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I’d gone to the doctor today, and heard the verdict. I need knee-surgery. The ligaments and tendons around my knee were torn badly in the accident, frayed beyond the ability to mend themselves. But I’m not putting Mila through the stress of that. Not until after she’s past the point of possible miscarriage.
I’ll deal with the pain for a couple more weeks. I’m no pussy.
I lay still until her breathing is deep and even, and she begins snoring in her cute little snorts. I smile in the dark, and then carefully, carefully, ease out of her embrace. She stirs a little, and I freeze on the edge of the bed. She settles back in without waking up. In her sleep, she reaches out for me, and I push my pillow toward her. She grabs it and pulls it to her chest. I smile and slip out of the room.
I feel like a wounded soldier as I limp down the long hall toward my study and switch on a lamp.
Once my grandfather’s, it is a huge room with a massive fireplace and wood-paneled walls. It’s a gentleman’s room, and the irony as I sit behind the desk is not lost on me.
I’m no gentleman. At least, not the kind this room was intended
for.
This room was built back when men retired after dinner with scotch and cigars while the women huddled together and did cross-stich.
That’s so not Mila and me.
I stretch my leg out and rub at the knee.
Rubbing it doesn’t help much, but it makes me think I’m doing something for it.
“Mr. Tate?”
I look up to find Natasha in the doorway, clad in a floor-length robe.
“Is everything ok? I saw your light.”
Her hair is down now, and it makes her seem less stern, more her age.
“Everything is fine,” I assure her. “I couldn’t sleep.”
She glances at my hand rubbing my knee. “Can I get your pain pills for you?”
I’ve been trying not to take them, but Lord. Pain is pain.
“Ok. Thank you.”
She disappears, and comes back in a few minutes with a glass of water and two pills.
She pours them into my hand and watches me as I knock them back.
“Acknowledging pain isn’t a weakness,” she tells me quietly.
“I know that,” I say, more sharply than I intended. “Sorry.”
“Do you, though?” she wonders. “Because I see you trying to hide it.”
“My wife has enough to worry about,” I say stiffly. “She doesn’t need to worry about this, too.”
Natasha stares at me doubtfully. “I’m pretty sure she’d want to know.”
I know she would. But it’s not what is best for her. Not yet.
“You don’t understand,” I say, and I don’t know why I’m explaining. “Mila had a miscarriage last time. I just want to keep her stress-free for the next couple of weeks until she’s out of the danger. Most people miscarry in the first twelve weeks, if they’re going to miscarry.”
“You’re sweet to worry,” Natasha says finally. “I’ll help you however you want me to help.”
I didn’t ask her to help.
