Continuum Read online

  and three made us stronger

  until I became weak

  chemical

  dependent

  worthless nothing

  suffering on the inside

  where no one sees the wounds

  my scars had only

  just

  started

  healing

  and now there is a fissure

  where instead there should be bond

  glue

  the opposite of apathy

  a smile

  a Mary Poppins disposition

  when I couldn’t fall in line

  I fell behind

  and the life I had been given

  the life I’d chosen

  the things I said I accepted

  I doubted

  questioned

  I was confused

  until up became down

  right became wrong

  and the beautiful little boy

  we created

  deserved better than me

  and the man I loved

  maybe

  he didn’t need me

  the axis shifted

  the universe spun

  I hung from a string of burned out stars

  and the open window

  allowing a safe return from space

  appeared to be closing

  The Paradox

  a seemingly contradictory statement opposed to common sense, yet it might be true

  someone who does two things seemingly

  opposite to each other

  “I’m thinking of our wedding night.”

  “What, Cal?” she mumbled, half-asleep. The clock on the dresser screamed 11:13 in bright red numbers. They were lying in their king-sized bed at their home in Seattle, her back to his front.

  A masculine hand grazed her waist, and she pulled away from its warmth and safety, but he didn’t let go. She clung to the pillow, not moving a muscle, wishing he would roll over and pretend to sleep.

  “It feels like only last week,” he whispered on a sigh.

  But it had been two months since they’d exchanged vows on the beach, since they’d combined their souls, sealed heartbeats.

  It had been weeks of being unable to sleep. Oh, some at night. But her adrenaline was locked into overdrive, or her hormones were shifting ... or something. She hadn’t even been able to take a nap since the baby had been born. Their baby. Their son.

  Benjamin Everett Prescott.

  It had happened so fast … not long after the wedding night. She’d had him early.

  Married in March.

  A baby by the end of April.

  Mother’s Day had come and gone…

  “Annie…” Cal’s nose pressed into her shoulder, and he trailed it over her skin, breathing against her, nape to jaw. “The doctor said it’s okay.”

  It had been the prescribed six weeks of abstaining from intercourse. Except they’d abstained from everything, including some of the nightly cuddling.

  “I’m not ready,” she said, and felt his body tense.

  His hand remained wrapped around her waist, now a fist. His chest expanded, then deflated. “Just let me love you.”

  “I’m so tired. I’ve hardly slept.”

  “Rosa will fly back out here in a heartbeat.”

  “I want to be with Ben. Just the three of us. For a while.”

  “Okay.” He kissed her in all the places his nose had just caressed.

  Now she felt remorse. She wasn’t the same. She never felt the least bit of excitement at the prospect of an orgasm. She didn’t fantasize. That part of her seemed dead. The memory of the wedding night wasn’t enough to rouse her mood.

  Flowers, rose petals minus stems and thorns, had been strewn across the floors and bed of the bridal suite — red and pink and yellow and white — symbolizing the ones she’d once drowned and the ones Carl had peeled apart and thrown into the Tesla.

  If only things could be that simple.

  And at the time, those things had seemed hard.

  Hindsight…

  It was a dream. The last two years had seemed that way. A nightmare. Then a dream. And now she didn’t know how to plan or what to expect. Each day brought something new. The baby had thrown her into a tailspin. Lack of sleep made her unreasonable.

  The way Cal’s body pressed against hers now … hurt. His kisses felt like a weight, holding her down. Every time he’d tried to touch her these last few weeks, she’d recoiled like a snake.

  All she wanted was sleep. She daydreamed about lying on a beach in the sun. The heat warming her head to toe until she could relax and drift off...

  And she wished Cal wouldn’t try to love her because each attempt made her feel pressured then ashamed. Failing to be what he expected … miserably. His patience only reminded her of the things she wasn’t and may never be. Was that how he’d felt when they’d been dating?

  “What can I do for you?” Wet, open-mouthed kisses peppered her shoulder, her collarbone.

  “Let me sleep.” She clutched the pillow harder, hoping it would provide relief. If she could sleep soundly and for hours on end, this bleakness she felt might cease. Things would go back to the way they’d been before she went into labor.

  Once-magical fingers trailed down her arm, and she pretended to be pacified by their spell. She attempted to warm to his ministrations, even letting out a little sigh, snuggling against him, her hips meeting his thighs.

  Seconds later, the baby began to wail.

  Sounds drifted down the hall. Cal was working in the downstairs bedroom they’d turned into a study/library/office.

  It seemed he was always playing that particular record.

  Annie crept into the room, wearing her gray sweatpants and soiled nightgown of a top, a few buttons still undone at the collar. He’d shut the speakers off everywhere else but hadn’t bothered to close the door.

  He stopped typing and glanced over his shoulder.

  “I just finally got him to sleep,” she said.

  Turning back to the machine, Cal’s fingers flew at a frenetic pace.

  “He cried all morning.” Her shoulders slunk forward. Her stomach felt hollow. She was about to turn to leave when he closed the lid on the laptop and patted his knee.

  “Come here.”

  “Honey...” Her eyes shifted from his intense gaze.

  Cal stood and took a few tentative steps, looking fearful he’d scare her off like a frightened bird. Then he was close enough to smell her: breast milk, tangerines, and the calendula from the baby cream. His nose fell against her hair. Her scent comforted him … even when mixed with baby things.

  “Dance with me.” He took her limp arm and placed her hand on his shoulder. He found a familiar spot to rest his palm: the small of her back.

  His feet began to move.

  Annie was a statue.

  “La Vie En Rose” wasn’t having the effect it used to...

  He’d had his record player brought to the bridal suite. The one his grandfather had given him. A few choice albums were there too.

  Annie didn’t ask questions. She only followed his lead, seeming to relish being surprised. She trusted him.

  It was the first song he played. The first they danced to after the wedding … when they were completely and utterly alone, rose petals scattered across the floor and the bedspread, her dress rumpled and dragging on the floor. She leaned her head against his chest, content to let him guide her in this start of their new life as man and wife.

  And he’d never felt more honored.

  This is a privilege, he thought. To be entrusted to care for such a wife, someone who could certainly survive without him, but she’d chosen — she wanted — his guidance and partnership.

  She needed him.

  And he needed her.

  Her skin felt like satin, just the way the dress did.

  It would be a shame to take it off. Maybe she could wear it indefinitely. And they could dance like this forever and
only to this song. Louis made him feel things too. Satchmo’s scruffy voice, reverberating pure soul … and magic. And he hadn’t even begun to sing yet.

  Cal had turned into a fool.

  “I love you,” he whispered, his throat so swollen and tingly, the sensation like that of a shard of glass across skin. A protective hand was splayed across her backside. His eyes were full of wonder.

  “Mmm,” she replied.

  “Do you want to just sleep?” He kissed the top of her head.

  She pulled back and peered up at him. “I want you to make love to me.”

  “The backseat wasn’t enough?” He smiled.

  “Nothing is enough. Love isn’t enough, Prescott. I want everything.”

  “And you shall have it. Now help me figure out how to get you out of this damn thing.” He began to fiddle with the contraptions holding it together.

  “I know this song,” she moaned against his shirt.

  “Yeah.” He stroked her hair. “You know it from a movie.”

  “But it’s familiar, like from something else too.”

  After over a minute of only melody, the voice they knew well began to croon. Annie’s smile was so huge it broke Cal wide open. He stopped fingering the back of the dress and concentrated on holding his wife.

  His heart belonged to Annie — body and soul.

  “Is this the romance you claimed you wanted on our wedding night?” he whispered near her ear.

  “You’re pretty good, baby. But don’t get a big head.”

  “Too late.” He pressed his groin against hers, then they both threw their heads back and laughed.

  “I’ve got you. Just lean on me,” he said, and they skirted across the floor of the study — such a contrast from the night they’d spent in the hotel room.

  They could’ve spent a week there and foregone a honeymoon … and food … and sunlight.

  Why was it different now? Annie wondered. When would it feel like it used to? Even her bones felt brittle. She wanted to reach the summit. And if she could’ve gotten there, it would’ve been over. Things would’ve been as they should’ve been: complete.

  “When will I stop being so tired?” she said against his neck.

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself. This is an adjustment.”

  But she hadn’t showered ... in days … again. She could barely stand upright. And the heather sweatpants she wore had become skin. She didn’t even take them off to sleep. She hardly looked in the mirror. She never combed her hair.

  “I’m a mess, Cal.”

  “Let me take you to bed.”

  Annie stopped dancing. She dropped her arms to her side.

  “I meant just you.” He wiggled her hips and willed her to smile by giving him one of his own, dimples and all.

  The song was ending. Something else was ending too. Or beginning.

  “I’m sorry I haven’t been able to…”

  “Don’t apologize. I can go without sex.”

  The look she gave him could’ve stopped traffic.

  “Come on…” He tugged on her hand.

  “It won’t matter. I won’t be able to fall asleep.”

  “You should try. Have you eaten?”

  “Crackers.”

  “Annie…”

  “Please don’t scold me.” Tears filled her eyes.

  He ran his knuckles along her cheek. “Can I give you a bath?”

  She took in a sharp breath and stared into his eyes. “No. I’m fine.”

  He loved to watch her in the bedroom when she didn’t know he was there.

  She sat in the companion rocking chair, the other they’d brought from his mother’s. He loved gazing upon the two of them, especially as she nursed their son.

  Today, her tears fell, and she often glanced out the window, looking for something in the glass or through it.

  But he thought this behavior was normal postpartum. And it wasn’t always difficult. There were good days too.

  Or maybe he’d chosen to be optimistic. See the glass half-full.

  It had only been a couple months, maybe twelve or so weeks, and birthing babies was traumatic. Her body had gone through an event most men wouldn’t have been able to accomplish. Correction: zero men. And now she lacked sleep, a schedule, friends, spending time with her camera. And she was feeding an infant from her breasts, giving their son precious nutrients.

  It was beautiful to watch.

  The tears sometimes had a beauty too.

  He had to stop himself from wanting to erase them. He’d learned they were sometimes necessary — a part of the grieving and healing process. He was learning not to default to feeling helplessness.

  He was just about to fully open the door when something happened.

  Benjamin’s mouth was still around her nipple, but he’d stopped the vigorous sucking. It caught Annie’s attention too. She gazed down at their son, a smile on her face, a few tears in her eyes … and holy fucking shit … Ben was smiling too.

  “Cal,” she said in amazement the moment he entered the room. “He knows me.”

  “Of course he knows you, Annie.”

  “I mean”—she gave her pinky to Ben, and he squeezed it in his fist—“it’s … it’s the way he just looked at me. He smiled. It was in his eyes too. He knows who I am.”

  “Oh, baby … my heavy.” Cal dropped to his knees and placed his head on her lap. He left it there as Ben resumed nursing until both boys fell asleep, recognizing and absorbing love — the kind only this woman could provide.

  Mozart spun on the record player. Cal had found the perfect place for the old thing in their living room. It seemed whenever he was home, it was on. He’d had speakers placed strategically throughout the house.

  Benjamin liked music.

  Especially Mozart.

  Annie was starting to tire of noise.

  Even her head buzzed.

  Her muscles wept.

  Her armpits smelled.

  What day was it? What time was it? Where was her phone? Had her mother called? Yesterday? This morning? Or was it now afternoon? It had to be at least two or three o'clock.

  She slid her fingers through her greasy, uncombed hair and peered down at the sleeping baby on her chest. Three months old, and he was still so tiny. His head was in the crook of her neck, and his knees hit her breasts. She had to resist the urge to stroke his long, wheaten eyelashes…

  At least he was asleep.

  Finally.

  He’d cried for most of the day.

  As she sat in one of the rockers Cal had brought from his mother’s, she continued to study Benjamin’s face. He had his father’s lips … and maybe her smile. His forehead crinkled as he dreamed, his eyes twitching under their delicate lids. His lungs made a beautiful inhalation, and she could feel the rise matching her own rhythm.

  “Do you need anything at the store?” A hand caressed her scalp.

  The touch startled her. Her breast was still out. Her eyes stung like she’d swam in the ocean with them open. A tremor passed through her, a twitch.

  “Annie,” he whispered. “Let me put him to bed.”

  “He’ll wake up. No.”

  “Did you hear me before?”

  She shook her head.

  “Do you need anything? I’m picking up diapers and fruit.”

  Ben wiggled. She patted his bottom, tapping it lightly, subconsciously willing him to stay asleep.

  He cried.

  A lot.

  He nursed.

  A lot.

  And she still couldn’t sleep well even when he did.

  She shook her head again. The market didn’t sell what she needed. A hydrocodone … maybe a bottle of them. Maybe a patch of something to knock her out cold. Sometimes she empathized with Michael Jackson. Which should’ve scared the shit out of her, but in that moment, she felt fearless with those thoughts. On top of the moon.

  Then…

  …her head tingled, and her throat turned to sandpaper. Shame settled into t
he pit of her stomach.

  “Let me put him down. Then you can shower.”

  Tears welled up in her eyes as Cal reached for their son. But Annie shifted from his grasp. He sighed, walked away, grumbling as he grabbed the keys and went out the door.

  She sat there, barely rocking, numb and thinking of nothing, only feeling hurt claw its way up the wall of her chest … until the record stopped, the needle skipped, and the baby woke up.

  Memories of the birth came to her at night in flashes.

  The pain — exactly where she’d felt it in her body, nowhere and everywhere — she’d welcomed.

  Then and now.

  Because thinking about it gave her something to do between nursing and burping and changing.

  Annie: It’s happening.

  The phone rang immediately after she’d sent Cal that text message the morning she went into premature labor.

  “How often?” he said the second she’d swiped the screen.

  Still in the throes of one, she panted into the receiver, groaning.

  “I’m ten minutes away.”

  “Hurry.”

  “Should I call an—"

  “No … just hurry.”

  Cal arrived home within minutes and transported her to the hospital faster than any emergency vehicle could have. The labor was short in duration, or so she’d been told. She opted not to have an epidural.

  It was good to feel pain.

  Pain was better than what she felt right now, lying in the king-sized bed she shared with her husband in their home in Seattle, the baby monitor on, its Darth Vader-like static singing a melody she wanted to squash.

  Because she was supposed to feel love, elation … joys of motherhood.

  But she lay there in the dark, Cal and Benjamin sleeping, and felt ... nothing.

  She couldn’t say when it had changed or if it had. She only knew it was different.

  Her moods felt darker, like something she couldn’t see her way through. The fog of The Nothing from The NeverEnding Story.

  If she seemed like a different person, it was because she was.

  She’d gone into the hospital as Annie and come out a misfit, a freak, someone unfit for the job she was supposed to be intuitively made for.