Strobe-like images flared behind my eyelids, a baby’s face purple and swollen, arms punching the air with each stunted breath. My hands went limp, and I turned my head to the side, struggling to gain my mental balance. I gasped for air, unable to breathe, hyperventilating.
“What is it? Are you okay?”
I sat up, cradling my head in my hands, and tried to slow my breathing. “I…saw…a…” I paused, not wanting to add this night to all the others when I’d shunned him sexually.
“You saw what?” He grasped my wrists and slowly guided them down to my lap.
“Nothing. I’m having a problem focusing.” My eyes met his. “I’m sorry, West. It’s not you. It’s me. I just need more time.”
He pushed himself up off the couch, turned his back, and zipped up his pants while walking to the study. Seconds later, I could hear him talking on the phone and assumed he’d called James regarding the job in New York.
Moments later he returned and stood in front of the couch where I was sitting, kneading my temples. “I told James I’ll take the job. I’m leaving after the Fourth of July sometime. I’ll know the exact date soon enough.”
I looked up at him. “When you come back I’m sure I’ll be my old self again.”
“Hope so,” he mumbled, and then turned and walked up the stairs.
Several months apart would give me the time I needed to overcome my depression. I prayed these frightening feelings would fade then go away entirely while he was away. I longed to recapture the emotions I’d always felt toward him.
During the next several weeks, I didn’t see Weston until he pulled back the covers at night to get into bed. He was busy preparing to leave and had a great deal to accomplish before his departure. Each night he’d quietly seek me out, moving to my side of the bed, softly caressing my shoulders, rubbing my back.
Every touch brought back memories of being in the hospital and the pain of losing Christine, poisoning my libido, inhibiting any sexual response. The thoughts wouldn’t go away, and I couldn’t reach out to him for solace either.
In mid-July I drove him to the airport. He was flying out of San Francisco, and the traffic was horrible early in the morning. When I pulled up to the appropriate airline drop-off, he quickly kissed me goodbye and told me he’d call that evening then ran toward the gate to catch his plane. An odd sense of relief washed over me.
Not only did I have to deal with my physical reactions toward him, I felt guilty for feeling this way in the first place. What a vicious circle. And I didn’t know the way out, but I was hoping I’d work my way through this over the next several months. Otherwise I couldn’t see a reason for him to stay married to me. I used to be his wife, his lover, and his friend. Right now I was a failure in the lovemaking arena, and I couldn’t expect him to stick around forever if my behavior didn’t change.
Chapter 4
Every day I exercised whether I felt like it or not, hoping the endorphins would lift my mood. On my good days, I believed I could recapture the sexual attraction I’d always experienced with Weston. At other times, fear overwhelmed me that losing our baby had rendered me incapable of ever having a sexual relationship. However, I tried to act like everything was normal in hopes I’d start to feel normal again. My appointment with Dr. Farney was scheduled in a few weeks and if I wasn’t better by then I planned to ask her to refer me to a psychologist.
I jogged along the streets of Alameda, to and from Peet’s coffeehouse, taking a longer route each day to increase my stamina and raise my heart rate—a woman on a mission to win back her husband.
Weston called every night at nine o’clock my time, midnight on the East Coast. It was a warm August night when the phone on my nightstand let out its distinctive Fur d’Elyse ringtone. I turned over, patting the top of the bedside table, still ensconced in a dream that came to me repeatedly—a baby was crying somewhere in the house and I searched every room but couldn’t find her.
My sweaty hand finally made contact with the cordless phone, grabbing it off the base. “Hullo?”
“Brandy?”
“Weston? What time is it?” He’d already phoned before I went to sleep. What had prompted this second call?
“Search me.” He burst out laughing then howled as if he’d just heard the funniest joke in the world.
I sat up in bed and turned on the lamp on the night stand. “You’re drunk, West. Where are you? You won’t drive anywhere, will you?”
He burped into the phone then chuckled. “Sorry ‘bout that. Had a wee bit too much to drink. And no, not driving. In my hotel room. But I’m alone, sweetie, don’t worry.”
I frowned. “Well, of course you’re alone. Who else would be in your hotel room with you at—” I looked over at the clock. It read two in the morning. “At five in the morning?”
“I miss you, Brandy. I wanna make love but you don’t. You still feel that way ‘bout me?”
He was smashed, and this was completely out of character for him. I’d seen him tipsy perhaps two or three times, only because he hadn’t eaten after drinking a few too many beers or more than a couple of glasses of wine. He was a big guy, weighed over two hundred pounds, and could hold the liquor he drank without anyone noticing.
“You’ve obviously had too much to drink and this isn’t the time for a conversation about our sex life.”
“What sex life?” His voice had risen several octaves and I pulled the phone away from my ear. “Do you ssstill luvme?” he slurred.
“Yes, I love you. That hasn’t changed. But can we please hang up now? Why don’t you call me tomorrow…I mean tonight when you get off work?”
“You don’t luffme then, do you Bran?”
“Honey, I do love you. But I’m hanging up now. Go sleep this off. I imagine you have to go to work in a couple of hours. I’ll talk with you tonight.” I placed the phone back on the side table and shut off the light.
What a bizarre conversation! I closed my eyes and tried to get back to sleep, but Weston’s words kept replaying in my head: “I’m alone…don’t worry.”
Those four words festered in the back of my mind like an unclean wound.
He didn’t phone me that night or the following night, so the next day I called him on his cell phone because he was out in the field the majority of the day. But every time his voice mail recording chimed in. I left a message telling him I loved him, missed hearing from him, and asked him to call me back when he returned to his hotel that evening.
He was probably busier than he’d ever imagined so I tried not to make his drunken rambling into anything more than it was. Instead of obsessing and worrying about him, I decided to clean out the nursery—if only to prove to myself I’d made at least a smidgen of emotional progress. I could do this.
Laying my head against the nursery door, I closed my eyes, knowing what I’d find inside. I grasped the door handle and turned it slowly, heard the distinctive creak of the hinges. Weston had said he would fix it before I brought the baby home. We’d even joked about it in the birthing room.
The pink walls and white furniture, the rocker in the corner, the crib with a mobile hanging over the side…I could picture it in my mind’s eye before I even opened the door.
I imagined my baby lying on her stomach in the crib, butt in the air, sucking on her fingers. I’d dreamed of rocking back and forth in the rocking chair, her body tucked in my arms, tiny lips sucking on my breast while she nursed.
Seeing the inside of her room for the first time since coming home from the hospital was a different story.
I opened the top drawer of the dresser and looked down at the teensy undershirts, pink booties, velvety pajamas, and reached out to fondle them. My heart twisted in my chest like a dying animal. Tears streamed down my cheeks.
I left the drawer open and ran out of the room, slamming the door behind me, sliding my back down the front of the door until I was sitting on the floor. My breathing hitched in my throat. Why my baby? Why?
By the thir
d night, I still hadn’t heard from Weston. His supervisor in New York, or James here in the Bay Area, would have phoned me if something had happened to him. He was either returning to his hotel room later than usual and it was too late to call me, or he was intentionally not phoning because he was angry with me about our last conversation. I’d left messages on his cell phone and his voice mail at the hotel and still hadn’t heard from him.
I was doing the best I could to work through my emotional problems since our baby’s death. Did he expect me to do an about-face in so little time? We’d been married for seven years, and up until now we’d had a solid marriage. We could get through this rough patch. All married couples had their ups and downs. But we had to work it out together. Pulling away from me completely was different than giving me the space I needed to figure things out.
It had been seven days since I’d heard from him when the phone rang at one in the morning East Coast time. I fumbled for the handset, pressing it to my ear. I could hear Weston crying on the other end, repeating my name over and over.
“Weston, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?” A thousand different images scattered through my brain. Had he been in an accident? Had he been fired?
“I’m sorry. I love you, Brandy.” I could barely understand him. He was drunk. Again. However, I’d never heard him this upset before. I’d never seen him cry until the morning in the hospital after Christine died. It terrified me to think something equally upsetting could have happened to him while he was so far away from me.
“I love you too, West. But what are you sorry for?” I asked, my voice ragged with panic. “Oh, God. What’s going on?”
The dial tone broke in over his sobbing.
I immediately called him back on his cell, but it went straight to voice mail. I didn’t leave a message. My mind raced. What now? I phoned the hotel and reached his room’s voice mail. At least I knew he was alive. But why all this drinking? Was he apologizing for that…or for something worse? I left a terse message for him to call me then sank back onto the bed.
I didn’t want to list the possibilities. The obvious. I would not sit back and let my marriage fall apart. I was doing all I could on my end during his absence, getting stronger, doing some serious thinking about my attitude concerning our child’s death. What was he doing in New York? Getting drunk every night? Doing things he had a reason to regret and feel guilty for?
I never fell back to sleep, rehashing everything over and over in my mind, reviewing my actions since our baby’s death and what I knew of Weston’s behavior after he arrived in New York.
In the morning, I was able to get the direct number for Weston’s supervisor in New York and called him immediately, but he was away from his desk. I explained to his secretary I needed to speak with Weston Chambers right away. She transferred my call to Weston’s personal secretary. Since when did Weston have a personal secretary? After several rings a woman’s voice answered.
“Mr. Weston Chamber’s office. This is Carol Smith speaking. May I help you?”
“Yes, this is Mr. Chamber’s wife. May I speak with him?”
There was a slight pause. “Weston is out in the field at the moment. Is there something I can help you with?”
“Could you get an urgent message to him, Ms. Smith?”
Another pause. “It’s Miss Smith and yes, I can try phoning him on his Nextel but he’s made it clear it’s only for emergencies. Is this an emergency?”
So, whoever this woman was, she wanted to make it known she wasn’t married. That came through loud and clear. “No, this isn’t an emergency, but could you please ask him to call me this evening when he returns to his hotel room, no matter the hour?”
Another pregnant pause, which I felt was purposeful. “I’ll give him the message, Mrs. Chambers. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Just make sure he sees the message when he returns to the office, please.”
I heard her give a short laugh. “If he returns to the office, I’ll give him the message.”
It had been over a week since the first drunken phone call then there had been last night’s insane call. I was determined to get to the bottom of this, even if I was afraid of discovering the truth.
“Miss Smith, is there a possibility he won’t be returning to the office today?”
“I can’t say, Mrs.—”
“I’m assuming you must have some knowledge of his daily schedule.”
“Of course.”
“And if he’s not coming back he’d do you the courtesy of phoning.”
“Yes, he’s very good about—”
“Then when he phones would you make absolutely sure he knows I want him to phone me tonight from his hotel room. It’s very important I speak with him. Today.”
I could hear her let out an irritated breath of air. “I understand. Thank you for calling.” The line immediately went dead. She’d hung up on me. The bitch.
I was so angry I wanted to jump on a plane to New York today. But maybe I was just overreacting to a rude employee. Maybe whatever was going on could be cleared up by talking to Weston in a few hours.
I’d just have to wait and see.
Chapter 5
Around nine o’clock I went to bed, snuggling under the covers with a new book I’d purchased at the local Borders. I’d just settled back into the down pillows when the phone rang. Reaching over to grab it, I answered before the second ring.
“Brandy, it’s me.”
Weston.
Not sure whether to be confrontational and accusing, or confused and wanting clarification, I hesitated for a moment. This conversation had to go smoothly, so I tamped down my anger. “How are you? I was so worried about you.”
“I’m all right.”
“What’s going on with you, West? I’m confused.”
“About what, besides whether you love me or not.”
Sighing inwardly, I reined in my frustration. “Last time we talked I told you how much I love you, West, but you were too drunk to remember.” I paused, drew in a deep breath. “I couldn’t have a rational conversation with you, or discuss our marriage when you were slurring every word. But I love you so much, honey. How many times do you want me to say it?”
“Whatever…Carol said you demanded I call you tonight. Or else.”
“That’s not true,” I said, a little too loudly. “I simply asked her to make sure you got the message. She acted as if she didn’t know whether you were returning to the office. If she’s your secretary I’m sure she knows exactly where you are and can get in touch with you at a moment’s notice. Yet she was acting totally ignorant about—”
“She’s not ignorant, Brandy.”
“Let’s not argue about your secretary, Weston. She had an attitude, okay? And I didn’t appreciate it. I’m your wife! But maybe she didn’t know you were married.”
“I don’t know whether I mentioned it or not. What’s that got to do with anything?” His voice was a perfect example of boredom.
“You don’t know whether you mentioned it or not,” I said, exasperated. “I guess I’m not important enough to—”
“Like I’m so important to you? You can’t even show me you love me,” he countered, his voice harsh and louder than before. “Hell, I guess I had the answer when you told me you couldn’t make love to me anymore.”
“That’s not what I said. You’re taking our conversation out of context, and you know it.” I paused, shaking my head. “I’m going through a tough time. I lost my child. I’m confused about how I feel about everything right now and—”
“You act like you’re the only one who lost their child, Brandy. And I feel like I’ve lost my wife too. What the hell does losing a baby have to do with your feelings about me?”
“I know I’m not the only one hurting, West. You’re just more stoic about it, I guess. Can’t you see I may feel differently about it than you? I carried her to full term, for Gods’ sake.” I stopped. Should I just go ahead and say what I’d
been hiding for months? “Every time you touched me I saw this image of…” How could I tell him? I dropped my head into my palm and squeezed my eyes shut on the pain.
“You see images of what?” he asked, his voice tinged with irritation.
“Of a baby taking her last dying breath, okay? I’ve finally said it. Are you happy now?”
I could hear him let out a sigh. It took him a moment to respond, and now his voice sounded subdued. “Of course I’m not happy. Why didn’t you tell me about this before?”
“I didn’t want you to think I was crazy. I’m trying so hard to pull myself out of this depression, I really am. You just don’t know how difficult it’s been. And I love you, West. That’s never been the issue. I was having trouble with the sexual part of our relationship. Nothing else has changed.”
“We could have saved ourselves a lot of grief if you’d shared your feelings with me right from the beginning,” he muttered. “I thought you didn’t love me anymore.”
“You make it sound like it’s too late or something.” Silence blared so loudly between us, I was afraid he’d hung up on me. “Is it too late?” I whispered, holding my breath for his answer.
“You’re telling me you saw this image, or whatever you call it, only when I touched you? Why? I’m totally lost here.”
This was so damn frustrating. I wasn’t sure how much to reveal to him about my blaming myself for Christine’s death, and I surely wouldn’t confide such a devastating secret when he was across the country, thousands of miles away. I wanted to look him in the eyes when I described my overwhelming guilt. “I hate having this type of conversation over the phone. When you called me the other night you seemed to be apologizing for something. You said you were sorry then you hung up. What was that all about?”
Moon Over Alcatraz Page 3