by Ceves, Nina
I cracked up.
By the time we pulled into our parking space back home in the northwest quadrant, I admit it, I was obsessed with the thoughts I had of getting my wife alone. Maybe it was too soon. I’m sure it was. But if I could just hold her, kiss her… if we could just get close. My hands were shaking as I locked the car and my jaw hurt from all the biting down I was doing. “Be. Cool.” I admonished myself. Last thing I wanted to do was come on too strong and upset Greta.
And then: as we went up the stairs toward our condo, our neighbors started descending.
“Greta! Ben!” Mark and Amy exclaimed.
“We were hoping to run into you this weekend,” smiled Amy. “We wanted to share our big, or rather our little news!”
I got a sinking feeling in my stomach.
“We’re going to have a baby,” said Mark. “Just thirteen weeks along.”
Amy smiled so big, and her eyes filled with tears as Mark gently patted her belly.
“Mazel tov,” I said quickly, clapping Mark on the back and smiling determinedly at Amy.
“Wonderful! Congratulations!” said Greta warmly.
I put my arm around Greta and gently pulled her a little closer to me, while starting to resume walking up the stairs. Take care of Greta.
“Bye!” I called over my shoulder.
Mark and Amy looked a little confused to have our conversation cut so short, but then they beamed and said bye, waving.
“I’ll call on you for lots of advice,” said Amy, “with all your experience with little kids. And who knows, maybe you’ll have a baby bump one day soon, too! We could both…”
“See you!” I called, increasing our pace up the stairs.
I grimly opened our door and shut it behind us.
I swore.
I looked at Greta. She was standing very still, then she sank to the chair in the hall, setting her bag down.
I knelt by her feet. Take care of Greta. I pulled her boots off slowly. She had red socks on.
Her eyes looked faraway. I took her hands. They felt cold.
“Greta,” I said, kissing her hands.
“I’m so sorry I can’t,” she started, her voice sounding so… broken. “Can’t give you. That.” She looked down at me, meeting my eyes finally, and the pain in her eyes stabbed me in my heart.
“I. Don’t. Care.” I said, evenly. “You have to believe me. I care for you. That you can’t have what you want. When you, or if you, want us to become parents, we’ll find our way. I’ll be right there with you. But for now? Greta, all I want is you. All I want is you, back with me, when you’re ready, if you want me, still. Greta, I’m sorry, hon.”
My chest hurt but I got the words out. She had to believe me. I wasn’t just saying it. I meant it. I always thought I’d become a dad one day. If we adopted a kid or a baby who had no home, no parents, how wonderful would that be? But I didn’t even think about that. I hoped that didn’t make me immature. I just didn’t have that yearning to have a child at that point. I just longed for my wife.
“You could be with someone else. Someone who could get pregnant,” she said, still looking at me with those broken eyes.
I fought a swell of anger. All I heard and felt was that she would cast me out, that she would be okay with having us part. Take care of Greta. Listen to her. Listen to what was behind and under her words.
“Bashert,” I whispered, and this time the pressure in my chest got so big and tears escaped from the corners of my eyes. “You are the only one for me. Bashert. You and I.”
If anything, at those words the pain in Greta’s eyes increased until something in her broke, too, and tears fell from her eyes in steady streams.
I kissed her hands again, still kneeling at her feet.
“Let me put you to bed,” I said, wiping my eyes on my shirt in the inside of my elbow. “I’ll bring you some tea. Or hot chocolate. Or wine. Beer? Tequila?”
She stood up slowly, as though everything hurt.
“I don’t want anything,” she said dully, “I just want to read and then sleep.”
She touched my face gently and went into her room and shut the door quietly.
I stayed sitting on the floor for a long time, until it got dark.
Greta
I told myself I would give myself until Monday morning to fall apart, to retreat again. And then: no more. Done.
Ben
I finally got up, got into sweats and a tee shirt. Watched some TV, I don’t even remember what. I couldn’t sleep. I got up, drank beer. Sat outside Greta’s room. Drank some more. I felt as though I were losing her all over again, after just starting to have hope of getting her back. It hurt.
Sunday, by noon I hadn’t heard anything from her room and I felt worried. I mean, more worried. I knocked on her door. Silence. I opened the door. She was asleep her laptop next to her. I brought a charger in and quietly connected it. I made some tea for her and put a few biscotti on a plate.
I intended to wake her up, to make sure she ate something, but I wondered if she had been up all night, so I let her sleep.
I did laundry, cleaned up the place a little, drank some more beer.
I tried really hard not to take it personally, but I wished she would talk to me.
At some point in the afternoon, I heard the quiet sounds of Greta’s laptop keyboard.
Greta
He left me tea and biscotti. My Ben.
I slept and wrote and wrote all day.
Disappeared.
Escaped.
Ben
Monday morning I woke up feeling as though either my skull had shrunk or my brain was rapidly expanding. I realized I was hung over. Too much beer and little else, and hardly any sleep and here it was, time to go to work. Greta was gone. I showered, filled a travel mug with green tea, and left, the sun’s glare causing a piercing pain deep in my head.
Pulling into the parking lot, I took a quick, deep breath and let it out slowly. Usually, I actually enjoyed arriving at work each day. Graphite, the graphic design company I worked at, was housed in an old, yellow Victorian just outside of old town, in a business and residential zoned area. I got to work with three great people I considered my friends. The art director was a really warm, caring guy. Today, though, I wished I could just hide in my car.
I kept my head down and sunk into my chair in my cubicle. Of course I had a project that was especially challenging, that needed my immediate attention. By lunchtime, the pain in my head had narrowed into a single bite behind my right eye. Closing it, I rummaged in the cupboards in the break room for some gluten free pretzels. I sat down and crunched on them, wincing. The fluorescent light seemed to emit a malevolent glow.
“There he is,” said Alma, coming into the break room. Her long black hair was in a ponytail, and her round face was creased with concern.
“Where were you?” asked Laura, right behind her. She pushed up her blue glasses and peered at me.
Every lunch break, Alma, Laura, our boss, Scott, and I met for a yoga session. We started a year ago, when all four of us admitted we were under some major stress. Scott proposed that we divide our lunch breaks into two parts: yoga and healthful eating. We cleared out an office space that was being used for storage, turning it into a retreat. He also suggested doing affirmations but the rest of us voted no on that. No more catching up on errands or wasting time online or eating junk food, he said, we’d use our middle of the day break for being healthy. We chipped in and had a yoga instructor come in two days a week to teach us and the other three days, we practiced together. We also pooled our resources to have lunches available that were vegetarian and gluten free. Scott said our productivity increased over the year, but more importantly, he felt that we were more connected with each other, and less stressed out.
Scott came in, singing a made up song about tamales, but when he saw me, he stopped short.
“What is going on?” he asked, staring.
I mumbled something through the pretzel cru
mbs.
“Can I do an energy clearing for you?” he asked, already walking to stand behind me.
I met Alma’s and Laura’s eyes and looked down, and saw them trying not to smile. I felt a little breeze start up behind me from Scott’s hands waving over my head. “Your energy, my God, Ben, it’s so stuck. Let me just work on getting you back into balance.”
Laura and Alma sat down.
I swallowed.
“Greta,” I choked out.
“Is she all right?” asked Laura, concern in her eyes.
“Physically, yes,” I said.
About a year ago, I had shared with them the basic facts of what was going on, and they were going through their own difficulties. I hadn’t shared how badly things had been between me and Greta, but they had seemed to intuit it, at least to some degree.
“What can we do to help?” asked Scott, his hands still stirring the air behind and above my head. It was actually starting to feel soothing.
“You can help me,” I said, suddenly inspired. Talking hurt the pain in my head, but I wanted to say this. “I need… I need a make over.”
Rule number four: Dress the part.
Scott came around and sat down next to me. The three of them looked at me, perplexed.
“I’m trying,” I looked down at the bag of pretzels. “I want to be — better, you know? For Greta.”
Alma’s big Mexican American eyes flooded with tears. She and Laura exchanged looks and Scott reached over and clasped my forearm.
“We know how much you love her,” he said. “She loves you, just the way you are.”
Laura and Alma nodded.
“But, how I dress, and stuff,” I insisted, squinting at them.
Alma and Laura exchanged another look, communicating silently. Alma was in her twenties and loved fashion and dressing up. Laura was in her forties and had an urban, artsy style.
“We could share some suggestions,” said Alma innocently, looking excited.
“Patrick dresses me, he won’t even let me choose anything anymore,” said Scott. “He would be thrilled to take you shopping.”
“I can’t break the bank,” I said. “If anyone is going to go on a shopping spree it can be Greta.”
“I wondered,” said Alma delicately, “if you had a reason for always wearing clothes that are… too big for you.”
“I was horribly skinny, when I was younger,” I said. “I guess I tried to hide it. I guess it got to be a habit.”
“Oh,” Laura and Alma said simultaneously, twin looks of compassion etched on their expressions.
“Clothes that fit, and clothes with some color,” said Laura.
“Haircut?” added Alma.
“No,” protested Scott. “He should let his hair grow, and use curl defining products. And only get haircuts from that place that specializes in curly hair, in Santa Fe. The curls need to be cut precisely where they interlock.” He held his hands out, gesturing.
“That sounds complicated.” I looked at Laura and Alma. “Like, a trim?”
They exchanged silent communication again.
“It’s just that it gets a little…” Alma trailed off.
“Puffy,” said Laura, tentatively. “Big?”
“You run your hands through it a lot, when you are working,” confided Alma. “If your hair were shorter, it would bring out your features more.”
“Some lowlights, to add depth,” suggested Scott.
“No, Scott,” said Laura, reaching over to pat his hand comfortingly.
“But, also…” She looked down.
“What?”
“Well,” she bit her lip, “you’ve got a little… unibrow thing going on.”
“Totally,” said Scott, “some threading, under the brows, too, would really open up his eye area.”
“Thread?” I asked, confused.
“No, Scott,” said Alma, “just the unibrow.”
“Just a little, to make his eyes pop,” he insisted.
“No,” said Laura and Alma, together.
“Pop?” I asked, concerned.
Scott sulked. He got out his phone. “I’m texting Patrick right now about the make over project.”
“One more idea,” Alma looked down at the table, “so, this is stupid, whatever, but, uh, when you get a five o’clock shadow? It’s… it looks good.”
I rubbed my jaw. “Oh, yeah, I guess that would hide all the craters and bumps, all the scars.”
“What? No,” said Alma, flustered, “I didn’t mean that. It just gives you a kind of a mysterious, ah, interesting vibe. Dark horse.”
“Yeah,” said Laura, slowly, “ that’s true…kind of an adventurous, off the beaten path kind of thing.”
“But you definitely must shave your neck,” said Scott, alarmed. “Right to here, the jawline, for an intentional five o’clock shadow look rather than a sloppy, I could not be bothered look. Oh, Patrick is texting back!”
I held my throbbing eye. Had I just created a monster?
Seeing that I was not feeling well, Scott insisted I take the rest of the day off. After work tomorrow we’d convene for drinks and shopping and manscaping, whatever that was.
“No drinks for me,” I ground out as I left.
When I got home, I noticed through a fog of pain that the house smelled like apples baking, and there was music coming from the kitchen. There were lights on. I felt a surge of hope.
“Hi,” said Greta, coming around the corner. She stopped when she saw me. “You’ve got one of those eye headaches, don’t you?”
I nodded very carefully.
“You want to take a shower?” she asked.
I dropped my bag and headed down the hallway. The pain was increasing, and I could tell it was almost at its worst. Then, I’d just have to wait until it subsided.
I took a shower, wrapped a towel round my waist and went into the guest room. I paused by my bureau. It was going to hurt to bend down and get a tee shirt and sweats.
“I got it,” said Greta, softly, coming up behind me. She reached down and got a shirt and sweat pants and stood up. She blinked, starting up at me.
“Holy moly,” she breathed.
I squinted at her, swaying.
“Have you been,” she swallowed. “Have you been working out or something?”
“Hm?” I croaked. “Yoga. At work.”
She eased the shirt over my head and smoothed it down over my chest and arms. Through the blur of pain it felt as though she lingered a little. I wished my head didn’t hurt. I sat down on the bed.
“I’m making you some chamomile tea,” she said, and left the room.
When she got back, I was under the covers.
“Can you drink a little?” she asked.
I couldn’t. I felt sick.
“You want me to leave, so you can sleep?”
I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep for a while. Once the eye headache digs in, it’s just a waiting game. “Can you stay for a little while?”
“Of course.” She sat on the floor by the bed.
“Can you read to me?” I asked.
“Read to you?”
“Yeah.”
We’d never read to each other before.
“Um, sure,” she said. “What do you want me to read to you?”
“Dreaming Silas. It’s there on my iPad, where I left off reading last time, I think.”
She was silent.
“You want me to read…? Okay.”
After a moment she got my iPad out of my bag. She paused, and then I heard her tapping and swiping the screen. She settled her back gently against the bed and began to read, after locating the part I was reading:
* * *
Sera faced the buffeting wind and raised her hands. She traced the ancient, sacred runes into the wind, her fingers strong and sure. She opened her hands and closed her eyes, summoning the power within her, unleashing the magic locked in her soul. She called upon her ancestors for help, and took one step forward.
&
nbsp; — And fell to her knees in the center of the Fire Trial, where Silas lay, bound, on the large, stone altar.
“Thought you’d get way that easily, huh?” she smirked at him.
His eyes were widened in shock.
“You can’t be here,” he gasped, “get out, leave — now!”
“I told you it pisses me off when you tell me what to do,” she snapped. “You said you’d try to remember how you phrase things.”
“Sera!” shouted Silas, enraged.
“Don’t shout at me,” she frowned furiously. “I told you!”
By that time she was close enough to touch him and she leaned over him, gently touching his face and body.
“You’re okay,” she breathed in relief.
“Sera!” He fought against the cords that bound him with their evil spell.
She heard the sound of rushing wings and wind behind her.
“Yeah, I don’t think so,” she said, whirling around, holding her hands aloft.
White light poured from her hands, pushing the encroaching dark sider shifters back. They snarled and rallied, scrambling over one another to attack Sera and Silas. There were countless dark siders, their leathery wings and protruding fangs colliding with one another. She gritted her teeth, closed her eyes. “I can do this! I have to!”
She lifted her arms slowly and turned her palms outward again. Frowning, she took a deep breath. The dark siders were so close she could smell their fetid scent and see the cracks in their hides. She did not rush, though, as she closed her eyes and summoned her power. She visualized them gone, eradicated. She breathed in and out, slowly.
There was a screeching sound, as though steel were being wrenched into pieces. There was a scent of sulfur. Then, silence reigned.
She turned back to Silas and held her hands over him.
“Mmm,” she let her glance linger appreciatively on him. “Tempting to keep you tied up like this, now that the bad guys have been kicked out.”
She whispered, slowly trailing her hands above him and the cords began to fade and disappear. Silas was free.