by Callie Hart
“Potential problem?”
Arnold, master of saying very loud things with the quietest of gestures, taps the pad of his index finger against the rim of his cup. “Well, of course. She is your mother, jan. And is it not always a son’s duty to look out for the welfare of his mother?”
TWENTY-THREE
HAPPY BIRTHDAY
SASHA
Two Weeks Later
Fourteen days. Fourteen days can change so much. Every day, Rooke has stayed with me, taking care of me just like he said he would. He occasionally goes to work and Ali comes over. The second he’s home, he makes her leave and we fall into bed, clawing at each other’s bodies like lunatics, kissing, licking, stroking, sucking… I become intimately acquainted with every single part of his body, and he with mine. He tells me what he wants, and I obey him without question. If he says he wants me on my knees, I am there. If he tells me to stay still, I am frozen to the spot. If he commands me to finger myself while he watches, I do it without blushing. I am unafraid. At night he holds me in his arms, and I sleep. I don’t dream. The nightmares leave me when I’m securely nestled with my head on his chest. I keep the door to Christopher’s bedroom locked, and Rooke doesn’t ask questions.
He accomplishes the impossible: for a very, very brief moment in time, against all the odds, I am strangely happy. A day soon comes, though, where he simply can’t. I lie to him. I tell him Ali is coming over, and he goes to work, and I prepare for the pain I’m about to suffer. Even more than Christmas, I dread December the eighth. I fear the date creeping up on me more than I fear the anniversary of the accident. I fear it more than anything else in the world. On this day eleven years ago, I was laid out on my back in the hallway at home, screaming in agony as my little boy made his way into the world. Today is Christopher’s birthday.
There are a few things people don’t tell you about childbirth. Midwives, doctors, new mothers themselves… The first thing they don’t mention is the tearing. You can literally feel it, your body splitting in the most terrifying way as a child the size of a bowling ball makes its way out of your vagina. The second thing they don’t mention is your overwhelming need to poop all over yourself. Andrew always said he knew about that part, they’d covered it in the birthing prep classes we’d attended, but I never could recall it. Maybe I blocked the information out, blotted it from my memory, deeming it too distressing to process at the time. I was certainly surprised by that turn of events when I was in labor, that’s for sure.
The third thing people tend to gloss over, or skip entirely when dealing with soon-to-be mothers, is the panic. You’re so excited when you see that little pink cross develop on the pee stick you bought at the all-night pharmacy at 3 a.m. It’s a hell of a lot of fun buying tiny little socks, and onesies that say, “Mommy’s little angel” on them. Putting the crib together and decorating the nursery is so exciting that it’s almost too much to bear. But the delivery part? The pushing? The urge is so strong, so powerful, so undeniable that it takes you by surprise. I had no idea my body could demand something from me in such a way. An addiction is hard to overcome, but with the right support and a healthy dose of mental fortitude, it can be overcome. Not this, though. It’s as urgent and vital as breathing. When those contractions hit me, coming on impossibly fast and strong, I had to push. I had to bear down, to expel the tiny human being from my body, and I had no choice in the matter. A crippling panic hit me, then. I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t prepared. I was going to be a horrible mother. I shouldn’t have been in charge of bringing another life into the world.
Everyone said how awful first time labors were. They were the longest, most painful, hardest, most difficult labors of a woman’s life. They weren’t supposed to sneak up on you when you were least expecting them, an entire month before your due date, just as you’re getting ready to meet your friend for coffee, and they definitely weren’t meant to escalate into full delivery in less than thirty minutes.
I didn’t have time to get my overnight bag. My overnight bag wasn’t even packed properly. Andrew was on a flight to San Antonio and wasn’t picking up his phone. And the ambulance? The ambulance wasn’t supposed to be stuck in three feet of snow eight blocks away, unable to reach me.
Giving birth to my son was perhaps the most frightening experience of my life. More frightening than being assaulted at the museum. Then, I was only afraid for my own life. Being alone and trying to make it through that experience was scary because it wasn’t just about me. What if something went wrong? What if he was breach? What if he had the umbilical chord wrapped around his neck, cutting off his oxygen supply?
I endured that brief moment of insanity, pain and worry with a strange kind of clarity that made me realize nothing was ever going to be the same again once it was over, one way or another. And I was right. Nothing ever has been.
I start drinking at 7 a.m. I polish off an entire bottle of Malbec, drinking from the bottle as I sit on the bottom step of the stairs in my pajamas, staring at the parquet flooring in front of the front door. My cell phone starts ringing at eight—a Texas number. Andrew, calling to check in on me, no doubt. I don’t know anyone else in Texas, and who else would be ringing today of all days anyway? He must have snuck away for a moment, ducked out the back door, away from his new wife, into the yard or something. His finger is probably pressed into his ear so he can hear better as he waits for me to pick up. Has he thought about what I’m going to say when I answer? Does he have a script prepared and ready? Hi, Sasha. How are you? Keeping well, I hope…
I doubt he’s gotten that far to be honest. He’s been calling on this day for years, and I never pick up. He just does what he thinks is the right thing by calling, and I do what I think is the right thing by ignoring my phone at all costs. The system works well for us both.
I open a fresh bottle of vodka at 9 a.m. The hallway is swimming by the time I’m a couple of inches down the bottle. Doctor Hathaway would lose his mind if he knew I was doing this again. I can hear his disapproval ringing in my ears as I place the neck of the vodka bottle to my mouth and I take another long, deep drink from it.
“You lost your child, Sasha. Is drinking going to bring him back? You already know how destructive this behavior is. Why continue walking in a direction when you know it’s taking you further from the direction you’re meant to be heading in?”
But fuck that guy. The thing about therapists is that they’ve often stood ankle deep in misery. They get their feet wet just by observing their clients’ pain and suffering. They usually have stable, happy, healthy families, though. Framed pictures of their dorky kids on their desks. Wives or husbands calling when sessions run over to see how long it will be until they’re home. They don’t know what it’s like to be immersed in misery, for the surface of the water to be miles overhead and for you to be so fucking tired that it’s only a matter of time before you sink and drown. Hathaway doesn’t know that walking down the wrong path is the only thing that keeps you alive sometimes, irrespective of how unsafe and fraught with danger that road may be.
By midday, I’m so fucked that I can’t even lift the nearly empty bottle of vodka to my mouth anymore. I lay flat on my back on the floor where I gave birth, and I laugh at the way the room is pitching from side to side. My ears are ringing like crazy. At some point, I think I’m going to throw up. I roll onto my side, my body bowing as I retch, but I don’t remember if I’m sick or not. I pass out. Slipping into the oblivion seems like the smartest option for me right now. A dull thudding sound half wakes me some time later, the sound of my heart maybe, slamming in my chest, struggling to function under the stress of all the alcohol pumping around my body, but I ignore it. I fall back into the darkness. I slip, slide, tumble, fall…
Breaking glass.
Ice cold air, hitting the bare soles of my feet.
Hands on me, turning me over.
Voices, frantic, calling my name.
“Sasha? Holy fucking shit. What have you done?”
&nb
sp; Andrew, not in Texas… Andrew, showing up in my life again after all this time, shouting at me, so, so disappointed all over again.
“Open your eyes, baby. Come on, open them up for me. Come on. Can you sit up? Oh, god…what the…fuck?”
I groan, trying to free myself from the hands of my ex-husband. Who the fuck does he think he is, breaking in here, trying to tell me what the fuck I should do? How dare he come back here? How dare he—
My stomach heaves as he turns me over. Bright flashes of light explode behind my eyes. I try to open them, and everything is blurry, distorted, bent out of shape. Andrew’s face doesn’t look right. His hair is dark. His eyes are—
Rooke.
Oh god, no. Rooke has broken into my house, not Andrew. Rooke is bent down, frantically working over me, trying to get me to sit up. I can’t fucking breathe.
“Goddamnit, Sasha,” he hisses. “What have you done?”
******
“Makes a change from our regulars. I’ve had to pump the stomachs of a bunch of frat kids over the past week, but not a thirty-year-old housewife. Do you think she drank on meds? She’s pretty bruised up. Looks like she’s been cage fighting with Tyson or something.”
I can hear the nurses talking outside my cubicle. I can hear a number of disturbing things—the sound of a heart monitor, the sound of a child crying somewhere in a distant room, a man and a woman arguing loudly in Russian somewhere closer—but the nurses talking about me is the most upsetting thing to reach my ears.
“Who knows? I wouldn’t be all that surprised if she just drank herself this way though. Happens more often than you’d think. Husband’s cheating, spends too many late nights at the office ‘working’. Doesn’t pay her any attention. Kids are ungrateful little shits, running riot all the time. A vodka soda seems like a good idea. Then a second sounds like an even better idea. Suddenly you’re passed out in your hallway in a pool of your own puke and your nephew’s breaking down the door to scrape you off the floor.”
Ha. Nephew. I close my eyes, hoping to drown out the sound of the chatter, but it doesn’t help. It feels like my veins are filled with ice water. I’m chilled to the bone, and yet my skin is slick with sweat. I don’t know how long I’ve been here or what really happened to land me in the hospital, but I have a pretty decent idea. I do remember Rooke lifting me from the floor and carrying me in his arms. I do remember the sound of broken glass crunching under his boots.
Then…
Blackness.
I open my eyes, slightly freaked by the memory of the nothingness that took hold of me. The curtain surrounding my bay twitches slightly, and half a face appears—one blue eye, and one nostril and some bright pink lipstick. The eye goes wide, and the curtain falls back into place.
“She’s awake,” the nurse hisses. “Shit, you don’t think she heard…?” There’s a scuffling sound, and the curtain opens fully, revealing a tall guy in his forties wearing a white lab coat and a checked button-down shirt. He looks pissed. The two nurses follow him into the bay, eyes cast to the floor, their cheeks rosy. Looks like they just got busted gossiping about me.
“Good evening, Ms. Connor. I’m Doctor Elias Soames. This is Nurse Wheatley and Nurse Diddick. I’m sure you’re acquainted with them by now.”
“You could say that.” My throat hurts when I speak, raw, like I’ve been throwing up for hours and hours. Doctor Soames must see me wince, because he reaches into his pocket and produces a slim black penlight and leans over me.
“Open for me,” he says. I open my mouth, and he frowns gently as he inspects me. “Yes, unfortunately your throat is a little enflamed. Not uncommon when you’ve had your stomach pumped. Tell me, how are you feeling?”
“Like I just got run over. And then backed over.”
“Well, I suppose that’s what you get when you drink the well dry. Your blood alcohol level was dangerously high, Ms. Connor. Is this something that happens regularly?”
Oh god. This can’t be happening. I want to pull the sheets over my head and hide myself away but that doesn’t seem like a particularly adult way of handling the situation. “No,” I say. “It doesn’t. Today’s just…just particularly hard for me is all.”
Soames nods in a businesslike manner. “Okay. I’m going to have to take your word for that. Please know there’s help available here if you need it, however. All you have to do is reach out. Now, there’s a young man in the waiting area that’s been asking to see you for the last six hours. We advised him he’d be better off going home and waiting for you to call, but—”
“It’s fine. You can let him in.” I’d love for them to send Rooke away. I’m so humiliated right now. What did I look like, sprawled out on the floor like that? And in a pool of my own vomit, no less. Perfect. It would be so much better if I could just hide here for another few hours, then go home and hide in my shame for a couple of days before I see him again, but if there’s one thing I know about Rooke Blackheath, it’s that he’s a stubborn and persistent man. So long as I’m here, he won’t just go home. He’ll raise hell until he’s either been arrested or he’s laid eyes on me, and I don’t want him getting into trouble. Not because of me.
Soames shoots an acidic glance at one of the nurses, who scurries off. The other nurse looks lost for a moment, and then she turns tail and bolts, too. Soames shakes his head ever so slightly. “Please accept my apologies on their behalf. Idle chit chat is more rife in this hospital than the common cold. They’ll be getting a stern talking to, I promise.”
“It’s okay. I’m sure they’re just saying what everyone else is thinking anyway.”
He collects my chart from the foot of my bed and makes a few scribbled notes on it, then replaces it. “We’ll keep you here for another hour or so. Once your fluids are back up, you’ll be free to go home. Might I make a suggestion, Ms. Connor?”
I have a feeling I’m not going to like this suggestion.
“Don’t let what other people think affect you,” he says. “There are seven and a half billion people in this world, and every single one of them has an opinion. The only opinion that should matter to you is yours. And your beau’s, of course.”
I give him a weak smile. “So you don’t think he’s my nephew, then?”
Soames shakes his head. “A nephew wouldn’t look quite as terrified. Only a great deal of love can make a man panic like that.” He turns, about to leave, but then he appears to think twice about it, hovering at the edge of the curtain. “I dated a woman who was older than me once. Significantly older. Everyone said it would never work. They gave us six months. A year, tops. I’m glad to say they were all very wrong.”
“You made it work?”
He smiles. “We’ve been married fourteen years now.”
He leaves just as Rooke arrives. Soames was right: he does look panic stricken. He’s pale and drawn, and his usual arrogance has fled him. He barely even sees the doctor as he moves past him. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Rooke interlaces his fingers together in his lap, staring down at his hands. He sighs heavily. “I’ve been thinking,” he says. “While they were treating you this whole time, I’ve been sitting in the waiting room, thinking.”
“Sounds stressful,” I whisper.
“Yeah. It was. See, we’ve been almost living together for the past two weeks, and I’ve felt shitty. I know something I shouldn’t know. You’re going to be mad when I tell you what it is I know, and you’re going to tell me you don’t want to see me again.”
Dread sinks through, heavy as a stone. What is he talking about? There’s only one thing he could possibly have found out that would cause me to react like that, though. I know as much already. I just don’t want to admit it to myself, because that will mean there will be no more sanctuary in Rooke. He’s been separate from anything related to my past this whole time. That has been a blessed relief. When I look at him, I haven’t seen someone who feels sorry for me, someone who’s potentially judging me as a bad parent. He’s just been a guy, and I�
�ve just been a girl. Now, though…
Rooke lifts his right hand and slowly spell-signs Christopher’s name.
“How do you know how to do that?” I ask in a flat voice.
“You can learn anything on Youtube. Google told me the rest. About you. About the accident. About you losing your son.”
A heaviness hangs in the air. You could cut through it with a goddamn chainsaw. Neither of us says anything for a while, which gives me time to compile my thoughts. He’s right: my immediate response to the fact that he knows about my son is to scream at him. Tell him he has no right knowing about this. Tell him that I want him to go, to leave my life and never call me or show up on my doorstep again. Maybe that’s what I would have done a couple of months ago. Even three weeks ago. Since I met him, though, things have been different. He’s challenged me so many times to approach my life in another way. To move beyond what I think I should or shouldn’t do. And more than that. He’s shown me that other people aren’t necessarily always who you think they are. They don’t always conform to society’s idea of who they should be, or how they should act. I count to ten very slowly in my head. I’ve only reached seven when I feel his fingers tracing down the side of my face.
“I’m not saying you should have told me. I’m saying you can tell me,” he whispers. “Anything. I told you the worst thing about me when I would never normally breathe a word about my extracurricular activities. I wanted you to know the darkest part of my life, because I already knew about yours and it didn’t feel right. Unfair, somehow. But you listened to me, and you didn’t turn me away. I knew you wouldn’t, because this isn’t something you turn your back on, Sasha. There’s nothing that can turn this off now. This thing between us…you’re afraid of it. The moment you stop fearing this and you accept it, you’ll be able to see just how fucking beautiful it is. And the moment you accept it will also be the moment you don’t have to carry this shit on your own anymore.”