The Man Who Can't Be Moved

It’s damn good to be home.

As my teammates are mere minutes away from taking the ice against the Vancouver Canucks, I’m in all my glory in my ‘man cave’. The basement is my domain; all leather and chrome furniture (leftovers from my old apartment that I’d been unwilling to part with), a massive plasma television mounted on the far wall and every possible video game system and their accompanying games, elaborate home theatre system and a monstrous collection of movies and music. A half wall separates the entertainment area of the basement from the pool table, dart boards and wall to wall, fully stocked bar and an arcade sized basketball game. It’s where I retreat to either hang up with my buddies or recapture my masculinity; a guy can only help with laundry and household chores so much before he needs to get reacquainted with the side of him that scratches his crotch, belches and plays video games until his brain is ready to explode.

Tonight I’ve got half a two four at my disposal and the plasma tuned into Versus as I lay stretched across the longest part of the sectional couch, clad in only a pair of tattered and holey sweat pants and my hair still damp from a shower a half an hour earlier and sticking up in several different directions. It’s the first time I’ve ever been ‘benched’ -whether a healthy scratch or not- where I haven’t been itching to get out on the ice and incessantly bitching and moaning about my ‘shitty lot’ in life. I’d needed the break; more for my psyche than for my throbbing shoulder. The past five months had been emotionally and physically draining; I’d spent the better part of it in a constant state of worry and loneliness and not getting anymore than a couple of hours of sleep a night. My thoughts had been consumed about anything and everything involving Emma-Leigh; it had killed me to be so far away from her and it had taken every ounce of will power I’d had to not waltz into Mario’s office and ask for a sabbatical. I wouldn’t have been the first guy to need time off to attend to personal issues; a couple have needed a week or two to stay home with their wives because of serious bouts of post partum depression and a few others had had seriousness illnesses in their families and they‘d flown home to spend some time with their ailing relative.

I’d somehow managed to survive the separation. I’d told myself time and time again that it was best for her recovery if I stayed away; she wasn’t allowed to have visitors for the first three weeks during her stay in the mental wellness center and even after she’d been released from ‘solitary confinement’ and was allowed to have face to face visits and use her cell phone and the internet during designated times of the day, the main psychiatrist had felt that my presence would only ‘hinder’ as opposed to help. In his opinion, I’d been one of the many reasons why she’d been as fucked up as she was; I had had a huge hand in the drama that had taken over her life after the miscarriage and I’d been partly responsible for forcing her to make decisions that her brain hadn’t been healthy enough to make. It had killed me to keep my distance and it had torn my heart clear out of my chest every time one of our all too brief half an hour conversations -the time restraint being one of the many strict rules she’d been expected to follow- came to a close and the shakiness in her voice gave away how emotionally distraught and lonely she really was. She’d always been afraid to cry; terrified that even the slightest hint of tears would have the staff either taking away her privileges or tossing her back into the ‘cell’ as she’d called the room patients spent their ‘alone time’ in.

I’d had the best of intentions; I’d sent her away because I’d known that it was quite possibly the only way to make her better. And regardless of how lonely we’d been and how difficult it had been to be so far apart from one another -especially after we’d gotten married- it had turned out to be what was best for her. She’s an entirely different person now; she laughs and smiles much easily and her moods are stable. I no longer worry about her brain sending her into a tailspin; I no longer lie awake at night wondering when the other shoe is going to drop and she’s going to go from happy go lucky to either raging, violently mad to a hysterical, sobbing mess. We’re finally able to enjoy our time together; we’re finally cohabiting under the same roof and sharing the same bed and if there’s a shred of silver lining surrounding my shoulder injury, it’s that I’d been able to come home and spend some time with her.

Even if it does mean letting her invade my ‘space’ with her girly crap; a stack of magazines -including Cosmopolitan, In Style and US Weekly-, her metallic pink iPod Nano, purple lap top (complete with Hello Kitty and Powder Puff Girls stickers she’d plastered on the lid during her first year at Western) and a book entitle ‘Tickle His Pickle’.

“Hey!” I call out in protest, as I catch sight of her feet -clad in a pair of socks that boast stripes of various neon colours and individual toes- as they make their way down the stairs. “Did I say you could come down here? C’est les gars seulement. What’s the password?”

“Do you plan on ever getting laid again?” she responds with a question -more like a threat, in my opinion- of her own as she makes her way down the stairs, a bowl of unknown contents in hand. She pauses in the doorway to the laundry room, looks inside and then scurries towards me. “There’s something in there,” she says. “Or someone. I can’t even come down here when I’m by myself.”

“You’re imagining things,” I wave off her suggestion that there’s something paranormal going on in our house. I personally haven’t had any experiences; no creepy feelings that something or someone unseen is watching me, no sounds of footsteps following behind as I make my way up and down the stairs, no noises coming from the other rooms off of the main basement when I know there’s no one else down here but me. “It’s just your mind playing tricks on you.”

“You should have just kept the whole ‘this used to be a funeral home’ thing to yourself,” she mutters, and using a knee to shove my legs apart, climbs onto the couch and settles herself between my splayed thighs.

You know you’re comfortable in your relationship when you can be as casual with each other as we are; I find something remarkably sexy and adorable about the fact that she’s wearing a pair of my sweats -rolled up several times at the waist to make them tighter on her- one of my t-shirts and has her damp hair parted down the middle and rolled into two buns situated at the side of her head. We judge the comfort level in our marriage on different things. She bases it on the fact that she doesn’t feel the need to plaster on makeup the minute she rolls out of bed and that she can go ‘free and easy’ by not wearing a bra or undies around the house. I base it on the fact that I don’t even blink if she comes in to use the john while I’m brushing my teeth a mere couple of feet away.

“I thought you loved all that creepy shit,” I say. “I thought you enjoyed talking to ghosts and all of that crap and that you’d love living in a place with that kind of history. Something….what’s the word…active.”

“So this place is haunted,” she scowls, and turns accusing eyes on me. “I bet you even knew that before you bought it. I bet that’s why you decided to go with this place instead of that mock Tudor in Mount Lebanon. ‘Cause you probably thought how cool it was that people used to be embalmed in the basement. You’re sick and twisted like that, Maxime.”

“I went with this place because you liked the neighbourhood better,” I remind her, and laying a hand on the top of her foot, skim my fingertips along the soft, silky skin. “Because there’s not a lot of neighbours to put up with and you like that whole Shady Side Academy place for when we have kids. And even if it is haunted, you think you’d be right at home here. You’re the one with the love affair for ghosts and goblins and shit like that.”

“It doesn’t mean I want to live with them,” she argues, as she leans back against the rear of the couch and drapes both legs over my left thigh. “I love the paranormal as long as it’s not going on in my own house. I don’t want to be the person with the problem.”

“Emma-Leigh, this house is not haunted. I promise you that there’s nothing creepy going on around here. You’re just imagining things ‘cause you know it was once a funeral home. Would you be as freaked out if you hadn’t known what it used to be used for?”

“I don’t know…” she admits with a shrug.

“You’re only thinking that weird shit is happening because you know the history of the place,” I assure her. “If you didn’t think so much about it…”

“Ryan’s going to come and take a tour of the place,” she informs me, and spoons a helping of Lucky Charms -in chocolate milk- into her mouth. “I called him yesterday but he couldn’t come right away because he’s doing some kind of paranormal workshops in Buffalo. He’s going to come next Saturday and take a look around.”

“Wonderful…” I grumble, and reach for another beer from the open case sitting on the floor next to the couch. “Freaks and geeks on parade.”

“We are not freaks or geeks!” she objects. “Just because we’re into things that other people call ‘unconventional’…”

“Babe, this house is not haunted,” I insist. “He’ll only be wasting his time. You’re imagining things. That’s it. We don’t have ghosts or goblins; there’s no bogeyman living behind the hot water heater, no evil warlock crouched under the stairs waiting to grab your feet. If there was something going on here wouldn’t you know for sure? You’re the one that gets your kicks talking to dead people.”

“I am not the little kid from Sixth Sense,” she huffs. “I merely have slight medium capabilities. And I am telling you, this basement gives me the creeps. There’s something not quite right down here. Just because you’re not a believer…”

“Look, I fully support you when it comes to your ghost busting and I’m not going to tell you what you should and shouldn’t believe in, okay? I am just telling you that this place is not haunted. There’s nothing creepy going on here. And until I get solid prove that ghosts actually do exist…”

“You’ve watched Ghost Hunters with me,” she says. “You’ve heard the voices they capture during EVP sessions and you’ve seen dark shadows and…”

“How do I know that all of that shit isn’t added in during editing?” I challenge. “I want proof. I want something to jump out at me. I want to look in the mirror and see something totally ugly and fucked up looking back at me…”

“Just grow a beard like the one you had during last year’s playoffs,” she suggests, and then gives an innocent smile and an unapologetic shrug when I narrow my eyes and glare at her. “Sorry…I’m not going to lie and say that I’m a fan of the Unabomber look.”

“….I want proof that I can see with my own eyes,” I finish. “I don’t want someone showing me all of this crap and trying to convince me that ghosts and all that crap exist. I don’t know what they do when they’re producing a show; what they might add in with computers and all that. So until something convinces me otherwise…”

“You’ll regret being so pessimistic,” she warns. “The spirits will get your revenge for doubting they’re presence. Don’t call me for help when you wake up one morning, flat on your stomach, legs spread and your hands and feet tied to the bed and some inanimate object shoved up your butt and…”

“And what?” I laugh. “How is that going to prove there’s ghosts? All that will prove is that you and I got extremely drunk the night before and had ourselves one hell of a wild night. ‘Cause if having me face down on the bed with my hands and legs tied up just so you can shove something up my ass is you’re idea of a good time, you’re going to have to liquor me up huge. There’s no other way I’d ever let you…”

“You know what…” she points the end of her spoon at me. “…you are one fucked up human being.”

“That’s not what you were saying when we got home…” I tease, and tickle the bottom of her foot. “…you weren’t saying anything like that when you jumped me in the car. You didn’t even let me get in the house. You just reached over, threw my seat back and climbed on board and did your thing.”

“I didn’t exactly see you objecting.” she points out. “And you definitely weren’t saying no in the shower.”

“Why would I say no? It’s one of the main reasons I came home. So I could have as much sex as humanely possible. Front seat of the car, kitchen table, shower, over the back of the couch…I’m an equally opportunity pervert. And you’re freaking me out with all of this weird shit you’re eating lately. Lucky Charms with chocolate milk? For real? Between that and you claiming that you have the flu…”

“Don’t get your undies in a twist,” she interjects. “I am not pregnant. No way, no how.”

“The patch isn’t always a hundred percent,” I point out. “What was it the doctor said? About how certain meds can screw with how effective the thing is? How do we know that things have been doing what they should? How do you we know that…?”

“My meds are perfectly safe to take with the patch,” she assures me. “You need to just relax, okay? No need to be giving yourself a stroke. There’s no way that…”

“Something told me that I should have been using rubbers this entire time,” I grumble. “I had this really bad feeling that we needed to be more careful and that…”

“I am not pregnant!” she bellows, causing the dogs -as they lay curled up together in front of the flickering gas fireplace across the room- to nearly jump clear out of their skin. “Jesus! Would you just chill, already? I’m just stressed. I’m just stressed out and it’s messing with my insides. That’s it. You need to just…”

“We should go and get a test,” I continue. “We should go and get a test and…”

“Max! Enough!” she cries, and then shoves a spoonful of cereal into my mouth and holds my chin in the palm of her hand. “I am not pregnant! Everything is working fine! I’m not having a baby and we don’t need to go and buy a test! I’m PMSing, okay? I’m PMSing huge and that’s why I’m eating weird shit. You know that’s how I get at this time of the month. I’m constantly hungry and I get nauseous for a couple of days and now I have cramps and…”

“Those aren’t period cramps,” I argue, and then playfully squeeze the back of her thigh. “That’s ‘cause you can’t handle the size of my equipment and it bruised your bladder and…”

“They’re period cramps,” she insists. “I hate to deflate your ego, but…” she leans down and presses a kiss to my lips. “…I’m not pregnant, okay? You need to relax. People do get sick, you know. And even if I was…” she returns to her cereal. “…do you really have to act like it’s the worst thing that could ever happen? Like it’s a fate worse than death and…”

“Right now it is the worst thing that could happen,” I inform her. “Right now it is a fate worse than death. I thought you said you were forgetting about the whole baby thing for a bit. You’ve picked a course you want to take, you’ve already filled out the application and it’s ready to be tossed in the mail and…”

“I just don’t want you acting like that,” she says. “I just don’t want you acting like us having a baby is a horrible, nightmarish thing.”

“Us having a baby right now is a horrible, nightmarish thing,” I clarify. “But once you get through school and get your degree…”

“Why are we even talking about this?” she inquires, issuing an exasperated sigh as she leans over and places her now empty bowl on the coffee table. “Because every time we talks about this it turns into a big old thing and…”

“I’m not turning it into a big old thing,” I reply, and hold my hands up in surrender. “You know how I feel and…”

“I know how you feel because you’re constantly reminding me,” she huffs. “You’re constantly telling me about what a terrible thing having a baby would be and that it would be the biggest mistake of your life. I’ve heard you the first hundred fucking times, okay? So just…”

“I never said a baby would be the biggest mistake of my life,” I correct. “I just said that right now is not the time for us to be starting a family. Do we really have to go through this again? Do I really have to go over all of this for the fiftieth fucking time? If you just listened the first forty nine, I wouldn’t have to…”

“I’m going to bed,” she announces, and attempts to climb out of her resting place between my legs. “If you’re just going to be a bastard and fight about everything, I’m going to….”

“You’re not going anywhere,” I protest, and wrap both of my legs around her stomach. “You’re not going to do this. You’re not going to run away every time you hear something you don’t like. You’re not a little girl, Emma-Leigh. If you’re old enough to get married and have babies, you’re old enough to hear the truth. And if the truth hurts…”

“You’re an insufferable bastard,” she grumbles, and struggles to escape from my grip. “Why are you being like this? Why…?”

“Maybe I just like to fight,” I tell her, and releasing my legs from around her waist, wrap both arms around her torso, pick her up off of her ass and dump her unceremoniously beside me. “Maybe I just like to pick fights so I can get you naked,” I reason, as I roll over onto my side and settle a hand on her hip.

“You don’t need to pick fights to get me naked,” she informs me.

“I like it to be a challenge from time to time,” I say, and cover her mouth with mine in one of those long, open mouthed kisses that she likes so much, and her entire body shudders when I slip my hand down the front of her sweats and graze my fingertips of the puckered skin just above her pubic area. “So fucking sexy…” I breathe, as I suck, lick and nibble at her neck while my fingers trace the branding that’s been seared into her smooth, creamy skin. As ‘caveman’ as it sounds, there’s something so territorial about it; something that marks her as mine and makes her my possession. My one and only fear had been the Sid would somehow managed to snatch her away from me; now she’s marked with my initials and my jersey number and that paranoia has all but vanished.

“I thought you wanted to watch the hockey game,” she mumbles against me.

“Fuck hockey,” I growl, and then unceremoniously slip two fingers inside of her.

There comes a time where there’s other things that are more important in life. And this…this is definitely one of those times.