Part 8
He knows this is coming and he's avoiding it, doing dishes, clearing them away, polishing his shoes; in the end I have to corner him and actually block his path when he makes to take out the trash.
"Put it down."
"I - "
"Luka, put it down." He complies but he's frowning like I just threatened to cut his allowance.
"What?" he says, a distinct note of panic in his voice.
"You have to talk to me."
"Actually no, I don't have to, I don't have to do anything."
"I think you do. I'm not real good at this communication stuff myself but even I know it has to be a two way thing, you see what I'm saying?" He doesn't answer me, won't look at me; "Well then at least let me talk to you. I know I didn't ask about you being with me, but I never thought - "
"No. Not now. I won't do this now."
"Luka - " but he's not listening, or at least he's not hearing, because he just walks past me and up the stairs. Pointless to follow him so I sit out in the garden for an hour trying to figure out what this is about. It's more than not being asked about being there, it's something worse. The sense of stillness he's always had is gone, like he's been stirred up somewhere way down inside of him and can't settle again, and I've never seen that before. I'm starting to wonder what I've walked into here. I fall asleep with him turned resolutely away from me but I know he's wide awake. Next day he's up early and working in the garden, casts an anxious glance at my mother when she comes outside with me for breakfast, and still won't talk. She wants to go shopping for baby stuff so that's pretty much that.
I have to stop her spending every cent of her savings but at least she saves the questions for later as we're walking by the lake.
"Are you going to tell me what happened?"
"About what?"
"About last night."
"Nothing."
"Nothing? You didn't talk to him?"
"He didn't talk to me; wouldn't talk to me." She's silent for a time.
"Abby . . . I think this might be my fault."
"How?"
"I - last night, we were talking and he seemed fine so I didn't think I'd said anything I shouldn't have."
"What did you say to him?" I have a very bad feeling about this now.
"I mentioned his children."
"What?" Dear God.
"I only said that I know about them, that I was sorry for his loss, glad that everything's worked out."
"Everything's worked out?" Jesus H. Christ. "How has everything worked out? They're still dead, mom."
"The baby, I meant the baby." She can see I'm horrified.
"What else did you say to him?"
"That I understand how he must feel, being a mother myself. I said I knew I wouldn't have survived if it had been you and Eric." This just gets better.
"You ever hear of survivor's guilt, Maggie?"
"What?" I close my eyes. I can't blame her for this. Shit, there can't be many people around who'd know what to say to him; I don't know myself.
"I'm so sorry, Abby." She's trying not to cry.
"It's OK, mom. You couldn't know this would happen."
"I should have." Damned right you should. "I should have thought about it more. It's just . . . I'm so happy for you, he seemed fine, and I couldn't go on as though I didn't know." I don't know what to say to her, except what she wants to hear, so I say it.
"It's not your fault, mom. It'll be OK, he'll be OK, he just needs . a little time." Yeah, right, like maybe another 15 years.
"You have to talk to him, Abby."
"I think I figured that one out."
"I should go. I can get a bus tonight."
"Mom, no, don't do that."
"Abby, you have to talk to him, you can't do what you have to do with me around." No kidding. I'm really getting tired of doing what I have to do, and I'd like someone else to take a turn. "It wasn't supposed to be like this."
"I know, but . . . it is what it is."
And what the fuck is that, I wonder. I'm looking at my mother but I'm hearing Ivica saying "How to deal with someone like Luka, his past - not easy." I wish he was here now, I could use reinforcements. And I could use a drink. I'm glad my mother is here because if I'm honest I don't know that this baby would be enough to stop me if I was alone. Never mind talk to Luka I need to talk to Angela, go to a meeting, but I'm trapped here.
"Take me back, Abby, let me get my things together."
I realise that I don't want to go home, I don't want to see him, I don't want to deal with this.
"Abby? Let's go."
===========================================================
But he's not there. There's no note to say where he's gone, nothing. I resist the temptation to look in the closet and see if he's actually shipped out. So I take Maggie to the bus station, we make promises about Thanksgiving, pretending, pretending, and I promise to call her when we've sorted things out. If we've sorted things out. I sit in the bus station for 2 hours after she's gone and I think again about Ivica.
"The place where dreams fail " he'd said.
I wonder if maybe that's where he is, that he never really got away from there, even though we thought he had. Well, OK then, let's find out, because I sure as hell don't want to be there, not even with him. I'd do just about anything for him but I won't do that, not that. There was a time I'd have set up home with him there but hey, look at me, not any more.
=========================================================== I'm lying in the bath when I hear him come in. I try not to hurry putting on pyjamas and making my way down the stairs. He's sitting in the lounge in the dark, nursing a glass of something.
"Where have you been?"
"I don't know. A bar."
"You've been drinking."
"Yep."
"You won't find enlightenment in the bottom of a shot of Jack Daniels" I say, trying to lighten the mood.
"You would know."
Fuck. "You can be a mean sonofabitch when you want, can't you?" Silence. He won't even fight with me now. "I know what my mother said to you. Talk to me, Luka." He doesn't. "OK, well, here's the thing. I'm going to bed now because all of this is making me sick to my stomach and if my life's going to fall to pieces on me again I'd rather it was after a good night's sleep." Like that's going to happen - the sleep I mean; bits of my life are already lying at my feet. Now he speaks.
"I don't think I can do this."
Shit. I take a minute to find my voice, but even then it's broken. "Now isn't a real good time to be having second thoughts, Luka."
"I thought I could just . . . I thought . . . I don't know what I thought . . . I don't know what I've dragged you into."
I want to laugh and cry and beat the crap out of him. I'm standing in front of him and he puts out a hand and takes my wrist, pulling me down until I'm kneeling, gathering me to him, smothering me against his body, like he's trying to keep the cold out. There's a strand of hair lying across my mouth and nose and I hardly dare breathe because I think it will get pulled down into my throat and I'll choke. It seems a very long time before he speaks and it's hard to hear because both of my ears are covered.
"It hurts, Abby, it hurts to go there again. I don't want to live that again." I don't know what to say so I say nothing. "I miss them so much I could scream. I want to touch them, just touch them. Last time I touched them they were cold. I'm afraid I'm going to hate this baby because it's living and breathing and they're not. I'm afraid that every time I look at it I'll just see what I know is waiting for it in the end. I feel like I'm drowning in this shit, and if I do I'll take you both down with me."
He lets me go suddenly so that I'm nearly thrown off balance, and from where I'm left kneeling I can hear that he's throwing up, and I know it's nothing to do with the drink. Not quite trusting my legs I get up and go to where he's leaning, arms braced against the sink, and I don't know what else to do except wrap my arms around his waist, rest my head against him. Running water; he washes his face, rinses out his mouth and I don't let go.
"I'm sorry" he says.
"Don't be."
"I just . . . I can't bear it."
"You won't have to. You don't have to be there."
"Fuck, I'm so afraid."
"I understand." And I do; I've heard new mothers talk about a volcanic eruption of feeling, like the lid's been blown off and everything from forever comes spilling out, and I'm scared to think about what that can do to me. He's the same, but what he could let out could destroy everything in its path; maybe it already is. We just knocked the scab off of an old wound and it's still raw and bleeding underneath.
"I can't be in there thinking of Danijela or of them."
"You're not replacing them, Luka"
"It feels like it."
"Look at me." He doesn't move so I have no choice but to let go of him and stand at his side, facing him, although he keeps his head down. Even in the dark I can see he's very pale. I actually can't think of a damned thing to say because this is worse than I thought, this is as bad as it gets.
"Fathers," he says, "we're just bystanders, spectators. Danijela was alone and you will be too. I couldn't help her, just watched her get through it but in the end there were the babies and it was alright. But then at the end it was the same, alone again, I've seen it, how at the end we all shrink down to a point, a little point we call ourselves, where no-one else can reach us. She was alone again, suffering again and I did nothing . . . again. And when it was all over for her there were no babies, there were two dead children, all the pain and the mess and the blood and the crying, and two dead children, like a birth turned upside down. And I'm a fucking coward, I want to run away from having that in the room with us and it will be, it will be." I'm trying hard not to panic - not to panic and not to cry, and I'm doing neither. I'm the strong one here and amongst all the filth this is dragging up that fact takes root.
"If it is it is. You don't have to do anything you don't want to. But at the end of it, whatever happens, there'll be a baby, you know - their brother or sister." I want to believe this almost as much as I need him to believe it.
"Oh, Christ!" he says and he starts to cry, real, wrenching sobs and I'm shocked because I've not seen this before and the pain threatens to knock me off my feet. I can't do anything but hold onto him, and it's as much to keep me upright as it is to comfort him. So I hold onto him for as long as it takes and when the sobbing gives way to a quieter misery I guide him to bed and get him to lie down and then I'm watchful until he sinks under the weight of exhaustion and he sleeps, still holding my hand. I guess Ivica was right - I get to be his mom sometimes.
He knows this is coming and he's avoiding it, doing dishes, clearing them away, polishing his shoes; in the end I have to corner him and actually block his path when he makes to take out the trash.
"Put it down."
"I - "
"Luka, put it down." He complies but he's frowning like I just threatened to cut his allowance.
"What?" he says, a distinct note of panic in his voice.
"You have to talk to me."
"Actually no, I don't have to, I don't have to do anything."
"I think you do. I'm not real good at this communication stuff myself but even I know it has to be a two way thing, you see what I'm saying?" He doesn't answer me, won't look at me; "Well then at least let me talk to you. I know I didn't ask about you being with me, but I never thought - "
"No. Not now. I won't do this now."
"Luka - " but he's not listening, or at least he's not hearing, because he just walks past me and up the stairs. Pointless to follow him so I sit out in the garden for an hour trying to figure out what this is about. It's more than not being asked about being there, it's something worse. The sense of stillness he's always had is gone, like he's been stirred up somewhere way down inside of him and can't settle again, and I've never seen that before. I'm starting to wonder what I've walked into here. I fall asleep with him turned resolutely away from me but I know he's wide awake. Next day he's up early and working in the garden, casts an anxious glance at my mother when she comes outside with me for breakfast, and still won't talk. She wants to go shopping for baby stuff so that's pretty much that.
I have to stop her spending every cent of her savings but at least she saves the questions for later as we're walking by the lake.
"Are you going to tell me what happened?"
"About what?"
"About last night."
"Nothing."
"Nothing? You didn't talk to him?"
"He didn't talk to me; wouldn't talk to me." She's silent for a time.
"Abby . . . I think this might be my fault."
"How?"
"I - last night, we were talking and he seemed fine so I didn't think I'd said anything I shouldn't have."
"What did you say to him?" I have a very bad feeling about this now.
"I mentioned his children."
"What?" Dear God.
"I only said that I know about them, that I was sorry for his loss, glad that everything's worked out."
"Everything's worked out?" Jesus H. Christ. "How has everything worked out? They're still dead, mom."
"The baby, I meant the baby." She can see I'm horrified.
"What else did you say to him?"
"That I understand how he must feel, being a mother myself. I said I knew I wouldn't have survived if it had been you and Eric." This just gets better.
"You ever hear of survivor's guilt, Maggie?"
"What?" I close my eyes. I can't blame her for this. Shit, there can't be many people around who'd know what to say to him; I don't know myself.
"I'm so sorry, Abby." She's trying not to cry.
"It's OK, mom. You couldn't know this would happen."
"I should have." Damned right you should. "I should have thought about it more. It's just . . . I'm so happy for you, he seemed fine, and I couldn't go on as though I didn't know." I don't know what to say to her, except what she wants to hear, so I say it.
"It's not your fault, mom. It'll be OK, he'll be OK, he just needs . a little time." Yeah, right, like maybe another 15 years.
"You have to talk to him, Abby."
"I think I figured that one out."
"I should go. I can get a bus tonight."
"Mom, no, don't do that."
"Abby, you have to talk to him, you can't do what you have to do with me around." No kidding. I'm really getting tired of doing what I have to do, and I'd like someone else to take a turn. "It wasn't supposed to be like this."
"I know, but . . . it is what it is."
And what the fuck is that, I wonder. I'm looking at my mother but I'm hearing Ivica saying "How to deal with someone like Luka, his past - not easy." I wish he was here now, I could use reinforcements. And I could use a drink. I'm glad my mother is here because if I'm honest I don't know that this baby would be enough to stop me if I was alone. Never mind talk to Luka I need to talk to Angela, go to a meeting, but I'm trapped here.
"Take me back, Abby, let me get my things together."
I realise that I don't want to go home, I don't want to see him, I don't want to deal with this.
"Abby? Let's go."
===========================================================
But he's not there. There's no note to say where he's gone, nothing. I resist the temptation to look in the closet and see if he's actually shipped out. So I take Maggie to the bus station, we make promises about Thanksgiving, pretending, pretending, and I promise to call her when we've sorted things out. If we've sorted things out. I sit in the bus station for 2 hours after she's gone and I think again about Ivica.
"The place where dreams fail " he'd said.
I wonder if maybe that's where he is, that he never really got away from there, even though we thought he had. Well, OK then, let's find out, because I sure as hell don't want to be there, not even with him. I'd do just about anything for him but I won't do that, not that. There was a time I'd have set up home with him there but hey, look at me, not any more.
=========================================================== I'm lying in the bath when I hear him come in. I try not to hurry putting on pyjamas and making my way down the stairs. He's sitting in the lounge in the dark, nursing a glass of something.
"Where have you been?"
"I don't know. A bar."
"You've been drinking."
"Yep."
"You won't find enlightenment in the bottom of a shot of Jack Daniels" I say, trying to lighten the mood.
"You would know."
Fuck. "You can be a mean sonofabitch when you want, can't you?" Silence. He won't even fight with me now. "I know what my mother said to you. Talk to me, Luka." He doesn't. "OK, well, here's the thing. I'm going to bed now because all of this is making me sick to my stomach and if my life's going to fall to pieces on me again I'd rather it was after a good night's sleep." Like that's going to happen - the sleep I mean; bits of my life are already lying at my feet. Now he speaks.
"I don't think I can do this."
Shit. I take a minute to find my voice, but even then it's broken. "Now isn't a real good time to be having second thoughts, Luka."
"I thought I could just . . . I thought . . . I don't know what I thought . . . I don't know what I've dragged you into."
I want to laugh and cry and beat the crap out of him. I'm standing in front of him and he puts out a hand and takes my wrist, pulling me down until I'm kneeling, gathering me to him, smothering me against his body, like he's trying to keep the cold out. There's a strand of hair lying across my mouth and nose and I hardly dare breathe because I think it will get pulled down into my throat and I'll choke. It seems a very long time before he speaks and it's hard to hear because both of my ears are covered.
"It hurts, Abby, it hurts to go there again. I don't want to live that again." I don't know what to say so I say nothing. "I miss them so much I could scream. I want to touch them, just touch them. Last time I touched them they were cold. I'm afraid I'm going to hate this baby because it's living and breathing and they're not. I'm afraid that every time I look at it I'll just see what I know is waiting for it in the end. I feel like I'm drowning in this shit, and if I do I'll take you both down with me."
He lets me go suddenly so that I'm nearly thrown off balance, and from where I'm left kneeling I can hear that he's throwing up, and I know it's nothing to do with the drink. Not quite trusting my legs I get up and go to where he's leaning, arms braced against the sink, and I don't know what else to do except wrap my arms around his waist, rest my head against him. Running water; he washes his face, rinses out his mouth and I don't let go.
"I'm sorry" he says.
"Don't be."
"I just . . . I can't bear it."
"You won't have to. You don't have to be there."
"Fuck, I'm so afraid."
"I understand." And I do; I've heard new mothers talk about a volcanic eruption of feeling, like the lid's been blown off and everything from forever comes spilling out, and I'm scared to think about what that can do to me. He's the same, but what he could let out could destroy everything in its path; maybe it already is. We just knocked the scab off of an old wound and it's still raw and bleeding underneath.
"I can't be in there thinking of Danijela or of them."
"You're not replacing them, Luka"
"It feels like it."
"Look at me." He doesn't move so I have no choice but to let go of him and stand at his side, facing him, although he keeps his head down. Even in the dark I can see he's very pale. I actually can't think of a damned thing to say because this is worse than I thought, this is as bad as it gets.
"Fathers," he says, "we're just bystanders, spectators. Danijela was alone and you will be too. I couldn't help her, just watched her get through it but in the end there were the babies and it was alright. But then at the end it was the same, alone again, I've seen it, how at the end we all shrink down to a point, a little point we call ourselves, where no-one else can reach us. She was alone again, suffering again and I did nothing . . . again. And when it was all over for her there were no babies, there were two dead children, all the pain and the mess and the blood and the crying, and two dead children, like a birth turned upside down. And I'm a fucking coward, I want to run away from having that in the room with us and it will be, it will be." I'm trying hard not to panic - not to panic and not to cry, and I'm doing neither. I'm the strong one here and amongst all the filth this is dragging up that fact takes root.
"If it is it is. You don't have to do anything you don't want to. But at the end of it, whatever happens, there'll be a baby, you know - their brother or sister." I want to believe this almost as much as I need him to believe it.
"Oh, Christ!" he says and he starts to cry, real, wrenching sobs and I'm shocked because I've not seen this before and the pain threatens to knock me off my feet. I can't do anything but hold onto him, and it's as much to keep me upright as it is to comfort him. So I hold onto him for as long as it takes and when the sobbing gives way to a quieter misery I guide him to bed and get him to lie down and then I'm watchful until he sinks under the weight of exhaustion and he sleeps, still holding my hand. I guess Ivica was right - I get to be his mom sometimes.