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Life had become one incredibly long surreal day that just kept repeating itself.
“Is something wrong?”
Jumping so rapidly she hit her wrist on the granite countertop, Emily turned and stared at Winston.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” she told him, noting his frown. They had a routine. She got into bed, and a few minutes later he came in. They either had the TV on or not. He’d turn his back and they’d go to sleep. Never touching under the covers. Ever. At all.
She’d broken the routine with the extra time she’d taken to stand there and look at herself.
He glanced at her wrist. “Is it okay?”
Flipping her hand back and forth, she showed him the wrist still worked. And then grabbed her nightgown. Pulling it over breasts that ached for his touch.
He’d looked at them—her breasts. When he’d first come in. She’d seen the surreptitious glance. Warmth was flooding her lower parts. Even now, after all of these weeks of stoicism. The fact both pleased and bothered her.
Because nothing was just one way or the other these days.
Nothing made sense.
And nothing was clear.
* * *
Emily standing nearly naked in the bathroom, looking at herself. For the next couple of days Winston couldn’t get that moment to leave him alone. He’d send it off and it came back. Again and again.
Her mom was in town, which made things easier for him. She didn’t see him as well as his own folks did. Didn’t look as hard, he figured. Mostly, he just had to act around her as he’d acted before Afghanistan and she was happy.
Keeping Emily’s mom happy was important to the plan.
Not that he’d been “acting” in the past. He’d been sincerely living what he’d believed to be true. But propriety had meant he couldn’t act on all his impulses and emotions back then. He couldn’t say whatever thoughts might occur to him—not when anyone else had been around. Or grab her up and kiss her. Haul her off to bed. Or out on an adventure. No, when others were around, he’d always had to filter. Figured most couples did.
Being removed was a way of life now. Real life. He just had to touch Emily when others were there, because they’d find it odd if he didn’t, which would create complications neither of them wanted or needed. Touching in front of others couldn’t lead to anything more as others were right there. So there was no threat to the plan in doing so.
But her staring at herself as she had...there was a threat there. He just couldn’t find it. What had been wrong? Had she been to the doctor? Heard some bad news?
Dear God, had she lost the baby? And not told him? Wouldn’t he notice something like that? She’d be in the hospital, right? Or lying in bed at home?
There’d been a girl in their high school who’d been said to have had a baby at home and come to school that same day. She hadn’t even told anyone she was pregnant. She’d been a big girl, but Winston had never quite believed the rumor. Emily had. Still...
They didn’t ever mention Emily’s child. At all. But he figured she was taking care of herself. And it. The child. Doing whatever she needed to be doing at that stage. Seeing the doctor. Eating what she’d been told to eat, not that he’d noticed any real change in her diet, other than the coffee.
He hadn’t seen her taking vitamins, either, though he remembered his sister-in-law, her brother’s ex-wife, complaining about the horse pills she had to get down every day. She’d complained about stretch marks, too. So maybe that was it? Emily had been checking for marks?
On Sunday after Emily’s mom left and before dinner, when Emily was doing a load of laundry, he quickly searched online for information about miscarriages. And found, as before, it could go any number of ways. A woman could have a miscarriage, not tell anyone and go on with her day. Almost like a monthly cycle, apparently, as early on as Emily was.
Or she could be hospitalized with hemorrhaging.
And there were many many scenarios in between.
How in the hell did one do this? Have a baby with any kind of strategy? The parameters were so broad there was no way to prepare for all eventualities.
He was still in a flux over the whole thing when he crawled into bed, as far from her as he could get, later that night. The television was on. Streaming an old sitcom rerun. He tried to focus only on it. To relax his muscles, one section of the body at a time, as he’d trained himself to do. To allow sleep to take him long enough to rejuvenate his assets.
He couldn’t do that until her breathing settled. It was wrong for him to go to sleep if she was bothered enough to stay awake. He was there to help her get through this, to find the new reality, and then be able to find her happiness. One thing was certain for Winston: he didn’t sleep on the job.
“Is everything okay? Physically?” His voice reverberated with the force of a gunshot to him, breaking the silence as it did. Talking in bed wasn’t part of their current procedure.
There’d been something displeased about the way she’d been looking at her belly—not that he saw anything distressing there. A little bit of shape, firm, gorgeous as it had always been.
