Chapter Fourteen – Business as Usual

Amanda lowered her baby boy into his crib. His blue eyes were crinkled closed. Jamison was nearly double his original height, and soon the crib would have to be replaced.

Amanda looked around the room. The sun shone through the window; sunbeams danced on Jamison's silent face. Sighing, she forced herself to look at the spot were Sergio forced himself upon her. It had been three months, and the reality had become easier, but she still had not accepted the fact, or the guilt pent up inside of her.

She heard faint footsteps ascending the stairs. Her first reaction was fear, but she realized that Quentin must be home. She heard the footsteps stop in front of the nursery door. She turned around, her expression was of terror, but there stood her husband, confused at being welcomed this way. "Quentin!" she cried in relief.

"Amanda, what's wrong?" Quentin asked, puzzled.

"Nothing, it's just . . ." She let out an embarrassed laugh. "I still have trouble, you know? I . . . I keep reminding myself. Even being in this room terrifies me."

"Hey," Quentin said, coming to his wife, enclosing her in an embrace, "Now, nothing's gonna happen to you. I'm here."

"What if it happens and you're not here?" Amanda asked, muffled by his clothes.

"Then someone else will have to look after you," Quentin said softly, looking up at the roof, as if Jenny were going to ascend at that moment. He clapped her lovingly on the shoulder, and said, "How's Jamison?"

"Sleeping," Amanda said, her head still buried in Quentin. She never wanted to let go.

"Sleeping?" Quentin said. A mischievous intonation of his word made Amanda look up. A silent understanding passed between them, and knowing smiles crept up on both their faces. Quentin kissed her passionately, while Amanda, just as passionately, reached up to the back of his head to pull him closer to her. Quentin began to lead her across the room as they kissed. He slowly lowered Amanda into the rocking chair, but as the chair began to wobble, Amanda pushed back on Quentin, and he fell to the ground below her. "Now what's wrong?" Quentin asked irritably as he sat up.

"I – I just can't!" Amanda cried, sobbing hysterically.

She stood up and headed for the door. "Amanda!" Quentin yelled after her.

"I can't!" she screamed, running for the bedroom. Quentin heard their bedroom door slam and sighed. It was going to take a while.

Amanda woke up from her afternoon nap at five o'clock. Crying tired her out so much that she often times found herself so sleepy. Quentin understood this, and usually left her alone for a while.

Still rubbing her eyes, Amanda descended the staircase, and found Quentin playing his old gramophone and making dinner. Jamison was sitting in his highchair, babbling tunefully to Quentin's song. Amanda still remembered the first time he had sung his song to her . . . how they danced and kissed . . . the first time she knew she was falling in love with him.

Jamison was not the only one singing – Quentin was also humming along, the words being dispensed with since Amanda thought them "gloomy". "Hello, Quentin," Amanda yawned.

Quentin's face immediately brightened. "Sit down, honey, dinner's almost ready."

Amanda went to the highchair, and caressed her son's chubby cheek. Jamison looked up at her with his big blue eyes, smiled, and said, "Mama."

Amanda smiled and picked him up. While playing with her baby, she asked, "What's for dinner?"

"Clam chowder," Quentin said, returning his attention to the stove.

"Mmmmm," Amanda said to Jamison, "Dada knows how to make the best chowder, doesn't he?" Amanda asked her child in baby talk.

"I should – I've been practicing for eighty years," Quentin said smilingly.

Amanda smiled and sat down on the sofa. While bouncing Jamison on her knee, she said, "I'm sorry about earlier."

"It's all right," Quentin said comfortingly.

"No, it's not."

Amanda was starting to get upset again. The record spun its last three notes before ending the song. The scratching of the needle brought the attention of little Jamison. He pointed to the red gramophone, and said, "Wecod."

"Yes, honey, record," Amanda said sternly, almost crying again. "Quentin, we really should talk about this."

"Can't wait until after dinner?" Quentin said, irritated.

"All right, fine," Amanda said in an offended voice, "Everything in the world can wait until after dinner as far as you're concerned. In fact, I'm surprised that you didn't wake me up so that you wouldn't have to tear yourself away from listening to your damn record!"

"Wecod," Jamison reasserted.

Quentin clanged down the lid to the chowder pot, and rushed over to the two. "Amanda, I have taken just about all I can stand. You want to talk about it now, but what about three hours ago? Why must I have to work around your schedule, when you won't even attempt to work around mine?"

"Quentin!" Amanda said, appalled that Quentin talked to her this way. Sure, they'd had their fights, but nothing like this. Amanda looked at the carpet. "I'm sorry, honey, I had no idea."

"Hey, listen," Quentin said, looking away. He knew he'd stepped over a line, and the pain he was going through from that fact alone was written all over his face. "I'm sorry. You know I didn't mean it like that. If you want to talk now, we'll talk."

"It's just – I'm afraid I'll be different for you . . . spoiled," Amanda said. The words came out stiffly, as if she didn't expect them.

"Oh, Amanda, whatever that bastard did to you will never make you different," Quentin said, kneeling down, stroking her arm. "I'll always love you, and nothing will ever change the image I have of you. If that's what you're afraid of . . . you have nothing to worry about." Quentin smiled, and pressed his lips against hers. Bearing his crooked smirk, he said, "Why don't we forget about the chowder, put Jamison to bed, and have some . . . alone time?"

"Later," Amanda said slyly, pecking him on the mouth, "After dinner."