his tray and apple core in the trash and walked over to where I was standing near the window in the fading light.
“I’m glad everything’s OK,” he said softly. He didn’t wait for me to speak. “That light, that blue shirt … you look like the Madonna. I’d paint you right now if I knew how to paint with something other than a roller. Maybe you should look in a mirror and paint yourself. You have to be the most beautiful pregnant woman ever.”
He bent over to nuzzle my neck and to feel up the C cups.
“I have some things to tell you … about what Dr. Liesel said … and … other things.” I leaned back into him, distracted by Mike’s roving hands and mouth and liking it enough to not make him stop.
He paused. “Didn’t you tell me everything is fine with the baby?”
“It’s not about that.”
“Can we still have sex?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s take this discussion to the bedroom.”
T his was it.
This was the moment I should tell him. When he felt the most in love with me, after his last shudder, while we spooned, my padded body snug against his muscles, his arm curved around my belly protectively.
The safest place in the world for me to tell.
Our lovemaking had been especially simple and intimate tonight. Not a lot of foreplay. Our faces so close that I could feel his breath, his eyes locked to mine, blue to green, for each slow and deliberate thrust. A good, sweet hurt inside, like when a masseuse’s hands find the right spot.
Mike came quickly. I didn’t.
I didn’t want to.
I turned over, squeezing my eyes shut, preparing myself, thinking that every moment after this one could be different.
“I was raped in college.” A rush of words. A whisper buried in my pillow, too low for him to hear. Nothing like I planned. No easing in. No waiting for his body to recover.
I said it again, too loud this time. The word
raped
cracked the air, a gunshot across the water. His arm around me loosened a little. Retreat? I was flooded with instant regret.
Two seconds had passed. Now three. Enough time for an Olympic runner to cross the finish line well ahead of everyone else. My body began to shake, like it might explode. Mike was pulling me to his chest.
“It’s OK,” he said urgently. “It’s OK.”
Sobbing, I clutched his arms around my belly. When I squeezed my eyes closed, I spiraled in a black universe. Mike said things, soothing things that I didn’t hear for all the noise in my head.
After a time, my breathing grew less ragged. The spinning carousel slowed.
“Emily?” Tentative.
Nothing came out of my mouth, even though I willed myself to speak, and my body to stop trembling. I tried to identify the one emotion that hadn’t been wrenched out of my gut. I felt relief. But not healed. I wanted desperately to feel
healed
.
“I’ve always suspected something like this.”
I swallowed a hard rock in my throat. “You aren’t mad?”
“Why in God’s name would I ever be mad at you for this? I’d like to kill the guy.”
I didn’t say anything. Mike didn’t make empty threats. The last thing I wanted was for him to go hunting.
“There were signs.” Mike shook his head. “I saw them. Marguerite saw them. She said not to push you. That it would happen. That you were almost ready. Because you loved me … and wanted to change. You wanted
us
to change.”
Marguerite, our last therapist, our
best
therapist, a University of Chicago Ph.D., the only professional who told me with unwavering faith in her Supreme Being never to be afraid to try again. She was only in her late twenties, but she knew about losing things. She’d grown old on the streets of Detroit before she was sixteen. She had told us that much. She didn’t say that she’d been raped in that city of decay. But I knew.
“I don’t think I can live without you,” I whispered.
“Why in hell would you ever have to?” He arranged a few pillows on the headboard and patted the space nearby. Familiar
“I’m glad everything’s OK,” he said softly. He didn’t wait for me to speak. “That light, that blue shirt … you look like the Madonna. I’d paint you right now if I knew how to paint with something other than a roller. Maybe you should look in a mirror and paint yourself. You have to be the most beautiful pregnant woman ever.”
He bent over to nuzzle my neck and to feel up the C cups.
“I have some things to tell you … about what Dr. Liesel said … and … other things.” I leaned back into him, distracted by Mike’s roving hands and mouth and liking it enough to not make him stop.
He paused. “Didn’t you tell me everything is fine with the baby?”
“It’s not about that.”
“Can we still have sex?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s take this discussion to the bedroom.”
T his was it.
This was the moment I should tell him. When he felt the most in love with me, after his last shudder, while we spooned, my padded body snug against his muscles, his arm curved around my belly protectively.
The safest place in the world for me to tell.
Our lovemaking had been especially simple and intimate tonight. Not a lot of foreplay. Our faces so close that I could feel his breath, his eyes locked to mine, blue to green, for each slow and deliberate thrust. A good, sweet hurt inside, like when a masseuse’s hands find the right spot.
Mike came quickly. I didn’t.
I didn’t want to.
I turned over, squeezing my eyes shut, preparing myself, thinking that every moment after this one could be different.
“I was raped in college.” A rush of words. A whisper buried in my pillow, too low for him to hear. Nothing like I planned. No easing in. No waiting for his body to recover.
I said it again, too loud this time. The word
raped
cracked the air, a gunshot across the water. His arm around me loosened a little. Retreat? I was flooded with instant regret.
Two seconds had passed. Now three. Enough time for an Olympic runner to cross the finish line well ahead of everyone else. My body began to shake, like it might explode. Mike was pulling me to his chest.
“It’s OK,” he said urgently. “It’s OK.”
Sobbing, I clutched his arms around my belly. When I squeezed my eyes closed, I spiraled in a black universe. Mike said things, soothing things that I didn’t hear for all the noise in my head.
After a time, my breathing grew less ragged. The spinning carousel slowed.
“Emily?” Tentative.
Nothing came out of my mouth, even though I willed myself to speak, and my body to stop trembling. I tried to identify the one emotion that hadn’t been wrenched out of my gut. I felt relief. But not healed. I wanted desperately to feel
healed
.
“I’ve always suspected something like this.”
I swallowed a hard rock in my throat. “You aren’t mad?”
“Why in God’s name would I ever be mad at you for this? I’d like to kill the guy.”
I didn’t say anything. Mike didn’t make empty threats. The last thing I wanted was for him to go hunting.
“There were signs.” Mike shook his head. “I saw them. Marguerite saw them. She said not to push you. That it would happen. That you were almost ready. Because you loved me … and wanted to change. You wanted
us
to change.”
Marguerite, our last therapist, our
best
therapist, a University of Chicago Ph.D., the only professional who told me with unwavering faith in her Supreme Being never to be afraid to try again. She was only in her late twenties, but she knew about losing things. She’d grown old on the streets of Detroit before she was sixteen. She had told us that much. She didn’t say that she’d been raped in that city of decay. But I knew.
“I don’t think I can live without you,” I whispered.
“Why in hell would you ever have to?” He arranged a few pillows on the headboard and patted the space nearby. Familiar
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