Dancing on Broken Glass

by Ka Hancock

  She didn’t recognize our house, but she knew our names. . . .

  I woke up early feeling incredibly optimistic, and as soon as I realized this, I tried to rein it in. I had serious business to attend to: Mickey was coming home. Still, it was a beautiful day and wouldn’t it be wonderful to forget everything and just go sailing? I called Lily to see if she and Ron had made plans to use the boat. Lily said she was having a sale at Ghosts that promised to keep her busy all weekend, so it was all mine.

  She then asked if I’d seen Priscilla. I hadn’t and suddenly thought it was a bit odd that my sister hadn’t been in touch since the memorial service. “Well, if you see her,” I said to Lily, “tell her I’ve gone sailing.”

  “Have fun,” Lily said, but before I could hang up, she surprised me with another question. “Have you heard from Charlotte?”

  “Why?” I asked, mentally clamoring for a fib.

  “I just wondered if your tests came back.”

  “Oh, not yet. But it should be anytime. I’m not one bit worried.”

  “Well, I guess I won’t worry either, then.”

  “Good girl. Have a good sale.”

  “You have a good sail, too.” She giggled.

  Just as I hung up, I heard the train whistle and knew Mickey would be home any minute. He always walked home from Edgemont, which is only a few blocks from our home. For Mickey, there’s great significance in walking away a free man. A new man.

  I was waiting on the porch when he came around the corner in his jeans and white T-shirt, his backpack slung over one shoulder. Looking at my husband’s hard body and easy smile, one would never guess what demons play poker under his skin.

  He saw me and grinned, and I could not contain myself. I ran across the street in my bare feet and jumped into his big arms, wrapping my legs wantonly around his waist. He felt absolutely delicious. He kissed me hard, and all was right with the world.

  I can gauge the degree of my husband’s mental health from the way he kisses me. When he’s manic, he’s rough—very rough—which isn’t always a bad thing. I just know he’s percolating. When he’s truly depressed, his lips have virtually no life, initially. There’s no elasticity, no passion—but then his kisses turn scarily desperate. When he’s completely mad, filled with delusions, he doesn’t even taste right. But, when the stars are aligning, like right now, the two of us are cosmic perfection, our lips, teeth, and tongues playing raspy music in the back of our throats.

  Mickey finished kissing me with a bunch of small breakaway kisses that traveled down my jaw and onto my neck. Just when I would have pulled down my panties, he set me down and laughed. “I missed you, baby.”

  “Me, too,” I said, a little breathless. I picked up his backpack and wrapped his arm around me and we walked across the street. “How ’bout we go sailing and never come home,” I said dreamily.

  “Is this because I screwed up the cruise?”

  I laughed, having forgotten completely about the cruise. “Of course.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  We packed the cooler with ice and drinks and ham sandwiches and threw a change of clothes into a leather tote, just in case we decided to stay overnight. While we worked, we chattered about everything that had happened while he was hospitalized: Celia’s memorial service, Peony Litman, the phone bill, the sale at Lily’s store. I knew I was avoiding the conversation we had to have, but there was anticipation, too. I was excited to tell Mickey our news even as my rational self kept the hard facts in my field of vision.

  In the meantime, I could hardly stop staring at my husband. Every time he did something normal, such as look through the bills or take a glass from the dishwasher and fill it with milk or wink at me when he caught me staring, I just felt this crazy tingle that after all this time should probably be gone. But it wasn’t gone. Far from it.

  “I have a present for you, Lu. Do you want it now?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Close your eyes.”

  I heard the zipper from his backpack and a distinct rustling of paper. Then I felt his lips soft on my forehead. “Okay, you can open them.”

  In the palm of his hand stood a birdhouse, painted in the same muted colors as our home—sage green with coral accents. I laughed because we have a small collection of these little projects. And each one represents yet another storm that didn’t destroy us and is therefore very meaningful. The inside of this one was meticulously made to mirror in miniature the room we were standing in: overstuffed red furniture, a massive wall of books, two floor-to-ceiling windows shuttered in wood grain. I pulled Mickey to me and kissed him with completely impure intent.

  This is my favorite time—this fresh newness that comes right after a hospital stay. I’m not so foolish as to imagine he’s fixed, but what being in the hospital does is change the direction; it gets his feet pointed back the right way. Mickey calls it a do-over. We just bag up everything that led to that particular breaking point and toss it away. Gleason taught us to do that. He taught us that no good can come from wishing things were different. He says no good comes from blaming or resenting what is clearly worthy of both. So, it’s a do-over, a clean slate, bright with promise and renewed commitment. And we always start over by making love, which I knew would be the first matter of business once we cleared the marina.

  We were at the intersection of Foster Pier and Main, waiting for the red light to turn green, when I spotted Trent Rosenberg’s Jeep Cherokee. Mickey saw it at the same time. “Isn’t that your sister with Trent?”

  They were directly across from us, waiting to go through the intersection in the opposite direction and having what looked like an intense conversation. When the light changed, they sailed past us, having apparently never seen us. I looked at Mickey, who said, “Poor Shannon.”

  I stupidly hoped when I hadn’t heard from Priss after the memorial that she’d gone back to Hartford. Seeing her now with Trent just made me sad. What was Priscilla thinking? Shannon Rosenberg was pregnant with Trent’s third child. I was glad to be leaving town. I didn’t want to think about what my sister was doing.

  It was just past one when we got to the harbor. Since it was Friday, more than a few tourists had gotten a jump on the weekend, so it took us a minute to find a parking place. Casey Noonan, the harbor attendant, helped us with our gear, and while he and Mickey did our safety check, I went belowdecks and discovered where Priss had spent the night. My sister had left the little cabin rumpled. The bed was unmade and an empty wine bottle and food wrappers were in the trash. An overnight bag and cosmetics were on the tiny counter.

  That’s Priscilla for you. Just waltzes into town and takes over the boat without checking with anyone. No phone call, no conversation, she just moves right in! It looked as if when she was through with whatever she was doing, she planned to come back. Well, too bad! I stripped the bed and scooped her things back into the bag, then asked Casey to make sure Priss got it when she came back.

  He laughed. “Oh, she’ll be a hellcat when she sees you took the boat.”

  “She might. You can tell her I’m sorry, if you want. You could say a little discussion would have avoided this whole thing.” I laughed. “Tell her whatever you want, Casey. We’re going sailing.”

  “Oh, sure, I’ll tell her.”

  “Are you just about ready?” I said to Mickey with a little too much edge. “I want to get out of here.”

  “Don’t be barking at me, Lucille. I think we should stick around. Wait for your sister and the fireworks. It’ll be fun.”

  I was tickled by Mickey’s sarcasm, but not enough to stay and risk an ugly confrontation with my big sister. We filed our route, then eased out of the slip. When we had completely cleared the harbor with no sign of Priscilla, I breathed a big sigh of relief. I don’t mind a good argument with Priss, I just wasn’t in the mood today—not on this absolutely perfect, cloudless day.

  The air was so clean and soft and the water was so blue that thoughts of Priscilla simply
evaporated. I drank in every delicious sensation as we made our way up the Connecticut, Mickey at the helm, his hair blown back.

  As we headed lazily toward Hollis Cove, our cares melted away. In this isolated bubble of time, we were just two absolutely normal people: I was pregnant with a dark-haired daughter who had enormous eyes, and my husband was a regular guy whose recalibrated synapses were firing at regular-guy intervals. I hugged Mickey from behind as he steered us upriver. Life was good.

  It was just dusk when we sailed into the marina at Hollis Cove. We’d made love, eaten the sandwiches, and made love again. Now I was just sitting on the bow of our boat, watching the stars come out, the night air warm and soft against my skin. Mickey dropped anchor and slid back beside me. I leaned into him and he wrapped me in his arms, his hands slipping beneath my shirt. “I love you, Lu,” he whispered, making my eyes sting. I knew he loved me. If I didn’t know anything else, I knew that.

  I watched a trio of blue herons on the shore, their sleek, graceful, efficient beaks taking care of the business of dinner. Then, pulling Mickey’s face into my neck, I said, “I have something to tell you.”

  He said what he always says to statements like this. “Is it good or bad?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Talk to me, Lucille.”

  I squirmed around to face him, to see his eyes. I knew I could see in Mickey’s eyes how sound he was. I decided, all things considered, that I couldn’t have chosen a better moment.

  “Baby, I’m pregnant.”

  Mickey laughed, quick and easy. “Right.”

  “I am, Mic. I’m pregnant.”

  Mickey’s lips parted just a little. “What?”

  “I’m pregnant.” We were so close, I could almost see those two little words being metabolized in his pupils.

  “I . . . I don’t understand.”

  I leaned up and pulled my T-shirt down over my breasts and looked at my husband. “I don’t understand it either, Mic. Charlotte says she doesn’t know how, exactly, but”—I shrugged—“I’m pregnant.” I held my breath waiting for him to fully comprehend my words and react.

  Finally he said, “You’re sure?”

  I nodded.

  “What do we do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “A baby? Really?”

  I nodded. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking, and it was making me tense. Slowly he sat up, his eyes never veering off mine. He stared at me for a long time, then he cupped my face with his big hands and shook his head as if he didn’t have the words.

  “Are you okay?” I said.

  Still shaking his head, he asked, “Are you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Lucy, I can’t believe it.” His voice was barely a whisper.

  “Me neither.”

  “Oh, Lu.”

  “I know.”

  “A baby. A baby. I’m not sure I’ve ever really imagined a baby. Look at me. I just don’t know what to do with this.” He lifted my hand to his chest. His heartbeat was a palpable thud.

  “I know.”

  Pure emotion was in his eyes when he slowly started kissing me all over my face. “This isn’t necessarily a bad thing, is it?”

  For a moment I was swept away by his affection, but his words were stones. “Of course it’s bad. But it’s wonderful, too. What are we going to do?”

  “Looks like we’re having a baby.”

  “We are? Mickey, stop kissing me.” I pulled away from him. “We have to think about this. We have to get serious. Remember our agreement, our contract? Our decision not to procreate? We’re unfit, remember? How can we have this baby?”

  “Doesn’t look like we have a choice, Lucille.”

  “Mickey . . .”

  “No.” He shook his head. “That’s not us.”

  I slumped. “I know, but, Mickey, how can we do this?”

  “How can we not?” But then his own question somehow made supreme sense to him. “How can we not, Lucy? Good or bad, right or wrong, this is our baby. It already is. And everything will be fine. We’ll make it fine.”

  “Mickey, stop it! It’s never going to be that easy. Nothing’s really changed. Look where you’ve been this week. And me. I just had my physical. My lab work isn’t even back yet—I know everything is fine, but this is the blade we live under. There are reasons we were never going to do this.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you went to the doctor?”

  “I’m telling you now.”

  Mickey looked at me skeptically.

  “Honey, it was just my regular checkup. You were in the hospital. I didn’t want you to worry. I’m telling you now, everything I know. I’m pregnant and a little tense about it, because this is us we’re talking about here.”

  Mickey nodded. “I get that, Lucy. This is us. And you’re right. It’s never going to be fine, all the time. But somehow it’s worked so far.”

  “Mickey . . .”

  “Shhhh. We did what we did to prevent this. But here it is anyway. Doesn’t that tell you something?”

  “What? What does it tell me?”

  “That this baby was meant to be.”

  “Mickey.”

  “I’m serious, Lu. This baby, our baby, is supposed to be. I just don’t believe after all this time it’s an accident.”

  Infuriatingly, Mickey was winning me over. But then, I so wanted to be won over.

  “C’mere,” he said softly, pulling me to him. He wrapped his arms around me and held me for a long, long time. The deceptively strong beat of his heart lulled me into believing in miracles, and I started feeling like I had when I first married him: like we could make this happen. Mickey was right. Wasn’t he? We’d made it for nearly eleven years. Obviously we were stronger than I’d given us credit for. And wasn’t the determined little swimmer who’d made it through the knot further evidence of our genetic fortitude? Well, of course it was.

  I couldn’t think about the downside anymore. It was out, this awesome news, hanging beautifully and frighteningly between us. I was too excited to fight it. And Mickey was there looming over me with his awestruck smile and contagious optimism. We were pregnant, and for the time being that’s all I wanted to think about.

  Before I knew it, it was dark and Mickey and I were still huddled under a blanket on the bow making plans to transform the junk room into a nursery. I had never seen my husband so moved, so humble. Long after I was sure he had fallen asleep, I turned to find him staring at the stars, his eyes glistening. When he caught me watching him, he pulled me closer. We finally fell asleep under those almost perfectly aligned stars, holding tight to one another as we swayed to the mood of the river. By the next morning we were full and equal participants in the fantasy that life had handed us. Right or wrong, it seemed we were having this baby.

  Right there in Hollis Cove, anchored to hope, we ignored the statistics. We ignored our history. And we ignored logic.

  Well, it’s not like we hadn’t done that before.

  nine

  APRIL 30, 2000

  Theoretically, being mad, it’s hard to be driven mad . . . but apparently not impossible. I say this because I did not know what was happening to me when I was with Lucy. I’d known a lot of women, but I didn’t understand the power this girl had over me almost from the moment I met her. I used to wonder how falling in love—real love—worked for people who didn’t have to worry about madness. They probably didn’t have to try as hard as humanly possible not to fall into it in the first place, or feel like they had to reject it because it couldn’t be trusted, or have to imagine the scalding rejection that would come when the full extent of the madness was revealed. Despite all this, I was a goner by the end of our first date and it terrified me . . . for her. When we started peeling back our layers, I couldn’t quite believe she wasn’t repelled by me. I’d never opened myself up to that much scrutiny, I’d never wanted to. But with Lucy I found I could not resist her desire to see inside me.

  Her fe
arlessness scared me a little. But then maybe fearlessness is what happened to a person when the worst things that could happen, actually did. Whatever Lucy went through with the loss of her parents, it left a deep well of something extraordinary. But could I trust it? Could she?

  Lucy honestly believed she could deal with anything as long as she knew what to expect. She liked all the unseemly possibilities piled on the table where she could survey the mess and prepare a strategy. What she didn’t know was with a guy like me, the pile was a shifting landscape, subject to the elements and hard to predict. I tried to warn her.

  I was falling in love with her, but it seemed like a bad idea. The thought of having Lucy, hurting her, scaring her, losing her—all of it overwhelmed my psyche. I tried to save her from a life with me—a few times. But she never really blinked.

  Not even when she should have.

  The year I fell in love with Mickey was not the typical romance most girls fantasize about. In the throes of it, I would sometimes step back and try to see myself analytically. Did I have some hidden personality quirk that made me see Mickey as a project? Was I using him to fill a dark place in myself? I was loath to think these things because my feelings for him were growing so strong.

  All I knew for sure was that I was falling hard for a man who could tell on his eleventh birthday that he was different from the rest of the world. A man who’d grown up frightened of the way his mind worked. I was falling for a man who was doing everything he could to make me understand how immortal he sometimes felt, how expansive and entitled and unapologetic he could be.

  Sometimes it scared me. But then Mickey would give me an out. One night he just held my face and forced me to look at him. “It’s okay to doubt this, Lucy. I’m a lot to take on, and you have to be sure.”

  The permission he gave me only intensified my feelings for him.

  “We can’t really help how we feel,” he went on. “If you’re scared, you get to be scared. And you get to decide what to do about that. I see you, Lucy. I see who you are. You’re strong and smart and you can handle whatever life throws at you, as long as you can see it coming.”