Ripple Effects

by Greene, L. J.

  The rest of the evening passes quietly. Dinner, some TV, and then we go to bed. I’m sure Sarah can sense that something is going on with me, but she doesn’t say a word. She just gives me space.

  She falls asleep quickly, lying beside me in bed with the moonlight streaming in through the windows. But I can’t sleep. I’m restless and wide awake. I just watch her for the longest time, watch the way her hair spreads out over the pillow, the way her lips part slightly, and her breasts rise and fall with each breath. I watch her eyes move back and forth as she dreams, wondering what visions she sees in her head. I watch the peace in her expression, and I want to feel that way again.

  I think about the phone call I received ten years ago–the one that came out of nowhere, and sent me into a tailspin.

  Fear. I know that’s what this is. Irrational fear. I don’t know why the thought of her heading up to Auburn without me would bring all of this back again. She’s right that I’m being overbearing. Her car isn’t great, but I know it’s fine for the trip. She goes places every day, and I know that the chances of something happening to her are slim to none. I know this. But it doesn’t matter. In my head, the ghosts of my past still goad me, not with the statistical probability of what could happen, but with the reality that tragedy is random. There’s no reason to it. Statistical probability doesn’t apply. Life is just fragile, and it can be taken for no good reason, without discrimination, without cause.

  It’s not that I didn’t worry about Carolyn and her safety. Of course I did. But it never triggered this. Maybe because I loved Carolyn, but I’m not sure I needed her in the same way. My future with her never seemed quite clear. We were moving along, but I had no idea where we were going.

  With Sarah, I can see everything. I can see a future that feels hopeful. For the first time in my life, I want things: a wife, a family, a home. I know who I am with her, and I like that person.

  I touch her to convince my head that everything is okay; nothing’s going to happen to her. Her hair is soft and beautiful, and her cheeks are smooth, like velvet beneath my fingertips.

  The thing about tragedy is that when it touches you, you realize how close it is every moment of the day, and you wonder how it doesn’t reach you more often. But, none of us can live like that, always fearful of what’s around the next corner. We’d go crazy. So, we turn away from it, push the random nature of life back, away from our consciousness, and pretend it isn’t always breathing quietly right behind us.

  Sarah awakens with my touch, and looks at me with open adoration. I lean down and kiss her sweet lips, while her hands on my chest anchor me to a more level place in my head. And then, I move over her, fitting her body perfectly with mine.

  She opens herself to me, encouraging me with soft words and small touches. I kiss her neck, and touch every curve, every line, and every dip in her beautiful body. Between her legs, she’s wet and ready for me, and she pulls me to her, inside her.

  She’s so perfect. I begin to move in and out in a steady rhythm. My body is engaged, but the raging thoughts in my head are a distraction. I can’t shake the realization that I have no control over what could come. I can’t protect her from everything. I taste the fear, bitter as bile in my mouth, and my movements become more urgent. I need more of her. I rise up, sitting back on my heels, and pull her legs to straddle my thighs, so that her body is lying back on the bed, and I’m upright, pressed tightly to her entrance.

  “Yes, deeper,” she whispers.

  It is deeper, but it’s still not enough. I need more. I reach for her wrists, wrapping my fingers around the delicate bones, and pull them down alongside her body, gripping them as I thrust hard into her.

  I feel her beautiful submission almost instantly. Here in my bed, she’s not being willful; she’s not being stubborn. She gives in to me, relaxing her arms and moaning her pleasure.

  “I’m close, baby,” she murmurs.

  I pound into her, throwing the full weight of my body behind it. Sweat is pouring off of me. I love her. I knew this. But when did she become so necessary to me? When did it happen that I let myself need her? I can’t lose her; I’m not sure I’d survive it.

  Fear is inside me again like a monster. It’s close now, even when I’ve tried so hard to drive it away. I drive into her, relentlessly, until I can’t feel where I end and she begins.

  Then, finally, in that connection, the fear recedes. She’s here, and she loves me.

  “Touch me,” she breathes. “I’m so close.” I release one of her wrists and press my thumb to her clit, stroking her, even as I plow into her.

  “Ah, yes. Danny.”

  She detonates around my cock, her body like a vice. I need this. I need her. I feel my own orgasm gathering low in my spine. My balls tighten, and the rush begins. I let go. I let it all go: the fear, the doubt, the randomness. I push it all away. A cry of profound relief rips from my throat as I come copiously inside her, pouring out my love, pouring out my commitment, pouring out my need.

  I have nothing left. Falling on top of her, I hold her close. I’ve made a mess of her, and I should gather her in my arms, and take her to the shower to wash her clean. But I don’t. I like myself on her. I like that my orgasm is dripping down her thigh. As though I’ve marked her. As though I’ve said to the universe that she belongs to me. This one is mine. This woman is my future, and she won’t be taken. Not on a car ride to Auburn. Not ever.

  I hold her close in my arms, breathing her inside me. And, there, I finally find my peace.

  §

  Sarah

  Awakening the next morning, every part of my body is sore, and I’m a wreck. As the haze of sleep begins to recede, I can feel the ache in muscles I didn’t know I had. Danny was rough last night. I never realized how much he’d held himself back in all of the other times we’ve been together, always being supremely careful with me. And I never would have imagined that rough sex was something I could tolerate, let alone enjoy and even crave. But that’s what he does to me, makes me feel safe in a way I never have before, and obliterates my history, as though it was just a distant bad dream. With him, I am new. I am someone I never thought I could be: fearless, open, and trusting.

  I feel the bed shift, and turn in his direction. He’s sitting up with the sheet bunched low on his waist, revealing miles of carved and toned torso. To his face, he holds small binoculars that he has trained on the far corner of the room.

  “What are you doing?” I ask him, as though either he’s crazy or I am.

  He turns to me, but he doesn’t lower the binoculars from his eyes. Instead he begins to turn the dial at the center to focus them on my face, and then shifts his gaze to my exposed breasts.

  “I was watching a spider spin a very cool web on the ceiling over there, but this is actually much more interesting,” he says admiringly.

  Struggling and failing miserably to contain my grin, I smack him on his arm. “You are a nut job.” An enormous grin splits his face.

  “What? Everybody loves science.” Laughing, he hands me the binoculars. “Here, look.”

  I take them, sitting up, as he leans over and grabs a second pair from the bedside table. Most people stock their nightstands with eyeshades, or books, or reading glasses. But not Danny; his is stocked with not one, but two pairs of binoculars.

  “Seriously?” I ask him, with no small amount of disbelief. “You keep a spare set in your bedside table?”

  “I like to watch the hummingbirds out my back window. Sometimes you can actually see them fly backwards. But check out the spider.”

  With boyish excitement, he raises the binoculars to his face, and directs them across the room to the spider.

  I can’t help but to laugh; his enthusiasm is so contagious that I find myself mirroring his actions. How ridiculous we must look–me and the sexiest man alive, sitting naked in bed on a Saturday morning, watching a spider though binoculars from bed. This is the crux of my beautiful man. He’s nerdy and gorgeous and infinitely charism
atic. And he sees wonder everywhere around him.

  I lay my head on his shoulder, comforted by the solid feel of his muscle, and the warmth of his tanned, smooth skin. He wraps his arm around me, and I sigh, contented and happy as we watch a remarkable little spider spin a miraculously complex web.

  “Was I too rough with you last night?” he asks, concern evident in his voice.

  “No, you were perfect,” I answer with absolute sincerity.

  In a million years, I could never have pictured myself in this moment. And yet here we are, binoculars and all. And the joy of it is that there’s nowhere else in the world I’d rather be.

  Chapter 15

  Sarah

  THE TAFT MIDDLE SCHOOL FALL semester began on Monday, and, as a result, Danny is swamped. Between school, his consulting, and the ever-present doctoral thesis, he’s busy nearly around the clock.

  Over the summer, he was pretty laid back. He was working hard on his thesis, but I got most of his evenings and weekends. Now, I have to share. So, as much as he may not be happy about my trip to Auburn this weekend, a part of him, I know, is secretly relieved to have an opportunity to catch up on his work.

  Saturday morning, he arrives at my house in his pristine car. He’s had it washed, serviced (again), and has put two new tires on it. All of this is unnecessary, but it makes him happy so I don’t say a word.

  I open the passenger door to toss my small duffel inside, and find a large brown paper bag that appears to be a care package for my trip. He’s decorated it in the same fashion as he did the box that contained my surprise cake.

  “More art, I see.”

  On one side, he’s drawn a stick figure of me, again with the long hair and the triangle dress. I’m sporting an enormous grin, and holding a phone. The phone is apparently from the same era as my car, because it has a curly cord that wraps around to the other side of the bag, where it connects to a phone in Danny’s hand.

  Thankfully, this time, stick-figure Danny’s giant penis is discreetly tucked in to a pair of stick-figure pants. Thoughtful, considering that I’m heading up to see my mother.

  Both of us have speech bubbles that are filled with hearts. The whole picture makes me smile.

  “Look inside,” he encourages me.

  As I might have guessed, the bag is filled with food. He’s cooked a full lunch that includes two homemade chocolate chip cookies. Also in the bag is a Tupperware container that he’s packed with cookies for my mom. It has her name on it. That makes me want to cry. I have so many issues with my mom, and she apparently has her own issues with Danny. But Danny defends her at every opportunity, always encouraging me to be understanding and forgiving. Always gently trying to help me see things from her perspective. I love him for that. And it also breaks my heart.

  At the bottom of the bag is a Ken doll. Or action figure, as I’m given to understand.

  We both laugh.

  “In case you miss me.”

  “I will definitely miss you.”

  “Text me from the road,” he says, but quickly adds, “but not while your driving!”

  “I know, baby. I’ll be safe. I promise.”

  He smiles a full-on megawatt smile that I know is meant to reassure me that he’s gotten over his pique about my trip. But the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, revealing a bit of apprehension that I suspect he doesn’t intend for me to see. If I didn’t know him so well, I wouldn’t notice it. I imagine most people would never guess that behind that smile is where he keeps his secrets. I make a mental note to be considerate of causing him any unnecessary concern. He deserves that. And I love him enough to want to give him anything he needs.

  With a long kiss, a tight hug and several “I love yous,” I climb in the car and wave goodbye. He stands in my driveway, looking simply delicious in jeans and a t-shirt, and watches me go. I can’t believe how much I’m looking forward to coming back.

  §

  The weekend with my mom goes by quickly and without much incident. We largely avoid all talk of Danny. Occasionally, she makes a sideways reference to him–“If you don’t already have plans for the holidays…” or “It sounds like most of your time is occupied these days…” But for the most part, we keep the conversation on neutral ground. We go for walks together, watch her favorite programs on TV, cook some meals, and do a little window-shopping. We talk endlessly about my brother, Scott. My mom and I are both overwhelmingly proud of him; this is rarified safe territory for us.

  Danny and I talk every night and trade some texts during the day. As I suspected, he’s spending the long weekend buried in work, and taking a break every now and then to go to the gym or play basketball with friends. I find myself craving the sound of his baritone voice. I know it’s only a few days, but I miss him like crazy.

  When I pull into his driveway on Monday evening, he comes outside to greet me before I’m out of the car. He sweeps me into a deep, lush kiss, perhaps not entirely suitable for neighborhood viewing. But who cares? Apparently, not me.

  “Are you hungry? I’ve got dinner prepped and ready to go.”

  “Yes, starving. Thank you.” I’m getting so spoiled. At least I know it.

  Over the course of dinner, I tell him about the weekend, and how hard it has become to relate to my mom. I tell him how it feels like with every passing year, there are more and more things that we can’t discuss, more and more shallow reefs we have to navigate. I tell him that it feels like our relationship has become a minefield, but I don’t know how to begin to repair it. I tell him things I’ve never told anyone. He’s a good listener, and he doesn’t judge.

  “You can’t give up on your relationship, Sarah,” he implores. “Trust me when I tell you that this is not something you want to leave unresolved.”

  His certainty speaks volumes about his own circumstance. “You have regrets about your dad.”

  It’s not really in question–even with my limited knowledge, I know he does. But he’s rarely open to discussing it.

  He nods slightly, confirming my thoughts–his face serious.

  “Do you want to tell me about it?” I ask him hesitantly. “I understand if you don’t.”

  He frowns for a moment, his own struggles with intimacy articulated in every line of his face. I silently will him to open up a little, not just for my own benefit, but because I know better than anyone how important it is for him, for us. He looks at me with heartbreaking vulnerability and nods.

  “My dad and I clashed pretty much my entire life. His disapproval of me was devastating as a child. It wasn’t one thing in particular–it was just everything. He didn’t like my friends; he didn’t think I took my schoolwork seriously enough; we had nothing in common. And I could feel, even then, that whatever the picture was that he had in his head about what it would be like to have a son, it wasn’t me. I could never figure out how to be enough.

  “So by the time I was a teenager, I was resolved to do what I wanted. If that happened to be in opposition to what he wanted for me, then all the better.”

  “Did the two of you ever try to work things out?”

  He shifts uncomfortably in his chair, and then looks at me for a long pause. I can almost watch him reliving something in his head.

  “We just seemed to find so many points of contention–all the way to the end. And ironically, even after the end.”

  He takes a sip of wine, and then sits the glass down carefully, turning the base just so.

  “I remember this one time. He was dean of the law school at Cal while I was in high school, and then he accepted a job at Yale in the middle of my senior year. He wanted to move our family back east in January of that year, but I refused–said I’d rather live with Jamie and his family, so I could finish my senior year here. Jamie’s family was a mess so, of course, we got into a huge fight about that.”

  “What did you do?”

  “My mom stepped in on my behalf, and said she would stay in California with me until school was out. In the end, he allow
ed it because it was what she wanted, but he always resented me for keeping the two of them apart for those six months. He thought I was selfish. I thought he was selfish. We could never see each other’s point of view. That’s how it always was.”

  He shakes his head ruefully, and it’s evident that, among the many things we have in common, we both know what it’s like to feel an insurmountable distance from a parent.

  “The thing is, Sarah, I have no idea whether we would have eventually worked out our differences. For most of my adolescence, I told myself I didn’t care whether or not we got along. But the truth is, children always care, no matter how old they are. You may not feel like you can mend your relationship with your mom but, believe me, there will come a time when you’ll wish you had at least tried.”

  The look on his face conveys a sadness so great that it feels tangible, and I wish desperately that I had the ability to heal the wound beneath those words.

  I reach my hand out and thread my fingers through his.

  “You’re the most remarkable person I know. And you weren’t solely responsible for the state of your relationship with your father. You were a child, and he should have tried harder, too.”

  He makes a low, noncommittal sound in this throat, stroking my fingers absentmindedly with his own.

  “Thank you for that. But what I’m trying to tell you is that it’s not much consolation now. Besides, I wasn’t always a child. As an adult, I knew better.”

  I knew better. At this very moment, I have pinned to my bulletin board a quote from Kierkegaard that says, “Life can only be understood backward; but it must be lived forward.” I’ve always felt the idea was a little unfair. Yet, suddenly, the words feel incredibly vivid. I know better, too. It’s yet another thing Danny and I share.

  I study him for a moment, leaning back in his chair with his long arms stretched out before him, one hand holding mine and one hand toying with his wine glass. He seems lost in thought, maybe remorse. And I want so badly to be able to say something to ease his mind, something to lessen the weight of the load he carries.