by B. L. Berry
And in that vase there are fresh cut flowers the color of butter and sunshine in full bloom.(I hate the color yellow.)
But within those flowers is the illusion of happiness.
Simon brought those flowers to me just before he went out for a night with “the guys.”
I hate those flowers.
And that vase.
And that table.
They all remind me of a time when we were happy though I question if we ever truly were.
Now those things are all just material possessions. And possessions are merely empty promises. Because things don’t make you happy. And really, other people don’t make you happy. You can only make you happy.
Happiness is a choice.
Yes, it really is that easy.
I can’t pinpoint exactly when I accepted my misery as happiness. It’s just been an inherent part of me for the past few years. It feels like it’s all I’ve ever known.
My brother Logan snaps his fingers in front of me, breaking my focus from the flowers.
“I … I’m sorry. What’d you say?”
“Is everything okay, Sharna? You’re not acting like yourself. ” Logan gets up and walks around the table, sits next to me and tugs me under his shoulder in a brotherly side hug.
Even though he’s three years younger than me, he’s always been one of my best friends ever since the day he came home from the hospital. As kids, he’d humor me and don a tiara at my world famous tea parties. As a tween, Logan would sneak into my room after our parents went to bed with a bag of chips and the latest R-rated action flick. When I was twenty and had an exceptionally rough breakup with Geoff, my long-standing boyfriend, it was Logan who came and picked up the pieces. It wasn’t until a year later when I discovered he laid into Geoff and swore that if he ever so much as looked at me he would cut his balls off and feed them to the dog. And as adults, he always knew when I needed a shoulder, often before I even realized I needed it.
Logan has always been the kind, overprotective ying to my cynical, independent yang. And I love him for it.
I allow him to pull me in close. “Yeah, I’ve just been having a rough time lately. Things with Simon are … I don’t know. Getting better, I guess? I’m just so exhausted. Highly emotional. Stressed. I’m kind of over it all. ”
I feel ridiculous proclaiming that I’m stressed since I don’t even work. And it’s not like he wants to hear it since he thrives on stress everyday down at the police station. When he’s not busy protecting me, he’s out protecting the good citizens of Chicago, ever the nobleman. Though his job has made him age prematurely. He may have a boyish face but he looks like he could be pushing forty-five since his chocolate brown hair is sprinkled with gray. Plus the bags under his eyes worry me, but whenever I bring it up, he’s quick to shrug it off. ‘It comes with the territory’ he always claims. I tend to keep the dramas of my life to myself so he doesn’t have one more thing to worry about.
“Simon? What’s going on with him these days?”
I sigh at his question.
“I honestly don’t know.” And that’s the truth. I don’t want to him to worry about the minuscule things I’ve been reading into lately, so I know to keep my mouth shut.
Logan looks at me, his eyebrows knitted together. He opens his mouth to say something and then promptly closes it again.
“Sharna, don’t take this the wrong way, I’m not implying anything, and I’m going to kick my own ass if I’m wrong, but … are you pregnant?”
I catch my bottom lip in my front teeth and the corners of my mouth turn up ever so slightly.
“Seriously? Are you guys expecting?” In a flash, Logan is at his feet and practically out of his skin in excitement.
I nod wordlessly, feeling nothing but joy as I watch my baby brother have the kind of reaction I so wanted Simon to have. Instead, Simon gave me the ‘I don’t understand … how could this be?’ panicked speech, before accepting our fate. And just because he accepted it, doesn’t mean he liked it. He came around … eventually. At least he stopped asking ‘How?’ He’s a bit too old for the birds and the bees talk.
“I’m gonna be an uncle?” Logan wears a perma-grin and proudly looks at me at arm’s length.
“Yes, you’re going to be an uncle!” My voice is light and dare I say happy?
“I’M GONNA BE AN UNCLE!” His voice is booming and he punches his fist in the air victoriously. I can’t help but laugh. “This kid is going to be filthy spoiled. Is it a girl or a boy?”
“I don’t know yet. It’s too soon to tell. I’m only about ten weeks along right now.” I push myself up from the table and open the drawer in the island, pulling out the sonogram photos to share.
Logan looks at it in wordless wonder for several minutes, probably trying to discern which parts of the black and white blob are arms and legs and the head. “I can’t believe you’re actually pregnant. I never thought this day would come.”
I shrug. “I don’t see why you’re so surprised. We’ve been married for almost eight years. It was only a matter of time.”
“I know, I just always got the vibe that you two weren’t interested in having kids.” And he’s right to an extent. But we couldn’t just sit back and let life pass us by.
“I’d be lying if I said this was all planned. And I hate the phrase ‘accidents happen’ but really there’s no other way to explain it. This baby is a welcomed surprise.” I shrug.
“Welcomed indeed.” Logan opens his arms and pulls me into one of his bear hugs. “I know you said things are rough between you guys, but this baby is a gift. This is Simon’s chance to do you right.”
Maybe Logan is right? What if this really is Simon’s opportunity to step up and be the man who made a vow to me? I want to see if he’s capable of making the same promise of unconditional love with this child.
Only time will tell.
“I am so happy for you, sis. Really, I am.” He kisses me on my forehead and for the first time in a long time, I feel safe. Like no matter what happens between Simon and me, this baby and I will be protected.
Eighteen
Out of Body
Neuroscientists claim that out of body experiences are fits of disassociated psychosis and hysteria caused by anything from extreme exhaustion to near death experiences. But I’ve always believed it’s the cornerstone trait of an emotional masochist. My subconscious enjoys watching myself get hurt. Not physically, of course. It’s like my soul detaches itself from its body, then grabs the popcorn and watches the shit throw down in amusement. But more in the sense that I’m drawn to people and situations where I know the outcome will inevitably grim.
I perpetuate painful situations.
And maybe that’s why I’ve always been drawn to Simon? Maybe that’s part of the reason why I love him? My subconscious has always known I can count on him for disappointment.
When my name is called, I watch the frail woman I’ve become will herself to her feet and walk toward the small room next to the main desk.
I look like shit if I’m being honest. My hair’s a mess and no amount of designer clothes or top of the line makeup could color me beautiful. Perhaps that’s because deep down I’m the only one who knows just how ugly I truly am?
The triage nurse in powder blue scrubs smiles apologetically and gestures to the seat in front of her. She takes my vitals, asking the basic questions.
“And how much blood has there been?”
I exhale a shaky breath. “A lot. At first it started as spotting, but as the day went on the cramping got worse and I passed a few clots. I called my OBGYN and I rushed straight here at her insistence.”
The nurse quickly keys in a few notes into the system and ushers me back to a private room where she gives me a flimsy robe and instructs me to change.
I check my cell phone once more. Simon hasn’t called me back and still hasn’t read the text messages I’ve sent over the past hour. I would call Logan, but I don’t want to send him into panic
mode while he’s at work and I haven’t told any of my girlfriends just yet.
Where the hell is Simon?
Doctors and interns come and go, taking my vitals, drawing blood and hooking me up to an IV. When they’re unable to find the baby on the traditional sonogram, my heart turns sick and tears spill over my eyes.
“Now, now, let’s not panic just yet,” the doctor with a South African accent, whose name I never caught, says as he gently pats the top of my hand. It doesn’t do much to comfort me. Apparently, bedside manner is an art that not many doctors do well. “I’d like to do a transvaginal ultrasound if that’s okay with you.”
I swallow hard and nod as the doctor leaves to retrieve the machine for the internal examination. I fist the thin top sheet on the bed I’m sitting on, unsure what to do with my hands. If Simon were here, he’d be holding it, reassuring me. Promising that everything would be okay. Us. The baby. Life. Because that’s what he’s supposed to do. He’s supposed to be here for me.
Except he’s not.
When the doctor returns moments later, I’m hovering above my body again, witnessing everything unfold. I watch myself sink down to the edge of the table and opens my body in the stirrups. I see my face flinch as the doctor presses the sonogram wand inside my body. Then I hold my breath and wait.
I must have forgotten how to breathe because the monitor spikes and the doctor says to “relax” without ever making eye contact.
I recognize it’s happening to me from the void in my lungs causing me to gasp for air. But it doesn’t feel that way.
I look down at myself, enjoying the panic.
After a few calming words that I can’t hear (or rather, choose not to) and a delicate brush of my hand, there is a stillness in the room. That moment of uncertainty where everyone waits with bated breath and expectation.
Then, it all comes clearly into view. The screen comes to life with the tiny pulse. The indiscernible shape flickers and the doctor smiles.
“There we are.” His voice is calm and level as if to say, ‘See? You had absolutely nothing to worry about.’ The doctor takes some measurements and then packs up the machine.
When the door flies open, I’m rattled from my trance and finally come to grips with the reality of my situation. There’s a thin sheen of sweat on Simon’s brow and he’s panting heavily.
“Oh my God! What happened? Are you okay?” In a flash he’s at my side, threading his fingers through mine. I can’t help but notice that he only asks about me, not the baby. “I tried calling but your phone went straight to voicemail.”
I look at my cell phone on the table next to my hospital bed, but don’t see any missed calls. “I must not have service in here,” I say more to myself than to him.
“When I picked up your voicemail, I rushed straight here.” He tucks a long piece of brown hair behind my ear and then leans over to kiss me on my forehead.
I want to know what took him so long, but I’m afraid of his answer. And besides, it doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is he came. He’s here now.
Simon looks from me to the doctor and back to me again, his eyes filled with worry. And that look alone tells me more than I ever dreamed possible.
He still cares.
“I’m going to go see if your labs are ready. I’ll be back shortly.”
We both watch the doctor leave the room and pull the door shut behind him.
“Sharna, baby, talk to me.”
I take a deep breath and pull my hand out of his and move both of my palms to my belly, desperate to feel closer to my unborn child. I’m so relieved that my baby is safe.
“This morning when I woke up, there was a little bit of blood and as the day went on there a little bit turned into a lot and I panicked. I called you first, but you didn’t answer. Then I called Dr. Sheridan’s office and they told me to rush straight here.”
“Oh, God, I’m so sorry you had to go through this alone.”
I look down at my hands and nod. I was terrified, but I don’t tell him that. The only thing I want to tell him is that I realize we’re broken. And the only way we can pull ourselves back together again is if he realizes it, too.
I will never get what I want if I’m not brave enough to ask for it.
This is something I need.
I take a deep breath and speak the words thoughtfully and compassionately. “With this baby coming, I want to focus on us. Really strengthen our connection, you know?”
Simon knits his eyebrows together and perhaps he doesn’t know. But this is important. I want to, at the very least, try to improve our marriage. I know a baby can’t fix things, but I know it will at least give us something positive to look forward to together. Sure, children were never in our plans, but when you’re given a gift of this magnitude, you accept it graciously.
“Simon, you can’t deny that things aren’t exactly great between us.” He opens his mouth to say something, but the words never come. He can’t deny it. And he won’t. “We only have a limited amount of time where it’s just the two of us. I just think we need to really take a step back and concentrate on our marriage before everything changes.”
“What did you have in mind?” There’s a cautious tone in his voice and I know the suggestion probably won’t go over well, but I at least need to ask.
“Simon, I think marriage counseling could be good for us.”
“No—I don’t think that’s such a good idea.” I hate that he’s always so quick to shut the suggestion down. This isn’t the first time I’ve asked him to go, and somehow I doubt it’ll be the last, but I have to keep trying. You can’t just miraculously wish for things to improve. You have to work on it. Change yourself. Change your outlook on life.
“And why not? I understand what’s done is done. I forgave you for cheating back when we were engaged.”
“Did you really, Sharna? Because if you truly forgave me, I would think you wouldn’t keep holding my past mistakes over my head. Whenever things get rocky, you always go there. You don’t need to continually bring up Carrie.”
I cringe at the whore’s name. The Great Carrie Deception should have been my wakeup call long ago. Instead, I’d hit the snooze button. In fact, I hit it again and again and again.
“Stop it. Don’t say her name.” My inside revolt at the mere thought of her.
“What? I fucked up, Sharna. I own what I did. I own the hurt I caused you and live with the memory of it every day. But you sure as shit will never let me forget it. You and I weren’t even technically together when it happened … remember? We’re married now. You need to let it go. Perhaps you’re the one who needs therapy?”
“You don’t get off on this technicality, Simon. We weren’t separated.”
“But we weren’t together either,” he reminds me.
His voice is full of acid and my eyes tear up. I have no idea where this pent up anger is coming from. I’ve always been steel when it comes to his affair. I can cut off my emotions at the turn of a hat and have always been okay leaving it on the back burner … or at least trying to. But now, I’ve gone through a box of Kleenex before I even realize what’s happened.
Fuck being pregnant and hormonal.
And if he can’t see why I’m pushing the issue, then fuck him, too. “I’m suggesting this because I love you. I want for our baby to come into a world where its parents are closer than ever, not at each other’s throats all the time.”
Simon pinches the bridge of his nose and shuts his eyes tight. He remains silent for a few agonizing moments before he speaks again. “I know. I’m sorry,” he snaps insincerely, and I realize my attitude is not helping. “I’m just really stressed out with shit at work and now with this on our hands,” he waves his arms in the general direction of my stomach. “I just don’t know how to deal with everything.”
And that, right there, might be the most honest and true thing he’s ever admitted. “Look, I get it. This baby wasn’t planned and I am just as shocked as you are. But thi
s is our new reality. Neither of us is in this alone. And I want for us to embrace this journey, this terrifying and exciting new experience, together.”
Simon stands and mindlessly paces the tiny examination room. I know he hates this kind of shit and I can tell he’s shutting down on me.
“All I’m asking is for you to give it a shot. Let’s go for a few sessions and if you decide you hate it, we can stop.”
I need a compromise.
He stops pacing. My eyes plead and I will him to say the words I long to hear. I need this kind of support from my husband.
“Please?” It barely comes out as a whisper and I reach out to take his hand, then place it over my stomach. Somewhere in there, is a life that needs both of us. And I’m going to fight for that.
Simon withdraws his hand from mine and rakes his fingers through his hair. When he closes his eyes, he looks calm and resolute. Like the Simon I fell in love with all those years ago.
“Okay. If it would make you feel better, I will give it a try. But this is just a trial. You know how I get with shrinks. If I’m at all uncomfortable, I’m out. Okay?”
“I understand,” I say, reaching out my hand for his again. I hate that it feels like I’m the one comforting him when I’m the one laying down on a hospital bed.
When his fingers brush against mine, I’m filled with hope.
“Thank you.”
Nineteen
The Good Doctor
“Welcome, I’m Dr. Robert Hall. Please, come in, take a seat.” The tall, lanky man steps inside the doorway, welcoming us into his office. His full head of salt and pepper hair reminds me of my father’s, but that’s about where the similarities stop. He has a slight crook in his nose and dark chocolate eyes, compared to my dad’s baby blues. And where my dad exclusively wears tailored suits each day, Dr. Hall appears to be outfitted by Crayola. He’s wearing a Carolina blue short-sleeve oxford shirt and a mustard-colored sweater vest with a matching plaid bow tie and burgundy pleated slacks.