Broken (24 page)

For a moment I sat, silent. Then I started giggling, too. “No way!”

“Yes!” Katie guffawed. “She absolutely did!”

We laughed for a few minutes, until I shook my head. “Wonder of wonders.”

“So, I told Evan I had no choice, I needed to be there for my big sis, or my mom would have my hide.”

“And he couldn’t complain about that, huh?”

“Evan going against Mom? He knows better. And look at this.” She held up her cell phone with a laugh. “Turning it off. Evan’s going to have to just learn to deal with the poop explosions on his own.”

“That sounds scary.” I poured wine and opened the gold box of candy.

“It’s good for daddies to learn how to take care of their babies,” my sister said. “Especially when they think they can’t. Besides, Lily’s a big help.”

I laughed, imagining my niece’s “help.” “Poor Evan.”

“He’ll be fine.” Katie sipped wine slowly, an expression of bliss on her face. “I haven’t had wine in…years. My god, I’m so glad to have my boobs back. I love my children, Sadie, but holy hell, I’m going to be glad to have some of my life back again.”

I thought I was laughing, but it was the sound of my wineglass shattering on the tile floor. Then I knelt among the shards, my fingers reaching without care toward the glittering sharpness.

“I’m glad to have my life back, too,” I said, each word a fishbone in my throat. “I’m glad, Katie. I know I shouldn’t be glad, but I am.”

Many times I had helped her when she’d fallen, but now it was Katie’s turn to pull me away from the mess. She cleaned the cut on my finger and wrapped it in a bandage the way I’d done so many times to skinned knees and elbows, and she handed me tissues for the tears that boiled out of me at long last.

“You’re such a mom,” I managed to tell her when my sobs had tapered into hitching sniffles.

We made it back to the sofa in the den, and Katie tucked her feet up underneath her. “Yeah, funny, huh? Who’d have thought?”

We shared a smile. She handed me the box of chocolate. “Eat that.”

“Great. Just what I need to feel better about myself. Fat thighs.”

She reached to pluck out one for herself. “Fuck fat thighs, bitch, and eat the chocolate.”

There was no denying the power of chocolate, especially not this premium sort that melted on my tongue. “It’s like…a little piece of heaven in my mouth.”

Katie made devil horns with her fingers. “You said it.”

Devil horns and chocolate. There were some things nobody understood about me better than my little sister. Not even Adam known some of those small pieces of me.

“I miss him, Katie.”

“I know you do. I miss him, too, Sades.” She licked chocolate from her fingers and gave me a serious look. “Nobody expects you not to miss him.”

“I went to the grocery store after work, and I didn’t have to call home, first. I didn’t have to make sure anyone was at home to take care of him. I didn’t have to wonder if he was all right, or if I’d get home and find out something had happened…or get home and have an argument because I’d been gone too long. And I sleep, Katie.” I swallowed more tears. “I sleep all night long. Every night. And I don’t have to wake up, not once.”

Her hand was the rope thrown into the sorrow trying to drown me, and I clutched it.

“None of that means you didn’t love him, Sadie.”

It didn’t feel true, though I wanted it to be. “He could be such an asshole! And I knew it was because he was depressed and upset, but he was so fucking mean sometimes! It was like he wasn’t even the same man I’d married. It was like he woke up from that coma with a different person inside his head.”

“And none of that means you didn’t love him, either,” my sister said. “Because you’re right, he could be an asshole. But he could be an asshole even before the accident.”

From anyone else I’d have self-righteously protected my husband’s memory, but I couldn’t do that with my sister. “Yeah. I know. But he could also be the best man in the world, when he wanted.”

“It’s not your fault that he stopped wanting.” Katie squeezed my hand.

I nodded, more tears seeping from my eyes. “I never got the chance to fix it. I never got the chance to find out if we could.”

“Yeah.” She pushed more chocolate on me.“I know.”

And I knew she did. I didn’t need my sister to tell me the truth, but it wasn’t until her words became the mirror reflecting what I already knew that I believed it.

“Wanting to be able to go to the bathroom by myself and fit into a regular bra doesn’t mean I don’t love my children with every breath I have,” Katie said. “And wanting to take your life off hold doesn’t mean you didn’t love Adam.”

“How’d you get to be so good at giving advice?” I asked her.

My sister smiled. “I learned it from my big sister.”

Then we both cried.

Grief goes away like a cold sore, painful even as it fades, and sometimes leaves a scar to remind you always where it had been. Missing Adam didn’t mean I loved him any more than not missing him meant I did not. Time would mend and mesh my emotions and all I had to do was let it happen.

I made an attempt at moving on. I joined the gym. I cancelled my subscription to the DVD rental service and joined a book discussion group. I filled my time with all the things I’d denied myself for so many years.

They didn’t all bring me joy. In fact, I soon dreaded going to the gym more than I’d regretted being unable to workout. Reading and discussing books took more effort than watching movies. Still, for the most part I allowed myself to enjoy my new life and not let guilt weigh me down.

I could fill my life with activities but I couldn’t fill myself. Something was missing. Something left undone. The feeling of something lacking insinuated itself in the back of my mind like a hole in a snagged stocking, bit by insidious bit.

I thought it was Adam’s room, which I’d left unchanged since his death. I thought maybe I needed to get rid of those final reminders of his life after the accident so I could focus on remembering better things. I stood in the hall, my hand on the knob, and it took me only a moment to understand my problem wasn’t this door I’d kept closed.

It was the door I’d left open.

February

I
knew he’d be there. There was no reason he shouldn’t, other than perhaps the same long habit that had drawn me back. Like toads returning in the spring to the pond where they’d hatched, Joe and I both made our way to the bench.

Someone had changed the plants in the atrium. The hanging potted ferns had been replaced with spider plants. The spiky, dangling clusters made a different sort of shadow. I couldn’t decide if I liked it.

I’d dressed carefully for the occasion in colors that flattered, shoes that made me feel tall. My lipstick was a shade that always gave me confidence, but as I sat and waited, I wasn’t sure if I needed it or not.

The moment I saw him, I no longer had a question. I wasn’t sure what I’d feel upon seeing Joe again. I’d imagined anger, or disappointment. Maybe a surge of recalcitrant lust. I hadn’t expected relief.

It washed over me with an almost physical force when he sat next to me. The breath I tried to take stabbed my throat and my hands twisted into knots in my lap. It was like losing someone in a crowd in a strange place, that heart-skipping moment of fear before your eyes at last capture the sight of the familiar face among those of strangers, and you realize you are no longer lost.

“It’s good to see you, Sadie.”

I nodded and squinted up toward the sun shining through the glass. The ferns had made shade. The spider plants did not, and I decided I didn’t like them, after all.

“I figured you weren’t going to come back.”

“My husband had a stroke,” I said quietly, looking toward him at last. “He died.”

I thought I’d grown used to saying it. Making it real with words. It had been easier to say than “My husband is paralyzed from the neck down.” Easier to say and easier for people to offer condolences for a dead spouse than one who’s disabled.

The words sounded as if I’d said them easily, but the ground blurred and I put a hand to my face to cover my eyes. I felt his hand on my shoulder. We moved closer without moving at all.

It was the first time he’d ever touched me.

I whispered, but had no fear he wouldn’t hear me. “Do you have a story for me, Joe? Because I really need one.”

This month, my name is still Priscilla and I wear a diamond on my finger that tells the world I’m engaged. 1:28 PM 3/17/2007 It’s big enough to draw comment from strangers. I love it.

Today, I’m meeting my fiancé for lunch with one of the seven caterers I’m considering hiring for the reception. She’s going to let us sample all the menu items I’ve checked off as possibilities, including the cake. We have the choice of strawberry shortcake and chocolate layer cake, both gourmet. No grocery store wedding cake for me, thank you. After all, a woman only gets married once, if she does it right the first time.

“Darling!” There he is. My Joe. He turns and I tut-tut at the way he’s standing with his hands in his pockets. “Baby, you’re doing it again.”

He takes them out at once with that apologetic smile I find so charming. “Sorry.”

“You’re too handsome to look so sloppy.” I’m wearing flats today and must stand on my toes to kiss his cheek. He smells very clean. “I’m going to get you some cologne.”

He slips his hands over my hips, pulling me closer and looking down into my face. “You don’t like the way I smell?”

“You smell fine. But I like cologne, that’s all.” I kiss his cheek again and push away. “Come on. We don’t want to be late.”

“Of course not. Heaven help us if we break out of our schedule.”

I stop to give him a narrow-eyed look. Is he mocking me? With Joe, sometimes, I’m not quite sure. Most of the time we seem to be on the same page, but every once in a while he comes up with something ridiculous.

“It’s rude to keep someone waiting.” I don’t mean to sound curt, just firm. He should know by now how I feel about that. It’s not like we haven’t discussed it at length.

He reaches out to snag my wrist and pull me back toward him. I don’t want to kiss him, but he bends me with such grace I end up doing it, anyway. He tastes like mint.

He sounds sincere. “I’m sorry. I know you hate being late.”

I smile when he says that, and kiss him with a little more enthusiasm. I take his hand. “Come on, Joe.”

Inside, the caterer treats us to samples of tiny sandwiches, cubes of cheese, spirals of meat and lettuce. She’s got a little of everything, all on those fancy toothpicks with the plastic fringes. Joe plucks bite after bite, chewing and swallowing, and I know he can’t possibly be savoring the differences between the teriyaki chicken and the barbecue. His eyes look as glazed as the honey ham.

The caterer gives him a look, then me a sympathetic glance. “As I was saying, Miss Eddings, the entire hors d’oeuvres platter would serve 300 guests—”

“Three hundred!” That’s caught his attention, and he turns, mouth open. “What…Cilla, I thought—”

I hate it when he calls me that. “Joe, darling, that list I gave you was already pared down to the absolute minimum.”

For a moment, I think he’s going to argue with me, right in front of the caterer, who has the discretion to look down. She’s seen her share of connubial spats, I’m sure, but I’ll be damned if I give her fodder for the gossip circles. I sit up straight and fix him with a look meant to temper the discussion, and it works. He shrugs. I return to discussing the prices of petit fours and canapés.

It’s not my fault Joe’s guest list consisted of his family and three or four friends. I know a lot of people. I have business associates, family, friends, people who aren’t friends but will have to be invited anyway because they think they’re friends. My life is as layered as the cake we sampled today, and this wedding is important to me. I tell the caterer I’ll call her by the end of the week.

At my house, Joe takes off his jacket and his tie and stretches out on the couch to watch TV while I make us dinner. It’s simple again, whole wheat pasta in a light tomato sauce and a green salad, but it conforms to my rigid diet. I refuse to look like an overstuffed chair in my wedding dress. Joe complains sometimes, but since he’s not the one cooking, I say he’s hardly got the right. Tonight he says nothing, just eats what’s put in front of him.

He’s a good listener, better than any man I’ve ever dated. I pause in the middle of an anecdote about my day when I catch him staring at me. “What?”

When he gets up and comes around the table to kiss me, I can’t help the thump-thump of my heart. He tastes like oil and garlic, which means I do, too. I pull away a little. “Joe…”

His hand slides along the back of my neck, under my hair. He tips my head back to meet his mouth. His tongue strokes mine as his hand holds me in place, so I can’t move away. I sigh and give up. Give in to him.

His other hand drifts down to caress my breast. My nipple gets hard and I want to squirm, but I don’t. He always makes me feel this way, like I can’t stay still. As though he’s touching me all over, even when he’s only kissing me.

“Come upstairs.”

It’s not a plea. It’s not a request. It’s not quite a command, either, but I get up, anyway.

He’s kissing me on the way up the stairs. He unbuttons my blouse, my skirt, pushes open my door and takes me to the bed to finish undressing me. In my bra and panties I give in to his kisses and the stroking of his hands along my body. I allow him to unhook my bra and slide it off, baring my breasts to his gaze. The sight of my bare skin seems to capture his attention more than the caterer’s samples did, but I’m not surprised. I work hard to keep my body in shape.

His mouth drifts lower. He sucks my nipples, one at a time until I arch upward a little. He knows just how to touch me. What I like. What I don’t.

His hand drifts over my thighs and belly, where it circles briefly in my navel. He puts his palm flat on my skin, taut and firm from hours of crunches. I tense a little bit, expecting him to move lower, down between my legs.

His kisses have slowed. After one more, he stops and pulls away to look into my eyes. I usually like the way Joe looks at me. He’s usually smiling.

Now he stares and his hand comes up to smooth a strand of hair from my face. He bends to hover his mouth over mine, and hot breath caresses my face. I still smell garlic, but I ignore it. My lips part, waiting for his kiss, which doesn’t come.

“Kiss me,” I say.

When he does, it’s on my jaw, then my throat and neck, where he nips me lightly. I make a little noise of protest and say his name in a scolding manner, but the truth is that little nip has tightened my nipples. I feel like I want to shift my hips and press upward against his hand, or push his fingers down between my legs to touch me there. So that’s what I do, impatient.

He obliges without a word. His fingers turn and twist, stroking along the lacy front of my panties. It took us several sessions of lovemaking before Joe learned to touch me the right way, the way I like it, but now he knows it’s like I’ve got a secret sex button between my legs only he knows how to push.

He’s on one elbow looking down at his hand on my crotch. At this angle I see the faint crow’s feet in the corners of his eyes and the way his nose has the tiniest bit of a bump at the tip. Small lines bracket his mouth, and I wonder why he’s frowning. I wonder why he looks older than he did when I met him.

“Yes, just like that.” My voice has gone husky. I spread my legs. “Take off my panties, baby.”

Obligingly, he hooks a finger into the lace and tugs them over my thighs. He follows the journey of my panties onto the floor and stands. Then he puts a hand on each of my ankles. When he touches me this way, I’m always surprised at how large his hands are. He can circle my ankles completely. He slides them upward, over my calves, until my body breaks the bracelets of his fingers. He shifts his hands to smooth over my knees, teasing the underside. Then to my thighs. He puts a knee on the bed to get closer to me.

I shiver at his light, teasing touch. “C’mon, baby. Take off your clothes.”

Joe looks up from his place at my feet, his hands still on my legs. He nods slightly and moves to take off his tie. As he unbuttons his shirt, I put an arm behind my head to watch him get naked for me. His skin is faintly golden, the hairs on his chest like burnished copper, and I admire the tufts around his nipples and under his arms. The thatch around his penis, revealed as he removes his trousers, is neatly trimmed.

“I’m so pleased you take care of yourself.” I lick my lips in appreciation. “So many men couldn’t care less about taking the time.”

Joe pauses on one leg in the process of removing his socks. He’s got the form of a statue, all lean lines, though I suspect he must be sneaking cupcakes on the side. His abs are still pretty tight, but his sides are bumpier than they were a few months ago. I’ll have to step up our workouts.

He finishes taking off his socks and crawls up on the bed over me. “How many men?”

I like his warmth and the way his body fits with mine. Not too tall, not too short. His penis is a hard, hot branch against my thigh. I’d really rather have it inside me, and I shift with impatience.

“How many men, Priscilla?”

He’s repeated the question I assumed was rhetorical. “Most of them, I guess.”

I push him off a little so we can roll on our sides, facing one another. His erection rubs my belly. I want it lower.

“Most of them in the world? Or most of the ones you know?”

“Both. Why are you being so…combative?”

“I’m not being combative. I’m just asking. I don’t think it’s out of line to ask, is it?”

He’s talking when I want him to be making love to me, and it’s my turn to frown. “Exactly what are you asking?”

“How many men have you been with?”

I’m not sure that’s any of Joe’s business. It doesn’t impact our relationship in any way. I don’t even keep in touch with former lovers, and I tell him just that.

“Priscilla.” Joe’s voice is slow and deep, a little amused. “Tell me how many men you’ve been with. I want to know.”

“Enough to know you’re the one I want to be with for the rest of my life.”

That is a very good answer, but it doesn’t seem to satisfy him. His hand goes between my legs, right where I want it, but even though I move against his hand, he doesn’t stroke me. I give a frustrated sigh.

“Why do you want to know?”

“Curiosity.”

“Killed the cat.” I’m not even ashamed of using such an old cliché.

“I’m not a cat.”

“Ten,” I say, finally, through gritted teeth. “All right?”

His hand moves, then, like he’s rewarding me. “Yeah.”

He pushes my shoulder so I roll onto my back. His fingertip circles my clitoris. I’m not appeased, but I don’t stop him. I’ve gone tense, though, and it won’t be easy to make me come.

“You’ve dated more than ten men.” He kisses the slope of my breasts.

“Well, yes.”

“But you’ve only gone to bed with ten?”

Joe’s mouth covers my nipple, sucking gently. His fingertip strokes down to dip inside me before coming back up to slide over the bead of my clit. I can feel myself getting slick. I wish sex wasn’t so messy.

“Priscilla?”

“Yes!”

He says nothing for the next minute while he concentrates on licking his way down my torso. I spread my legs a bit wider in anticipation. Though I’m not a fan of fellatio, I fully support Joe’s appreciation of cunnilingus.

“Did they all get you off?”

The noise from my throat can’t be misconstrued as pleasure. “Stop it.”

“I want to know.” He licks my ribs, each one, with soft, light flickers of his tongue. “Did they do this to you?”

His quick glance toward the place his hand works tells me what he means.

“Yes.”

“And you liked it.”

“When they did it the way I liked it, yes.”

“Like this.”

He demonstrates by pinching my clit between his thumb and finger. My startled gasp trails off into a moan. This is not something I taught him to know about me, that little pinch. It’s something Joe does all on his own.

“No…yes…”

He goes back to making small, tight circles. His mouth leaves wet imprints on my skin. When he blows on them, a chill skitters up and down my spine. I open my mouth wider, breath deeper.