Embers of Starlight

by Sonia de Leon

  I've gotten dressed in the master bedroom, a simple space with just a bed covered in linen sheets and yellow throw pillows. Backing the bed is built-in cabinetry, housing books and empty picture frames. All the other walls are floor-to-ceiling windows facing trees and mountains. Solei has gone to make sure everything is ready to start, so I'm left alone with my thoughts.

  In a silver, gilded mirror, a radiant bride in a strapless ivory, hand-beaded, Lazaro couture gown stares back at me. I don't look like a dumb, nineteen-year-old making the biggest mistake of her life. I am the picture of an elegant bride. My long reddish-gold hair has been swept into an updo. It feels confining not to have my hair loose and free. There is so much make-up caked on my face (looks best for pictures, the makeup artist said) that I scarcely recognize myself.

  A tear slips down my cheek and I angrily swipe the moisture away. My thoughts are desperate, confused, and even after all this time, I can't stop thinking of him. Almost a year has passed since we spent prom night together, and sometimes I think I've built him up on a pedestal, because my memories of him can't truly be as amazing as I remember. I haven't heard from him since I texted the actual date of the wedding.

  He's letting me go, little by little. I can feel it. There are times when out of nowhere, thoughts of him assail me. I'm flooded with memories so vivid that I ache for his touch. Deep inside, I know that on some unfathomable level, we are connected. I can't explain it, nor can I prove it. But I truly believe that just like the effects of the sun can be felt from millions of miles away, I can feel him. And I know he's letting me go.

  The door opens, and Adrian's mother, Lillian, slips inside. I finally met his parents about three months ago, and frankly, the woman frightens me. She smiles, and I notice the emotion doesn't reach her eyes. It's strange, but familiar.

  “Oh, my dear. Don’t you look divine,” she gushes. She comes to stand beside me, then turns, taking my hands in hers. “I know your mother couldn't be here because she's sick or something”—she waves her hand in a dismissive gesture that irritates me—“but I hope I can perform any motherly duties for you in her place.”

  “My mother isn't sick, she has a severe mental condition.”

  “Oh, a weakness of fortitude and character, to be sure,” Lillian scoffs. “She just needs to be stronger.” She taps her forehead. “Up here. That's all.”

  “I don't think you understand mental illness.” My eyes narrow. “I thought you of all people would be sympathetic.”

  “I can't say I'm familiar with conditions of the mind, but my generation wasn't taught to cripple ourselves. Hard work, fresh air, that’s all a body needs.”

  I stay silent only because I'm confused. Didn't Adrian himself tell me his mother suffered from mental illness? Maybe she's delusional, and that's where her issues lie. I shake my head, clearing my dour train of thought. It was the least of my worries.

  Solei peeks her head in, letting me know everything is ready to go. After settling my veil in place, I sweep out the door. Thoughts of my mother, as painful as they are, move me to action. This marriage is happening, cold feet or not.

  * * *

  “I am honored to present to you, Mr. and Mrs. Adrian Valentine.”

  At sunset, the ceremony concludes on the wrap around pergola patio behind the house. Above the pergola is a sliding canvas roof available in case of rain, but thankfully, the day is perfect. Sheer ivory fabric hangs from the beams, forming perfect arcs, and the support pillars are also draped in matching fabric and wrapped with garlands of fresh flowers. Once the ceremony is through, workers move quickly to set up dinner tables and heat lamps throughout the space, as the guests nibble hors d'oeuvres and sip champagne.

  We've invited a small number of our family members and close friends to share the day. I'm disappointed my father’s family couldn't come. Their invitation got lost in the mail, and when I called them last week to check, it was too late for them to make travel arrangements. I haven't seen them since my dad and Lorelai died, and I'm sad they couldn't make this special day. So today, I have Solei by my side, and as much as I love her, it does feel a bit lonely.

  Adrian and I make our rounds among the guests, and I'm introduced to several of his business associates, along with their wives. His father has recently appointed him corporate executive, so congratulations are given two-fold.

  I've never seen Adrian so happy. He’s grinning from ear to ear, and it's infectious. My mood lifts, and I find myself genuinely enjoying my wedding day. Adrian has planned every detail himself, from the elegant centerpieces filled with long-stemmed roses, to the dinner menu, cooked and served directly from the immense gourmet kitchen inside the house.

  We dance our first song as husband and wife under a star-studded sky. This night is perfect and romantic, just like Adrian.

  “This place is great, right?” Adrian murmurs as we sway together in time with the music.

  “It's incredible,” I reply, meeting his eyes.

  He bends forward and kisses me, then presses his forehead to mine. “It's my wedding gift to you.”

  “What?” I stop dancing, my eyes wide and incredulous.

  “This house. All this land. That mountain view. It's yours.”

  “Adrian.” I can't think of what to say. I'm amazed, surprised, and overwhelmed. “I can't believe it.”

  “I've had a tough time keeping it a secret.” He grins.

  I'm quiet for a moment, trying to figure out how to word my thoughts in order to not come off as ungrateful. “What about my mom? This is two hours from where she is.”

  His eyes grow cold. “Tula, she barely speaks to you when you visit. What's the point?”

  Anger rises in my chest, but I dampen my emotions down, determined not to make a spectacle and ruin our wedding day.

  “It's okay,” I say. “I can still visit her, I don't mind the drive.” I grin up at him. “I can't believe you bought us a house!”

  He returns my smile and I stretch up on my tiptoes for another kiss.

  * * *

  WARM LIPS PRESS AGAINST the back of my neck, as my husband opens the tiny crystal buttons at the back of my dress one by one. He curses softly as he fumbles with them, and I laugh.

  Candles form a line on the shelf behind our bed, casting a warm, sensual glow around the room. There are no shades to cover the windows, so I hope there aren't any late night hikers somewhere on the mountain, or they're in for a show.

  After I step out of my dress, I help him undress. This is really happening. Even though I'm not a virgin, I'm nervous. It's been a year since . . . nope, not going back to that memory again. I refuse to think about another man on my wedding night.

  I pull Adrian to me, hoping to drown out and mute the dangerous pull of my thoughts and dreams. We kiss for a long time, but my brain doesn't shut down like I hoped would happen. It never does with him. And there I go again. Shut up, stupid brain!

  Our marriage consummation is over with quickly, and it's strangely devoid of emotion. After all is done, I lie silent, and pull the sheet up to my chin. Adrian leaves the bed and walks to the bathroom to clean up. I hear the shower turn on, and I release the breath I wasn't even aware I was holding. My expectations were too high, and it was somewhat rough, like he had no care whether I got pleasure.

  I swing my legs to the side of the bed, then step onto the gray carpet. My phone has been in my bag for the entire day, and I need to make sure I haven't gotten any calls from my mom’s care home. One missed call, one voicemail. I quickly check the voicemail, not bothering to check the call log first. I nearly drop the phone when I hear the voice.

  “It's me. I know you're getting married tomorrow, and I'm sorry I haven't called or texted. I've been thinking a lot over the past year—this is so stupid,” he mutters softly. “Don't do it. Don't marry him. Just . . . call me, okay?”

  I check the timestamp. An hour ago. My phone vibrates in my hand. It's Sam again. There is no way I can answer his call with my husband in the adjoinin
g bathroom, so I press ignore and wait for a voicemail to pop up. Within a minute, I begin listening.

  “I'm . . . I was confused about the date. It's already done, isn't it? Damnit . . . ” There is silence for a few moments. When he does speak, his voice is thick. “I hope your life is filled with happiness, Pop Rocks.”

  After turning off my phone, I drop it in my bag. I want to scream. I want to break something. My hands are shaking, so I run them through my hair then grip onto my roots.

  Disbelief is quickly replaced by anger. How dare he! What did he think? That if he succeeding in contacting me a day before my wedding I would have canceled it? That I would have dropped everything and run to him? Yes, my heart whispers.

  I blow out the candles, then curl up on the bed, wrapped only in a blanket, and cry softly. When I hear the shower turn off, I dry my tears on the sheet and compose myself. Once Adrian is in bed, I go into the bathroom, locking the door behind me.

  My reflection stares back at me, eyes red and puffy. I don't feel like a very good person right now. In the other room is a man who has given me everything—he bought me this amazing house for Christ’s sake! I know in time I will learn to love him the way he deserves to be loved.

  What Sam and I had, could have been something remarkable, but aside from prom night, he never gave any indication that he was willing to pursue anything. Prom night doesn't even count, because I pretty much threw myself at him, so he merely caught me and went along for the ride, like any normal, hot-blooded male would do. And even after the fact, I couldn't be sure if what he said was some hormone-fueled, post-coital high. Yet he still told me to marry Adrian.

  I turn on the shower, then step behind the glass doors and allow myself to cry one more time. Then never again would I think of him.

  10

  I THROW MYSELF INTO my new role of loving wife, and our first two years of marriage are wonderful. Adrian continues to shower me with gifts, luxurious vacations, and even bought me a hybrid car. His role as corporate executive has him away from home a lot, so I'm lonely at times. My love and respect for him had grown. We couldn't be happier.

  Solei and I meet up for lunch and go shopping when I visit my mom once a week. I haven't contacted Sam. Not like I could anyway, even if I wanted to. The day after the wedding, Adrian and I got new phones, so I asked to switch my number. I didn't save Sam's. If he and Solei talk, I don't know, because I told her everything, and she knows I don't want to hear about him.

  Our marriage isn't perfect, but as I learn my husband’s unique tics, I adapt and we manage to keep the peace. I know that he likes dinner ready and on the table when he gets home. He also likes to see me dressed nice with my makeup done. It's the least I can do, and I genuinely enjoy my role as wife.

  Sometimes I notice that when I'm not feeling myself, if I'm having a bad day or I'm sick, that he gets very upset with me.

  One day, he comes home from work early and finds me lying in bed with a fever. “Hey, babe. What are you doing in bed still?” He sits next to me and pats my butt playfully.

  “I don't feel good, Adrian.” I crack my eyes open.

  “Well, I'm home now. Can you make me some lunch? I'm starving.” He stands and heads to the door.

  “I can't get up. My head is pounding.”

  Adrian turns back to me. “Quit being so lazy. I'm hungry.”

  “Lazy? I'm sick. And I'm hungry, too!” I snap. “Why can't you do something for me, for once?”

  “For once?” His voice grows deadly calm. “Pearls, diamonds, vacations, this house, a car. Now get up and make me a damn sandwich.”

  See what I mean? I brush it off, get up, and make his sandwich. Nobody's perfect, least of all me, so I do my best to keep him happy. I've learned it's not worth it to try and argue with him. Somehow he manages to turn it all around on me and convince me everything is my fault. It's easier to pretend I'm feeling well.

  Just after our second anniversary, I find out I'm pregnant. I've always wanted to be a mother, so I am unspeakably happy about this news. I turn into a health nut and buy the highest quality, food-grade, non-GMO, prenatal vitamins. I supplement with DHA, cut out sugar and food dyes, eat only organic fruits and vegetables, and buy only pasture-raised poultry and grass-fed meats and dairy. Like I said, health nut.

  In one moment, I'm somebody's daughter, and in the next, I'm going to be somebody's mother. The enormity of this impending responsibility is sobering. I research everything I can get my hands on, and I choose to have a homebirth with a certified nurse-midwife. I go into labor one week and two days after my due date, and twenty-three hours later, our daughter Arabella is born. That harrowing, intensely beautiful day is worth every second of pain. I'd no sooner numb that pain, than I would have numbed the first time someone made love to me. The pain feels like initiation into motherhood, and I'm convinced it prepares me for the toughest task in the world, that of being a mother.

  I thought I knew what love was, but when I gaze into the eyes of my baby girl, I realize I had no idea. How did I exist before knowing this precious soul? She's like oxygen. I can't think of life without her. Holding this amount of love in my heart is fantastic and terrifying, because I feel so exposed and fragile all at once. But strong. Her perfect round face is breathtaking, and I would do anything for her. There is no question about it.

  The first weeks challenge that notion, as I find myself breastfeeding her every hour on the hour, night and day. I am in a constant state of sleep deprivation, my breasts are engorged, and my nipples actually bleed the first week, but the simple sight of Arabella's innocent face keeps me going.

  During this time, I discover that when I don't have sex with Adrian, he becomes very, very crabby. Even though I can't yet have sex, I ward his bad moods off by getting in the shower with him a few times a week, and finding creative ways to keep him satisfied. Sometimes I think I may be creating a monster by doing everything I can to keep him happy, but trust me, the converse is not the way to go. I start to see a side of my husband I don't like.

  Arabella is five months old when I get a breast infection. I'm in horrible pain, antibiotics have given me a yeast infection, and to top it off, the baby gets thrush, which means I get it on my nipples too. Did I mention how sexy motherhood is? I do my best to keep my sense of humor, but it's all I can do to keep from crying.

  On one of these unpleasant days, I've finally gotten Arabella to nap for more than fifteen minutes without waking back up, but instead of starting dinner, I take a bath so I can be clean and relaxed for my husband when he gets home. I should have just showered quickly and started dinner, because when Adrian gets home, he's furious. And today, I'm too busy feeling sorry for myself to think carefully before speaking.

  The bathroom door bangs open and bounces off the wall. I startle and open my eyes to see my husband looming over me with anger on his face. “I'm hungry, Tula, and my dinner isn't being served by my beautiful wife. I'm taking a shower, and I expect to be fed when I get out.”

  “You know what, Adrian, I've had a horrible day. The baby wouldn't sleep for more than fifteen minutes. I couldn't put her down, and I'm so tired. I feel gross and wanted a bath. I just got in the bathtub, so can you please give me twenty minutes to relax?”

  “This is your job, Tula. That baby is what you wanted. Your 'horrible day'”—he uses air quotes—“is not my problem. The roof over our head, your jewelry, your car, that's my problem, and one that I take very good care of.”

  He likes to bring up all the material possessions he's gotten me, and I'm starting to see he tries to use those things to control me.

  “I never asked you for any of that, Adrian.”

  “If you can't handle the simple task of having my dinner ready on time, at least you can serve a different purpose. Get in the shower with me,” he orders as he starts to undress.

  “I have a yeast infection. No can do.”

  He pauses as he unbuttons his shirt, and flashes his most alluring smile. “I could use a helping
hand then, if you know what I mean.” He winks.

  I've had enough of this selfish man for one day. “You can help yourself, Adrian.” I lean back in the bathtub and close my eyes. I silently give myself high fives, celebrating that I stood up for myself for the first time.

  Adrian says nothing. I hear the shower running and I allow myself to relax. A few minutes later, I can feel his presence behind me.

  “It's really creepy that you're standing behind me all quiet like that,” I say with a nervous laugh.

  Something warm and wet spurts on my hair. I sit up, and touch my head. Did he squirt lotion on my hair? What a childish prick. I turn and look at him, and he's naked, holding his penis with a look of raw amusement on his face. He ejaculated on me. I feel immediate humiliation and my face heats up.

  “What the hell, you jerk!” I yell. “Why would you do that? You're so disgusting!”

  “Did you, or did you not tell me to help myself? I did exactly what you told me to do, Tula.” His voice is level and even, his expression not even hinting at any remorse or wrongdoing. He turns and gets into the shower.

  My nerves tingle with raw agitation, and I'm so confused. I mean, we've done some pretty kinky things before, but only with my knowledge and permission. This seems like some type of sexual abuse, some strange violation of my trust, but I push the thought away. He's my husband. How is it even possible for that to happen?

  I pour shampoo in my hands and scrub, doing my best to get the sticky semen out of my hair, but the water makes it viscous and difficult to remove. Silent tears slip down my cheeks, and I convince myself how stupid it is for me to feel this way. Adrian is my husband. He loves me. He was sexually frustrated. I make excuses in my head until I calm myself down.

  After I dry off and get dressed, I rush downstairs and begin to prep a quick dinner. I make pasta with tomato cream sauce, and chop some romaine and veggies for a simple salad.

  A beeping captures my attention, and I stop, knife poised midair, not sure what to make of the unfamiliar noise. My heart plummets into my stomach as I realize what the sound is. The knife falls to the floor with a clanging sound, and I'm tearing up the stairs to Arabella's nursery, screaming for Adrian. The monitor that measures her breathing has been triggered.