The Life You Longed For

The Life You Longed For by Maribeth Fischer Page B

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Authors: Maribeth Fischer
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then, her hip bones, and it felt as if he were touching every part of her simultaneously, her nerve endings ringing, her entire body like a bell vibrating beneath his touch.
    In his bedroom doorway, he lifted her sweater and turtleneck over her head and let them fall to the floor, as he led her to the bed. They didn’t speak, didn’t stop looking at each other. She lay down, still wearing her jeans and socks, and he knelt next to her, pinning her arms over her head, the sunlight falling across her like a crocheted blanket. He brushed his free hand down her arm, trailed his fingers over and around her breasts. And then, still pinning her arms, refusing to let her touch him—“Not yet,” he whispered—he leaned over her, kissed her forehead as gently as she kissed her children’s. And then her mouth and her chin and the place where her heart pulsed at her throat. With his tongue, he drew a slow line down her middle, cut her open, until he reached the hollow between her hip bones, just above the top of her low-rise jeans. “I want to taste every inch of you,” he said, looking up. And then he rolled over next to her, pulling her with him so that she was lying on him now, her hair in his eyes and his mouth, his fingers brushing it away as he told her, “You are so beautiful, Grace. I had no idea you were this beautiful.”
    Later, after she came again and again, her entire body trembling with the force of it so that it felt almost as if she were sobbing, he’d rocked her in his arms and blown tiny breaths against her neck and her throat, cooling her off. And then she was sobbing for real, and when he asked what was wrong, she said, “Oh Noah, I haven’t been this happy in so long.”
    Â 
    Oh Noah , she thought now, but there was no thought after that. He was so far away. He had no idea what was happening in her life.
    The acronym M.A.M.A. appeared now on the computer screen: Mothers Against Munchausen Allegations . The house felt cold again, and she held her robe closed at her chest with one hand as she clicked the computer mouse onto the site with her other.
    A color photograph filled the screen. A blond woman was laughing and nuzzling her nose into her child’s chubby face. The baby was laughing as well, a huge toothless grin. […] died a horrifying death…a false Munchausen by Proxy diagnosis…
    Grace scrolled down to the next page, to the Sears-type portrait of a brown-haired woman and her three preschool-age children, dressed in matching pale blue polo shirts and khakis. They looked happy. Normal. Kelsey, Davis, and Bethany, confiscated from home by Broward County, Florida, Child Protective Services, July 13, 2000; 166 days.
    Her hands were shaking. Another photo of a young couple holding a blond girl with long braids. “Samantha Nicole, never forget that we love you. We are fighting every day to get you home.” Taken by Lancaster County, California, Department of Child and Family Services, March 10, 2000; 287 days .
    She kept looking. Names, locations, and the number of days since they’d been taken. Not weeks or months. A refusal, Grace understood, to package the number into something smaller, less horrific, more manageable. Or maybe an inability.
    Ryan Michael, taken by Mecklenburg County, North Carolina, Department of Social Services, January 21, 2000; 339 days.
    Natasha, taken by Kenosha County, Wisconsin, Child Protective Services; 38 days.
    Ashley and Megan, abducted by Jacksonville, Florida, Department of Child Protective Services; 104 days.
    Alexander, Bucks County, Pennsylvania; 19 days.
    Trevor, Henrico County, Virginia; 43 days .
    Tucker, Jason, Anna. Ohio, New Jersey, Texas. Taken. Confiscated. Abducted.
    My God, what had happened to Marie Noe? That was Munchausen’s. Ten children in one family dying mysteriously. But this? These were normal families. Families with kids who were sick, maybe; families with mothers who were

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