The photo on the nightstand, next to the one of Sylvester and Megan, was new. It showed Florence, with dark circles under her eyes and hair that had seen more care, Tilly in her arms with a sticker attached to the blanket that said, in an ugly cursive font, Mommy got to hold me for the first time.
Florence glanced at it, her gaze lingering for the briefest of moments, before turning toward her husband, running her hand through her hair. It was still damp from her earlier shower. For some reason, that annoyed her.
Sylvester was laying on their bed, tablet in hand, wearing a T – shirt she hadn't seen before. It was some sort of pink, maybe salmon color, with some superhero design on the front. Perhaps a comic book character. That wasn't important. What was important was she was married to the man wearing it. "You look good in that," she said.
He raised an eyebrow. "Yeah?"
She smiled. "Yeah. That's a nice color on you."
He was looking curiously at her, and she found herself blushing, smirking back at him. His smirk gave her butterflies. It reminded her of the first time he'd kissed her, after the near disaster in Europe, when she'd admitted to him that her heart was racing.
Maybe the feeling she was feeling right now was a sign that she was finally getting better, shaking off whatever funk had been consuming her. Maybe finally getting to hold their daughter, just two days ago, had changed something in her, even though at the time she'd felt like a monster for not crying for joy. Or maybe she was just in love with the man in front of her and it was about time she felt normal again.
Florence crawled onto the bed, propping up on her hands as she leaned over him, smiling and bending to kiss him before bumping her nose affectionately against his. "I love you, Sylvester Dodd," she murmured, kissing him on the cheek and then on the mouth again. "I love you so much."
He kissed her back, a hand on the side of her face. Florence nestled in closer to him, taking a fistful of his shirt. They hadn't had sexual contact in the two weeks prior to Tilly's birth, nor in the two months since, and she knew it might take a little time to get her body going, but she was surprised at how little she was actually responding to her husband's touch. She wanted to kiss him, she wanted his arms around her, but…
Sylvester's hand slid to her hip, pulling her closer, and an action that should have sent a thrill through her instead made one thing clear to Florence: I don't want to do this.
She'd initiated, maybe she had wanted to at that point, but right now, she could think of several things she did want to do – sleep, bury herself in correcting the graduate essay on Mendeleev recently posted online, burn those pregnancy books with the extra thick chapters on the third trimester…she did not want to have sex with Sylvester. The thought of it made her feel unwell.
But she didn't stop kissing him. His hands were wandering, caressing her hips and the side of one of her breasts just in the ways she normally loved to be touched. His breathing was growing heavy, and he gave a quiet moan when she ran her hand over his chest, brushing one of his nipples through his shirt. She caught his upper lip between hers, sucking gently on it, and moved his hand over to cover her breast in the hope of reignite the twinge of desire she'd felt when she'd started this.
Sylvester, of course, took this as encouragement, because every other time before, that's exactly what it had been. He reached for the drawstring on his shorts. Florence thought she might throw up.
He muttered something about wanting her, it was quiet, it was meant to be romantic and in the past that's exactly how it was received. She debated just letting him, muttering back what he wanted to hear, because she'd initiated this and encouraged this and he was eager and they had gone too far to stop now and no they had not.
"Sly, I can't." She put hand on his chest as he attempted to pull her on top of him. She sat up, a hand over her mouth, her head spinning. "I'm sorry, I can't.
"What?"
He sounded angry, but she knew he wasn't. That was his confused voice, his baffled voice, his I have no idea what just happened voice. He wasn't angry, he wouldn't pressure her, but the tone made her angry anyway. "I said I can't, okay?"
"Okay." He bit his lip. "Is…is it something I did?"
"No. No. It's me. I promise. I just…" her voice cracked, and she put both hands over his face.
She felt the mattress shift, and then he was next to her, their legs dangling off the side of the bed. He slid an arm around her waist. "Did…did something hurt, or is it, like, mental?"
"I'm not mental just because I don't want to have sex with you," she snapped, feeling bad about the remark immediately. "I'm sorry. I know that's not what you meant." She looked up at him, the tears flowing freely. "I don't know what's wrong with me."
"You probably have post – partum depression. You can see someone for it, you know."
"I don't want to see anyone. I can't trust people I don't know."
"Do you want to talk to me about it?"
"No. You're dealing with everything with Tilly too. You don't have to shoulder my load."
"We're married. That's part of it."
She got up. "I appreciate it, Sly, but I just want to…"
"What?"
"I don't know." She sighed, running her hand through her hair and making a frustrated sound upon realizing it was still damp. "I don't know anything."
"Just know that I love you. I'll be here for anything you need. Always."
Florence knew that statement shouldn't bother her. But it did. It bothered her a lot.
Walter was having a bad dream.
Paige could tell by the amount he was sweating, but when she sat up and leaned over him, using her phone for light, she saw tears leaking from his closed eyes. She knew better than to wake him up. He'd be disoriented, not know where he was, caught somewhere between his subconscious and reality.
He groaned, and the pained sound alarmed her. She scooted up behind him, rubbing his arm, and kissed his neck gently. "It's okay," she said quietly. "It's okay."
Walter seemed to be soothed, momentarily growing quiet, though his body was still trembling slightly. Then he groaned again, lurched forward, and staggered out of the bed, falling to his knees. He was out of the little light her phone could provide, but Paige heard the tell tale sound of vomiting.
"Walter," she said, crawling out of bed and walking up behind him, her hands on his back. "Walter, breathe."
"I'm fine."
"No you're not." She rubbed his shoulder. "Talk to me, Love."
"I'm dizzy. I'm…"
"Breathe," she said. "Let me get you some water."
"I…" His shoulders tensed up, and he gagged again.
"Walt," Paige said, "what did you dream about?"
"I don't…I don't remember. Something. Something bad. It was so…" He put a hand to his forehead.
"Do you have a headache?"
He nodded.
"You've had a lot of those recently."
"I'm fine."
"I'm just saying…"
"You're just saying you know me better than me," he snapped.
Paige lifted her hands as if to surrender. "Whoa."
"Don't be condessssending," Walter said. "Con…condescending."
"I'm not. But you used to say I know you better than you do. You used to find it romantic, even. But now it's a problem? Why are you shutting me out?"
"The world has bigger problems, Paige. Tilly's fighting for her life, Megan's going through a lot, Sylvester…"
"Megan?" Paige frowned, an uneasy feeling creeping into her thoughts. Or rather, not creeping in. But circling. Ready to lunge. "Walter…you…you remember that your sister…?"
"What if Tilly was hers?" Walter turned to look at her, and she'd dropped her phone, causing the light to fade slowly upward, making Walter look like he was at camp, holding a flashlight under his chin while telling a ghost story. "If she'd…if things were different. Tilly would be hers."
"Tilly wouldn't be hers, Walter," Paige said. "If she ever had a child, it wouldn't have been Tilly. Tilly is Florence and Sylvester's child. You…" Oh boy. "You know who Florence is?"
"Megan," Walter said, so quiet that Paige could almost not make it out. "Walt, are you confused? Are Florence and Megan…the same person to you?" It felt weird to say. But somehow, it made more sense to her than anything else. She suddenly remembered the day Tilly was born, when she'd thought that Walter had murmured leg in response to Florence's leg shaking. Paige suddenly realized that he might have said Meg instead.
And the hospital visits. Walter's insistence on sitting outside the hospital, watching the light from Tilly's room like her room was the East Egg dock. Walter's constant worry about Florence, wanting to be there for her, needing constant assurance that she was okay. He cared about her; she was one of their best friends, but this was more than that.
Paige had to ask the question, but the answer terrified her. "You…you do know that Florence isn't Megan, right?"
"She's Sylvester's wife," Walter said. "She was Sylvester's wife."
Is, was, do you know the difference? The ten – year anniversary of her death was coming up. Of course Megan would be on his mind. She should have seen this coming, predicted it somehow, but she was so busy with Amber, with the benefactor…
"Walt, come back to bed," she said.
"I have to clean this up."
Right. The vomit. Paige wrinkled her nose. Somehow regurgitated fermented fish seemed like the more appealing of her current problems.
