Sunday, more rain. The day comes in slowly, the sky lightening later than normal with the added damper of the clouds still hanging low over us. I get up first, leaving behind a soundly sleeping James and the warm nest I'd been snuggled into. This is the way I have most often remembered him, caught up in quiet sleep and free, even for just a moment, of the worries that trouble his mind. He seems sound these past two days, but I can still clearly recall those moments where he would drift away from me in the Tower, only to pull himself back from wherever it was that his mind had wandered to.
Stick to the routine, Alina, I remind myself. Sweatpants, a sweater, fingers through my hair to smooth it out, and finally on my way to coffee. Stick to the routine. It's still before Owen Time so I pad through the silent house, avoiding the noisy floorboards, checking that the son sleeps on, and heading downstairs. Steve is exactly where we left him the night before, and I wonder if everyone else ingested some kind of medication that I somehow missed out on. I could do with a few more hours of rest.
The noise of the rain drums out on the back porch, and I watch the little rivers running down the window panes while I drink my first cup of brew. The caffeine smacks me hard and I feel a strong pull at my heart, because I can feel that today is the day they will have to leave. I go back to work tomorrow, Owen goes back to his daycare, and James will disappear from our lives just as suddenly as he came into it. I get lost in the swirl of thoughts again and time slips between my fingers while I watch the rain and mull over the questions I can't bring myself to ask.
Like being doused with cold water, I suddenly drop back into myself and take a quick, deep breath. I blink several times, thinking I may have fallen asleep with my eyes open, and the world comes back into focus. Everything comes back. I pour more coffee and head back upstairs with the two fresh mugs.
James has rolled over and his back is to me when I enter the room. I move around to his side of the bed and set his coffee on the table, just as he must have done with mine yesterday. He stirs, just slightly at the corners of his mouth that turn up when he hears the mug set down on the wooden table, and he hums agreement at my gift. He rubs the sleep from his eyes and rolls onto his back to look up at me.
"Good morning," he murmurs, pushing himself up on his elbows and letting a long, slow yawn work it's way up from his chest and out.
"Morning," I say. I sit myself on the end of the bed, near where his feet are, and settle on the cushy duvet, crossing my legs underneath myself and keeping a good measure of distance between us. He seems to understand because he leans back against the headboard and takes a drink of coffee, keeping his eyes on mine as he tips the mug back and I see him lick the ceramic with the tip of his tongue before he drinks. It's deliberate and it makes me blush.
"So," he says, smirking at my apparent discomfort. I would think that he was enjoying making this hard on me if his eyes weren't shadowed by oncoming sadness.
"Do we have to talk about it?" he says, his voice already resigned.
"Yeah," I say.
"But you already know what your answer is."
"I don't know what else to tell you," I say. "I have to keep doing what's best. We both do. I want you to be a part of his life but not at the expense of all this." I make a small gesture with my cup around the room and he nods, knowing what I'm saying and then he releases a long sigh and gives me a weak smile.
"Would it do any good for me to try asking?"
"You can try," I say and shrug. He takes another quick sip and then sets his mug down. He reaches out and takes my half-empty one and sets it beside his, scooching towards me and then sitting himself in front of me. He puts a hand on either side of my face, running his thumbs up my cheeks and then smoothing his fingers down my neck to hook me in and pull me closer to him. When his forehead touches mine and we are barely an inch apart, his thumbs push up on my jaw, tilting my head whichever way he wants. Our lips are so close, his breath coming quick on the sensitive skin of my mouth. My heart is almost bursting.
"Come back with me," he says, and he must whisper but his voice resonates in my head and sends shivers down my body. I reach up and grab his wrists, needing to steady myself against his onslaught. "Come back and the three of us can be a family. There's no reason to be alone anymore."
He kisses one corner of my mouth, then barely lets his lips touch mine while moving them to kiss the other corner. I close my eyes, focusing on my breaths and the way I feel like putty in his hands. I could come apart at the seams in these hands, slowly, gently, or fast and rough; it doesn't matter. There will always be this between us, the way we fit together and the way our bodies race.
"I can't," I manage to say and he rests against me. His hands are steady, holding me upright, but his voice trembles when he speaks.
"I don't want to leave you both," he says. "But I can't leave Steve either. He's my best-friend and I can't abandon him."
"I know," I try to reassure him but my voice breaks and I push down the swell of sadness rising inside me. "I can't take Owen away from this place where he's safe and I don't have to be afraid of leaving the house. This is the only home he's ever known, and we have a good life here."
"It could be good with me," he says and now he's starting to beg. But I have to stay strong in my resolve. We cannot go, and I know that he must.
"I'm sorry," I whisper and he pulls me towards him, laying back as he does and dragging me easily to lay out on top of him. I let myself fall across his chest, straddle his hips and press myself against him. He hooks a hand behind my neck and brings my face to his, kissing me full on, devouring as much of me as he can, and I move my hips, drawing out a moan laced into a sigh from his lips.
"I'm sorry," I say again and sit up to pull my sweater and t-shirt off, keeping our eyes locked. His hands are on me and when I lean over to kiss him again he rolls me beneath him and we are lost to each other for one more time.
A silent car ride, winding our way through the rain break and into town where their car waits at my clinic. Even Owen is quiet, probably sensing the low morale from the three adults. James rides next to me, keeping a hand resting on my thigh. His touch burns through my jeans and I wrap my fingers with his when I can.
Steve made French toast for breakfast. I held James' hand on top of the table, making it difficult to both help a toddler and to feed myself. But everything tastes like sawdust and I don't have much appetite. After breakfast Owen wants to wrap his arm in tin foil, to build another fort, watch another movie, play one more game. I wash up, not even trying to hide the tears that swim in my eyes.
When we arrive and I pull up next to the solitary black car in the parking lot, a heavy silence settles over us when I shut off the engine and we all stare at the other car. Steve is the first to open his door, thank goodness he is here because I'm not sure if either of us would have been able to make the first move. James follows suit, stepping back and opening Owen's side of the car to lift him out of his car seat and hugs him.
"You be good for your Momma," he says and I feel guilty for robbing him of all the moments that I've had these last years with our son, and I wonder how he doesn't hate me. James holds Owen close for a second too long and when the boy starts to squirm away James gives him a quick kiss on the side of the head before setting him on the ground and watching him run around behind the car. Steve heads after Owen, giving us a moment to say goodbye.
I move around to James' side of the car, trailing the tips of my fingers on the hood of the car as I do. He's waiting for me, folding me in against his chest and I press my cheek against the flannel fabric and count his heartbeats while I let my tears fall. He rests his cheek on my hair and presses a kiss to the top of my head. I turn and look up at him, catch a pressed smile, and then he leans in and kisses me softly. The gentlest of goodbyes.
"I love you," I whisper when we break apart. "I always will."
"I love you, too," he says, his voice sure and strong in its quiet way. "You know where to find me, if you ever need anything."
I nod and hold him tighter. I breathe in everything I can about the moment and commit even the smallest details to memory. I will have to savor these moments when I am alone again and missing everything about him and about us. I hope that he will do the same, and that maybe in the middle of the night he will think of me when he reaches into his mind for something of comfort.
When we part, I feel cold and numb, that deep sadness pulling me down into its arms again. I call Owen to me and pick him up, to keep him out of the way, and we wave as the two men drive away. This is familiar territory, just the two of us on a weekend day, and I suggest the first thing that pops into my mind. Something to take the edge off the loneliness.
"Hey, Punkin," I say with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. "Do you want to go visit the porcupine?"
"Yeah!" he says and I go in to give him a raspberry on his cheek that he squirms away from. It makes me laugh, a tiny light to ward off the impending darkness. A visit to the local high desert museum to visit its resident porcupine will keep us both occupied and will push off the worst of the sadness until tonight.
On the way home I consider leaving Owen at Maggie's house for the evening, giving myself a chance to grieve in the house by myself. I don't want him to see me so upset, but then I also don't want to be alone, so I decide against it. We pick up a pizza on the way home, another treat and I am sure that this weekend will go down in his head as one of the best of his short life.
The rain clouds are gone and the sun bounces off the wet pavement, making it hard for me to see. I am squinting until we turn off the highway and on to our gravel drive, making our way slowly up towards the house. Owen spots him first, calling out and pointing excitedly at the house. My heart stops when I lay eyes on him, sitting on the porch swing, calmly waiting for us. I think I am hallucinating and I hesitate to go to him after I park the car.
"Wait here a minute, Punk," I say quietly to Owen who is babbling again and I walk in a daze to the porch and lean on the handrail at the staircase, trying to keep myself from fainting. James smiles, holds out his hand to me, and when I go to take it he stands and pulls me up into a hug that lifts me off the ground.
"I couldn't-" he cuts himself off and I don't need to hear anything else to know what happened, to know that he changed his mind, asked to be brought back. To stay with us.
Almost all lives are planned, but there are few that actually follow the exact path set forth for them. Even though I have traveled far from where I had thought I would be, I am exactly where I am needed most. I look up at the mountains, smiling down at me and glowing in the early evening sun. This is home, but here in these arms is where I belong.