Blessed Are the Wholly Broken (15 page)

Only once, during all that time, did Anna directly express her wishes, and that was the night of my discovery. We’d not spoken since that morning, since I’d left Anna huddled in the bathroom floor. I’d come home later than usual, having stopped with coworkers for a drink after work, something I rarely did. To be honest, I was a coward. I was afraid to go home. I didn’t know what to expect, so I put it off as long as I reasonably could.

To my surprise, I’d arrived home to find it lit with candles, soft music in the background, lasagna, fragrant and steaming, on the table. Anna uncorked the wine just as I walked through the door. I accepted the offered glass willingly and without question, until Anna poured her own glass to the brim and clinked it against mine.

“You’re drinking?” I was surprised. In the early years, through the failed pregnancies, all the way through losing Jeffrey, Anna hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol, or caffeine either, for that matter. Personally, I hadn’t thought an occasional glass of wine would cause any harm, but Anna had been adamant, rigidly adhering to the dietary advice of her doctors.

But not that night.

“I can drink,” she said, “because I’m not keeping this baby. I already told you I have an appointment for next week.”

Those were the words that had kept me from home, that had compelled me to spend the evening in a bar instead of with my newly pregnant wife. I’d worked so hard all day to fortify my belief that first, the baby was most certainly mine (of course it was—how could I have even doubted?) and second, we were getting a final chance at a dream we both had shared, that I couldn’t bear the thought Anna might be in a very different state of mind. Carefully, I set my glass down and turned to look at her.

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am, Phil. I’m not a young woman; it’s not as if we’re still in our thirties, trying to have a family. That life is gone. I’m forty-four years old, too old to have a baby.”

“You make it sound as if we’re days away from being sent to an old folks’ home. Plenty of people have babies at our age, Anna.”

“Good for them,” she said, and took a long sip of her wine. “But I don’t want to. I don’t want the anxiety, the worry, the sickness or discomfort. I don’t want the mood swings, the depression, the risks involved. I’m too old to be a PTA mom, and I don’t have the energy to host slumber parties. Twenty years ago, hell, even ten years ago, I would have jumped at the chance. But I’m too old now, Phil. I don’t want it.” She shrugged, a gesture I read as a challenge.

“But you’re just talking about the abstract idea,” I pointed out. “Think of the baby. I think you’re letting your fear get in the way of the reality of us finally having a family. This is what we’ve always wanted.”

“No, it isn’t.” She set her glass down, too, and leaned across the table towards me. “It’s what
you’ve
always wanted. I stopped wanting it a long time ago, when I realized the two of us
are
a family. If you ever listened to me, you’d know that. A baby is the very
last
thing we need.”

“You don’t mean that, Anna.”

“Oh, my God. You….” She shoved her chair back from the table, clearly frustrated. “What does it take for you to hear me? I do mean it, Phil. I’m not in a place to want to raise children. I’m comfortable with my life, my job. Call me selfish, if you need to, but I don’t want to give up what I have. It’s too late for me to make the changes I’d need to make to raise a child. I’ve told you that for years. This dinner….This is about working on us, our marriage.

“We have things to work on, Phil. Otherwise, we wouldn’t find ourselves in this spot. And I want to do that, to work on things. I love you. I miss you. I think back to our earlier years, even some not-so-early years, and I feel like we’ve lost ourselves, or maybe it’s just me. Maybe
I’m
lost. I’ve made mistakes, God knows I have, but I want to fix them. A baby won’t do that for us. In fact, it’s the worst thing that could have happened, and I suppose it serves me right.”

We regarded each other across the dining room table, the lasagna congealing in front of us. “Anna,” I paused, unsure what to say. “I want to work on our marriage, too, but this isn’t going to just…just
go away
, you know.”

She shoved aside her plate, folded her hands on the table in front of her. I’d never seen Anna look the way she did that night. She wasn’t just determined, she was hard, angry. “It can,” she said, with a tilt of her head, “if we make it.”

I was shaking my head before she’d even finished. “We just can’t do that, Anna. After all we’ve been through, after all
you’ve
been through, you’d really be okay with that? Don’t you feel that would be like,” I struggled for words, “like slapping karma in the face? Okay, so it’s later than we’d planned, but now that it’s happened, would you really be okay with….”  I couldn’t even say the word. “With ending it?”

She crossed her arms and leaned back, her expression defiant. “Are you going to fight me on this? Because if this is some sort of punishment—”

“No.” I stopped her before she could say more. “Wait. Let’s just slow down. This is so sudden and unexpected for both of us. Let’s take some time and think about things, at least a day or two, so we don’t make any decisions we’ll regret.” I was terrified of her words, our words. I knew the things we said that night would set the path for our future, and that frightened me; I wanted to tread very carefully.

“There are so many opportunities for regret here, Anna. I don’t want that. I want to fix things, too. You’ve always been the most important part of my life. I’m not sure where I’ve failed you, but I’m willing to take a look at it and try to fix things. But we need to be careful here, tonight, with what we say and do. We owe that to each other. Okay?”

As quickly as Anna’s anger had appeared, it disappeared, and she dissolved into tears. “It’s too late, Phil.” I watched helplessly as she wiped her eyes on her shirttail and poured herself another glass of wine. “It’s already too late. Either way, we lose; there’s simply no good option.”

“It’s never too late,” I told her, “as long as we’re both willing to try.”

But I had been wrong, and Anna had been right. It was already too late.

We didn’t fight again, not after that first day. We’d spent so many years treating each other with kid gloves by that point, I’m not sure either of us knew a way out of it. We arose the next morning almost as if the previous day had never happened. Anna’s eyes were swollen from crying and her face was drawn, but her voice was cheerful as she wished me good morning, and she hummed as she cleared away the dinner dishes we’d been too tired to wash the night before.

I watched her carefully, taking my lead from her. If she was willing to move ahead without revisiting our previous discussion, I was only too happy to oblige. She held me close before I left for work, and I returned the embrace, stroking her back for a moment before releasing her.

If her good cheer was too deliberate, I chose not to notice, and when she called later in the day to tell me she loved me I chatted happily with her about any number of mundane topics: the weather, an irritating coworker, a lab test I was running, a quarrelsome student she had to advise. I couldn’t remember the last time we had stopped in the middle of a busy day to reach out to one another, and I savored the experience.

Neither of us mentioned Anna’s upcoming appointment, and the week passed like any other. I was grateful for that, as well as for Anna’s seeming acceptance of her pregnancy. She made an appointment with her doctor, replaced her morning coffee with juice, and the half bottle of wine leftover from our disastrous dinner found its way to the garbage bin, the remaining contents poured down the drain.

Eventually, over time, we shared the news with family and friends, all of whom expressed pleasure once they’d absorbed the initial shock. Unlike with her previous pregnancies, Anna experienced no morning sickness with Peter. She was instead the picture of health. Her condition carefully monitored, she was full of energy and what appeared, to the outside world, anyway, to be if not exactly excitement, at least a cautious acceptance of the upcoming birth.

Only I knew otherwise. Some nights, across the expanse of our bed, I could hear Anna crying. “I can’t do this again, Phil,” she would say. “It’s too late.”

I’d shush her, reaching across the darkness to assure her everything would be okay; I truly believed it would. “We’ll be fine, Anna,” I’d tell her. “You’ll see.”

“But this isn’t what I want. It doesn’t feel right; it scares me.”

“Anna,” I stroked her hair. “We’re in this together. We can do this. It’ll be fine, more than fine. It’ll be wonderful. You’ll see.”

Looking back, it’s almost as if my stark denial of our situation was my lifeline through it all. As long as I could focus on the end result—a baby,
our
baby—I could be okay. I didn’t deliberately leave Anna out of that equation; instead, she chose not to join it, and I chose not to change it.

Peter Michael Lewinsky was born at 1:30 a.m. March 30, 2012. My first inclination is to say the birth was relatively easy for Anna, but that’s not entirely true. Her labor was relatively fast, as it had been with Jeffrey. Unlike Jeffrey, both Peter and Anna had been monitored closely throughout the pregnancy and delivery, factor V Leiden never far from our thoughts. As a result, Peter entered safely into the world and was placed without incident into Anna’s arms.

I suppose it should not have been a surprise to me, given Anna’s state of mind throughout the pregnancy, that she exhibited more trepidation than joy upon his arrival. “Do you remember when Jeffrey was born,” she asked me, shortly after our friends and families had finally departed for the night, “and they whisked him away? You didn’t know where to go, whether to stay with me, or to go with him.”

“Of course I remember.” I bent to kiss her forehead, stroking a finger along Peter’s downy scalp, laughing as he scrunched up his little red face. He already had a head full of Anna’s auburn hair, a fact that pleased me. “But you don’t have to worry, Anna. Peter is fine. You’re fine. We knew this time.”

“Do you remember what I said to you?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “But let’s not think about that now, okay? Let’s just enjoy this moment.”

“This is important, Phil.” She reached across Peter, who nuzzled at her breast, to put a hand on my arm. “Do you remember?”

I didn’t. What little I remembered of that night was cloaked in shadows, which is exactly the way I wanted to leave it, and I told her so.

“As the doctor explained what had happened, I could see you were torn,” she said. “You didn’t know which of us to be with. I told you to go. I said, ‘You have to be there for him, because I can’t.’”

“Okay,” I said, giving in. “But what does this have to do with now?” I was becoming annoyed. I wanted to focus on Peter, count his toes for the umpteenth time and argue over who he most resembled. I wanted to focus on the present; I didn’t want to be caught in the past.

“Everything,” she answered. “No matter what, you have to be there for Peter if I can’t. He will always need one of us to be there.”

That drew me up short, jarring me from my irritation. “Are you feeling okay?” I leaned back to better see her face. Her color was good, but her words worried me. I was suddenly terrified of losing her to a stroke. She was on anticoagulants and hooked up to all sorts of medical equipment; none of the beeps or hisses seemed out of sorts with what I’d grown used to, but knowing Anna as I did, I knew I’d need to pay close attention. “I’ll get the nurse.”

“No, Phil. I’m fine. I feel fine. I just need to know that no matter what, if I can’t be there for Peter, you will.”

“Of course,” I said, my concern mixing with confusion. “But Anna, you don’t need to worry. The doctors—”

“Just promise me, Phil. That’s all I ask.” Her voice was quiet; she sounded drained. I studied her more closely, taking in the fine lines around her eyes, the downward curve of her mouth.

“I promise, honey. I’m here for both of you, no matter what.” She leaned her head against the pillow, seemingly satisfied with my answer. “Let me take the baby,” I said, reaching for him. “You must be exhausted. Sleep, and I’ll take care of Peter.”

She handed him over without protest and I gathered him against my chest, enjoying the warm weight of him as I reached to pull the curtains closed before settling into the room’s single chair, perfectly content to hold him through the night while Anna slept.

At that time, given her health issues, I’d assumed Anna meant physically—if she couldn’t physically be there for Peter. But since that time, I’ve wondered. What did Anna see? What did she sense? Did she know even then, before Peter had even been bathed, the vernix still evident on his tiny body, that in fact she wouldn’t be there for him?

I think she did, and it’s this knowledge I hold close to me when doubts creep in, when I see that awful morning in my memory. Anna loved Peter. I believe that, and I believe she knew, and she tried to warn me and to protect him. But I didn’t hear her.

The Court:  Your witness, Counselor.

Defense Attorney:  Thank you, Your Honor. Mrs. Tyler, you’ve known Phil Lewinsky for many years, haven’t you?

Connie Tyler:  I have. Over twenty. Just about the same amount of time I’ve known you.

Defense Attorney:  And in all that time, did you ever witness him behaving aggressively towards your daughter Anna?

Connie Tyler:  No. Never.

Defense Attorney:  Did you ever witness him behaving in a hostile manner towards Anna?

Connie Tyler:  No. I never did.

Defense Attorney:  Did you have occasion to witness Phil and Anna together during Anna’s latest pregnancy?

Connie Tyler:  Oh, sure. At least weekly. Sometimes more often. Either they were at our house, or we were at theirs. Or we met out in public, like at church or whatnot.

Defense Attorney:  During those visits, how did Phillip treat Anna?

Connie Tyler:  The same as always. He was always thoughtful with her. Patient. Caring. Worried about her health, making sure she was comfortable.

Defense Attorney:  And after the pregnancy, when you volunteered to move in with Phillip and Anna. Why was that, Mrs.Tyler?

Connie Tyler:  Anna was having some trouble adjusting. She was worn out, just plain exhausted. They both were, really. Peter was a little colicky back then. But you know, it’s hard on a woman, having a baby. Well, I reckon she was depressed. She wasn’t herself, and I could see Phillip needed some help. He couldn’t do it all on his own.

Defense Attorney:  Even during that time, with both Phillip and Anna exhausted, did you ever see Phillip lose his temper or behave aggressively towards Anna?

Connie Tyler:  No. He was worried about her, of course, but he was never angry with her.

Defense Attorney:  How about towards the baby?  Did he lose his temper with the baby?

Connie Tyler:  Oh, not at all. He loves that baby. Phillip is an excellent father.

Defense Attorney:  Thank you, Mrs. Tyler.  No further questions.

Connie Tyler:  Thank you, Brian.