more than to get inside of that succulent woman.
The words startled him, pulled him out of the fog, "She is quite beautiful, is she not?" Suddenly he realized, now able to see as if he were standing on the other side of the stage, that the woman was NOT Julia – it was the waitress from George's Awards Dinner! He was dumbfounded, shocked. "Got a light?" the man next to him asked, continuing their conversation as if nothing was wrong. "Uh, no. I don't smoke," William replied. Someone else provided the man with a match. William heard the sound of the match strike, followed by the flare as it ignited and the smell of sulpher. He looked at the man for the first time really, now, with the light from the match on his face. "Familiar … Those blue eyes … I'm so drawn to them …" the thoughts ran through his mind like electric shocks. He looked away for a moment – recognition flooded over him – "JULIA!" When he turned back, the man, Julia, was gone, replaced by a cloud of smoke. He had to squint, the nasty smoke stinging his eyes, to see the man – the man that he knew, and only he knew, was in reality, under that jacket and trousers, his curvy, supple, silky-skinned, wife. She left the showroom and turned deeper down the hall.
When he pushed the men's room door opened, hot, humid steam washed over him. Through the fog, he searched for her. Around the last stall, there she was! – back against the wall, in a tiny alcove. She ducked her chin, bringing the brim of her hat between their eyes, and took a long drag on her cigarette. With her voice deep, low, and scratchy, she asked, "You a copper?"
William lifted his jacket lapel to display his badge and stated, "I am Detective William Murdoch of the Toronto Constabulary… I have reason to believe you are dressing of the opposite sex. You are under arrest for breaking a city ordinance."
"Oh, but detective, you are wrong… I am a man dressed as a man. And I do not believe you can prove otherwise," she said, her voice now sultry and alluring.
"Turn around and put your hands up on the wall," he ordered.
She sighed and dropped her cigarette to the floor, slowly and seductively wiggling her leg as she crushed it under the toe of her shoe. She then obliged with his command, saying, "This is harassment detective. I have no weapon and I am not resisting."
William swallowed, working to contain his mounting arousal. Even in a man's suit, when she lifted her hands above her head, the jacket rose, revealing the lower portion of her enticing, rounded, double-half-mooned buttocks through the fabric. He approached, taking his time. He cleared his throat, and still his voice was husky, "I am not only searching for weapons," he explained, "I am also searching for evidence." Stepping close behind her, maintaining merely a hair's breadth of space between them, he reached his arms around her and slid his hands up her ribcage, and then under her armpits, jolting with need as he heard her, ever so quietly, moan. "Julia," her name swam and soared in his head. Continuing to travel, the fingers of one of his hands tucked between her cheek and the cold tile wall, and he tilted his head to line his lips up with her ear under the brim of her hat, the brim of his own homburg sliding along the edge of her hat, and he tenderly stroked her jaw. His breath cascaded over her, hot and seductive, as he said, "No facial hair to speak of." He inhaled deeply, taking in her mouth-watering scent.
Offering a defense, she replied, now her voice squeaky with lust, "I recently shaved, detective."
"Umm, I see," he replied as his hand moved down her throat, caressing it firmly. "There is clearly an absence of an Adam's Apple. I'm afraid things are not looking very good for you," his voice whispered before he took her earlobe roughly in his mouth, twisting and sucking on it hungrily.
"Oh but detective, there is large individual variation with respect to the laryngeal prominence," she argued, unintentionally revealing her medical training, causing him to stifle a laugh.
He kissed her ear, and then nibbled, prompting her to moan again, and to his delight, she dropped. He stepped in closer, pinning her tightly to the wall, holding her up. Air rushed out of his nostrils, announcing his burning arousal, the crazed urgency of his want for her. Making sure to slide inside of her suit jacket, he pressed his hands firmly against opposing sides of her ribcage and rode the curves of her down into the dip at her waist. A stronger surge of air burst out of him as his hands continued down the steep outward bulge of her curvaceous hips. The touch surged her into a lustful arch, and he felt his erection poke against her buttocks, prompting her to grow exponentially heavier and she moaned, more desperately, once more. Shifting his head to torment her other ear, he whispered, "Magnificent, wide hips." His head spun so with need, deliciously swirling as the floor seemed to lift up, defying gravity. He worked to tighten the backs of knees, fighting the fall.
She collapsed once more as his hands grabbed at her shirt, lifting the bottom of it out of her trousers, and then slid under the fabric to swelter her bare skin with his bristly hands. His hands moved inward and changed direction, riding up across her belly. "Mmm," a moan escaped his throat as he surrounded her breasts from below, cupping and molding the supple flesh. "Oh, you are definitely a woman," he declared in her ear, his voice dry and raspy, "A delicious, delicious woman," he said as he dug deeper into her, pressing himself against her buttocks, hard. Holding her firmly with one arm tucked across her chest, once again, his other hand was on the move, downward, pressing in against her sternum, dipping in at her belly button. "There is one final piece of evidence I will need to prove my case," he claimed, then taking her neck in his mouth and sucking roughly, marking her skin.
Her voice pleaded from under him, weak and helpless and out of breath, "Please detective. Please don't…"
He found the waistband of her trousers, aligned his fingers to slip in under them. Then slipping under the waistband of her bloomers…
She gasped harshly, and arched back into him again, "What are you doing to me," she cried, "Oh my God William, William please," barely above a whisper. Her moan was devastating as he breached her slippery, warm folds, finding the deepest part of her crevice and opening her, marveling in the drippy, tight, balmy, resistance she offered against him.
"My God, beyond any doubt you are a woman, a luscious, luscious woman, Julia," he said, feeling the Earth move under him. He removed his hand and rushed to unbutton her trousers.
"Someone could come in," she warned, breathy and desperate.
Having lost control, pumped wild with desire, he did not care. He unbuttoned his own trousers, and they dropped to join hers in the pile on the floor around their feet. His hands reached around her, massaged the fronts of her thighs, and he moaned with the agony of the feel of her naked skin. He demandingly pushed his knee between her thighs, spreading them wider. And he lowered himself, driving upward, he ruptured her, her moan seeming to complete the circuit, electrifying his entire being. He had to go in deeper. He pushed into her with all his might, deeper and deeper into her, each forceful thrust shoving the air out of her, the sound of her breath rhythmically luring him further and further inside. Oh, he sensed it. It was near. Right there, within reach. He stretched and surged … And, "Oh my God, he touched her delicious core, erupting every ounce of strength out of him. Euphoria gushed, warm and liquidy, flooding through each cell in his body, creating spasms of pleasure that raged through him in wave after wave of scrumptious bliss. The twitches slowed, propelling him to consciousness in a rocking motion, slowly floating closer and closer to the surface.
Awake, William allowed himself to wallow in the exquisite feelings as his heartbeat pounded and his breath hurried. "Mmm," he moaned softly to himself. His heart slowed, his breath lengthened and calmed, and he drifted into an awareness that he was on the couch. He felt the now-cold, sticky remnants of his dream in his pajamas as the magic wore off and the sadness inside of him grew, until it happened – he remembered why he was alone, why she was not here with him… He would need to cleanup, he acknowledged with a sigh.
Only realizing he was finally able to fall back asleep when he awoke with the sunlight softly illuminating the room early the next morning, a mixture of despair, and stress, and hope, and anger pulsed through William's veins. The thought of going to church was unappealing, save for finally being able to ride his bike. Self-discipline drove him, he got up and prepared to go. Tip-toeing while in their bedroom, Julia's breathing told him she was asleep, lifting his dampened spirits a fraction for he had been worried that she would not be able to do so. He tucked this soiled pajamas into the laundry basket in the closet and stealthily collected his clothes for the day. As he closed the suite door behind him, he paused in the hallway, admitting to himself that he felt dread about returning. Maybe church was a good idea after all – perhaps prayer and confession could alleviate some of this hopelessness.
Grateful that she was able to sleep in, Julia decided to order herself her favorite breakfast – French toast and bacon – and a Mimosa. Waiting for the hedonistic Sunday morning delicacies to arrive, she brushed her teeth and cleaned up. Expectedly, her eyes were puffy from all of her crying, and she found she was precariously balanced on the edge of falling into unstoppable sobbing again. "A hot shower would surely help," she thought, planning on indulging after her meal so she would be able to take her time.
She had found, that beyond a doubt, she could not take a shower without having memories of making love with William flow through her – this time was no different. But so bittersweet when the lovely images and sensations replayed, mixing with the hurt and anger she felt now. As she dried off, her image in the steamy mirror drew her attention with a sigh. It had been like a perfect storm, her feeling acutely unattractive, William withdrawing, only reinforcing her fears that he found her at the very least unappealing, and then to have him become aroused by another, solidifying the certainty of her suspicions, and breaking her heart in the process. The hole she found herself in felt impossibly deep….
It came to her while she was brushing her hair, and she asked herself how she had coped at other times in her life when she felt such despair – "writing in your journal," her inner voice imparted as an answer. Suddenly, the need to write overtook her.
After having finished, tears glistening her cheeks, she considered having William read what she had written. With a deep breath, she decided she wanted him to know how she felt, what thoughts were going through her mind. In her journal, she added a note to him at the end of the entry. Uncomfortable with being with William when he read it, she left her journal on the dining-room table, opened to the page. Next to the journal, she left him a simple note, "Please Read."
She would visit a friend, getting her out of the house, but also, she yearned for the chance to talk this through, with someone besides William. Ready to go, she stood in the foyer pinning her hat, when she looked back at the table. It was what he would see when he got home and he discovered that she was not there. An idea sparked in her mind, and she rushed to his dresser. When William returned, he would find her journal, opened and disclosing, and next to it, he would find his, closed and harbored by a pen – inviting him to do the same. Feeling terribly vulnerable, she headed out the door.
Having spoken with his priest in Confession, and with God in his prayers, William was feeling more confident and hopeful after church. He had ridden directly home, deciding not to buy flowers – too little, and too much of a cliché. Prepared to meet her eyes the moment he breached the threshold, he quickly looked around and determined Julia was probably not home. Under his feet, he found another noise complaint. "It is so odd that we keep getting these, this must be the third or fourth one," he thought, picking it up and trying to ascertain the time. "We haven't been "noisy" in that way for quite some time now. "Perhaps they heard Julia crying," he reasoned, "Or maybe she had one of her more vocal dreams last night – though I truly doubt such a dream could rouse a noise complaint…" He removed his hat and coat and then checked the bedroom to be certain he was alone. Although he was surprised Julia had felt up to going out to one of her charity organizations after last night, he guessed she probably had done so. Normally he would wait for her to have lunch… His eyes caught the sight of the journals on the dining-room table.
Julia's Journal Entry:
My mind won't stop replaying it – the moment it happened, when my world fell apart. His beautiful eyes, darkened and focused and shining, and his jaw tight as he fought against his urge while at the same time, he was elated by the feelings she aroused in his groin. "She is quite beautiful, is she not?" I had said to him across the table, as he fantasized about touching and making love to the waitress behind me. I had said it so cavalierly, so nonchalantly, as if I were speaking of a flower or a painting. The pain didn't really hit me until his eyes met mine, and then I knew that he wanted another, not me. He could not deny it. He would not try to.
I should have sensed it was coming, for he had withdrawn. He came home later and later each day for no good reason, and he had stopped touching me. I so miss his care, his caress. He has barely even looked at me the last few days. It certainly hasn't helped matters that every time I look in the mirror I feel an aversion and distaste for my body. I suppose he does too.
And I am so angry – angry at the injustice of it. Is it not HE who made me like this, pregnant, fat and unshapely? And yet, now that I do not have what it is he wants, he looks elsewhere. It hurts so badly that I can't seem to hold onto the anger, for it becomes washed away in the tears. (Water marks dampened the page from Julia's tears as they had dropped while she had written, swelling the paper up into blurry bumps). I so love him and I so need him … Now more than ever. And I don't have him anymore. I can't believe I have lost him.
I have never felt so ugly, disgusting, unwanted and unloved in my life. But it is from this undesirable state that I must fight my hardest against my helplessness and dependence, having to do so without any self-confidence, full of only insecurity and fear, for I know I cannot do this alone. Fight as I might, I must accept my failure. I need him. I can't have this baby without him, and so, covered in shame, I must beg him to stay, even if he no longer finds me attractive, even if he never wants to make love to me again, even if he doesn't love me anymore. (Now, here on this page, the text was illegible, for Julia had written on the tear-soaked paper). ?#(%#!)(^%+!?%##
Please William, I beg of you not to leave me. I know you are a good man, and you will do what is right. Please stay with me … And try to love me, please. Please don't go. I need you … Our child needs you. And even if you no longer feel the same way about me, I love you desperately.
While he had read Julia's words, tears had welled up in his eyes. Shaking his head 'no,' he wondered how things had gotten so confused and broken. Why did she think he didn't love her? How could a moment's weakness, a distraction that meant nothing – He would never have acted on his feelings; she must know that – How could his wandering eyes have hurt her so badly? And yet he knew it had been a betrayal. He was so angry at himself, repulsed by himself. He understood, now, how a person's self-loathing could drive them to beat themselves; he felt the temptation.
How could he prove to her that he loved her with all of his heart? How could he make her see? He was certain there would never come a day when he did not love her more than anything on this Earth. He choked-up and started to cry as he remembered her words, looked to them again, "Julia feels "unwanted" and "unloved" by ME, because of ME. He cried harder and, trying to soothe himself, reached up to rub his forehead. Under his fingers, he felt the muscles in his face clench and he gave in to the need to sob. Oh my God he had to fix this. It was intolerable, unbearable.
He took a deep breath – worked to pull himself together. He would read it again. There would be clues. He would find a way out of this mess.
One thing he noticed was that Julia concluded that because he was aroused by another woman, it meant that he was not aroused by her. Now he knew this was wrong, that he could be aroused by more than one woman … But, the problem was that he had to admit that he had not felt aroused by Julia since her pregnancy had started to show, ever since it was obvious that she was pregnant. So, in a way, her instincts were right about him no longer finding her attractive. But there were two counter-points as he saw it; first he was certain that when she was no longer pregnant he would be as highly attracted to her as ever, and second that even though he wasn't sexually attracted to her in her very pregnant state he could honestly say he had never found anyone more beautiful than he found her right now.
He read on. "She says I have withdrawn," he thought. William sighed and rubbed his forehead. She was right about this. And he knew that it was this point that was really the problem. "Why have my feelings changed? Why am I avoiding her?" he asked himself. He remembered yesterday, after leaving the stationhouse later than was necessary, that he chose to stop off at the house construction site, and then to ride his bike through the park – he took the long way home. "Why?" he asked himself again. Answers bubbled up – memories really. Memories of having memories while he rode the bike. Memories of his father, drunk and yelling, throwing tantrums and terrorizing everyone. Then the memory of finding his mother dead in the water … And later his father telling him and Susana that he was sending them to live with their aunt, and that they would probably have to go live with the nuns – that he was abandoning them as well, that they would be little more than unwanted orphans.
William took a deep breath with the realization, the conscious realization that he had doubts, doubts about his ability to be a good father. He had no idea how to do it. No one had ever shown him. In many ways, Julia had already confronted her doubts about being able to be a good mother, but he had not let himself think about it – until it was too late, until there was no turning back, until his child had a name – William Jr. or Susana. The child would be a real person, a person he could hurt. Once they had named the child it had hit him, and it seems to have hit him pretty hard. He wasn't sure he could do this.
He went back to Julia's journal and read on. From the day he had met Julia, even sooner really, for he had been told before he met her that she was a woman who had become a doctor, and he knew such an accomplishment reflected on her character, from way back then, he knew she was strong and independent and very, very capable. It almost seemed like someone else must have written about all of these insecurities, not his Julia. The wet marks on the page broke his heart. There was no denying it – this is how she feels. Perhaps it is because of her hormones, or more likely the result of being made vulnerable by being pregnant. He sighed, "I would probably feel the same way," he thought, "If I were the one to carry the baby, the one to be stuck." "Stuck" – he didn't like the way the word made him feel, but it was the word that best described it, and it led to the condition Julia described, being helpless and dependent. Julia seemed to be even more troubled since she had stopped working at the morgue. It must have been very difficult for her to admit to herself, and then to him, that she needed help – that she was dependent on him. From what he knew of Julia, she would have fought such a thing with every cell in her body.
William picked up the pen on top of his journal and opened it to the next blank page. He had to show her his heart. It was the only way to make it right.
You called it, "living in your head." To me it feels like doubt. Either way, doing it tends to cost us. It has cost us in the past, doubting ourselves and thus keeping our thoughts and feelings to ourselves – and in my case at least, even keeping those same feelings away from my own consciousness lest I feel the uneasiness and discomfort they bring. And I believe this doubting is hurting us now too. So, I vow to come clean. To write down on these pages all of my thoughts and feelings, no matter how frightening – no matter how strong my doubt, to get them out of my head.
I should have told you, that I had noticed a decline in my libido the more pregnant you became. I didn't want to hurt your feelings, for it seemed that your libido responded in the opposite way. If I had been brave enough to tell you, I would have also told you that my libido did not decline to leave a void. No, it was replaced, it was replaced by the strongest feeling of awe and love and gratitude I have ever felt. I should have told you how the sight of you, pregnant with my child, the miracle of it, soars my spirit – fills me with elation and joy, the feelings of which are so powerful that I feared I would never find the words to reveal to you their majesty. I wish I had not doubted its power, for I see now that you needed to know how absolutely breathtakingly, stunning, you are to me. I cannot foretell the future, and yet I believe that when we are parents, I will still feel this newly ignited awe and the gratitude of you … And, please believe me Julia, I am certain I will also feel the familiar magnificent need to love you and touch you, and only you, ever and ever more deeply – to touch you in that one perfect spot, in that one perfect way, that spins the world and brings heaven to earth. I am certain, for it is you in my dreams my love, every night.
You should have told me, that you had noticed that I was becoming withdrawn. I couldn't see it, that I was being sucked into a panic about my inability to be a good father. To be honest, I am still there, in the midst of this panic of doubt, but I will do anything to fix this mess I have made, and if it means confronting these fears, then that is what I will do.
I felt it, felt it becoming unavoidable, soon after we decided on names for the baby. Somehow, having a name gives the child human significance in a way that I had not thought of before. I find that now I am keenly aware that, if I make a mistake, if I lose my temper or get too involved in my work or falter, now I know that I will be harming William Jr. or Susana. The pressure is so enormous that I find I can't breathe under the weight of it at times. And it is combined with your increased dependence on me as well. And sometimes the burden seems too heavy to bear, and to my shame, there were times I gave in to the urge to flee from it. I "took the long way home." I am so sorry, intolerably sorry, for the very last thing I ever wanted from my life was to hurt you. I wasn't avoiding you, I was avoiding the fear. I promise not to avoid it anymore.
The day after we named our child, when I went to church, I found myself thinking about suggesting I share with you my journaled thoughts from when I arrested Harry for murder. I hadn't made the connection from that time to my struggles with my inadequacies as a father until now, but if I had shared this with you then, perhaps we could have avoided most of this mess. I shouldn't have kept it in my head.
Now comes the hardest part Julia... In my whole life, I have never felt as awful as when I caused you to cry yourself into near convulsions … and then to write that you felt unwanted and unloved. It brings tears to my eyes, and surges a swollen, burning knot of pain in my heart to know you feel so hurt – and it is so much worse to know that it is my actions that have caused you to feel this way. How could you doubt my love for you? And now that you do, how can I ever convince you that my love for you is the only certain thing in my life? It is so ironic that my biggest doubt is that I won't be able to dissuade your doubting of me. I want you to know, I need you to know, that there is no other place I want to be than in your arms Julia. I want to be home.
Crying once again, William placed his open journal next to hers. He took in the sight of the two opened books and took a deep breath. "I'll have to wait," he thought. Surprisingly, he felt hopeful. He decided to order some lunch and take a shower. He passed the time by reading science journals and working on an idea for a better scrutiny camera to install in the house. By five o'clock, he gave into his worries – concerned that she was hurt somewhere, or she was so upset with him that she had decided not to come home at all. After making a few phone calls, he was relieved when he spoke with Dr. Tash. Julia had gone to see him; she was on her way home now. He had just hung-up the phone and returned to his work at the table when she walked in the door.
Although she looked at him, she did not look him in the eye. She removed her jacket and her hat. William merely stood at the table with his back to the window, his plans for the scrutiny camera spread out before him, their journals, open and waiting on the other side of the table. With her eyes solidly fixed on the journals, she walked to the table. Seeing his opened and written in, she sighed. She fought the urge to lift her eyes to his; she felt him looking at her, calling her to him. She frowned and, ever so slightly, she shook her head, denying her desire to connect with him, reminding herself not to trust. She took his journal, turned, and went into the bedroom, closing the door behind her.
William blew out some air through pursed lips, trying to excrete the tension. He reached up and rubbed his forehead. It was tight; he felt a headache coming on. Weakened, he sat at the table. Unable to focus on his task, he merely pretended to get work done. He failed even at that, with a sigh. He pulled her journal over to rest in front of him. He read it again. He ordered dinner, leaving it on the cart when it arrived. He returned to the scrutiny camera plans, but soon folded them up and then turned to look out the window at the darkening city.
He saw it first in the reflection in the window – the bedroom door opening. He turned and watched her walk to the dinner cart near the foyer. With her eyes down on the dinner cart she said, "I went to see Isaac – to talk."
"You told him about what I did..." There was a sigh and then he explained, "He must really think badly of me now," William said, feeling his heart begin to race even more.
Julia replied with the slightest suggestion of a smile on her face, "Actually, he said all men are dogs… Perhaps that is why you are always saying you want one," she added, trying to lighten the mood with a joke, but her voice still a bit too sarcastic and bitter to really pull it off. She couldn't see it, for she refused to look at him, but he smiled anyway. Lifting the wine glass from the cart, she continued, "His friend James was there too. They both claimed that all men, and hence you too, are drawn to…" she paused and then pushed herself to pick a word to describe what she meant, "to look – at the very least."
The concession offered him hope. He swallowed, and made a note of his feeling of gratitude towards Isaac. He felt it possible that he she might be able to forgive him, to see that his mistake was not as significant as she had thought – it felt possible that he might be able to forgive himself.
Remembering the journals, Julia asked, "Is there anything you want to ask me?" She did not expect his reply…
"Why won't you look at me?" he asked.
Hesitating before she answered, to ask herself the same question, she responded truthfully, "Because I get distracted by how beautiful you are."
Now it was him who was surprised by her response, having feared that it was because she was still quite angry, or maybe because she was worried she might start to cry. He ducked his chin, pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek as he considered the implications. He took a deep breath – "Well then, what do you want to say that you don't want to be distracted from?"
Julia lifted the bottle of wine and turned it to see the label, and as if changing subject, said, "Isaac is a good friend. He has always been. And of course, because of his profession he is quite knowledgeable in these matters. He, uh…" she glanced at William, then quickly looked back to the food cart, lifting lids, pretending to be interested in what was for dinner. She continued, "He said that changes in libido are common when the woman in a couple becomes pregnant." Still not looking at him she raised an eyebrow and went on, "It turns out that our pattern is actually the one that he has seen the most – the woman becoming more eager while the man becomes less so." She worked to open the bottle of wine.
Hope surged in William's chest. It swirled around and mixed with the love he still felt pulsating, praying.
"I told him that you had been coming home later and later, and seemed to be avoiding me," she disclosed while pouring herself a glass of wine. Feeling overwhelmed, she blew a blast of air out of her pursed lips, as she worked to alleviate some of the stress she was feeling, sending one of her dangling curls rippling. Another quick glance and she felt so pulled to him it twirled her for a moment. She looked away, focused on a point in front of her and re-gained control. She took a sip of her wine. "He is really quite brilliant William. He asked me about your relationship with your father …" she took another deep breath and continued, "I know this is personal, and you are a very private person, but unlike you, I have to talk, to share personal things that, um, that affect me. I'm sorry I uh …" She looked at him again, held his eyes longer this time…
He cleared his throat and said, "I … shared in Confession …" and he wrinkled up a corner of his mouth, suggesting he was guilty of doing the same.
Her eyes dropped away with his admission, his approval. After another sip of wine, she took a deep breath and pushed on, "It seems that the pressures of fatherhood plague all men as well. Isaac said it drives many men to run away. Um, he said that from what he knew of you, you would not." She smiled and added, "I think he likes you a lot more than you think."
She put her wine glass down, and being sure to look anywhere but at him, she walked over to stand next to him, sharing his view of the city out the window. Straining to see past their reflections, she could see it was raining, umbrellas could be seen illuminated by the street lamps bobbing about here and there. They both felt the magnetic force so common between them magnify now that she was closer. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, only to look away when he did the same thing.
She spoke once more, "He was touched by your strong desire to put my life above that of having a child – to the point that such a devoted religious and morally-upstanding man as yourself urged for me to have an abortion rather than take the chance that you might lose me… He saw it then, knew what I had told him was true, about our love for each other."
She caught him glancing sideways at her again, being momentarily distracted by the beauty of his chocolate brown eyes dancing within their long lashes. Quiet, they watched the scene before them. Julia started to cry. "I'm sorry, William," she said, barely above a whisper.
He turned, "You!" he declared, "You're sorry? Julia …" he said, his head shaking 'no,' his expression stunned, "How can you be sorry? It was me who did these things … pulled away, and …" his shame made it hard to say, "And …"
She dropped her chin and sighed. She knew what he was trying to say, and every way she thought of saying it for him brought the sting back into her heart – "you were drawn to another" or "your eyes wandered" or "you felt aroused by someone else," they all re-ignited the ache. Tears flooded her eyes with the memory of the hurt. She tried to tell herself that she was over-reacting. That Isaac had even said that William's fleeting arousal, stimulated by another woman, meant nothing, but she was failing at convincing herself. Her own words appeared in her head, that she had felt ugly and unwanted, they still seemed to ring true.
The panic and guilt were back in William's gut, swirling around, stirring up nausea and dizziness. "I need to make her see," he thought, unaware that tears were welling up in his eyes as well. He turned away from her, away from his own image in the window, and his eyes fell on her opened journal, reminding him of the words he had read, of how horribly she felt, taking his breath away with the pressure of his regret and self-loathing. It threatened to crumble him, but he fought, fought against it, looking, diving, bolting through his jumbled and tumbling thoughts to find a solution. It had felt like she had it, like she knew with certainty, beyond any doubt, that he loved her, and only her, with all of his heart just moments ago… "Say what you wrote to her," he heard his own inner-voice advise.
"Julia," he said softly, feeling her attention turn to him, "The first time I felt it – at least that I felt it very, very strongly, consciously, and …" his head shook slowly from side-to-side showing his regret of his decision at the time, "and I so very much wish I had said it to you then instead of now … was the Saturday morning a few weeks ago, the same morning we decided on the names for the baby. Do you remember?" She nodded, but he was unable to see for he still stared at the journal on the table. He continued, stronger now, "I was still in bed and you were looking at yourself in the mirror. The force of it was amazing, the feelings I had as I gazed upon you – my wife, carrying my child inside of you… The word 'miracle' does not even come close to the significance of it." He lifted his head, turned to her. "Please look at me, Julia," he pleaded, the words stuck, seemingly trapped, in his head. She sniffled and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. He pulled a handkerchief out of his vest pocket and handed it to her, noticing he caught her eye ever so fleetingly. He took a deep breath and ventured, stepping closer to her. "Years ago I told you that nothing in this world mattered more to me than you. It was true then, it is true now, and I know that it will always be true – that it was true even before I met you… That you are the one for me. Our struggle to be together has been monumental, and yet also unavoidable. But now, now the earth has shaken, as if it had all just been a bud, and now the world is shaking, vibrating with enormous power as that bud is blossoming – inside of you. That you can – are – having our child, that I can see the laws of the universe be, both broken, and met, when I look at you… "
She turned, their eyes connected. His voice froze for his breath had been taken. He couldn't remember what he was going to say. The words flew away from him, caught in the gravitational cyclone, joining the other swirling colors in the kaleidoscope, along with his wind and his being, magnetically drawn to her.
She had been stunned by it too, captured as well, for a moment. She felt herself lean back, felt her body fight against it. She grabbed a hold of the darkest feeling – the one that threatened the beckoning bliss. "Responsibility – that was it! I need to take responsibility for my part," she understood. Her focus changed, tugging him out of the enchanting trance. "William, I played a role in the mess we made too. I should have talked to you about my feelings, um, of being out of control, and being overly-dependent, and so scared that you would leave me," she admitted. "It probably would have helped me … not to over-react," she explained.
He nodded, acknowledging that if she had done so it would likely have made a difference.
He was so beautiful, his big eyes wide and warm. She wanted to be infinitely closer to him … she wanted him to hold her down and breathe on her and touch her so very, very deeply and move her over and over again, the way only he could … "It is so strong," she thought, "But he doesn't feel it, only I do… and we can't anyway." She sighed with the disappointment of the realization. She would have to wait. "You said you were certain..." she asked, looking at him, her pupils black with interest, hope in her voice.
A flash sparked in his mind's eye, reminding him of the intensity, the heat, the wild, lustful demand he had felt last night in his dream. He nodded. Another flash, he had her pinned to the bathroom wall, two pairs of trousers mingling and twisting together on the floor – he was inside of her, thrusting with all of his might, and …" his knees weakened with the thought, "…the sound of her moans echoing off of the tile bathroom wall, melting into his ear, inside his soul. The memory brought a rise in him, thus the requirement to clear his throat, and still his voice scratched out and his face burned red, "I have multiple pairs of pajama bottoms as evidence."
Julia thought about this. He had bought quite a few new sets of pajamas recently, she remembered ... And he did seem to wear a new pair nearly every night. "His dreams must be quite LUCID," she thought. He had always been much … quieter, than her, she hadn't noticed. And he was telling her it was she who he made love to in these dreams. Her need to ask indicated that she still had doubts, "And it is me, in your dreams, not some waitress or some other young new fancy?" she asked, not quite able to look him in the eye.
He ducked his chin, bent down a bit, trying to line up his eyes with hers. "Beyond a doubt it is you Julia, albeit a very un-pregnant, breathtakingly gorgeous, dream you," he replied.
Taking the chance she might see that what he was offering was a deception and her heart would be broken all over again, she held his eyes and asked, "And you are sure that the real life me will spawn such an urge in you?"
His smile was big, and it had an air of playful mischief to it. "I am," he said, giving her a slight bow, and then glancing down at his groin. He looked back at her, thrilled by the sight of her, eyes fixed down and wide and dark, soaking in the sight of his engorged trousers. "Very sure," he added, firmly.
The wave of desire hit her like a tsunami, causing her to take a step back. "Breathe," her own voice insisted. Her eyes still transfixed, her voice sleepy and weak, she said, "Oh… I see."
A delightful, devilish chuckle sprang from his throat.
Oh, how she so wanted to tease him back. "William Murdoch … I have never known you to be so, "cocky," – well at least not for quite some time," she bantered.
He returned, "Puns – the feeblest form of humor," throwing her own jab back at her from many, many years ago when he had told her of "some arresting news" he had gotten from Ruby.
"It is too bad we can't take advantage of your…" she searched for a word and finished, "state." Dissatisfied with the distance, she stepped in closer to him, adding a humming to the surge of the force between them as it multiplied. "Do you remember what you wrote, at the end, in your journal?" she asked, knowing he did, for she had never known anyone with a memory as keen as his. And she wanted more than anything to make those wishes come true.
His eyes darted, to hers, then away as he searched his brain. "I do," he answered. "I said that I wanted to be in your arms – that I wanted to be," he paused, his eyes locked with hers as the breath he took raised and dropped his chest before he avowed, "I wanted to be home."
"As do I," she whispered …
… Prompting him to take her, to wrap his arm around her waist, and pull her to him. They did not fit as well as they used to, as there was a baby snuggled in between them, bit still, the connection was magnificent. He kissed her, delighting in the feeling of her melting in his arms as he did so. Finding the feeling of their child against him only intensified his feelings of love and well-being, William whispered in her ear, "There is surely no doubt Julia; I couldn't possibly love you more."
They floated together, rocking tenderly in their embrace … until Julia's stomach growled, and she giggled.
"Shall we," he invited, as he stepped back and pulled a chair away from the table for her. Over their now-cold dinner they decided that he would read his journal to her, about the time his father had suddenly re-appeared in William's life. After dinner, they settled on the couch together and he did so.
Remembering the pain he felt when his own father questioned if he knew him, only to decide he did not, William found compassion for himself and the doubts he had been having about being able to be a good father. This, however, did not seem to ease his concerns, but rather, increase them, for it provided evidence that he had never had a chance to experience good fathering himself. He asked Julia what she had wanted from him, back when they were considering adopting children, and then again when she first became pregnant, and she had found herself doubting her ability to be a good mother.
She remembered – she wanted him to challenge her doubts – to disagree – to insist, whole-heartedly that he was certain that she would be a great mother. She remembered that he had done so, that it had reassured her, strengthened her. Inspired by the memory, she told him that she had never doubted, ever, that he would make a wonderful father. She explained that it was this certainty that had driven her fear, so many years ago when she retreated to Buffalo, running from the certain unbearable pain of his rejection of her if he came to know she would not be able to make him a father. She had always thought he was meant to be somebody's father, and since she couldn't be somebody's mother, well then she must have been wrong to think that their love was destined to be – it was what had spurred her doubt. The irony of the fact that he had chosen her, that he knew she was the one for him despite her not being able to have children, and then the fact that they sat together on their couch, now, with her less than two months away from having that very same impossible dream come true – that irony was not lost on them. As a matter of fact, it only added fuel to the fire of their awe. It was that fire, the one they seemed to be able to make only when they were together, it was that fire that burned away all of their doubts.
Later that night, they bent Isaac's rule, and reinstated Plan C from when they had spent the night together at her father's lake-house, after he had died. Back then, they had just gotten engaged. They were madly in love, but still unmarried, and thus they had decided that they would sleep together but not make love. However, the next morning, William had remembered and implemented something he had learned from Ettie Weston and from his extensive reading. He had called it Plan C. There would be no intercourse, but there would be immense pleasure. It was wonderful – back then, as well as now, and thankfully, the baby seemed fine. They did, however, receive a legitimate noise complaint the next morning, prompting William to smile to himself with secret pride. "It had been a while," he thought. Happily he remembered that Julia had whispered to him, as they lie together recovering, seeming to be floating and swirling in their eternal love for each other, "It is without a doubt William … Without a doubt."
