The Burning Side(18)
We are quiet in the car, a sense of despondency in the air between us. We have no “Just Married” flag, no honeymoon plans. It was a shotgun wedding and the slug lodges deep: we are not in love. The whirlwind fling that started all this is long over, leaving two near-strangers bound by our shared sense of obligation, a marriage license, and a five-hundred-square-foot apartment waiting empty for us.
Or, not quite empty. Billy’s mother has gotten us some Corningware.
Tucked inside a casserole dish, we find a generous check and a list of pediatricians. We glance at each other, understanding that our secret is no longer ours. Mothers are eagle-eyed about these things. But we know she won’t say anything. When we announce the pregnancy a month from now, she will congratulate us, and that will be that.
The day after the wedding—which we call the union—Billy goes off to scrape and buff teeth, and I shop alone for a new bed with a rubber band keeping my pants up where the button no longer reaches. By the time I turn twenty-four, I’ll be a wife with a child. When I turned twenty-three, I went out dancing with friends to celebrate. The bartender double-checked my ID and called me baby face.
* * *
Our daughter arrives with the spring.
During April’s first years of life, her dad and I function as star-crossed business partners. The weeks and fights blur. We each have more than our share of opinions about how to raise a baby, yet none of the affectionate forbearance that makes it possible to do such a fearsome task together.
One weekend, Billy invites his mom over without telling me, and she stays for hours. They wake April up to play with her, and when she fusses, his mother suggests that a better-quality formula might fix the problem. Billy agrees, and I hold my tongue. When I later tell him that a little warning would have been nice, he says, I live here too. I let out a loud “ha” in response, because I’m all too aware—he lives here like he’s the only one who does. He parks his dirty bicycle inside our little apartment to protect it from the elements. At every meal he smacks on his food, and with every breakfast he slurps thick V8 juice, leaving behind a red-coated glass that he expects me to clean, which fills me with an almost physical rage. It feels like nothing belongs to me anymore, not even my own time or needs.
Worse than any of that, Billy wants April to sleep in her own room even though I’m the one who takes care of her all night, and even though he knows how strongly I want her to sleep with me so I can comfort her in the night. He says it’s a matter of discipline, of principle.
“But she cries for me,” I argue.
“It’s good for babies to learn independence,” he retorts.
We fight so vehemently about this that I begin to stay longer and longer in her room, hiding from Billy’s constant presence and pushing back and forth in the Boston rocker. If he won’t let her come to our bedroom, I’ll stay in hers. I would rather share a bed with her anyway.
This is how April’s little room becomes my respite—how April herself becomes my respite. And whenever she babbles, happy and unintelligible, I feel my resolve renew: I got married because of her, and I will stay married because of her. It’s worth it for her to grow up with Billy, even if he’s always under my skin. Regardless of his many inconsiderations, I see the way he holds her. The way he raspberries the bottoms of her feet until she laughs so hard that it seems like nothing has ever been wrong in all the world.
Plus, what if something were to happen to me? I’d want her to have him.
Once she’s grown, Billy and I can end this and each start again. Find love. But until then, this is all for April, who is beginning to toddle, to stretch cloudlike hands toward us and say up, waiting to be lifted to safety and never once doubting that she will be.
* * *
April has Billy’s smile, which softens me to him whenever it spreads across her face.
Our favorite pastime is making her giggle. It’s a shared mission, whether through tickles or silly noises. And as she awakens more to this life, her eyes begin to shift between us whenever we snap at each other. She watches us closely, frowning her concern and wondering why our songs fled. So we endeavor to fight less, and we settle into a new monotony. Billy gets better about rinsing his red-stained glasses; I get more sleep and therefore care less about his V8 habits anyway.
In this manner, the calendar pages turn.
On occasion, I’m reminded of why I said yes to a date with Billy in the first place. Well, our first date was only because we both wanted to see the local cover band for the Mamas and the Papas. But on our second date, he took me out for Italian. Halfway through dinner, I got sick to my stomach, and instead of politely bailing, he stayed. Told me not to be embarrassed, that it’s only human. He drove me home, brought me chicken soup and oyster crackers, and then waited until he knew I was all right. That resulted in several more months of dates.
Eventually, we both got bored and there was a petering out. We ended things mutually. Weeks later, I found myself sitting in a doctor’s office thinking, No. Thinking, I can’t.
But I did. And he did. And sometimes if I’m under the weather, he will leave Saltines out or fill the humidifier or keep April quiet so I can rest, covering me with a blanket and brushing the hair from across my face, and I remember those first dates. It seems like they were with a different person, but it was him. He’s all him.