Remember the disclaimer? It's still the same!
A/N: Thanks so much, as always, to my beta reader!
Chapter Six
The following morning found Alistair up and showering at dawn. He was horridly jet-lagged, but his psychiatrist, Mitch Foster, had opened up a Sunday appointment just for Alistair, who wasn't going to be late. Judy was making breakfast when Alistair emerged from the bathroom with nothing but a towel wrapped around him.
"Good morning," Judy greeted her husband with more cheer than she felt. Fortunately, her nausea had hardly been bad thus far, but it was still annoying and uncomfortable, especially that morning when her sleep cycle was so mixed up. Alistair didn't need to know that, though.
"Judith!" Alistair exclaimed. "Luv, go back to bed. You needn't be up yet; get some rest." He crossed to kiss her good morning nonetheless and, while she kissed him back, she yanked his towel away. He stepped back, his eyes popping open in surprise and hers twinkling mischievously. Then he smiled devilishly, purred, "Hey, hey!" and strode forward again to press his still-damp-from-the-shower body against her. He had every inclination to sweep Judy off her feet, carry her back into the bedroom, and explain the situation very apologetically to Mitch later. She let him kiss her collarbone and work his way up her neck to nibble on her earlobe, but she didn't respond. It drove him crazy, and he couldn't decide whether it was a good kind of crazy or simply too much for him to take. Whatever it was, it didn't matter once he got to her lips and she finally grabbed him and kissed him back with more the power and passion than the ocean itself holds within its shores.
Alistair had to pull away to catch his breath. "Be still my heart!" he exclaimed and reached for his wife again.
"You have an appointment in less than an hour," Judy suddenly announced matter-of-factly as she ducked underneath his open arms to flip the sausages. She had gone from seductress to just someone else in less than a second flat.
"Mitch will understand," Alistair replied in a sultry whisper. He couldn't believe Judy's serenity after that kiss. To his credit, though, he had made Judy breathe a little raggedly; she hadn't missed the zest of the moment. He followed her around to the stove and caught her up from behind.
"Alistair, you have to go to your appointment. Full stop." She turned away from him again to bring the orange juice out of the refrigerator. "I'll still be here when you get back."
"But you're here now. And so am I!" he pouted. Did she really expect him to get dressed and leave now after the condition she'd put him in?! What had just happened here? He followed her to the fridge and took the juice from her. "Judy?"
And then she was teary. "Please, Alistair? You'll go, won't you?"
"What? Judy, what's wrong?" Poor Alistair didn't understand mood swings. In one swift movement, he had the juice on the table and his arms around his wife. There was nothing sexual about this embrace; Alistair was worried.
She hugged him back and rested her head on his shoulder. She sniffled then sighed. "Oh, Alistair. I don't know what's wrong with me. One minute I'm happy, and the next I'm crying." She laughed then, a throaty, full chuckle. She tilted her head up just a bit and pressed her lips to her husband's. His bare body was so warm, and she could feel his heartbeat through his chest as she held him tight to her. "I love you so much."
"I love you too, Luv," Alistair replied, rubbing Judy's back tenderly. He wanted to hold her forever. She closed her eyes. She could smell the remnants of Alistair's shampoo and clean soap. His arms were strong and she felt so protected in them. Yes, of course he would go to his appointment. He would take care of himself and of his wife and unborn babies. There was nothing Alistair couldn't do. These reassurances filtered through the sleepy fog that was tickling Judy's brain. She relaxed and fell asleep standing up, right there in the kitchen, safe in her husband's arms. So Alistair still got to carry his wife into their bedroom, and he didn't even mind that it was only to settle her back under the blankets. He dressed in silence, ate breakfast alone, made sure all of the burners on the stove were turned off, and locked the door behind him when he left. He was confused, a little disappointed, but he still wasn't going to be late.
Mitch Foster was the most relaxed, laid-back person Alistair had ever met. His office had large windows that were usually open at least a crack to let in the breeze. The cool jade curtains were almost always pulled back, and one could gaze through the glass right into a park. Varying shades of green decorated most of the furniture; Mitch had done a study in graduate school on which colours were the most calming. Green had won out. Naturally, he accented the green with varying other hues to avoid monotony and a one-tone washout, but he lovingly referred to his office as "The Emerald City."
As high-strung and "Type A" as Alistair was, Mitch was calm, cool, and collected. He was also so intelligent it was almost frightening. Mitch's diagnoses were spot-on, his patience was unwavering, and he emanated a passion to help people. He truly was the best in the business.
Alistair arrived exactly two minutes before seven o'clock. Mitch welcomed his patient with a smile, a handshake, and hearty congratulations over Alistair's marriage. Then he invited Alistair to take a seat "anywhere you like, mate." Alistair chose the plush, forest green chair. When he sat down, he felt like he could sink all the way to the floor. Some people avoided that chair at all costs because it made them feel closed in. Others, like Alistair, chose it because it was like being hugged warmly. It felt safe. Mitch took his place in the lime beanbag chair. He sat lower to the ground than Alistair in order to give Alistair the unconscious illusion that, since he was higher up, he was in charge of not only the room, but his feelings.
To begin, Mitch gently suggested Alistair speak a narrative about Judith, the honeymoon, and their marriage thus far. Alistair relaxed visibly and smiled delightedly as he spoke of Judy, the time they spent with just each other and no one else in Hawaii, and how much he adored her. His eyes took on a faraway look the longer he spoke of his wife. Eventually, Alistair came to the fact that he and Judy would be parents soon to twins. Then, with the same suddenness and speed as a Texas tornado, Alistair's whole body tensed, his chest tightened, and his breathing became laboured. Another panic attack.
Mitch was out of his seat and kneeling next to Alistair in a flash. "It's all right, mate. Rest your head on your knees and take deep breaths. I know it's easier said than done, but you can do it." Mitch demonstrated, inviting Alistair to breathe along with him. Alistair closed his eyes, his forehead pressed against the tops of his knees, his arms hanging limply to the floor. He tried to breathe with Mitch, though it took him over a minute to succeed in sucking in a deep enough breath to even begin to follow his psychiatrist's rate. Mitch patted Alistair's back every now and then, encouraging him to, "Just take it slow, mate. Nice and easy. It's going to be all right. You'll get through it." When Alistair finally calmed down, Mitch led him down as easy a path as he could in order to get Alistair to acknowledge, recognize, and actually face his myriad emotions without provoking another panic attack. In the end, Mitch decided that raising Alistair's medication level and prescribing every-other-weekly visits was the proper course of treatment.
"I've four children of my own, Alistair. I know well how terrifying and still extraordinarily exciting this time is. You're in a bit of a unique position because of the anxiety disorder – I mean, you're feeling every emotion as something bigger, deeper, and all-encompassing than most folks do – but it's nothing that can't be handled. You're strong-willed, and I know you're going to be all right." Mitch slapped Alistair on the back in a friendly gesture of encouragement. Mitch spoke more like a friend than a doctor. "Here's something I'd like for you to try on for size: Any time you're feeling like you're going to have an attack, tell yourself, 'I can handle this.' Works wonders, mate, I'm telling you." He smiled reassuringly. "Now, we're upping your meds a bit, and you'll be stopping by here every other week. You know, Alistair, that you can always phone me any time you need me."
Alistair had just released every fear he felt over being a father. Of course he could do this. He was Alistair Deacon! He would be a loving father and a doting husband. He would play with his children and teach them. They would hold his hands and call him "Daddy" and sit in his lap and ask him to read stories to them. He would hold them when they cried and praise them every time they deserved it. They would be the result of his perfect union with Judy. Alistair felt worlds better, and he told Mitch as much.
"It's the power of talk, mate," Mitch nodded knowingly. "It always helps to get whatever's bothering you off your chest."
Alistair yawned. He had hardly slept the night before because his mind had been racing right along with his heart. Now, he was feeling light and happy and much more excitement and joy than fear over his impending fatherhood. Everything was going to be all right. He could sleep peacefully.
"Go on home, mate. You're going to be all right," Mitch ordered.
Alistair would refill his prescription tomorrow. For now, he made his way home to his wife.
Wednesday evening found Sandy with a mop in hand, a bucket of soapy water at her feet, and flour all over the kitchen floor. She had made six batches of cookies after she'd returned home from work that day – all of which turned out magnificently and tasted even better than they looked, thank you very much – only to end up dropping the canister of flour while cleaning up. She was nervous, more so than she dared admit aloud. Harry had scheduled a meeting with his supervisors for that day: the meeting that would decide once and for all where Sandy and Harry would spend at least the next ten months. Harry's year tour with the Canadian Mounties could end today, or it could only be beginning.
It took her more than twenty minutes to mop up the flour, which caked up as soon as the water touched it and became gross and gloppy, and another forty to finish tidying the rest of the kitchen from her baking frenzy. While she cleaned, she thought about her fiancé. Sandy knew that Harry loved being in Calgary. He liked the people and his work, but he especially loved the wide-open spaces Canada gave him. Sure, he had places to go in England that were still relatively wild, but Alberta offered real freedom. Harry was an outdoorsman through and through. In the back of her mind, Sandy knew that Harry didn't want to return to London. In the back of her mind, she knew that the only reason she had made six batches of cookies that day was to appease her fiancé. In the back of her mind, she knew that cookies would neither appease him, nor get rid of any of the guilt she harbored. Harry wanted to stay in Calgary. He was only trying to get out of his dream job because she was homesick.
Sandy was up to her elbows in Dawn and dishwater when Harry burst through their apartment door carrying a huge cardboard box (which held smaller boxes within it) and wearing a huge smile. "We're going home, Sandy, Luv!" he announced cheerfully. It didn't even sound forced.
"Really?" Sandy didn't try to force cheer into her voice. She felt wretched.
"What do you mean, 'really'?" Harry imitated her leaden tone. "I'd expected you to be thrilled." His smile still remained.
"Oh, Harry, I don't want to go back to London. Not if you don't want to. It's only a year tour. Don't give up your dream just because I've been whining." She wiped her hands off on a dishtowel and avoided Harry's eyes.
"Dream? What are you taking about?" Harry's grin became a grimace. He dropped the boxes on the floor with a whomp! "How can you say you don't want to go back to London?"
"I don't want you to give up your chance here." Oh, why hadn't she said anything before?
"First of all, this isn't a 'dream.' I only put in for this tour because I couldn't bear to be anywhere near the memories of what I'd thoroughly mucked up. Secondly…"
"You mean you're not happy here? I thought you loved Calgary and Canada and the wildlife and the open spaces." Was there a glimmer of hope? Did Harry really want to go home too?
Harry couldn't speak for a second. When he opened his mouth again, it was only to stammer: "I…I…well…"
"Please, Harry," Sandy whispered. "Please tell me the truth."
Harry sighed and ran a hand through his hair in an attempt to collect himself. "All right, Sandy. The truth is, I do love it here. I do love Calgary and Canada and the wildlife and the open spaces. I love the people. I love my job... But, Sandy…" Where were the right words?! He held his arm out to Sandy, who was leaning against the wall as far across the room from Harry as she could get, tears streaming down her face. She wouldn't go to him.
"You came here to get away from me, and now it's because of me that you have to go back," she reasoned.
Harry rolled his eyes. Today had been one of the worst in his life. Today's meeting obliged Harry to kiss good-bye any promotion he might even hope to receive for at least the next two years. An ugly, black-and-blue bruised note highlighting the fact that he was cutting out of his tour would go into his permanent file. He was trading his post in Calgary with that of a young man currently stationed in London; Harry would have a job to return to, but he would be working for the pay that the young man was receiving now. That is to say, Harry would be going home to a lower-paying position. And now, to put the rotted cherry on top the sludge-sundae that was today, his fiancée had decided that she didn't want to go back home after all! "Do you want to go back to London, or don't you?" His patience had worn thin.
"I want you to be happy." Sandy tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She still couldn't look Harry in the eyes.
"That doesn't answer my question." Harry's voice lowered to a sneer.
"I don't know what I want any more." She felt like a child in the middle of an oral exam for which she hadn't studied a minute.
His sneer exploded into rage, "Rubbish! You want to go back to London, and now we're going! You're supposed to be happy!"
"Well I'm not! I'm miserable! I've been miserable from the moment we arrived here. And now…" She laughed dismally. "Now I'm miserable because we're going home!"
Harry shook his head, then rested his forehead in his palms. He spoke softly and as though he was in physical pain, "I don't understand you at all. When I told you I was trying to work it out so we could go home, you were thrilled. Now that we're going, you're miserable." He picked his head up and looked straight at Sandy, his voice rising again in anger, "If you had reservations, why the hell didn't you say anything before today?!"
Sandy grew fierce, "I didn't exactly have much time to think things through. You might have given me some sort of warning instead of springing your decision upon me just this weekend! Don't you think your happiness means anything to me?"
"Don't you think your happiness means anything to me?" Harry retorted.
Still plastered against the wall, Sandy slid down to perch on the floor, her eyes wide and cheeks pale. His words had been a slap of reality. "This is a fine mess we're in, isn't it?" She was sad now, rather than angry. She hugged her legs up to herself, resting her chin on her knees. It was a position she'd found comforting in the last two months: she embraced herself because her family wasn't there to hold her.
Harry closed his eyes, drawing a deep breath as he dropped into a kitchen chair. His anger had also been replaced by sobriety. "Sandy, I do love it here. But if you're not happy – and I know you're not – then staying simply isn't worth it to me. I may be happy here, but I certainly wasn't unhappy in London. Well, except for the time I wasn't with you." The corners of Sandy's lips turned up just a tiny bit. Finally, the words Harry had been searching for found him, "I want to go back to London. I mean that. I want you to smile again. If you're happy, Sandy, then I'm happy too. You are the most important thing in the world to me. I mucked things up between us the last time: I'm not going to lose you now over nothing more than a few trees and a flock of geese." He held his arm out to her again. This time, she went to him, settled in his lap and let him hold her.
"Promise me something, Harry," Sandy whispered, laying her head on Harry's shoulder.
"Of course." He wrapped his arms around Sandy. Under the influence of her depression since coming to Canada, she'd dropped weight off of her already thin frame. He ran his fingers over her ribs.
"Promise me that if you're ever upset over anything, you'll tell me."
Harry chuckled. "I ought to have you make that promise."
"Let's both promise, then, to talk to each other. Don't let's have a repeat of tonight. Or of the last few weeks for that matter. We've been on pins and needles, each of us not wanting to upset the other."
"It has been a rather exhausting balance, hasn't it? I hadn't thought about it until just now." He rested his chin on Sandy's head. "Oh, I really am ready to go home." He was so sincere. Sandy not only heard it, but she felt it now. A surge of excitement sparked through her when Harry intoned, "Let's start packing!" Pause. "Do I smell cookies?"