Something Greater Than Yourself: An Omega Mpreg Romance

by Louise Bourgeois

  ***

  Oliver doesn’t know where he is when he wakes up.

  The house creaks and whines around him, like it’s stretching up, getting ready for the day. Not a single sound comes from outside, and Oliver smiles underneath the covers, feeling warm and comfortable and completely out of reach for the entire world.

  He makes himself a cup of coffee, its scent filling the entire house, he toasts some bread and eats it with a generous amount of butter and strawberry jam, leaning against the kitchen, looking at the snow as it falls delicately, twirling and glittering midair. There’s no weight in his chest, no ringing in his ears, no dull buzzing in his head.

  A shy, muscular guy rings the bell as Oliver is trying to pry away the planks on the living-room windows. He takes his hat off as he says good-morning, and says he’s here to check the plumbing and heating. Oliver lets him in, follows him around, trying to discover the secrets of his new house, watching as the man, Stan, quietly and expertly pokes and probes. The plumbing comes alive after a bit of sputtering and groaning; the heating, Stan says, will take a while to warm the entire house up. He shows Oliver how everything works, timidly accepts a cup of coffee and some cookies, and ends up helping Oliver with the planks.

  After that, Oliver manages to accidentally fill the living-room with pitch black ashes, realize he hasn’t thought about buying any light-bulbs, and almost break the French door trying to open it. He miraculously manages not to make any major damage, though, and he’s able to finally start unpacking for good before lunch-time.

  ***

  Oliver turns on the bedside lamp, placed on the floor next to the mattress, and looks up at the window. The sky is clear and full of stars, frost slowly creeping up the glass, snow framing the window.

  He feels the strong sense of emptiness all around him, the still, mute house already slowly falling asleep around him, and has a tiny, insignificant, spark of nostalgia for something he can’t quite make out properly.

  He feels content in his loneliness, living in his own house, in a new town, somewhere nobody knows who he is, somewhere he can shape his life however he pleases.

  Once the bakery is all cleaned up and ready, he thinks, once the garden is tidied up and there’s no moss on the stairs climbing up the side of the house and leading to the kitchen, once the walls are re-painted, and the books and clothes and plates and records and tools are all in their places, once the pantry is filled and the house smells like freshly baked bread and cookies and cakes; then he’ll get himself a puppy, and everything will be perfect.

  ***

  It’s a snowy Sunday morning, and Adrian is sitting on the bench right outside the garage, watching the children play in the snow. Not a single car is braving its way out, and all the kids of the street are running around, screaming and laughing and rolling around in the snow.

  Even now that he’s sitting down, smiling at how happy his children look, he’s got all sort of things roaming around in his head: clothes need washing, he needs to change the sheets of his bed, throw out the trash, decide what to make for dinner, make sure the kids don’t get too excited and forget to do their homework.

  It’s very cold, though, and one of his clients brought him a huge pumpkin he grew himself, which means he must at least find some time to make pumpkin turnovers; and Adrian is already getting excited about it, eating some nice hot pumpkin turnovers curled up on the couch in front of the fire, listening to the radio with the children drawing on the floor; when the door at the top of the stairs next to the bakery opens up, and a man steps out dragging a bag of trash, gingerly walking down the steps and stuffing it in the bin.

  He stops for a moment, rubbing his hands together for warmth, and Adrian stands up and crosses the road, keeping an eye on the children.

  “Hello,” he smiles, offering the man his hand. He’s greeted by a pair of hesitant green eyes that make him momentarily forget what he meant to do. “I’m Adrian. I’m the owner of the garage.”

  “Right. Adrian. Oliver,” smiles the man, shaking his hand.

  “I just wanted to say that if you need anything you’re welcome to come and ask,” Adrian continues. “It’s must be pretty hard, not knowing anybody around.”

  Oliver shrugs. “I’m keeping myself busy,” he says.

  He’s got a nice accent, and a shy smile, and Adrian feels himself blush.

  “My… my kids want to know if there are any plans to open the bakery,” Adrian murmurs, because for some reason he doesn’t want to walk away, doesn’t want to stop talking to him. Oliver nods.

  “Eventually, yes.”

  “Nice,” grins Adrian. “They’ll be very happy to hear that.”

  Oliver looks at the kids playing, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Which ones are yours?” he asks. Adrian points at them; all fussing around a half-built snowman.

  For a long moment, neither of them speak. They stand there on the sidewalk, inadvertently moving closer to get warm, as the snow starts falling again, the children excitedly jumping around, trying to catch the snowflakes with their tongue.

  ***

  Junia snuggles next to Adrian, Jamie and Sam tickling each other and laughing.

  “Be good,” says Adrian, poking Jamie with his foot underneath the blanket. “Do you want me to read you a story or not?”

  “Yes!” squeals Sam.

  “Then hush. The town is sleeping, let’s not wake it up.”

  Sam and Jamie cuddle together, expectant. Adrian clears his throat and starts reading, the children suddenly quiet, the only sounds apart from Adrian’s voice the popping and snapping of the fire, the creaking of the house around them.

  The wind starts howling as Adrian finishes the first story, and Junia very softy asks for one more. Sam falls asleep first, Jamie hugging him as his eyelids grow heavy and his head starts lolling. He remotely hears the church bells mark the hour, a single deep note. By the time Adrian is done with the second story, Junia and Jamie are asleep too.

  Adrian leaves the book on the floor and wraps an arm around Junia, who sighs deeply in her sleep, a hand squeezing around Adrian’s shirt. He looks out of the window, where the only light still visible is the one shining in the roof-window of Oliver’s house, and he’s suddenly immensely grateful he’s got his babies all around him, and his brothers living just down the road, and his familiar, messy, warm house to protect him.

  ***

  The house feels truly, completely Oliver’s only once he starts baking. He does it slowly, trying things one at a time. He bakes some loaves of bread, chocolate chip cookies, a couple of pies, and the bakery starts smelling like a bakery should, familiar and comforting, like some half-forgotten childhood memory.

  All alone as he is, he really doesn’t spend a lot of time eating. He’s been working all day every day: the walls have been re-painted, and the windows too; the books are all stacked in the bookshelves, the record player has found its place on the window-sill, the records all neatly arranged in the shelf beneath it; glasses and plates and mugs and cups and pots and pans are all in their place in the kitchen upstairs, the old moldy curtains have been replaced; the bed has finally been assembled, the paintings hung on the walls, the couches and armchairs and carpets all have found a place in the house. When night comes he’s usually so tired he can’t be bothered eating much at all.

  So, one day, early in the morning, observing a tray of fresh bread, Oliver suddenly decides what to do. He puts some of the bread into a basket, along with some sugar cookies, covers everything with a handkerchief, puts his coat on, and hurries out of the bakery.

  ***

  The little kid is running around on a tricycle, going ‘broom broom!’. He stops when he sees Oliver, and runs to his dad, hiding behind him. Adrian looks down at him, then up at Oliver.

  “Hello,” he smiles.

  “Hi,” murmurs Oliver, handing him the basket.“I’ve been trying out the kitchen.”

  Adrian looks underneath the handkerchief, and Sam gets on tiptoe
s and tugs at his sleeve to do the same.

  “Pretty!” Sam says, picking up a cookie. “It’s blue, Papa!” He holds it up for Adrian to see. Adrian nods at him, ruffling his hair.

  “What do we say?”

  “Thank you,” says Sam, shyly.“Why is it blue?”

  “It’s sugar frosting,” explains Oliver.

  “Can you make it any color?”

  “I can try.”

  Sam looks up at Adrian, then back at Oliver.

  “I like green,” he says, hopefully. Oliver smiles at him.

  “Light or dark?”

  “Light. Like when you put mint syrup in your milk,” explains Sam, then takes a bite of the cookie.

  “Thanks for these,” says Adrian.

  Oliver shakes his head.

  “A simple gift in return for your kindness,” he says, because it’s true. Adrian blushes a little.

  He’s cute, Adrian, in a cuddly, comforting way. He looks like the kind of person who takes home stray dogs and kisses his children’s knees when they scrape them; the kind of person who does things because he likes to make people happy, without expecting anything back.

  “Well, if you ever need anything… even if you just feel like having some company, we’re all here,” says Adrian.

  Sam nods softly, big blue eyes stuck on Oliver.

  ***

  The first thing Oliver does in the morning is bake another batch of cookies, cut in the shape of little cars. He makes the frosting light green, puts them all in a nice little jar, ties a green ribbon around it, and waits for Adrian to open up the shop to walk up to him and hand it to him.

  “I hope I got the color right.”

  He says, then smiles hesitantly and walks back home.

  ***

  Sam looks so excited when Adrian hands him the cookies, he claps his hands and hugs the jar and won’t let Steven have any.

  “Oliver made them for me,” he insists. “He’s nice,” he adds, just to make sure Steven knows. No amount of pouting and puppy eyes seem to be able convince Sam to give up his cookies, but in the end he feels bad and does let Steven take one.

  “Looks like the baker likes you guys.”

  Grins Steven, winking at Adrian, cheerfully eating his cookie.

  “He’s just a nice person,” says Adrian, taking a look underneath a car. “The suspension’s messed up. Another pothole and it’d given up completely.”

  “Is he cute?”

  “Who’s cute?”

  “The baker,” says Steven. Adrian ignores him.

  “He’s cute,” pipes Sam. “He’s got green eyes.”

  “I see.”

  “Stop bothering Adrian while he’s working,” says Jake, walking in, and Steven immediately looks chastised.

  “I wasn’t doing anything.”

  “Do you want a cookie?” asks Sam, holding up one for Jake. Steven looks at him, betrayed.

  ***

  The children are all in their beds, well tucked in, all the closets have been checked for monsters, and the space underneath the beds too; the little lights pale lights in their rooms are on, the shutters closed. Adrian finishes drying dishes and putting them in their place, shoots a look outside the window, to the still lit roof-window of Oliver’s house. He sighs, closing the bag of trash under the sink and lifting it up, hurrying outside and carefully down the steps to the bin.

  The night is freezing and clear, the street poorly lit. A billion stars shine in the sky, and Adrian looks up as he pushes the bag in the bin and stuffs his hands under his armpits, his breath coming out in little white clouds.

  It feels so lonely, this time of the day. When he was younger and in college, sunset was the loneliest moment of the day; his cramped little apartment filling with orange light, the knowledge the day was over, and the long night waited for him, all alone, surrounded by millions of strangers.

  These days sunset usually passes by unnoticed as he works, and when he has his children around he feels completely fine; but after that, once the kids are sleeping, and the house is quiet, the weight of being the one in charge, with nobody to share his life, drops on him like a boulder.

  He notices movement in his peripheral vision and looks back down as Oliver walks down the stairs, he, too, carrying a bag of trash. He goes still when he sees Adrian, waves hesitantly, and Adrian waves back.

  ***

  Oliver opens up the bakery one morning, just to see what it feels like, not really expecting anybody to come; but people do come. Mothers with small children, women and men on their way to work, old ladies exploring without any rush, kids that have obviously decided it’s too nice a day to go to school. They introduce themselves and chat a little and ask if he bakes things on demand. Oliver smiles and answers as best as he can, his accent slipping, his mind hurrying to find the right words and the right pronunciation.

  At one point he looks up, towards the garage, where Adrian and Jake are eying critically the engine of a little truck parked outside, the collar of Jake’s coat held up against the icy wind. They’ve got the exact same frown on their faces, they’re standing in the same exact pose. For some reason, their presence there makes Oliver feel good.

  ***

  He’s about to lock the door of the shop when he notices Adrian speaking with a mailman, dressed in a neat dark blue uniform. Adrian nods at him, smiles, but when the man walks away he looks weirdly sad. Oliver doesn’t like that; he doesn’t like seeing Adrian sad, it doesn’t suit his open, friendly face at all.

  Oliver walks out on the sidewalk, slowly. He wants to talk to Adrian, but he’s not sure what to say. He’s just about to give up and go back in when Adrian looks up at him and waves.

  They’ve been doing this for a while, now, waving at each other from opposite sides of the street. In the morning, when Adrian opens the garage, when he comes back from school with the kids, when Oliver swipes the sidewalk in front of the bakery, or spreads salt on the steps to the apartment. Oliver raises his hand to wave back, but, instead, he gestures him to come over. He’s surprised he’s done that, because he definitely didn’t think about doing it.

  Adrian crosses the road, looking left and right. He stops in front of Oliver, his teeth rattling, and Oliver hurriedly opens the door. “Come on in,” he says, and Adrian smiles.

  ***

  “These are really good,” murmurs Adrian, looking genuinely happy about it, picking another cookie and giving it a bite.

  “Merci,” answers Oliver, automatically.“I mean, thank you. Sorry.”

  “It’s ok. I like it when you speak French.”

  Oliver feels himself blush, and thanks the weak light in the bakery.

  They’re sitting on the window seat on the right side of the shop, the only light that seeps in the pale one from the street lights, and the colorful, blinking ones of the few early Christmas decorations.

  “What are the children up to?”

  “Homework. Steven’s watching over them, or sleeping in front of the fire, most likely,” laughs Adrian, but his tone isn’t judgmental, just vaguely amused. “They’re all very excited. Junia made a calendar counting down to the holidays, and they’re being very very good, to make sure Santa brings them nice presents.”

  “I bet he will,” says Oliver, with a smile.

  “What are you going to do during the holidays?” asks Adrian. Oliver shrugs. “Nothing, most likely.”

  “Oh…” Adrian looks hurt, like he’s the one who’ll spend the holidays on his own. “Are you not going back home?”

  Oliver shakes his head. “I came here to be alone,” he says carefully. “I’m going to be all right.”

  “But why would you want to be alone?”

  Oliver shrugs. “People… take a lot of effort. I mean, it takes me a lot of effort, to have people around. Working is one thing, because people don’t really see you at all, they come, they go, they don’t… drain you.” He rests his head against the window, eyes stuck on the blinking lights on someone’s balcony. “My
family is very well known, back home. I’m expected to socialize, to respect a very specific set of rules, to be a good host, and so on. Don’t get me wrong, I love my family. I do miss them. But I need…”

  “Room to breathe,” offers Adrian. Oliver nods.

  “One could say that.”

  “Do I bother you?” asks Adrian, and again, there’s no accusation in his tone; he’s not whining, he’s asking.

  “No.”.

  “But I haven’t spent six hours in a row with you yet,” he adds, and Adrian laughs.

  ***

  “What about you? What are you planning for the holidays?”

  Adrian beams at him. “We’ll spend Christmas at my parents’ house in the country,” he says, excitedly. “We’ll probably be there for two or three days. I can’t wait for it; sleeping late, spending the days skiing and napping in front of the fireplace, playing cards and drinking mulled wine in the evening… my mom doing all the cooking.”

  He’s got a contagious smile, Adrian, it makes Oliver feel a bit happier just looking at him. He’s so pretty, too, when he smiles.

  “The kids like it too, they help my mom cook, and follow my dad around when he feeds the animals…”

  “Do your parents have a farm?”

  “Well, not really. My dad just likes animals, he doesn’t have the heart to kill them, he just keeps them and feeds them until they get old and die peacefully.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “Yeah.”

  Oliver licks his lips, unsure whether he should ask or not.“What about your wife?”

  Adrian goes quiet for a moment, then stuffs his hand down his pocket and picks up a letter.

  “She writes one every year, always at the same time. To say she’s sorry she can’t visit,” he sighs. “She… had a bad time here. It was never easy for her; she was from the city, and living in a town, even a decently big one… she could never understand. And things got worse after Sam was born. She wasn’t happy here. She wrote me a letter and left.”

  He sounds so sad. Oliver moves a little closer, and Adrian smiles; he doesn’t look uncomfortable sitting so close to Oliver, he leans into him a little, their shoulders bumping against each other, their knees pressed together.