The Burning Side(26)
But then we met. He says I sometimes appear in his memories—an insertion where I hadn’t really been. Says I would have dabbed his head with a cool cloth when he got sick. I would have fumblingly read The Hardy Boys with him and listened to Smashing Pumpkins and tested white rocks to find the chalk ones. Once we were together, it was as though we always had been, as though our connection was strong enough to be retroactive. So of course when he confesses his fear on the eve of Sadie’s due date, I’ve already known for a while.
I take his hand in mine. “This baby will not be alone.”
“I know. You’d never let that happen.”
But I lift his chin, my belly alive with our barely contained future. “You won’t let that happen. You do know that, right?”
He leans into me.
We’re in this together.
And our love is as soft as the cattail along the edge of our land.
* * *
Three months after Sadie’s birth, I’m listless.
My baby is asleep, and my shirt is off. These days are so lather, rinse, repeat that I sometimes just leave my shirt off. Being alone with a newborn feels more alone than actually being alone. And the energy required for the on-off-on-off-on-off part of breastfeeding is exorbitant. So I’m lying on my back, breasts splayed out like chicken legs in need of twine. Was it Annie Dillard who said that how we spend our days is how we spend our lives? Well, look at me now, Annie.
I’m unaware of the time when Leo, home from work, walks into the room. I jump up to cover myself as he grins, a hunger in it. We haven’t slept together since the birth, although he’s been hinting. I’m sure I could do it now without much pain. The problem is that my body doesn’t feel like mine anymore, and I don’t want to do something just because it won’t hurt.
“You don’t have to do that, you know.”
He means my shirt. He is staring, and I feel pink creep up my neck. I make the mistake of glancing down at his view: depleted chest, fading line beneath my belly button, stretch marks like I’ve been clawed by a cat, and folds of loose skin. Not to mention the prominent scar where the surgeon opened me up to retrieve our stubborn nesting doll of a daughter.
Fast, I tug my shirt over my head. I register Leo’s look of disappointment, but I know he won’t push.
He slips his shoes off. “Guess what.”
I tilt my head in suggestion that we leave the bedroom to let the baby sleep.
Closing the door behind us, my thoughts turn toward dinner. I’m suddenly in charge of domestic life, and it doesn’t feel like my mother’s looks. I quit tutoring because I wanted to focus on our family for a few years, and Leo was completely supportive and encouraging. But since then, the idea of a baby has become an actual baby, and time has buckled. Days feel like decades, and I’m having second thoughts. I want my students back.
“I let Kim read Seventh City, and now half the faculty is reading it. Brett actually said he might add it to the curriculum. Can you believe it?”
I’m happy for Leo. His novel is a remarkable epic: a lone explorer discovers the seventh city of gold and must decide whether to share his discovery. Between the world history Leo incorporated and the way he delved into the protagonist’s psyche, I can see why it might be good for students. My support is genuine. And yet, something about this stings. He is stepping more into himself while I’m disintegrating, piece by sleepless piece, and I wonder if this is ultimately what a marriage must do—dim one person so the other can shine.
“Of course I can believe it.” And I can. “You deserve it.” And he does.
Somehow, since Sadie’s birth, Leo has hit his professional stride: his book and then teacher of the year and then a significant raise to prevent him from transferring to another district. He also hit his physical stride, working out so much that student teachers look at him and bite their lips. All while I moved from work to home. While I try in vain to lose the baby weight. While I spend my days in milk-crusted isolation.
Leo, who was scared to be a father.
I, who was ready to be a mother.
But what did we know?
APRIL
Two Days After the Fire
AFTER STEPPING AWAY TO CALL him, Mom announces that Dad is having car trouble. Cameron offers to go since he knows that truck inside and out. But Mom says it’s not necessary—Dad just needs a tool. She can take it to him.
Cameron shrugs and takes over the fish tacos, and Josie’s attention shifts back to whether she should check a bag or try to cram everything into a carry-on.
I alone know that our mother is lying through her teeth.
She looks imploringly at me, so I inhale and say casually, “I’ll come with.”
Leo says with impatience, “Guess I’ve got the kids.”
I’m tempted to defend myself. Mom’s lying. Dad’s sick. Instead I say, “Sadie might not want fish. She can have turkey or something.”
He volleys back, “I know how to take care of my child.”
The unnecessary hostility. He heard an accusation I neither said nor thought. But my father is missing, and my mother is watching us like a hawk, and so I grab the keys.
Mom declines my offer to drive. She needs something she can control. So from the passenger seat, I start dialing Dad’s cell repeatedly. We brought no tool for the alleged car trouble. We go by the store, his office, his favorite nearby duck pond. After twenty minutes of increasing panic, he answers his phone.