4. One and One and One
Michael had noticed and noted her yearly depression when they were dating, though he hadn't known then how regular it was. There hadn't been anyone to hide it from. Her mother was dead, her father non-existent, friends easily deflected and unobservant, and boyfriends were…just unobservant. But then Michael, who was none of those things, had come along. He was very much there, noticing everything even when he seemed not to, and was harder to deflect than the last wildebeest after a stampede.
By that same time next year they were married and he was, miracle of miracles, home. And she was "blue," as she had poetically tried putting it to him, wanting to see if deflection was possible if she took a softer route. It wasn't, though he let her pretend it was. For that, at least, she had been grateful.
The next year he wasn't home but he had called. He was a day early, but that he had remembered at all sent her into wet, hiccupy tears in the middle of a crowded street in London. She had been lucky to be near her car and sat in it until the bout passed. By the time he made it home later that week – two days too late – she was better and as reluctant as ever to tell him what was wrong.
If he couldn't be deflected then she couldn't be moved. It was something they had quickly come to realize. By silent agreement, it was something each respected in the other. It was probably the only reason he hadn't pushed harder for a child in the beginning. Her adamancy against it was unflinching. And, at first, she had had excellent reasons for not wanting a child.
"Frankly neither of us has the time for one, Michael." He was gone more often than not, and when he was home it was during the odd hours when she wasn't there. For her part, she was still in school and would have to seriously derail her graduate studies, something she wasn't ready to do.
Michael hadn't been able, or inclined, to argue with her or her reasons. And he hadn't decided to dig deeper. Which was all she had cared about at the time.
"Elena."
"Hmm?"
"Elena, I've been calling your name for five minutes."
She looked up at him from the little pink jumper in her hands. "Have you?" It sounded as vague and distant as she felt.
Michael sighed. "If you didn't want to do this today—"
"No, really," she said, forcing a smile for him even if he could probably see right through it, "I want to do this. With you."
"Elena, I know—"
"No. It's fine," she said sharply. "It's fine."
He let her pretend nothing was wrong and pointed to the jumper. "That's the wrong color."
Elena felt a smirk pulling at her lips. "You're just excited that you're getting the boy fathers want."
He made a particularly male sound. Usually she laughed and punched his shoulder. Today she smiled and shook her head.
"There's always so much more stuff for girls than there are for boys," she said.
"Are you sorry you aren't having the famous Dolovale First Girl?"
It was too early in the pregnancy for the kick in her stomach to be the baby. "What do four generations of Dolovale women know," she said lightly. "I'm sure it's my father's worthless genes proving themselves."
He kissed her temple. "I think they're lovely genes."
"You would."
He took the jumper from her hands. "We can always try again for a girl," he said softly.
That kick was definitely not the baby.
"No."
Not little Adam.
"Elena—"
"No."
That was what Michael wanted to name their son. Adam. If he had noticed that she only brought up the surprising name choice once – there were no known Adams in either of their families – he hadn't mentioned it.
The name was so close to Eva.
"Elena, just—"
"Michael, no. I don't want to try again. And I don't want to talk about it. Particularly not now."
Particularly not so close to the anniversary. Even floating the idea of having – of trying – for a daughter just seemed like…like some sort of sacrilege.
Eva.
So close to Evelyn. Her mother.
"I wish you would talk to me," Michael said softly, turning her to face him. "I wish you would tell me what about this time of year makes you this way."
She looked into his eyes, she had no choice, and wondered what he would do, how he would feel, if she told him about Eva. If she told him how the desperation and loneliness she had felt in those months after her mother's death had led her be seduced by a professor whom she had known was interested. How that tryst had resulted in a tiny, precious life. A life she had decided to destroy with almost as much impulsiveness as she had created it, while considering and reviewing the marks she had received from that same professor. Only to realize, months later, that she had been angry and upset then, too. That she had aborted the First Girl.
Would Michael hate her the way she had hated herself that first year? Would loathing grow between them? Would he trust her with their son, even though abortion was no longer an option for them? Would he be able to trust her at all?
"I wish you would talk to me, too, Michael. But I don't want to fight in the store. I want this to be—" Oh God "—a good day. Please."
He studied her for a moment, looking, she knew, for the things hiding within her skin.
In three days it would have been Eva's birthday. She would have been six.
"All right."
She graced him with a smile. "Thank you. Now," she said, "what is it you were trying to show me?"