Anyone still reading this? Sounds pitiful I know, but the odd review would
be nice, even if it's just to say you hate it.
Part 14
I found chestnuts in the store today; brown, smooth, glossy, same shape as me out front now. The chimney's been swept (I didn't know that they use a vacuum kind of thing now, no brushes. I used to like running outside to watch for the brush when I was a kid. The guy who did the chimney always gave candy to the kid who shouted first. Happy days, right?) and I've made a fire so while Luka showers and changes after work I set to roasting them on the shovel, only I forget to make the little slits in the shells, and the results of that are pretty spectacular. Anyway, when he's cleared up the mess and we've successfully done another batch we're sitting in the quiet listening to something Luka's put on, some string quartet or other, I don't know. I like it. I'm picking bits of chestnut shell from under my fingernails; my legs are resting across his knees and he's painting my toe nails for me because I can't reach to do it any more.
So, here goes nothing.
"Can I talk to you?"
"I don't know – you make an appointment?"
"I had one with Coburn today."
"Everything OK?" He's anxious.
"It's all fine, everything's fine."
"So?"
"So . . . we talked about pain relief." He looks at me steadily, waiting. "And I've decided that I don't want any."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing."
"You're sure? I mean, no Fentanyl maybe, I understand that, but – "
"I want to be in on this, all of it. I want to feel it, for real. And I've seen women do it on their own. I've spent a lot of my life trying not to feel anything at all, Luka. I can do this, it's what I want. I want to see what I'm made of."
"You do know they'll try and talk you out of it."
"Coburn tried already."
"And you might feel a little differently after twelve hours of labour."
"I know." Deep breath. "That would be your job." He puts the brush back into the bottle of polish carefully.
"OK."
"OK?"
"OK. Whatever you want – your show. You've seen enough of it to know what you're getting into." That's it?
"That's it?"
"There should be more?" Shit – wrong footed again.
"I was thinking, just, you know, wondering if maybe I should talk to someone."
"About what?"
"About being, sort of . . . back up."
"For what?"
"For you."
"I'll need back up?"
"In case you can't, you know, in case when it comes to it you can't . . . do it."
"Do what?"
"Be there."
"Why would I not be able to be there? I've cleared it with Kerry if it should happen when I'm on."
"I don't mean that." Ah. Now he gets it.
"Wait, you mean you think you should ask someone to be there instead of me?" I don't answer. "You have someone in mind? Carter maybe?" Oh, shit.
"Now you're mad; don't be mad. I just thought, after everything you went through a while back, I thought maybe you wouldn't . . . couldn't . . . "
"I'm not mad."
"You are."
"I'm not. I'm . . . I don't know what I am. I mean, you think that what we went through was for nothing then?" We. Damn. Yeah, I'm so great at this stuff.
"I just – I know how you felt and I thought maybe you'd at least, you know, have a choice and not feel like you were bailing on me."
"Because of course I wouldn't feel that, would I?"
"I didn't want – "
"Abby." He cuts me off, speaking gently, making me look at him. "You remember when my father came over? Of course you do. I had it all playing out in my head from the minute he told me he was coming. I knew how you'd feel, I knew how you'd suffer, I knew what you'd think. You remember what you said to me?" Of course I do.
"No."
"Abby."
"I said I didn't need you to imagine that stuff for me" I mumble.
"What?"
"I said I didn't need you to imagine that stuff for me" I almost shout at him.
"Well," he gathers the polish, cotton wool and remover up and puts them all neatly back in their box, carefully lowers my feet to the ground and stands up. He leans over me, arm braced against the back of the couch and kisses me lightly. "right back at ya."
Part 14
I found chestnuts in the store today; brown, smooth, glossy, same shape as me out front now. The chimney's been swept (I didn't know that they use a vacuum kind of thing now, no brushes. I used to like running outside to watch for the brush when I was a kid. The guy who did the chimney always gave candy to the kid who shouted first. Happy days, right?) and I've made a fire so while Luka showers and changes after work I set to roasting them on the shovel, only I forget to make the little slits in the shells, and the results of that are pretty spectacular. Anyway, when he's cleared up the mess and we've successfully done another batch we're sitting in the quiet listening to something Luka's put on, some string quartet or other, I don't know. I like it. I'm picking bits of chestnut shell from under my fingernails; my legs are resting across his knees and he's painting my toe nails for me because I can't reach to do it any more.
So, here goes nothing.
"Can I talk to you?"
"I don't know – you make an appointment?"
"I had one with Coburn today."
"Everything OK?" He's anxious.
"It's all fine, everything's fine."
"So?"
"So . . . we talked about pain relief." He looks at me steadily, waiting. "And I've decided that I don't want any."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing."
"You're sure? I mean, no Fentanyl maybe, I understand that, but – "
"I want to be in on this, all of it. I want to feel it, for real. And I've seen women do it on their own. I've spent a lot of my life trying not to feel anything at all, Luka. I can do this, it's what I want. I want to see what I'm made of."
"You do know they'll try and talk you out of it."
"Coburn tried already."
"And you might feel a little differently after twelve hours of labour."
"I know." Deep breath. "That would be your job." He puts the brush back into the bottle of polish carefully.
"OK."
"OK?"
"OK. Whatever you want – your show. You've seen enough of it to know what you're getting into." That's it?
"That's it?"
"There should be more?" Shit – wrong footed again.
"I was thinking, just, you know, wondering if maybe I should talk to someone."
"About what?"
"About being, sort of . . . back up."
"For what?"
"For you."
"I'll need back up?"
"In case you can't, you know, in case when it comes to it you can't . . . do it."
"Do what?"
"Be there."
"Why would I not be able to be there? I've cleared it with Kerry if it should happen when I'm on."
"I don't mean that." Ah. Now he gets it.
"Wait, you mean you think you should ask someone to be there instead of me?" I don't answer. "You have someone in mind? Carter maybe?" Oh, shit.
"Now you're mad; don't be mad. I just thought, after everything you went through a while back, I thought maybe you wouldn't . . . couldn't . . . "
"I'm not mad."
"You are."
"I'm not. I'm . . . I don't know what I am. I mean, you think that what we went through was for nothing then?" We. Damn. Yeah, I'm so great at this stuff.
"I just – I know how you felt and I thought maybe you'd at least, you know, have a choice and not feel like you were bailing on me."
"Because of course I wouldn't feel that, would I?"
"I didn't want – "
"Abby." He cuts me off, speaking gently, making me look at him. "You remember when my father came over? Of course you do. I had it all playing out in my head from the minute he told me he was coming. I knew how you'd feel, I knew how you'd suffer, I knew what you'd think. You remember what you said to me?" Of course I do.
"No."
"Abby."
"I said I didn't need you to imagine that stuff for me" I mumble.
"What?"
"I said I didn't need you to imagine that stuff for me" I almost shout at him.
"Well," he gathers the polish, cotton wool and remover up and puts them all neatly back in their box, carefully lowers my feet to the ground and stands up. He leans over me, arm braced against the back of the couch and kisses me lightly. "right back at ya."