One Sweet Day

by Elle Tyler

  And charm threaded itself into the composition of my life the moment I closed my eyes to dream that night. On a cloud, I spotted the hourglass of my life stretched over the plains of Earth, and with one swift kick of wind, it blew over with nothing yet comprised or fallen. All I saw was the morning sun waiting patiently for me to crawl out of bed. All I felt was the hope of a new day. And that was charm at its finest.

  ***

  I left Everly sleeping the next morning, unaware of all the new charm and hope blossoming inside of her own dreams. It wasn’t until one month later, when we lay in our bed in Red Pine, our lips lost to fever, that I was told of such dreams. She laughed against my mouth as my hands traveled along the softness of her bare skin beneath the covers.

  “I have two heartbeats,” she whispered.

  “I love you too, Everly.” My mouth went for hers, but she pulled back slightly.

  “I’m being serious.”

  “So am I.”

  She inched away, eyes staring up at me. “I have two heartbeats.”

  “That’s impossible, unless you’re being metaphoric, peach.”

  She took my hand that rested on her hip and slid it slowly to her abdomen. And I almost laughed at her, but then her eyes told me a different story. They showed me grains of sand and birthday wishes. They glowed with irrevocable love and awe.

  With fervor, she repeated, “I have two heartbeats.”

  “Wh…? When?” I stammered. “Since when?”

  She framed my face and leaned in for a kiss. “Fireworks.”

  She smiled at whatever she saw on my face but then shrank away when I didn’t say anything.

  “Are you upset?” she asked.

  I shook my head because I still hadn’t formed words for this revelation.

  “I... I wasn’t sure if you’d be angry.”

  “Why in the world would I be angry?”

  “Your mom died.” She looked down at the comforter. “And that might be the fate of our child growing up. Not to mention, I might have... I mean, CIPA is genetic.”

  There were too many words and worries suddenly in the room. I rushed for her mouth, quieting all doubt with the seal of a binding kiss.

  Against my lips she swore, “I’m sorry.”

  And I was so angry, so completely outraged that she would feel guilty for something our love had created. My ire wasn’t aimed at her—I knew it was something Timothy had embedded—but it crossed me all the same. No parsimonious feelings should ever be allowed to live amongst such wealth.

  “Do you want to hear it?” I asked.

  “Hear what?”

  “Your second heartbeat.”

  She nodded frantically.

  I pulled myself from bed and dug around the house until I found a handheld sonogram. I watched her quiet down and grow nervous as I pressed the wand to her stomach.

  “It’s just gonna show a picture and play sound,” I assured.

  She relaxed flat on the bed, and I moved the wand around until I found horse hooves galloping. At least that’s what she told me it sounded it like.

  “Andrew,” she said.

  “Oh, no,” I played, “don’t tell me I’m not the daddy, peach.”

  She pushed my chin. “If it’s a boy. We can call him Andy for short.”

  “And if it’s a girl?” I asked.

  “I think it’s a boy.” She turned shy. “I’ve had dreams about him for a long time, but I never knew that it was my baby. I thought it was you.”

  I brushed my lips against her bare side. “You dreamed about a little boy?”

  “Ever since I was little. I used to tell your dad about the dreams, and he told me he had some, too.”

  I nodded. “I know. He’s told me about them.” And then I sighed, laughing slightly. “Nothing is by coincidence, right, Everly Anne?”

  “Right, Callum Andrew.”

  So I reveled in the charm of heartbeats and later in the selflessness of her love for our unborn child. The power that love could stir and the magnitude of walls it could crumble.

  Charm tried to hide itself once, at 3:47 in the morning in front our fridge. It stirred me from a deep sleep and tattled on the vacant spot beside me. A container of honeydew cradled in the crisscross of her legs was where charm carried me. Secretly, I spied from the doorway as she shoved bite after bite into her mouth, the juice running down the length of her arm and chin.

  I sank to my feet and smiled at her.

  “You know, we have a very nice kitchen table.”

  “You’re gonna need to stop at the grocery store in the morning,” she said, finishing her last bite. “I’m gonna have blueberry pancakes for breakfast, and we don’t have a single drop of maple syrup in this house. How is that possible?”

  My smile widened. “Well, we are living in sin, Everly Anne.”

  She started to laugh, and then she fell into hysterics; I imagined jovial tears would have streamed down her face until they turned anguished, if it were possible. I moved to her side and held her, unafraid and completely amused by the power of pregnancy hormones.

  But that fearlessness didn’t last long.

  HEAVEN AND EARTH

  30.

  WHILE A ROOM FULL of mothers breathed out a chant of “Hee-hee-Whoooooo,” Everly only sat quietly and observed. It was our first and only Lamaze class. I had assured her I was more than equipped to help her breathe through labor—mostly as a comforting notion, since pain wasn’t an issue—but, of course, oxygen wasn’t the real issue, either.

  She stared out the window of the Chevy as we drove home through a thunderstorm, the rain beating on the windshield and hood like a million pennies falling from the sky. It was still too quiet. The rain couldn’t fall hard enough to block out the shouting of her silence.

  “Want to stop for ice cream, topolina?”

  “No.”

  “That’s a first.”

  When we pulled into the driveway, I cut the engine, but we sat trapped by two colliding storms. Everly finally turned to me, and her eyes said it all: this was where fairy tale thoughts about motherhood came to an end.

  Her voice was never smaller. “I can’t feel him.”

  “He’s fine, Everly Anne.”

  She pitched an octave. “But I can’t feel him.”

  I went to lean my hand on her stomach, but she knocked it away. “I know you can feel him. I know all of those other moms can feel their babies. You’re just watching words come out of my mouth, Callum Andrew, but you’re not hearing me.” And then she cried tearlessly. “I can’t feel my own baby.” And then that same fear that once lived inside of food and anxiety sprang back to life as she gasped for air, choked by the agony of what she felt, repeating over and over that she could not feel our son.

  “He’s right there.” I put our hands along the curve of her stomach, following a pattern I knew by heart. “Head. Back. Butt. Legs. Feet. All right there. He’s perfectly fine. He’s perfectly there.”

  It did very little to ease her torment. I was being technical and I knew it, but I couldn’t formulate a magical way for her to feel him. It was out of my hands.

  “How will I bathe him?” she cried. “How will I heat his bottles and feed him without burning him? I won’t even know if the bottle is hot!”

  “Same as you bathe yourself. Same as you feed yourself. You’ve been doing fine, topolina.”

  “What if something happens to me while you’re at the hospital working and he’s in the house all alone, crying for thirty hours straight, hungry and sitting in his own mess?”

  I unbuckled my seatbelt and then hers. “Come to me.”

  She gasped for air. “This is so stupid. I can’t believe we did this.”

  “Everly Anne.”

  She held her head in her hands. “I should have stayed in New York. This was too selfish. Loving you has become too selfish.”

  I groaned, sitting back in my seat. “I really want to comfort you right now, Everly Anne. I do. But the shit coming out of
your mouth is making that virtually impossible.”

  She looked up and glared at me. “I’m so sorry that me having a nervous breakdown is inconvenient to you, Callum Andrew!”

  “You’re not having a nervous breakdown.” I sighed. “You’re having the same damn panic attack all new mothers have. You’re no different than any other new mom.”

  “Choke on those words, Callum. I could not be any more different than other moms! Other moms can feel their babies kicking inside of their stomach.” She popped the door handle and stepped into the pouring rain. I chased after her, lifting her unwillingly into my arms as she yelled for me to leave her alone. I brought her in the house and held my hand on the door as she tried to leave.

  “Please fuckin’ stop it, Everly Anne.” She pushed me away, but I held her hands in mine. “Just stop. You’re pregnant, there’s a fuckin’ monsoon outside, and you’re not going anywhere. Hate me from upstairs in our bedroom, if it makes you feel better—preferably in warm, dry clothes.” But then I glanced over her. The fabric of her soaked cotton dress clung to her full breasts, outlining them exquisitely. I touched her wet hair, brushing it away from her cold face. “Or we could stop fighting,” I whispered, “and I could...” I leaned in for her mouth, but she backed away, pressing against the front door. I stepped closer. “I could take your wet clothes off.” I went for her chin and kissed her softly. “And I could draw you a nice warm bath.” I kissed her neck, dotting along her skin until I reached the hills of her breasts. She panted under my mouth, her hands coming away from the door and grasping my hair. “And I could...” I slid her wet dress down to her hips and palmed her left breast. “…Show you how unselfish my love is.”

  She gripped my hair as I took her into my mouth. “Your love is perfect,” she whispered. “It’s me. I’m the selfish one.”

  I kissed her right breast and then squeezed my hands around her hips, moving my mouth just below hers. “Our baby won’t need you to heat bottles to feed him, because he’ll have the warm milk of your breasts as nourishment, and you will know how to do it, just as every other woman has known how to do it for eons.”

  In labored breaths, she argued, “They don’t offer breastfeeding classes just for grins and giggles.”

  My hands slid under her dress and pulled the hem of her underwear down to her knees.

  “The father of your baby happens to know his way around unruly breasts and babies.” I gripped her cheeks. “I have a degree that proves my words are true.” I kissed her bare shoulder. “I have hands that feel you’re shivering, too.” I kissed her again. “Want me to warm you now? Or would you rather keep fighting?”

  Her hands slid from my hair and rushed across my clothes, pulling buttons, pushing away layers between us. We only made it to the couch.

  After we made love, she lay in the crook of my arm as my fingers traced her side.

  “I didn’t mean what I said,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing I want more than this baby with you.”

  “I know, Everly Anne.” I kissed her spine. “But I did mean what I said. You’re going to know what to do. I believe that with my whole heart.”

  “Well,” she said, sighing against me, “as long as it’s with your whole heart.” Softly, she chuckled.

  I rested on my elbow and peered down to her. “What’s funny, topolina?”

  “I was convinced another part of your body was making this argument. A little further south of your whole heart.”

  “No,” I said, “that part was trying to keep my insane, pregnant girlfriend in our house so she didn’t get swept away by the monsoon.” I kissed her head. “You foolish girl.”

  “There aren’t any monsoons in Georgia, Callum Andrew.” She kissed my arm. “And you’re just as foolish as I am.”

  “But a better arguer.” I smiled.

  She smiled, too. “A much better arguer.”

  I moved to rest between her legs, keeping my weight on my forearms. “Should we start on how you’re going to bath our baby?” My body searched hungrily for hers. “Do we need to finish that argument?”

  She drew her hands up and down my arms. “Does it involve the warm bath you talked about against the...” She fell silent as I entered her. “...door?”

  ***

  Inside the darkness of our bedroom, she whispered to me, asking if I was awake.

  “I’m here.” I put my hand under the covers and found her bare hip. “What’s wrong?”

  She curled into my side—a rare thing, her body close to mine as we slept. Quieter than a mouse she asked, “Do you think we could call him?”

  “Calling anyone at this hour is out of the question, unless you’d like to be murdered, Everly Anne.”

  “Do you think he’d even talk to me?”

  I soothed my hand along her hip. “Timothy? Are we now talking about Timothy?”

  She stayed quiet, and her body was too rigid against mine. I rolled over and stared down into her eyes. “Everly Anne, what are you so worried about?”

  “He knows what to do,” she said regretfully. “I can’t deny that.”

  “Do you really want your father here?” I asked. “Do you really want to rip open those wounds right now? This pregnancy is delicate enough without adding more drama to the scene.”

  “You won’t let him come?” she asked nervously.

  “Let him? This is not a prison, Everly Anne.”

  “I know you don’t like my father. And... this is your house.”

  I climbed out of bed, and paced in the dark, past the window of our bedroom. I didn’t want to fight again, but my blood was already heated and rising.

  “Everly Anne, sweetest love of mine, please, for the love of God, listen to me. Open up the ears you once used to have before crazy pregnancy hormones took over and hear what I am saying to you.” I leaned my palms on the bed and gazed down at her. “This is our home. You’re my other half—the best fuckin’ half of myself. You make up everything that is missing in my life. When I’m pissed-off, you calm me down. When I’m hopeless, you pour faith into me. When I’m grumpy, you make me smile. When I’m tired, you keep me awake. When I’m clueless, you walk with me until I’m found. I love you more than three simple words. I adore you endlessly. But, Everly Anne, you’re driving me fuckin’ crazy tonight.” I laughed lightly and then sighed. “I think I messed up somewhere. Didn’t I?”

  She shook her head. “You didn’t do anything.”

  I brushed her cheek. “I know—that’s my point. I didn’t do anything to tie you to me, and now we’re up at three in the morning, fighting again, but now it’s about your father coming to rescue you.” I leaned in closer. “Why can’t I rescue you, Everly Anne? Have I not cared well enough for you thus far? I’m the father of our baby, and you want your prick father to come save the day. So what haven’t I done?”

  “I’m not looking for a pity proposal,” she said.

  I lifted her chin. “No? Then what kind of proposal, topolina?”

  “It’s not about marriage,” she replied. But she turned her face away, because her face had eyes that couldn’t hide secrets from me. “Forget I asked.”

  I crawled to her. “I would marry you.” I kissed her down to the mattress. “I am married to you, Everly Anne. In my heart, that’s how it feels. There’s nothing—no one—else who owns my heart like you do. No one who I have ever made love to other than you. No one I have ever loved, period. No one. Just, just, just you.”

  “I can’t make love again,” she whispered. “Please stop.”

  “Are you scared?”

  “I’m tired,” she replied.

  “I’m not talking about sex.” I kissed her mouth, cradling her face in my hands. “I’m talking about marrying me.”

  She gazed at me. “I don’t want to marry you,” she said.

  “Like you didn’t want to go to the Met with me?” I kissed her once. “Or hold hands with me?” Twice. “Or walk home with me?” Three times. Deeper. She kissed me back that
time. “Or live one free day in Montauk? Or let me make love to you?” She sighed into my mouth as I kissed her more feverishly. “Or keep yourself alive for a whole year, just so I could keep you?” She moved her lips against mine with the same carnal need. “That kind of ‘don’t want,’ Everly Anne?”

  “There’s too much happening,” she panted. “I’m not supposed to be so involved. This isn’t supposed to be the story I leave behind.” She hid her face into my shoulder. “I wanted it to be so simple.”

  “I know.” I groaned. “I read your fuckin’ letter. The last letter you left me in my notebook.” I pulled back a little so I could see her. “I know you’re scared, Everly Anne. I know you are. But that’s the whole point of us. You’re supposed to cling harder to me when you’re scared, not move further away. Seek comfort in me, Everly Anne—the same comfort that carries me to you. Let me help, let me inside. Let us be married to each other. Not only on paper or in words, but in how your heart sings for me and how mine beats for you.” I pressed her fingers to my chest. “Only for you.” She drew me to her lips. “Marry me, Everly Anne.”

  “Make love to me,” she whispered.

  “Surrender first.”

  “Let me feel how much you want me as your wife, first.”

  I groaned into her mouth. “Your arguments are getting better.”

  “So let me win,” she said.

  “Will you marry me?”

  “Will you forgive me for wanting Timothy to come here?”

  I paused and then kissed her. “I don’t think it’s a good idea, but if it comforts you, I’ll ask him to come.”

  She gazed up at me. “Do you think he will?”

  “I honestly don’t know. I never fully believed your father would surrender so easily.”

  “I will.”

  I kissed her softly. “You will what?”

  “I surrender.”

  “Yeah?” I drew her shirt away from her shoulder. “When?”

  But she laughed quietly. “Callum, I really can’t make love again. You have to stop with all the kissing.”

  “I knew you were bluffing.” I groaned, pulling away. “Fuck.”