Harvesting the Heart (75 page)

It
has been so long since he felt his wife next to him, holding him,
surrounding him. He recognizes every smell and every texture of her
body; he knows the points where their skin will meet and become
slick. In the past he has thought mostly of his own body— the
heavy pressure building between his legs and the moment he knows to
let go and the catch of his heart in his throat when he comes—but
now he only wants to make Paige happy. The thought runs through his
mind over and over; it is the least he can do. It has been so long.

Nicholas
can gauge by Paige's breathing what she feels. He pauses and whispers
against Paige's neck. "Will this hurt?"

She
looks up at him, and Nicholas tries to read her expression, but all
he can see is the absence of fear, of regret. "Yes," she
says. "More than you know."

They
come together with the fury of a storm, clawing and scratching
and sobbing. They are pressed so close they can barely move, just
rocking back and forth. Nicholas feels Paige's tears against his
shoulder. He holds her as she trembles and closes softly around
him; he cries out to her when he loses control. He makes love with a
violence bred of passion, as if the act that creates life might also
be used to ward away death.

They
fall into a deep sleep on the bed, on top of the comforter. Nicholas
curls his body around Paige as though that might protect her from
tomorrow. Even in his sleep he reaches for her, filling his hand with
the curve of her breast, crossing her abdomen with his arm. In the
middle of the night he wakes up, to find Paige staring at him. He
wishes there were words to say the things he wants to say.

Instead
he pulls her against him and begins to touch her again, much more
slowly. In the back of his mind he thinks he should not be doing
this, but he cannot stop himself. If he can take her away for a
little while, if she can take
him
away,
what's the harm? In his profession, he never stops fighting against
impossible odds, but he learned a long time ago that not all outcomes
can be controlled. He

tells
himself this is the reason he's trying so hard now not to become
involved, not to let himself love. He can fight till he drops, yet
somewhere in the back of his mind he understands the margins of
his power.

Nicholas
closes his eyes as Paige runs her tongue along the line of his throat
and spreads her small hands across his chest. For a quick moment he
lets himself believe that she belongs to him every bit as much as he
belongs to her. Paige kisses the corner of his mouth. It is not about
possession and limits. It is about giving everything until there's
nothing left to give, and then searching and scraping until you find
a little bit more.

Nicholas
rolls over so that he and Paige are facing each other on their sides.
They stare at each other for a long time, running their hands over
familiar skin and whispering things that do not matter. They come
together two more times that night, and Nicholas tallies their
lovemaking silently. The first time is for forgiving. The second time
is for forgetting. And the third time is for beginning all over
again.

^chapter
44

Paige

_I
wake up in my own bed, in Nicholas's arms, and I have absolutely no
idea how I got there.
Maybe,
I
think to myself,
this
has all been a bad dream.
For
a moment I am almost convinced that if I walk down the hall I will
find Max curled in his crib, but then I remember the hospital and
last night, and I cover my head with the pillow, hoping to block out
the light of day.

Nicholas
stirs beside me. The white sheets contrast with his black hair,
making him look immortal. As his eyes open, I have a fleeting memory
of the night before, Nicholas's hands moving over my body like a
running line of fire. I startle and pull the sheet up to cover
myself. Nicholas rolls onto his back and closes his eyes. "This
probably shouldn't have happened," I whisper. "Probably
not," Nicholas says tensely. He rubs his hand across his jaw. "I
called the hospital at five," he says. "Max was still
sleeping soundly, and his vitals were good. The prognosis is
excellent. He'll be fine."

He'll
be fine.
I
want to trust Nicholas more than anything, but I will not believe him
until I see Max and he lifts his arms and calls for me. "Can we
see him today?" I ask.

Nicholas
nods. "At ten o'clock," he says, and then he rolls out of
bed to step into paisley boxer shorts. "Do you want to use this
bathroom?" he says quietly, and without waiting for an
answer, he pads down the hall to the smaller one.

I
stare at myself in the mirror. I am shocked by the shadows above my
cheeks and the red cast of my eyes. I look around for my toothbrush,
but of course it isn't there; Nicholas would have thrown it out
months ago. I borrow his, but I can barely brush my teeth because my
hands are shaking. The toothbrush clatters into the bowl of the sink
and leaves a violent blue mark of Crest. I wonder how I ever became
so incompetent.

Then
I remember that stupid list of accomplishments I made the day I ran
away from home. What had I said? Back then I could change a diaper, I
could measure formula, I could sing my son to sleep. And now what can
I do? I rummage in the drawers beneath the sink and find my old
makeup bag, tucked into a corner behind Nicholas's unused electric
razor. I pull out a blue eyeliner and throw the cap into the toilet.
1.,
I
write on the mirror, I
can
canter and jump and gallop a horse.
I
tap the pencil to my chin. 2. I
can
tell myself I am not my mother.
I
run out of space on the mirror, so I continue on the white Corian
counters. I
can
draw away my pain. I can seduce my own husband. I can
—
I stop here and think that this is not the list I should be making. I
pick up a green eye pencil and start writing where I left off,
angrily listing the things I cannot do: I
cannot
forget. I cannot make the same mistake twice. I cannot live this way.
I cannot take the blame for everything. I cannot give up.

With
my words covering the stark bathroom in flowered curlicues of green
and blue, I become inspired. I take the pale-lime shampoo from the
bathtub and smear it over the tiled walls; I draw pink lipstick
hearts and orange Caladryl scrolls on the tank of the toilet.
Nicholas comes in sometime after I am finishing a line of blue
toothpaste waves and diving aloe vera dolphins. I flinch,
expecting him to start yelling, but he just smiles. "I guess
you're done with the sham-poo," he says.

Nicholas
doesn't take the time to eat breakfast, which is fine with me, even
though it is only eight o'clock. We may not be able to see Mux right
away, but I will feel better knowing I am closer to my child. We get
into the car, and I notice Max's car seat pushed to the side; I
wonder how it got that way. I wait for Nicholas to back out of the
driveway, but he sits perfectly still, with his foot on the brake and
his hand on the clutch. He looks down at the steering wheel as if it
is something fascinating he has never seen before. "Paige,"
he says, "I'm sorry about last night."

I
shiver involuntarily. What did I expect him to say?

"I
didn't mean to—to do that," Nicholas continues. "It's
just that you were in such bad shape, and I thought—hell, I
don't know what I was thinking." He looks up at me, resolved.
"It won't happen again," he says.

"No,"
I say quietly. "I suppose it won't."

I
look up and down the thin stretch of street that I once imagined I'd
be living on for most of my life. I don't see actual objects, like
trees and cars and fox terriers. Instead I see eddies of color, an
impressionist painting. Green and lemon and mauve and peach: the
edges of the world as I know it run muddy together. "I was wrong
about you," Nicholas is saying. "Whatever happens, Max
belongs with you."

Whatever
happens.
I
turn my face up to him. "And what about you?" I say.

Nicholas
looks at me. "I don't know," he says. "I honestly
don't know."

I
nod, as though this is an answer I can accept, and turn away to look
out my window as Nicholas backs out of the driveway. It is going to
be a cold, crisp fall day, but memories of the night before are
everywhere: eggshells scattered through the streets, shaving cream on
residential windows, toilet paper festooned through the trees. I
wonder how long it will take to come clean.

At
the hospital, Nicholas asks about Max and is told that he's been
moved to pediatrics. "That's a good start," he murmurs,
although he is not really speaking to me. He walks to a yellow
elevator bank, and I follow close behind. The doors open, smelling of
antiseptic and fresh linen, and we step inside.

An
image comes to me quickly: I am in that Cambridge graveyard with Max,
who is about three. He runs between the headstones and peeks from
behind the monuments. It is my day off from classes; finally, I'm
getting my bachelor's degree. Simmons College, not Harvard—and
that doesn't matter. I am sitting while Max runs his fingers over the
old grave markers, fascinated by the chips and gulleys of aging
stone. "Max," I call, and he comes over, sliding to his
knees and getting grass stains on his overalls. I motion to the pad
I've been drawing on, and we lay it across the flat marker of a
revolutionary soldier. "You pick," I say. I offer him an
array of crayons. He takes the melon and the forest green and the
violet; I choose the orange-yellow and the mulberry. He puts the
green crayon in his hand and starts to color in the image of a pony
I've done for him, a Shetland he'll ride that summer at my mother's.
I cover his chubby hand with mine and guide his fingers gently over
lines I have drawn for him. I feel my own blood running beneath his
flushed skin.

The
doors of the elevator hiss open, but Nicholas stands frozen. I wait
for him to take charge, but nothing happens. I turn my head to look
at him—he's never like this. Nicholas, coolheaded and
unflappable, is scared to face what's coming. Two nurses pass.
They peer into the elevator and whisper to each other. I can imagine
what they are saying about me and about Nicholas, and it doesn't
affect me at all. Another mark for my accomplishment list: I can
stand on my own in a world that is falling apart. I can stand so
well, I realize, that I can support someone else. "Nicholas?"
I whisper, and I can tell by the flicker of his eyes that he has
forgotten I am there but he's relieved to see me just the same. "It's
going to be fine," I tell him, and I smile for what seems like
the first time in months.

The
jaws of the elevator start to close again, but I brace them with my
strength. "It's only going to get easier," I say with
confidence, and I reach across the distance to squeeze
Nicholas's hand. He

squeezes
mine right back. We step off the elevator together and take those
first steps down the hall. At Max's door, we stop and see him pink
and quiet and breathing. Nicholas and I stand calmly at the
threshold. We have all the time in the world to wait for our son to
come around.

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