Harvesting the Heart (34 page)

He
looked at me and exhaled. "I've had a really long day, Paige,"
he said quietly.

My
fingers clenched on the comforter. "Oh," I said.

Nicholas
sat on the edge of the bed. He slipped a finger underneath the
thin strap of the negligee. "Where did you get this thing?"
he said.

I
looked up at him. "That's what you said the first time I wore
it," I said.

Nicholas
swallowed and turned away. "I'm sorry," he said. "But
it's really late, and I have to be at the hospital by—"

"It's
only ten," I told him. I unknotted his tie and pulled it from
around his neck. "It's been a very long time," I said
quietly.

For
a moment I saw something in Nicholas—some little spark,
something that lit his eyes from inside. He brushed his hand across
my cheek and touched his lips to mine. Then he stood up.

"I
need to shower," he said.

He
left me sitting on the bed while he went into the bathroom. I counted
to ten, and then I lifted my head and stood up. I walked to the
bathroom, where the shower was already running. Nicholas was leaning
into the stall to adjust the temperature of the water.

"Please,"
I whispered, and he jolted around as if he were hearing a ghost. The
steam rose between us. "You don't know what it's like for me,"
I said.

The
mirrors fogged over and the bathroom clouded, so that when Nicholas
spoke, his word seemed to sink in the weight of the air. "Paige,"
he said.

I
took a step toward him and tilted my head for a kiss. In the
background, over the monitor, I could hear Max sighing in his sleep.

Nicholas
slipped the negligee over my head. He placed his hands on my waist
and skimmed his fingers over my ribs. At his touch, I moaned and
stretched toward him. A thin arc of milk sprayed from my nipple onto
the dark hair of his chest.

I
stared down at myself, angry at my body for its betrayal. When I
turned to Nicholas, I expected him to ignore what had happened, maybe
to make a joke; I was not prepared for what I saw in his eyes. He
took a step away from me, and his gaze roved up and down my body with
horror. "I just can't," he said, almost choking. "Not
yet."

He
touched my cheek and then he quickly kissed my forehead, as if he had
to get it over with before he changed his mind. He stepped into the
shower, and I listened for a while to the quiet symphony of the
falling water and the soap sliding over his shoulders and

his
thighs. Then I pulled the pool of satin from my feet, held it up to
cover me, and walked into the bedroom.

I
put on the oldest, softest nightgown I had, one that buttoned down
the front and had small panda bears printed all over it. As I stepped
into the hallway, Nicholas turned off the water in the shower. I
carefully twisted the doorknob of the nursery, pitch black inside.
Nicholas would not come for me. Not tonight. I felt my way through
the dark in the room, holding on to the air as though it were
something tangible. I stepped around the large stuffed red
ostrich Marvela had sent, and I skimmed my hands over the terry-cloth
top of the changing table. Stumbling, I hit my shin against the sharp
edge of the rocker, knowing the sticky slip of my foot came from my
own blood. I settled down to count Max's even breaths and waited for
my son to call me.

^chapter
1
7

_Nicholas

_Y
ou're
going to be late again? I don't understand why you can't arrange to
be home just a little bit more." "Paige, don't be
ridiculous. I don't make my hours." "But you don't know
what it's like here, all day and all night, with him. At least you
get to leave your office."

"Do
you know what I'd give to come home one night and not hear you
bitching about the kind of day
you've
had?"

"Pardon
me, Nicholas, but I don't get too many other visitors to complain
to."

"No
one tells you to sit in the house." "No one helps me when I
leave it." "Paige, I'm going to bed. I have to get up
early." "You always have to get up early. And you're the
one that counts, of course, because you're the one with the job."

"Well,
you're doing something just as important. Consider this
your
job."

"I
do, Nicholas. But it wasn't supposed to be."

The
first thing that struck Nicholas was how many trees were already in
bloom. He'd lived on this block for eighteen years of his life, but
it had been so long since he'd even seen it that he assumed the
Japanese maples and the crab apple trees formed their wide mauve
awnings over the front yard at the
end
of
June. He sat for a few minutes in the car, thinking about what he
would say and how he would say it. He ran his fingers over the smooth
polished wood of the stick shift, feeling instead the cool leather of
a baseball, the soft inner pouch of his childhood mitt. His mother's
Jaguar was parked in the driveway.

Nicholas
had not been to his parents' home in eight years, not since the night
when the Prescotts had made clear what they thought of his choice of
Paige as a wife. He had been bitter enough to cut off his contact
with his parents for a year and a half, and then a Christmas card had
come from Astrid. Paige had left it with the bills for Nicholas
to see, and when he did he had turned it over and over in his hands
like an ancient relic. He'd run his fingertips over the neat block
lettering of his mother's print, and then he had glanced up to see
Paige across the room, trying to look as if she didn't care. For her
benefit he'd thrown away Astrid's card—but the next day, from
the hospital, he had called his mother.

Nicholas
told himself he was not doing it because he forgave them, or because
he thought they were right about Paige. In fact, when he spoke to his
mother—twice a year now, on Christmas and on her birthday—they
did not mention Paige. They did not mention Robert Prescott, either,
because Nicholas vowed that in spite of the curiosity that drew him
to his mother, he would never forget the image of his father bearing
down on Paige eight years before, when she sat unsettled and engulfed
by a wing chair.

He
didn't tell Paige about these calls. Nicholas was inclined to believe
that since his mother had never in eight years even asked about his
wife, his parents had not changed their original impression of Paige.
The Prescotts seemed to be waiting for Paige and Nicholas to have a
falling-out, so they could point fingers and say "I told you
so." Oddly enough, Nicholas never took this personally. He spoke
to his mother just to keep hanging by a filial thread; but he divided
his life into pre-Paige and post-Paige. Their conversations
concentrated on Nicholas's life up till the fateful argument, as if
days instead of years had passed. They spoke about the weather, about
Astrid's treks, about Brookline's curbside recycling program. They
did not mention his specialization in cardiac surgery, the purchase
of his house, Paige's pregnancy. Nicholas did not offer any
information that might widen the rift that still spread between them.

It
didn't help to be sitting in front of his childhood home, however,
and be thinking that all those years ago, his parents just might have
had a point. Nicholas felt he'd been defending Paige forever, but he
was beginning to forget why. He was starving, because Paige didn't
make his lunch anymore. She was often awake at four-thirty in the
morning, but usually Max was attached to her. Sometimes— not
often—he blamed the baby. Max was the easiest target, the
demanding thing that had taken his wife like a body snatcher and
left in her place the sullen, moody woman he now shared a home with.
It was hard to blame Paige herself. Nicholas would look into her
eyes, raring for an argument, but all that gazed back at him was that
vacant sky-stare, and he'd swallow his anger and taste raw pity.

He
didn't understand Paige's problem.
He
was
the one on his feet all goddamned day;
he
was
the one with a reputation on the line;
he
was
the one whose missteps could cost lives. If anyone had a right to be
exhausted or short-tempered, it was Nicholas. All Paige did was sit
in the house with a baby.

And
from the time he'd spent with his son, it didn't seem so difficult.
Nicholas would sit on the floor and pull at Max's toes, laughing
when Max opened his eyes wide and stared around, trying to figure out
who'd done that. A month or so ago, he'd been whirling Max around
over his head and then hanging him from his feet—he loved that
kind of thing—as Paige watched from a corner, her mouth turned
down. "He's going to puke on you," she said. "He just
drank." But Max had kept his eyes open, watching his world spin.
When Nicholas had righted the baby and cradled him, Max turned his
gaze up and stared directly at his father. Then a slow smile spread
across his face, blushing into his cheeks and straightening his
little shoulders. "Look, Paige!" Nicholas had said.
"Isn't that his first real smile?" And Paige had nodded and
looked at Nicholas in awe. She had left the room to find Max's baby
book, so she could record the date.

Nicholas
patted his breast pocket. They were still there, the pictures of
Max he'd just had developed. He would leave one with his mother if he
was feeling charitable by the time he left. He hadn't wanted to come
in the first place. It was Paige who had suggested he call his
parents and let them know they had a grandson. "Absolutely
not," Nicholas had said. Of course, Paige still believed he
hadn't talked to his parents in eight years, but maybe that was true.
Speaking to someone was not the same as really talking. Nicholas
didn't know if he was willing to be the one to back down first.

"Well,"
Paige had said, "maybe it's time for all of you to let bygones
be bygones." He'd found this a little hypocritical, but then she
had smiled at him and ruffled his hair. "Besides," she had
said, "with your mom around, think of the fortune we'll save on
baby pictures."

Nicholas
leaned his head back against the car seat. Overhead, clouds moved
lazily across the hot spring sky. Once, when their lives were still
uncluttered, Paige and Nicholas had lain on the banks of the Charles
and stared at the clouds, trying to find images in their shapes.
Nicholas could see only geometric figures: triangles, thin arcs, and
polygons. Paige had to hold his hand against the backdrop of blue,
tracing the soft fleeced white edges with his finger.
There,
she'd
said,
there's
an Indian chief. And far to the left is a bicycle. And a thumbtack,
a kangaroo.
At
first Nicholas had laughed, falling in love with her all over again
for her imagination. But little by little he'd begun to see what she
was talking about. Sure enough, it wasn't a cumulonimbus but the
thick flowing headdress of a Sioux chief. In the corner of the sky
was a wallaby's joey. When he'd looked through her eyes, there were
so many things he could suddenly see.

"What's
the matter with him?"

"I
don't know. The doctor said it's probably colic."

"Colic?
But he's practically three months old. Colic is supposed to end when
they're three months old."