Isn't it perfect when times are happy? You're finally relieved of stress, the weight you bear is lifted off of your shoulders. Everything becomes a thousand times easier. So often do we lose our grip on reality during these long awaited periods. We forget about how suddenly the mood can switch; from raw, eccentric love, to bitter, heart wrenching hatred. It happens almost instantly, and in my own experiences, it's in the ways you least expect it.
But that's besides the point. Right now I'm happy, hence, I should be contempt with that. Only I'm not, because I'm drowning in fear, forced to feel on-edge. Especially as I rest my forehead again my husband's slight stomach bulge.
I can feel her in there, kicking as she rolls around in her womb. I wonder what she looks like; what her skin tone is, and how close her eyes will resemble Leo's. I try to imagine mine and my lover's personalities rolled into one, but I can hardly imagine it.
What happens when you mix fire and water? You get destruction. Water burns, and fire drowns. Both are furious, in their own special ways. Neither willing to lift the grudge off of the ground; not quite yet.
I lay a delicate kiss upon Leo's tummy, leaving the gift to rest over our daughter. Squeezing my eyes shut, I wrap my arms tightly around his lower back, pulling him closer. He doesn't object, and his hands find their way to massage my head.
"Only another month," Leonardo murmurs in reminder. I nod in agreement, because of course I know that our daughter is due in just over four weeks. I wouldn't be able to forget it if I tried, due to my husband's constant countdown.
Leo's excitement can be a bit overwhelming, and I say this with all the love in the world. It's an adorable act when he grins down at his stomach every time he feels a soft movement. Some days, he sits in the nursery we've constructed, rocking back in forth in a chair I'd sculpted myself. He'll read to our daughter, his voice as gentle as a birds.
When I hear him in there, talking to what I assume to be himself, I smile warmly. It isn't every day that you walk in to see the love of your life in such a motherly state. I hope I don't ever go a day in my life without coming witness to such a precious moment.
We've talked it over, the confusion of names. Our children will know him as Mom and me as Dad, just as a way of clearing things up. He's going to be a magnificent mother, my Leonardo. He seems to have a strong belief that I'll be a wonderful father, but I can't bring myself to agree.
Something doesn't feel right to me when I lay my head over his stomach. A sense of fear lurks in the depths of my mind. It's an undeniable thought, to assume that something is wrong. I want to brush it aside, but it's far too controlling.
It's as if it's on the tip of my tongue, the disaster that's about to strike. I know it's going to take place, I carry an odd sense of deja vu about the matter.
I don't dare tell Leonardo, as I can only imagine how paranoid he'll grow to be. That wouldn't be very good for the baby, therefore, I'll keep my suspicions to myself. After all, that's all they are, minor suspicions.
Right?
I won't be able to wrap my mind around what's going on—as of now, our daughter is healthy and, that should be enough for me. Hence the reason I'm ignoring the anxiety that's taking over me, because everything is going smooth right now.
I should know better than to assume things'll stay like this. Deep down, I know they won't, I understand that a storm is coming. I'm just too fucking happy to care.
"Elisabetta," Leonardo murmurs, his voice filled with hope. His hand is striking the top of my head, holding me loosely as I nuzzle into his curved belly. "Can that be her name?"
I don't open my eyes, I'm not ready to let the world come seeping in through the cracks between my eyelids just yet. I'm finding it to be rather nice, leaning against my lover and feeling his hands on me. Our daughter's swift pitter-patter is a bonus.
I smile softly. "Of course, my love, whatever you wish." It isn't like me to cave in this easily, especially considering our heated debate on the subject of names. I was bent on La Belle, so what made me surrender?
Perhaps it was Leo's desperation, or the promise of a blithe glaze that would paint itself over his sapphire eyes if he got his way. More likely than not, though, it was because of the unsettling feeling that rested in the pit of my stomach. It told me that things weren't right, and that this was one of my last chances to enlighten my husband.
So I did just that.
He let out a squeal of excitement, and when I was standing, he leapt into my arms.
Looking back at that moment in our kitchen, I wish I could go back, just so I could cherish one of my last times holding him. Because by now, I'd give up the world if it meant I could have him in arms reach once more.
Even if it meant reliving the following six weeks.
"You're doing it wrong," Leonardo states bluntly, watching me from the doorway. I whip around to face him, clumsily splattering blue paint onto the plastic wrap laid out across the floor.
"I told you to stay downstairs; the paint fumes aren't healthy for the baby," my stern voice matches my narrowed brow perfectly.
Leonardo isn't taking any of that, he's in another one of his infamous, bitter moods today. "I was going to invite you down for lunch, but clearly you'd rather spend another hour up here." My husband rolls his eyes as he squats down in an attempt to grab a paint brush identical to my own. "You aren't even doing it correctly. Here, let me show you."
Leonardo is rather graceful as he dips the fat, bushy brush into the cyan blue paint. It drifted across the bumpy drywall, never drilling, unlike my paint job had. He was far better at this than me, that much was apparent. I enjoyed watching him work, the state it put him in was rather adorable. His sapphire eyes are relaxed as he fixates every last ounce of attention into the task.
Grinning, I crouch down beside him. "Damn, you're good at this," I whisper in awe.
Leonardo smirks and glances at me out of the corner of his eye as he replies, "So am I allowed to help you now?"
I nod. "Of course, darling."
We spend another hour and a half painting our daughter's nursery, entertaining each other in the simplest of ways. He tells me riddles, while I throw cheesy pickup lines his way. His giggles—giddy and cheerful as ever—fill the room with color. His smile is what adds the blue to these walls.
I've never noticed it, but the wider his smile, the less eyes glow. I ponder over it for several moments, but choose to let it go, too lost in the moment to take note of the bags underlining his stare. I'm blinded by his false mood to realize that he's holding back tears.
It's the first day of many, where I ignore the obvious signs of depression lurking in his eyes. These days would be the ones I come to regret the most.
For after the storm ends, even the strongest of houses collapse. And ours just so happens to be the oddity, the one that'll never quite be fixed.
Somehow, someway, we'll still manage to turn out okay in the end.
All in good time.
All in good time.
...
What if the storm ends, and I don't see you as you are now, ever again?
— What if the Storm Ends (Snow Patrol)