Part 10
I can hear the birds singing. I'm not real comfortable and I realise that it's because I'm still wearing everything but my shoes. I could think of any number of mornings when I've woken up like this, hungover as shit, but instead it takes me back to Rosa's apartment. It seems like about a hundred years ago, another life. I guess it was another life.
I open my eyes and look straight into his. His hair is damp and he smells of soap and toothpaste. I wonder what I smell like.
"You look like Jasna when you're sleeping." I try a smile but I don't think it works. Or maybe it does because he smiles back. "When Danijela was carrying Marko I thought I could never love him the way I loved Jasna."
"But you did."
"Yes."
"You will again."
"Yes. I think maybe I need . . . a little help." No kidding. "I think I can get through all this because . . . I want to get through it. I thought I had. I mean, Danijela, I can talk about her I can think about her now but my . . . our children . . . " His voice fades to nothing but I know better than to say anything right now. It crosses my mind that my skin will be covered in crease marks from my clothes; where did that come from? "I got used to the idea that there would be no more children, not for me, and it was OK because there was you and you were enough. And then this and all the things I thought I'd put aside . . . I didn't think I'd have this again. But it's different, it's you, not Dani, and this baby will be someone else, not one of them. I know that, Abby, I know that, and if it hurts it's better than feeling nothing at all. You have to believe that. Whatever else I get wrong you have to believe me that this is about us, no-one else."
"I believe you." He doesn't look convinced. "I do. I don't know where you've been these last few days but . . . I'm glad you're back."
And then he starts to talk, stories about Jasna and Marko, about how she'd climb into bed with them too early in the day, not to be put off and it's like she's here with us, she's an idea, a scent, a little giggle; and Marko, fighting her for space, the time he peed on his mother's pillow and Jasna squealed her disgust so hard she made her little brother cry, how he'd sleep face down on his father's chest, the little patch of sweat he'd leave behind, and I remember Mila's little boy then and understand the look in his eyes a little better. There comes a point when he stops smiling.
"But then this, all this, it's just the beginning. I don't want to be one of those crazy parents who won't let their kids out of their sight. Because, you know, I know it doesn't work, I know that." I think of Ivica again; what every parent feels most – fear.
"I'll stop you if you'll stop me" I offer. He's silent for a long moment.
"Deal".
He's looking at me now like the Secret of the Ages is there in my face. Hell, maybe it is.
"I'm sorry" he says, softly.
"No."
"I didn't mean . . . I didn't want to shut you out."
"I guess some things we can't share. It's the way it is. But, you know - we have everything else." His hands are on my face and he kisses me, on and on until I think I might drown in him and I want his hands to move over me but they don't until I pull away from him and say "Please." He undresses me but won't let me touch him, won't let me do anything and in the end I give up what's a pretty unequal fight and go with it, his hands, his mouth, the sound of the birds, of my breathing, of whatever it is he's saying to me in Croatian, wiping out the memory of the last few nights, pretty much of every other man I've ever shared a bed with, and the words that spill out of me make me hope that Jasna isn't still around here listening. Only when I've come does he undress and I pull him into me, eyes wide open, searching his face, watching as his eyes lose focus and I know that he's seeing me and only me and my God, that pushes me clean over the edge again. In the quiet, as our breathing slows, his breath hot on my neck, the sweat cold on my body, I can still hear the birds and it's one of those moments when I could almost believe that there's a God.
For the next couple of days he's like a convalescent, a little fragile, a little needy. But he's eating and sleeping again and when finally he shrugs me off and tells me to stop fussing and have I taken my vitamins I have to turn away so he won't see me smile and mentally punch the air in victory.
Look, I'm not dumb, I know it's not solved, it will never be solved, there'll always be times when he'll have that look in his eyes but Christ, he's strong, this man of mine, he's like the best insurance policy I could have, makes me feel the safest I've ever felt, like there's nothing I can't do, nothing at all. How about that.
And then something weird happens. He'll be going back to work tomorrow and yes, he's landed two straight weeks of night shifts and we'll barely see each other. I should be sad but I'm not, I'm angry, mad as hell and not with Weaver, either – with him. I'm surprised and scared and I don't know what to do with it. So yeah, I do what I always do, I cold shoulder him, freeze him out. He makes a couple of attempts to talk to me, to look me in the face but as we finish dinner I just get up and take the dishes away, leaving him at the table with an "OK, we have a situation here" look on his face. I load the dishwasher and tell him I'm going to bed, and, hell, I'm relieved and disappointed when he doesn't try to stop me. He never did like this game. Why do I do this, why don't I just tell him what's on my mind? I've 12 stepped enough to know what I have to do. Truth is I don't know why I'm feeling like this, I have no idea and oh, great, now I'm going to have to think about it. But I don't because I can't bear to think any more about anything. Let somebody else take a turn.
He comes to bed about an hour later and I make like I'm asleep. I feel his hand on my hair and hear a quiet "goodnight" and I'm left to my own devices. By the time I turn to him and reach for his hand he's asleep.
As I'm cleaning my teeth the next morning I glance up into the mirror and see him behind me, leaning in the doorway, watching.
"Are you going to tell me what this is about?"
"What what is about?" Jeez, Abby.
"Why you're angry."
"I'm not angry." Better and better.
"Liar." I throw my toothbrush into the basin with such force that it bounces right back out and onto the floor which is kind of funny but I'm not laughing and neither is he.
"OK - Weaver's making you pay for being MIA but guess what, I'm paying too!"
"You're mad about my schedule?"
"You bet!" Oh, please, even I can hear how fucking pathetic that is. "No ... no." The wind's out of my sails suddenly and if I'm not careful I'll cry. "You scared the shit out of me, Luka!" He considers this for a moment.
"I scared the shit out of myself".
Well the puke at least, I want to snark but hey, even I'm not that dumb. I'm on dangerous ground here and I know it. There are a lot of people who have paid for my fuck-ups one way or another and one of them is standing right in front of me, frowning a little. I realise that if the next words out of his mouth include "sorry" we're screwed, like really screwed.
In fact he says "I didn't mean to scare you. I didn't mean for any of it to happen at all, but it did, and here we still are. I thought . . . you understood. Maybe I didn't explain so well." He's not going to play the game, he's not going to apologise and he's not going to pretend. Which leaves me nowhere to go but to the truth.
"You did."
"Then . . .
"I should be happy that you're OK, on the way to being OK, because God knows I wasn't sure you were ever coming out the other side of this and I am happy, I am, and relieved and all those things, but God, Luka, I didn't see it coming – " he gives a little "me neither" smile but says nothing " - I was thinking it was all going to be over, and, and - you know when you see parents when they've lost their kids in the mall and then they get them back and they yell at them and do that thing when they get them by the arm and shake them? I want to shake you. I should be glad but, shit, all I feel is . . . exhausted and numb."
"And mad as hell."
"Not even close, and now I feel bad for feeling like this because I know I shouldn't and I want to blame you for that too, and you know what, I do."
He nearly smiles. "Go with it. I guess I'd be mad if someone dragged me through all of this."
Shit. "Someone did."
"Marriage, huh?"
"What?"
"For better or for worse can be a bitch."
See, now that was smooth, that was one smooth change of gear. I'm starting to feel my way through this.
"You mean all that sickness and health stuff?"
"That stuff."
"This is what that means? You think?"
"I guess."
"Oh, great." I say and roll my eyes.
"I owe you." He says with a little smile.
"Yeah, you so do" I say with a nearly smile back, although, thinking about the other morning I think that may be pushing it and that anyway in the who owes what to who stakes he may just have the edge over me.
"Name your terms".
"I'll give it some thought." He nods. My heart's slowed down and I'm feeling a little odd, light headed. Irrelevantly I wonder if Kerry will notice how thin he's got and cut him some slack today.
"I can tell Kerry you have something to say to her about her staffing arrangements ..." and there's a real smile there now.
"Maybe not."
"You're sure?"
"I might be mad but I'm not stupid."
He nods. "Abby?"
"What?"
"Mirror."
"What?"
"Mirror." I turn around and see that I've conducted this whole conversation with toothpaste foam around my mouth.
"Jesus, I knew I was mad but I didn't know I was foaming."
"You're beautiful when you're . . . rabid" he says and leaves before I can hurt him.
What doesn't kill us makes us stronger. No shit, Sherlock.
I can hear the birds singing. I'm not real comfortable and I realise that it's because I'm still wearing everything but my shoes. I could think of any number of mornings when I've woken up like this, hungover as shit, but instead it takes me back to Rosa's apartment. It seems like about a hundred years ago, another life. I guess it was another life.
I open my eyes and look straight into his. His hair is damp and he smells of soap and toothpaste. I wonder what I smell like.
"You look like Jasna when you're sleeping." I try a smile but I don't think it works. Or maybe it does because he smiles back. "When Danijela was carrying Marko I thought I could never love him the way I loved Jasna."
"But you did."
"Yes."
"You will again."
"Yes. I think maybe I need . . . a little help." No kidding. "I think I can get through all this because . . . I want to get through it. I thought I had. I mean, Danijela, I can talk about her I can think about her now but my . . . our children . . . " His voice fades to nothing but I know better than to say anything right now. It crosses my mind that my skin will be covered in crease marks from my clothes; where did that come from? "I got used to the idea that there would be no more children, not for me, and it was OK because there was you and you were enough. And then this and all the things I thought I'd put aside . . . I didn't think I'd have this again. But it's different, it's you, not Dani, and this baby will be someone else, not one of them. I know that, Abby, I know that, and if it hurts it's better than feeling nothing at all. You have to believe that. Whatever else I get wrong you have to believe me that this is about us, no-one else."
"I believe you." He doesn't look convinced. "I do. I don't know where you've been these last few days but . . . I'm glad you're back."
And then he starts to talk, stories about Jasna and Marko, about how she'd climb into bed with them too early in the day, not to be put off and it's like she's here with us, she's an idea, a scent, a little giggle; and Marko, fighting her for space, the time he peed on his mother's pillow and Jasna squealed her disgust so hard she made her little brother cry, how he'd sleep face down on his father's chest, the little patch of sweat he'd leave behind, and I remember Mila's little boy then and understand the look in his eyes a little better. There comes a point when he stops smiling.
"But then this, all this, it's just the beginning. I don't want to be one of those crazy parents who won't let their kids out of their sight. Because, you know, I know it doesn't work, I know that." I think of Ivica again; what every parent feels most – fear.
"I'll stop you if you'll stop me" I offer. He's silent for a long moment.
"Deal".
He's looking at me now like the Secret of the Ages is there in my face. Hell, maybe it is.
"I'm sorry" he says, softly.
"No."
"I didn't mean . . . I didn't want to shut you out."
"I guess some things we can't share. It's the way it is. But, you know - we have everything else." His hands are on my face and he kisses me, on and on until I think I might drown in him and I want his hands to move over me but they don't until I pull away from him and say "Please." He undresses me but won't let me touch him, won't let me do anything and in the end I give up what's a pretty unequal fight and go with it, his hands, his mouth, the sound of the birds, of my breathing, of whatever it is he's saying to me in Croatian, wiping out the memory of the last few nights, pretty much of every other man I've ever shared a bed with, and the words that spill out of me make me hope that Jasna isn't still around here listening. Only when I've come does he undress and I pull him into me, eyes wide open, searching his face, watching as his eyes lose focus and I know that he's seeing me and only me and my God, that pushes me clean over the edge again. In the quiet, as our breathing slows, his breath hot on my neck, the sweat cold on my body, I can still hear the birds and it's one of those moments when I could almost believe that there's a God.
For the next couple of days he's like a convalescent, a little fragile, a little needy. But he's eating and sleeping again and when finally he shrugs me off and tells me to stop fussing and have I taken my vitamins I have to turn away so he won't see me smile and mentally punch the air in victory.
Look, I'm not dumb, I know it's not solved, it will never be solved, there'll always be times when he'll have that look in his eyes but Christ, he's strong, this man of mine, he's like the best insurance policy I could have, makes me feel the safest I've ever felt, like there's nothing I can't do, nothing at all. How about that.
And then something weird happens. He'll be going back to work tomorrow and yes, he's landed two straight weeks of night shifts and we'll barely see each other. I should be sad but I'm not, I'm angry, mad as hell and not with Weaver, either – with him. I'm surprised and scared and I don't know what to do with it. So yeah, I do what I always do, I cold shoulder him, freeze him out. He makes a couple of attempts to talk to me, to look me in the face but as we finish dinner I just get up and take the dishes away, leaving him at the table with an "OK, we have a situation here" look on his face. I load the dishwasher and tell him I'm going to bed, and, hell, I'm relieved and disappointed when he doesn't try to stop me. He never did like this game. Why do I do this, why don't I just tell him what's on my mind? I've 12 stepped enough to know what I have to do. Truth is I don't know why I'm feeling like this, I have no idea and oh, great, now I'm going to have to think about it. But I don't because I can't bear to think any more about anything. Let somebody else take a turn.
He comes to bed about an hour later and I make like I'm asleep. I feel his hand on my hair and hear a quiet "goodnight" and I'm left to my own devices. By the time I turn to him and reach for his hand he's asleep.
As I'm cleaning my teeth the next morning I glance up into the mirror and see him behind me, leaning in the doorway, watching.
"Are you going to tell me what this is about?"
"What what is about?" Jeez, Abby.
"Why you're angry."
"I'm not angry." Better and better.
"Liar." I throw my toothbrush into the basin with such force that it bounces right back out and onto the floor which is kind of funny but I'm not laughing and neither is he.
"OK - Weaver's making you pay for being MIA but guess what, I'm paying too!"
"You're mad about my schedule?"
"You bet!" Oh, please, even I can hear how fucking pathetic that is. "No ... no." The wind's out of my sails suddenly and if I'm not careful I'll cry. "You scared the shit out of me, Luka!" He considers this for a moment.
"I scared the shit out of myself".
Well the puke at least, I want to snark but hey, even I'm not that dumb. I'm on dangerous ground here and I know it. There are a lot of people who have paid for my fuck-ups one way or another and one of them is standing right in front of me, frowning a little. I realise that if the next words out of his mouth include "sorry" we're screwed, like really screwed.
In fact he says "I didn't mean to scare you. I didn't mean for any of it to happen at all, but it did, and here we still are. I thought . . . you understood. Maybe I didn't explain so well." He's not going to play the game, he's not going to apologise and he's not going to pretend. Which leaves me nowhere to go but to the truth.
"You did."
"Then . . .
"I should be happy that you're OK, on the way to being OK, because God knows I wasn't sure you were ever coming out the other side of this and I am happy, I am, and relieved and all those things, but God, Luka, I didn't see it coming – " he gives a little "me neither" smile but says nothing " - I was thinking it was all going to be over, and, and - you know when you see parents when they've lost their kids in the mall and then they get them back and they yell at them and do that thing when they get them by the arm and shake them? I want to shake you. I should be glad but, shit, all I feel is . . . exhausted and numb."
"And mad as hell."
"Not even close, and now I feel bad for feeling like this because I know I shouldn't and I want to blame you for that too, and you know what, I do."
He nearly smiles. "Go with it. I guess I'd be mad if someone dragged me through all of this."
Shit. "Someone did."
"Marriage, huh?"
"What?"
"For better or for worse can be a bitch."
See, now that was smooth, that was one smooth change of gear. I'm starting to feel my way through this.
"You mean all that sickness and health stuff?"
"That stuff."
"This is what that means? You think?"
"I guess."
"Oh, great." I say and roll my eyes.
"I owe you." He says with a little smile.
"Yeah, you so do" I say with a nearly smile back, although, thinking about the other morning I think that may be pushing it and that anyway in the who owes what to who stakes he may just have the edge over me.
"Name your terms".
"I'll give it some thought." He nods. My heart's slowed down and I'm feeling a little odd, light headed. Irrelevantly I wonder if Kerry will notice how thin he's got and cut him some slack today.
"I can tell Kerry you have something to say to her about her staffing arrangements ..." and there's a real smile there now.
"Maybe not."
"You're sure?"
"I might be mad but I'm not stupid."
He nods. "Abby?"
"What?"
"Mirror."
"What?"
"Mirror." I turn around and see that I've conducted this whole conversation with toothpaste foam around my mouth.
"Jesus, I knew I was mad but I didn't know I was foaming."
"You're beautiful when you're . . . rabid" he says and leaves before I can hurt him.
What doesn't kill us makes us stronger. No shit, Sherlock.