Title: There's Luke
Author: Myalias
Chapter: Five (Lorelai's point of view)
As I stand in the doorway of the adorable en suite bathroom, Luke is explaining the logistical feasibility of installing a new bathtub without having to retile the entire room. Apparently, this is possible, but might be unnecessary if he can rework the piping himself with some new kind of plastic connectors. Or something like that.
I have no idea what he's talking about.
He's acting this out, showing me the exact line on the ground where the tile might crack if that were to happen. If the tile cracks, we have a whole new problem because this tile was probably installed in the late 1980s, and it's most likely not being produced any more, and there is no way to replace individual tiles.
As entertaining as Luke's Bob Villa impression is in its own special way, I've learned more about tile today than I ever, ever wanted to know. I want to leave this adorable, albeit faultily tiled bathroom, and I want to see the rest of this house. Our house.
He pauses. Apparently he has exhausted his tile knowledge for today.
"Did I point out this mirror?" he asks suddenly, walking closer to the standard, over-the-sink, cabinet-covering mirror. "I'm pretty sure it will be big enough. I mean, I don't really need a big mirror, but for you. I mean, not that you need a big mirror but if you wanted one, we can probably put in a - "
"No. No, Bob. We can keep the mirror," I interrupt, smiling.
"Yeah?" he says, looking concerned. "You're right. The mirror's fine." He takes a deep breath. "Did you just call me Bob?"
"No."
"Okay. Because I could have sworn… like Bob Villa? Really?" he asks.
"Luke," I say, lowering my voice, pouting my lips. I wrap my hands around his lower back. "As much as we all love the bathroom…Are there other rooms in this house? I would love to see them."
He rolls his eyes, but in the good Luke way. "There are a couple, you know… other rooms."
"Ooh! Good! Let's go see," I say, pulling his hand and forcing him out of the bathroom. If I weren't dragging him, I'm pretty sure he would have stopped in the bedroom and started inspecting the electrical outlets or something. It's like when I used to have to carry Rory out of the bookstore because if I didn't, I'd turn around and find that she had returned to the fluffy stuffed dog in the children's section and was dutifully reading Goodnight Moon for the 15th time. But with Rory, back then at least, it was clear why she did what she did. She wanted to stay because she wanted to read. With Luke, his reasons are not as self-evident.
We finally make it through our bedroom and into the hallway. Directly across from the bedroom door is another white door. I put my hand on the doorknob.
"Lorelai, wait!" he says, putting his hand on mine, stopping me mid-twist.
"Oh. Okay," I say, letting my tone reveal just a hint of frustration. This is weird. I don't know why things are weird all of a sudden. Things don't feel calm and comfortable like they did when Luke was explaining the possible grouting options for our bathroom. Why is he making them weird?
"Let's not go in there," he says.
"Why not?" Did I mention that I hate that it's weird. Us not being weird is the only thing keeping me from falling apart again today.
He's just staring, not letting me turn the doorknob. He takes a deep breath. "Just, I'm not sure that today is the day to have this talk."
I know exactly what talk he means - the one about babies and diapers and college savings accounts - but I won't let myself realize that Luke is serious. And he's nervous. Luke is really, really nervous. I'm surprised, because for some reason it's never really occurred to me that this was going to be an issue. That it is feasible that Luke and I are on different pages here. I never thought about the fact that he's never heard me say, "Luke, if you want kids, I want kids." Because I do, I think. I just don't want to discuss it.
He's right, too. Today isn't the day to have this talk. Not after everything that's happened with Rory. He's trying to throw me a lifesaver; if we don't go in the room, we don't have to talk about kids, and I don't have to think about Rory for a little while longer. He's nervous for himself, but he's putting this conversation off for me. He's not the one making this weird, I am. But instead of recognizing that, of taking his offer and talking later, I decide to be obstinate. I'm good at that.
"Luke. It's a room. Four walls, a ceiling, some windows. Let's go in," I say, pointing towards the door. Wow, I'm being incredibly condescending right now. And why? I'm trying to ease the tension, but I'm not making this better, I'm making it worse. I can take Luke's offer and put this conversation off, or I can be mature and discuss it with him, or I can be rude and childish. I go for door number three.
"Yeah. A room," he says, struggling to find the words. "Okay, look. When I, uh, imagined us living in this house… I never saw us living alone here."
"Not alone? Other people?" I ask flirtatiously, still attempting to wriggle my way out of this conversation. "Why Luke, what kind of a girl do you think I am?" I say in my best southern-belle voice.
He doesn't laugh. He doesn't even smile or roll his eyes. He's still silent, still tense, still holding the doorknob.
"Okay," I stammer, through a sigh. "Sarcastic remarks regarding a ménage-a-trios are not going to work," I say, stepping away from the door. He's still scrutinizing my face, trying to read my eyes. I'm trying to read his, but it's hard because his face is all squished up in anxiety. Did I cause that? What am I doing?
And just like that I realize that I'm being completely horrible and selfish right now. I scan my memory, trying to recall the various conversations Luke and I have had about having kids. Granted, we had those conversations before we were together, but I've always gotten the same impression. Luke wants a family. He deserves a family.
I can see it now, the fear piercing his eyes. He is afraid that I'm done with raising kids. Rory was my one shot. Now I'm tired of it. But I don't think he's right.
He's petrified and I'm letting him stand there and stare at me.
I physically shudder at this realization. "Oh God, Luke. I'm so sorry," I say, putting my hands over my face, and I mean it. I am sorry. Luke's whole future, and the future of generations of mini-Lukes, depends on this conversation and I just made a sarcastic comment about a threesome.
But this moment just keeps getting worse. It was really stupid to apologize just then, because he thought I was apologizing for not wanting to have kids, not for being a 12-year-old during this conversation. Without moving a muscle in his face, his entire expression changes. His eyes fall towards the ground and just become so still and so sad. I hate that I'm hurting Luke this much, and for no reason.
"Oh, no! That's not what I meant!" I say. He looks up again. "I meant that I'm sorry I brushed you off before." I throw my arms around his shoulders and rest my chin on his shoulder. "You were trying to have a serious conversation with me."
"Yeah, a little bit," he says, his simple words exuding relief. This close to him, I can hear his heart pounding in his chest. As terrible as it feels to know that I scared him this much, I'm impressed that he is so attached to this dream of our family living in this house. I've never seen him look that hurt; that's how much he wants this.
I pull away, shaking my head. "God, I'm a terrible person. I just…"
But before I can stumble through any more of my sentence, he opens the door. I smile when I see the room, because I understand what Luke was talking about in our bedroom; I can see its future. We stand in the doorway for a moment. This room feels like a baby's room. It has three big windows along the wall, so it's bright and airy. Underneath the windows runs a beautiful window seat. I can smell the talcum powder and hear the mobile playing "Hush Little Baby."
Luke follows me to the window seat. Right now it's plain white, but I can already see the comfortable cushion that will soon cover it - pink or blue. I sit down, facing the spacious room, and he joins me.
"So we should have talked about this," I begin.
"A while ago?" he says.
"Yeah," I say. It's quiet again, but I won't let the weirdness creep in here. I'm just talking now, telling him things that I should have told him a long time ago. I'm being honest, and it hurts.
"So, I've just turned 18 years old, and there's this Bangles album I don't have yet, and I want to buy it so badly. This is the Bangles we're talking about, so this is really important to me. The problem is, I've left my parents, and I'm living at the Independence Inn, and I'm not exactly bathing in champagne and caviar. But, God, I wanted that tape so badly. I started saving for it, you know, putting change in an empty peanut butter jar, just waiting."
I glance at Luke. He's listening intently, but he doesn't look scared. Good.
"So finally, after weeks and weeks of waiting, I have the money I need. It was really cold that night, too cold for snow, so it was just bitter and icy outside. Rory had this little stuffy nose; she'd been crying all day and I was tired of it. I wanted that Bangles tape. And I'd worked so hard for it, you know? I'd pulled the bed sheets extra tight, put extra chocolates on the pillow, organized shoes on the floor of the closet. Even though I had this little, stuffy baby, I also had an empty Jif jar with enough crumpled one-dollar bills for that Bangles album. I deserved that tape." I say this as if I'm trying to justify it, and that's kind of funny. At 18, this seemed like a rationale decision.
I look towards him again. He's leaning forward with this rapt expression, which is interesting considering that I'm not even sure I know where this story is going. I guess Luke hasn't heard much about this period in my life. I guess no one has really heard much about this time in my life.
"I knew it was cold, so I put her in three layers of clothes, wrapped her up really tight in this blanket, and sort of smushed her in her baby carrier. I bought the tape, and we were really only out for 30 minutes, and she just fussed a little bit but it wasn't a big deal. I figured I'd get home and she'd calm down to the Bangles. But as I got closer and closer to the house, she started crying louder and louder – eardrum piercing, mirror shaking screams. The roads were slick and I was just trying to get home, trying to make it stop."
"When I finally got her inside, I put her on the bed and started to unwrap her. And every blanket I unwrapped was like opening another of Hell's gates; it got hotter and hotter. The little baby blankets were actually damp, her clothes were wet, her perfect little baby cheeks were bright red, and she was screaming." I stop talking for a second, remembering the terror I felt when I touched her 103-degree baby skin. Nothing burns like that.
"She was sick?" he asks, and I can hear the concern in his voice. I don't know why that means so much to me, 18 years after the fact, but it does.
"Apparently. I didn't know about stuffy noses and screaming babies and fevers breaking. She was just screaming, and all I could think was, 'I am the worst mother who has ever existed. Why would anyone let me have a child?'" He puts his hand on my shoulder.
"I mean, she was just this little baby, and I had put her through all of that for what? For a cassette?" I shake my head. I hate that memory, but I just feel like Luke needs to hear it.
"Rory cried all night, and even though I tried to listen to my new tape I had to stop it because there was so much crying and I couldn't hear it. You know what I did? While my little girl was sick, when she needed me, all I could do was hold her and sit on the floor of this tiny house, leaning against my bed, and just cry with her."
"Lorelai," he says, putting his hand on my shoulder. "You were 18."
"I know I was."
"Rory was fine," he says.
"I know she was." I say, turning towards him. "But that's not why I told you this story." Now I have to figure out why I did tell him this story, because I know there was a good reason.
"At moments like that, when I was just confused and scared, I would think, 'If I can just get through this, it will all be okay. I only have to do this once, and then it's over.' I never wanted another kid." I sigh. "But at other times, Rory was just so perfect, so completely, life-alteringly perfect, that I'd think, 'How could I want another kid? No one could be this perfect ever again.'"
He smiles at the last part, because that's the Rory he knows. Or at least, the one he knew until this year when she decided to start making mistakes and giving me worry lines.
"You did a great job with her, Lorelai," he says. "Don't let anything change that, or make you think something else." Somehow he knew I needed to hear that.
I smile. I want so badly to contradict him, to remind him how I failed her, how if I had any skills as a mother she wouldn't be dropping out of Yale. But I try to remember that feeling I had, sitting on the floor of that cottage, holding her. I was sure I'd failed her then, and the next day she was back to laughing and bouncing around her playpen. If all those experiences have taught me anything about being a parent, it's that you always get another chance. Kids are resilient; they bounce back. So do parents.
And there is why I told him the story. He needed to know why I am afraid to have kids with him, but he also needed to know why I'm not.
"It's the scariest thing you'll ever do in your life, and the most amazing. Those are the extremes, the moments when you want to cry out of sheer terror at what you've done, and those moments when you want to cry because of how amazing it all is. Having a kid is this whole experience, and I've already had it once."
"You have," he responds. It's not a question, just a statement tinged with anxiety.
"But I had it alone," I say, taking his hand. "When it was scary, it was so, so scary because I was alone. And when it was great, it was also a little sad because it was just me and Rory. No one else got to share that with me. I was everything I could be for her. But if I'm going to consider doing this whole crazy thing again," I say this as I motion towards the beautiful, empty nursery, "I want more."
"You deserve more." He stands up, and walks to the far window. Silence, again.
"You see this backyard?" he finally asks. I walk to the window, too, and stare at the expansive grass behind the house.
"Umm, yeah, I think I can make it out," I say.
"I was thinking I could build a pretty great swing-set for it. You know, a slide, monkey bars, the whole deal." He's pointing through the glass, towards a corner of the fenced-in yard.
I smile. "I think that would be nice, Luke."
"And in that corner of the yard," he says, gesturing towards the other corner. "Maybe one of those little playhouses. You know the ones with the little porches and curtains?"
"I do," I say, grinning. Rory never had one of those little playhouses. This whole moment is so genuine, and I'm reminded of Luke's pounding heart as we stood outside this room.
He continues. "This isn't just something I came up with out of the blue. This kids thing. I just want you to know that I've thought about it."
"I know you have."
"No, I mean, a lot." Now it's Luke's turn to talk, and I am relieved that he wants to. I'm also excited, because usually when Luke starts talking he turns into Ranting Luke, and I love Ranting Luke.
"I never used to want a family, you know. It was hard for us, growing up without my mom, and I didn't see the point. I am good at taking care of me; I've had a lot of practice. I know how I like my apartment to look, where the socks go and how my shirts are supposed to be hung up. I know how long I like to cook my scrambled eggs, and I don't have to worry about how anyone else wants theirs-"
"Yeah," I interrupt, "Except for a diner full of people every morning." He just keeps talking. Oh good, it is Ranting Luke!
"I know when I like to go to sleep, and when I like to wake up. If I want to leave, I leave, and if I want to walk around in my underwear, I do. For a long time, kids just seemed unnecessary, messy, and sticky. Why would I want to inflict that on myself?"
"Yeah, why mix things up? Why risk the scrambled eggs?" I ask.
My question was rhetorical and clearly sarcastic, but he doesn't answer and he doesn't keep talking. We're still standing at the window, gazing at the backyard. But it feels right, and I'm trying to imagine this swing-set.
"When did it change, Luke?" I ask softly, essentially rephrasing my scrambled eggs comment into something meaningful.
"You and Rory," he says, still looking at the empty corner of the backyard.
"Me and Rory?" I ask.
"I know it's been… strained… lately," he says. "But you have this connection. After my dad died, I kind of forgot what that was like, to have that kind of relationship with someone. But watching you two, sitting in my diner, you had this world together. It just reminded me. I wanted to be part of something like that."
He sighs. "But I knew it had to be with the right person. I didn't want it to be my fault that another kid had a dysfunctional relationship with their parents."
"Believe me, I understand. You're looking at the poster child for dysfunctional relationships with parents," I say.
"I don't know. I was thinking more about Jess. Everything with Jess was so hard; I had no idea what I was doing. But looking back, I think maybe I made a little bit of a difference in his life. Maybe I saved him from something worse."
I haven't thought about Jess in a while, and it's strange to hear Luke talking about him in this way. "You did as much as anyone could with Jess. And you did make a difference."
He turns to me. "I guess that somehow, between watching you and Rory in my diner, remembering my dad, and struggling with Jess, I realized that if I was going to have a kid, it would only be worth it if it was with someone like you. And I knew that you thought I could do it. You told me you thought I'd be good at it. No one had told me that before."
I smile, remembering the conversation.
He steps back from me, and takes a deep breath. He exhales, and looks at my face for a moment before speaking. "Lorelai, I want to have a family with you. I don't know that I've always made that clear, but there it is, and I just hope that…"
He doesn't get to finish his sentence because I kiss him, and slowly wrap my arms around him.
"This room will make a beautiful nursery," I say.
He nods, smiling slightly. Then he starts to shake his head. "A nursery? Really? I was thinking a den - a big screen, a beer fridge, a dartboard."
"I agreed to kids. I did not agree to The Man Show." He puts his hand on my back and we move towards the door.
"I love you, Lorelai," he says as we leave the nursery. I would respond, but I feel like he doesn't want me to.
At the end of the hall is another room, also a bedroom, smaller but still airy. Luke shows me the room, but he doesn't describe it to me. I think we've both had enough predicting for today.
We look at the bathroom upstairs, and then descend into the bright living room. It's really beautiful in here, and I notice the empty mantle, wondering how it will look in a few years. He shows me around the first floor, not forgetting to point out that the tile on the kitchen counters was replaced a few years ago and is still in good condition. I really love this house, and I'm excited that I get to live here.
"So there's just one room left," he announces, as we stand in the kitchen.
"There is?" I ask, confused.
He opens what I had assumed was a closet. "Basement," he says.
The thought hadn't occurred to me because my basement isn't a room, it's a place where the pipes live. But after Luke finds the light switch and we walk downstairs, I see that this basement is neither dark nor dingy. In fact, it's carpeted and the walls are plastered and it's nice. Because of the way the ground slopes outside, the front wall even has a row of narrow windows at the top. There are built-in bookshelves along the opposite wall, and I'm pretty sure that's a door to a bathroom in the corner. Across from the bathroom is another staircase.
"That goes up to the garage," Luke tell me, noticing my gaze.
"This is amazing, Luke. It's like a whole apartment down here. Well, minus a kitchen, but what can you do with a kitchen that you can't do with a coffee maker and a microwave?"
"I didn't know this was here until we built the museum. We used it for storage, but it's a nice space."
"So what are we going to put down here?" I ask, genuinely curious to find out what Luke has put in this room of his dream house.
"Well, before all this… I mean, I had been planning on keeping this for Rory. You know, making it her place. It has the bathroom and it's own way out, so it would be a good arrangement. But I understand if…"
He trails off when looks at me and sees that there are tears welling in my eyes.
"I'm sorry," he says. "I just wanted to make sure you knew she was part of the, I don't know, image of this house that I've had. You were there, and Rory was always there, too." He wraps his arms around me and holds me for a few seconds, and I dry my eyes on his chest. "She'll come back, Lorelai."
"She has to," I say. "She has a room."
Thanks for reading. Sorry that was so long, but I hope you enjoyed. TBC…
Please, please, please review!