The Night We Met (8 page)

His back was to the door and he didn't know I was there. I started toward him, intending to put my arms around him when he began to sing. "My Cup Runneth Over."

The first line of the song stopped me in my tracks and tears filled my eyes.

We were going to be okay.

Or so I thought. Less than a week later, Nate and I were in bed, in the throes of lovemaking, when the baby began to cry.

"Leave him for just a second," my husband said, his voice strained and out of breath.

I tried. Thinking of the man I loved, I opened to him, welcomed him, but as the baby's cries grew louder, I couldn't focus, couldn't do anything but lie there like a rag doll.

"Forget it."

Before I knew what was happening, Nate had rolled off me and off our bed—without an orgasm. A moment later, Keith's cries stopped. I didn't move, worried about Nate's mood, afraid I'd hurt his feelings. I could tell by the sounds from the nursery that he was changing the baby.

He brought Keith to me. "Here's your mama," he said gently, settling the baby against me, and my heart soared for an instant.

Until, instead of joining us, Nate left the room. I heard his feet on the stairs. The clang of his keys.

And the front door closing.

Tears rolled slowly down my cheeks the entire time our son nursed.

Nate never came back to bed that night.

"Where were you?" Those were the first words out of my mouth when, at five o'clock the next morning, Nate came through the back door just as I finished feeding Keith at the kitchen table.

"Out."

"I realize that. Out where?" I could understand and forgive a lot of things. One I would not. Ever.

If Nate had found his welcome in another woman's body...

"Driving." He dropped his keys on the counter. Went to make a pot of coffee—decaffeinated because I was breast-feeding.

"Alone?"

"Of course."

"All night?"

Nate didn't turn around, didn't deny the validity of my obvious suspicion.

"Yes."

Neither would he out-and-out lie to me. I knew that without a doubt.

"You told me once that you'd inevitably do some things that would disappoint me. You said I'd do them, too."

He stood at the counter in front of a pot that was starting to percolate.

"I just want it understood, Nate Grady, that disappointment I can handle, but if you ever step out on me, if you ever touch another woman or let her touch you, I will surely die."

Swinging around slowly, he gave me a long, hard stare. And then, still without saying a word, he left the room.

Five minutes later, from upstairs in my bathroom where I was covering my sobs with the sound of the shower, I could hear the piano. Nate started out slowly, with a soft, sad-sounding piece. He was hurting as much as I was. Maybe more.

Because I had Keith s unconditional love staring me in the face all day, every day, while Nate went out in the world to provide for us. And when he came home at night, I was the one Keith reached for when he was hungry or in need. That had to make Nate feel excluded.

Once it had been Nate and me against the world. Now it was Keith and me, with Nate on the outside looking in.

I could see it happening. I just didn't know what to do about it. My baby was helpless.

Nate was not.

I adjusted Keith's feeding schedule. It took a few days but I arranged it so that the baby was still up for a couple of hours when Nate got home. That way he had more time with his son.

And he and I had more uninterrupted time late at night. It seemed odd, keeping a baby up so late, but anything that might help heal the rift between us was worth a try.

On the fourth night, he was playing the piano as I fed the baby and put him to bed. This was already becoming a routine. One that I loved. I'd moved my rocking chair from the living room to the dining room and sat beside the piano while Keith nursed and fel asleep—listening to his father play.

I smiled as I came downstairs after putting Keith in his crib—to Nate's rowdy rendition of "Great Balls of Fire." He always played that when he was feeling aroused. On a whim, I unbuttoned my shirt as I walked, and unclipped my bra. Leaving a trail of clothing behind me, I entered the dining room topless

—something I wouldn't be able to get away with these days if the baby hadn't just nursed.

Something I'd never even thought of doing before.

Glancing up as I sauntered in, Nate missed a key. I grinned. And went for the button on my jeans.

Seeing that I had my husband's complete attention I shimmied to get out of them and left them in a pile on the shiny wood floor. Dressed only in a pair of panties Nate had bought me, I climbed up onto the piano bench and hitched myself up to sit on the scarred wood of the instrument Nate was stil attempting to play, my feet dangling above the keys.

"You're asking for trouble, woman," he growled playfully.

"I'm looking for trouble, sir."

Nate didn't let me down. I'd never made love on a piano bench before. Never done it sitting on a man's lap, either.

That night I did both.

And loved every second of it.

Chapter 7

Our second son, Jimmy, named after my father, who still wouldn't acknowledge me, was born just thirteen months after Keith. With two boys in diapers, one of them walking and refusing most naps, I was busy from morning until night, but I'd grown a lot more comfortable with motherhood—and had mastered the fine art of juggling many roles at once. I could clean up vomit, vacuum and cook almost simultaneously. And still smel good and have a smile on my face when my husband got home.

The smile wasn't hard. After more than two years of marriage, I adored my husband as much as ever. Every night, no matter how tired he might be, Nate played with his sons, bathed them and then serenaded them to sleep.

I stil felt pangs when I drove by the Catholic church on the next block. I'd pulled into the parking lot a few rimes during mass, just to sit there and feel...close. But even then, I didn't regret marrying Nate.

And life went on.

Singer Elton John made his first United States appearance when Jimmy was two weeks old, and Nate, who had a hankering for his songs, celebrated by taking us out for a night on the town. We took the boys— Keith, real y, as Jimmy was breast-feeding—to Denver for his first fast-food hamburger.

He didn't want anything to do with the mustard- smeared offering, but he loved French fries and begged to have them with every meal after that.

My mother came to stay with us the fall after Jimmy was born. She was a great help to me as I adjusted to dealing with an overactive toddler and a newborn. And it took very little time for her and Nate to solidify the bond they'd tentatively formed during my mother's brief visit after Keith's birth.

One night at the piano and she was hooked.

Mom stayed for nearly a month and it soon became clear that we were going to need a bigger house.

Three bedrooms wasn't enough anymore. Mom and I looked for three days until we found the perfect place. A log home close to the mountains.

Nate loved it on sight and within six weeks, we'd moved in.

William, June, Alice and Bonnie took turns visiting that year, as well. June had moved back to California, and my sisters came together, without their families. I missed my nieces and nephews and Nate promised that next summer we'd make it home for a visit of our own.

William still wasn't married. At my instigation, Nate tried his best to hook him up, but Wil iam wasn't having any of it. He said he had a list of things to do before he planned to settle down. And when Nate started in on him, he said, "Hey, big brother, I seem to remember you were pushing what—

thirty-four, wasn't it?—when you married my sister."

By that standard, William, at twenty-seven, had some time.

With a son on each hip, Nate didn't say another word.

We didn't make it home that summer, after al . I was pregnant again—due in October. That would make three babies in just over three years. I wondered if I was going to have another boy. While I secretly longed for a little girl, I knew it would be more practical to have a son. I had all the clothes and toys already.

Nate's job was going well. The resort had grown so much, Walt was talking about expanding into Utah and possibly Nevada. He sent Nate to scout out some sites in Tahoe. Nate wanted me to come and I called my mother immediately, hoping she could stay with the boys.

She flew out the next weekend and seven months pregnant, I went on a romantic getaway with my husband. We were only gone four days, but they were days I'd remember for the rest of my life. I'd forgotten how observant Nate was, how attuned to everything around him. I'd forgotten how marvelous it felt to be the sole recipient of his attention. But the one thing I hadn't forgotten was how much I loved him.

On the day Sarah Elizabeth Grady was born, Disney- world opened in Orlando, Florida. I knew this was an omen of the magic our little girl was going to bring to my life. I final y had a daughter.

Nate couldn't have been more thril ed. He cal ed at least four times a day to ask how Sarah was doing and always went to her the second he got home at night. If I hadn't been so happy, I might've been a bit jealous that our daughter got his first kiss at the end of the day, but I couldn't find it in me to do more than grin and wait my turn.

Life was hectic. Keith was potty training, Jimmy walking. I was breast-feeding again. And the house didn't get cleaned as often. I couldn't make myself care about that. I kept the floors sanitary, the laundry done and managed to cook healthy meals. The rest didn't seem to matter.

I invited my parents for Christmas that year. My mother came alone—two days after the holiday. I was beginning to understand that my father was never going to forgive me. He thought I'd disrespected his greater experience and knowledge. He thought I'd dishonored him. I had a recurring dream in which he'd show up on my doorstep with presents for al three kids. The dream eased the constant ache I felt because of the hole in my heart. In a strange way it gave me hope.

And, according to Mom, he still believed Nate was going to hurt me. He didn't seem to realize that he was the only man in my life who'd done that.

Two days after Mom left, on the second of January, 1972, Sarah Elizabeth Grady died in her sleep.

Crib death, they called it.

I called it cruel. Unfair. Impossible.

"No, Nate, she's not dead," I told Sarah's father as he pried my hands away from the tiny casket someone had chosen and mistakenly placed my tiny daughter in.

"Come on, Liza, we have to go."

The visitation had been over for almost an hour. My mother had long since taken the boys home to bed.

"I'm not leaving her."

"I'm sorry, baby, you have to." His words were little more than a whisper as he bent over me where I half lay against the smal pine box.

"I can't." While my spirit was slowly crumbling, my voice remained strong.

"Yes, you can." I had a flash of memory—Nate saying those same words to me in that same tone.

The day he'd driven me to the hospital to deliver our first child.

Forever ago.

He'd been right then. I could do it. I had. And repeated the experience twice more.

But this time he was dead wrong.

Dead, dead wrong.

As dead wrong as that precious little body lying so stiffly just inches from my face.

As dead as I wanted to be.

Sarah's sweet, chubby cheeks blurred as my eyes welled with tears.

"I can't, Nate." My voice broke and my body shook with sobs that hurt my bones. "I just can't do it." I heard my wails, wondered in some obscure part of my brain what the mortician must think of me, but didn't have the strength to give a damn.

Nate stood beside me, holding me up as I held on to the silky fabric lining our baby's casket, crying with me. I could feel his tears dropping on the back of my neck and knew he was grieving, too.

The weight of his pain was too much to bear.

I'd done this. To Sarah. To Nate.

This was my penance. The price I guess I'd always known I would someday pay.

This was God's way of punishing me for breaking my word to Him. I should never have left the convent.

This was my fault.

I begged God to have enough mercy to take me home.

My chest was soaked. I felt something sticky on my breasts. Pulling myself up out of a deep sleep I knew I didn't want to leave, I thought of Sarah, hungry, needing to eat, and opened my eyes.

And then closed them again. Remembering.

The setting sun was shining in on me. I could feel its warmth on my face.

It was afternoon and I was in bed.

I didn't care. Another drop of milk slid down the side of my breast to the mattress beneath me. The thick protective pads I wore inside my bra were drenched, heavy with unused milk.

There were no tears left to cry, just this weighty sadness that infiltrated my bones and pinned me to the bed.

"How long's she been asleep?" Nate's voice. Home from work.

"More than an hour." Mama was there, too. In the room. They were probably staring at me. I didn't have to feign sleep. I was comatose whether I was conscious or not. "I'm worried sick about her, Nate. I told James I'd be home by the end of the week, but I can't leave her. Or the boys."

The boys. My sons. They deserved better than me. I wasn't good enough to earn the honor of raising Sarah. Would I harm them, too?

And James, my father. He knew about me. I didn't blame him for staying away al these years. Even the death of my precious little Sarah hadn't been enough to bring him back.

"I think you should go." Nate's voice sounded tired.

He needed a woman who was worthy of him.

"Who'll watch over her? And the boys? She's barely twenty-three, Nate. Still a baby herself. Too young to handle...this...and two small boys. I can't leave her."

"She's been in bed for a week. Refusing to take the medication her doctor gave her to dry up her milk and to help with depression. We can't continue this way."