Autumn Getaway (Seasons of Love) (12 page)

She sat very still as his words penetrated and took hold. He reached for her hand once more, held it lightly, and caressed the back of it with his thumb. Although the look in his eyes was wistful, he shot her a deliberate half grin. “I guess I’m just trying to tell you that I hear what you’re telling me, and I understand. And I'm glad you told me what was in your head. And maybe now
I’m
the one who’s rambling.”

She just stared at him. “No, I appreciate all of that, what you said. Really. I mean, I still don’t think our situations are remotely comparable… but I do appreciate your feeling like you want to reach out to me right now, to help me somehow.”

“I was just trying to help you back there too,” he said. “I’m sorry that it turned into an ugly, stupid scene and made you feel like a character in a Lifetime movie. But that guy was just, like,
on
you, and I could see from across the room how uncomfortable you were.” Sam chuckled. “Alec’s always accused me of having something of a ‘white knight’ complex. You know, sweeping in and running to the rescue of a damsel in distress. Anyone in distress, actually. He says I throw myself into it sometimes without even thinking. Guess I proved him right tonight.”

Lydia stiffened. “I don’t need to be rescued,” she told him in a cool voice.

The smile faded from Sam’s face. “I never said that you did. That’s not what I was implying.” He gently released her hand. “I know you would’ve been fine if I hadn’t gotten involved. I just… forget it. I’ll stop talking now.”

She felt her stomach churn miserably. “No, no! You—you’re very sweet. God, I am just an
idiot
tonight.”

“No. Not at all.” He smiled gently. “Maybe we should just—”

“Thank you for coming over and wanting to step up for me,” she interrupted him, her tone firm. “I appreciated it. I did. You’re right, I didn’t like feeling like a spotlight got thrown on me, or feeling… like I needed to be rescued. But it was nice all the same, because it was you. You’re a seriously decent guy. You're very sweet. Thank you.”

He smiled again, warmer than before. “You’re welcome.”

They sat there, gazing at each other in silence for a powerful half minute. She wondered if he was thinking about kissing her and her heart skipped a beat. But then he slowly rose from the bench, took her hands in his, and pulled her up to stand with him. “Let me walk you to your room. You look wiped out. I mean that in the kindest possible way, of course.”

She smiled at his jest. But once he’d pointed it out, she suddenly felt completely depleted of energy, and just wanted to fall into her bed. “C’mon. This way.”

They walked together to the end of the hall; her room was the second to last door on the right. He waited as she searched through her handbag for the keycard to her room. When she found it, she held it up to show him. “Well, this is it then,” she said, suddenly feeling a bit awkward. She looked up into his face and smirked gently. “So. Is this the part where I say, ‘well, nice to meet you today’? What a day.”

He smiled the knockout, megawatt smile that she found herself marveling at each time he flashed it at her. “Hey. We left before I got to hear your sixth and final song selection. Tell me what you chose?”

She let out a short laugh; she’d totally forgotten about that. “It was ‘Wild Horses’ by The Rolling Stones.”

He nodded in approval. “Wow. Great closer. You really picked good songs from what was there. I’m impressed. Well done.”

“Glad you are appropriately appreciative of my superior and eclectic tastes in music,” she joked.

“I am,” he nodded, smiling again. “And to show you just how much, would you consider meeting me for lunch tomorrow?”

She grew still, but her heart rate increased with delight. “I—I’d like that, I really would. But I’m meeting my two friends for lunch at noon. They’re the other two of the college foursome with Melanie and me. I haven’t seen them in years, and they’ll both be here in the morning.”

He nodded. “That’s fine. Enjoy your afternoon with your friends. Instead, how about you save me a dance at the wedding tomorrow night? Maybe even allow me to get you a drink?”

Lydia smiled warmly at him. “That would be lovely.”

“Great. I’ll look for you, then.”

Sam continued to stare at her, looked deeply into her eyes. She felt her pulse accelerate. Then he merely gave her a half smile and said, “Good night, Lydia. Sleep well.”

“Good night.” She smiled again. “And thanks again. I have to admit… you’re pretty good at that white knight thing.”

Still smiling, he winked at her and slowly turned to walk away.

Lydia entered her room and leaned back against the door in the quiet darkness. Her head felt light, and not just from the wine. Sam was an appealing, interesting, sweet man. He was really easy on the eyes, he liked good music, he got along with his family, he'd come roaring in to her rescue when she needed it, and despite some light flirting, he had treated her with respect and hadn't made one real move on her. She found herself disappointed that she'd had to turn him down for lunch, and more than a little disappointed that he hadn't tried to kiss her good night.

She thought back on their intense conversation. They had exchanged a lot of information, shared so much in such a short time… she felt so many conflicting emotions, was thinking over so many things, that she didn’t know how to quiet her brain. Ultimately, exhaustion won out; she never even turned on the light. She slipped out of her boots and undressed in the dark, letting her clothes simply drop to the floor. She felt her way to the dresser, found her cotton pajamas where she’d placed them in the top right drawer, pulled them on wearily, and collapsed into bed.

BRIGHT SUNLIGHT STREAMED
through the windows of Lydia’s hotel room, washing over her face and waking her sooner than she wanted. She glanced over at the small digital clock on the dresser: seven-thirty. She took the extra pillow, placed it over most of her face to block out the light, and quickly fell back to sleep. When she awoke again and peered at the clock, it read nine-sixteen. She laid still for a few minutes, easing herself into the morning, something she hadn’t been able to do in several years.

Andy never let her sleep late, or very well. Although he went to sleep in his own bed every night, he always ended up in hers, crawling in with her like clockwork, sometime between one and three in the morning. She was used to it. He would utter one of the only words he said regularly in that angel’s voice of his: “Mama. Mama.” She would hold him close and cuddle him as he fell back to sleep, loving the feel of his warm, tiny body curled up against her.

It had been years since Matt had even held her hand, much less held her in bed. Matt had always protested Andy’s coming into their bed, insisting she put him back into his own room. What was the big deal about having their son with them? She had always refused, continually pointing out that if Andy was coming to her, it was because he needed her, needed
something
. Matt accused her of being overindulgent and babying Andy. Maybe she was. But she didn’t care. What Andy needed was the most important thing. And, after a while, the affection she got from her little boy, both emotionally and physically, was the only affection she received on a daily basis and it was so pure that she drank it in.

Lydia lay in the hotel bed, lazy and content, stretching out her arms and savoring the feel of having the whole mattress to herself. Then she realized that last night, at some point, Andy had woken up in a dark, strange room, was probably scared, had probably gone looking for her, and Matt had probably just put him back to bed and told him to go back to sleep. In an urgent instant, her heart felt like someone had put it in a vice and squeezed it. She threw back the covers and practically jumped out of bed. She went immediately to her handbag, found her cell phone, and punched in Matt’s phone number.

Matt answered on the third ring. “Hello?”

“Hi, it’s me. How’s Andy? How’d it go last night? Is he okay?” Her words came out in an anxious rush.

“Whoa, slow down. He’s fine.” Matt’s voice had the subtle traces of annoyance and derisiveness that always came into it when he spoke to her. “He’s watching an Elmo movie right now, I just got out of the shower.”

“You left him alone in your apartment?” she asked. “Who knows what he could have gotten into while you—”

“Stop it, Lydia.” Matt cut her off. “He’s fine. He is
fine
.”

“Did he come looking for me in the middle of the night?” she asked, her throat going dry at what the answer might be.

“Of course he did, because you always let him,” Matt said. His voice softened a bit as he continued, “But I knew he was in a new and different place, and he was probably a little scared, especially when you weren’t around. So I let him sleep in my bed with me. Okay?”

Relief surged through her. She felt her entire body relax. “Yes. Thank you, Matt. Thank you. I know you don’t agree with that. But he probably
was
scared, and you—”

“I know you hate me, Lydia,” Matt said brusquely, “but I think you forget sometimes that no matter what, whatever goes on between you and me, I do love our son. And that I’m better to him than you apparently think I’m capable of being.”

She couldn’t deny the last part was the truth. “I know you love our son. That's the one thing about you I could never fault.” She paused before adding, “I don't like you, Matt, but I don’t hate you. I hated being married to you. Those are different things.”

He snorted. “Whatever. You want to talk to him?”

“Yes, please.”

She could hear Matt walk over to Andy and say, “Hey buddy, Mama’s on the phone. Here, say hi. Say hi to Mama.”

She could hear the sweet, heavy breathing of her toddler as Matt was holding the phone up to his little ear. “Say hi to Mama,” Matt urged again.

“Mama,” Andy finally repeated.

“Hi, baby!” Lydia gushed. “It’s Mama! Hi sweetheart!”

“Mama?” Andy sounded confused at the sound of her voice coming through the phone. “Mama?”

“She’s on the phone,” she could hear Matt tell him. “She’s talking to you on the phone.”

“I love you, baby,” Lydia cooed. “I love you. Have fun with Daddy, Mama will be home tomorrow. I’ll be back soon, I promise. I love you.”

“Mama,” Andy repeated.

“Mama loves you,” she said.

Matt got back on the phone. “I think he’s confused.”

“I think you’re right,” she agreed. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. When I call to check in later, you shouldn’t put him on again. I don’t want to upset him. I want him to enjoy being with you.”

“You do?” Matt couldn’t help shooting back.

“You are his father,” she said, annoyed. “Of course I want him to enjoy being with you. Now who thinks less of whom?”

“Whatever,” Matt said dismissively, his usual retort. “You don’t have to check in every few hours, you know. I can take care of him, and I’ll call you if I need to or have a question.”

“How are you doing with him, with understanding him?” Lydia asked carefully. Andy only had a few words in his vocabulary: Mama, Dada, no, yah (yes), up, down, dere (there), dis (this), won (want), mick (milk), tee (tree), and Emmo (Elmo). His hearing had been tested and the results were normal. The pediatricians, ENTs, and specialists had no valid explanation for his speech delay, other than chalking it up to that “it’s fairly common these days” and “with help and time would likely work itself out”. This was not enough of an answer for Lydia; but after that, instead of tying herself into knots trying to figure out the cause of the problem, she threw her energies into how to resolve it, determined to get Andy whatever help he needed.

Right away, Lydia knew something was going on. She had her son evaluated for speech services by the county, and he qualified with flying colors. Beginning the day after his second birthday, a speech therapist came to the house to work with him three times a week. When Andy turned three the following April, and his county services officially switched to Childhood Special Education instead of Early Intervention, he had to be evaluated all over again, but still qualified to receive speech three times a week; and Christie, the new therapist that the county had appointed, started her journey with him. Christie was wonderful with him, and Lydia felt he was in good hands.

But still so few words. Sometimes Andy would just look up at Lydia with such obvious defeat in his eyes—it was beyond heartbreaking. Sometimes he acted out, and hit or threw things across the room out of frustration. Christie, who was a very warm, patient, and experienced speech therapist, thought that Andy was very bright; she believed that everything was building up in his little brain, and would likely just come pouring out one day. When he began preschool in September, his teachers seemed to adore him, and claimed he was well-liked by the other children despite his being unable to speak and communicate on their level. So, between Lydia, Christie, and his two teachers, they all worked continually to help the little boy, hoping and praying, and absolutely otherwise treating him like any other little boy.

Matt, regrettably, was not on the same page. He often got quickly aggravated when he was unable to figure Andy out. Getting frustrated was understandable, but his lack of patience was scathingly obvious and, to Lydia, infuriating and unacceptable. She would get angry at Matt and tear into him—it became an endless cycle with them. To her, that had been the quiet, unofficial beginning of the end of their marriage. When Matt couldn’t find proper tolerance for his own son’s disability, she felt whatever love or good feelings she’d had left just bleed right out of her. The lack of understanding and patience that Matt exhibited began to mirror the lack of any goodness and patience that Lydia felt towards him. Soon, there was just nothing left, except for negative feelings, on both sides.

Now, Lydia asked Matt as calmly as she could, “You’re being extra patient with him, right? Please tell me you are?”

“Jesus. You don’t have to beg me to be nice to our son,” Matt practically snarled.