Itchin' On A Photograph

Her name would have been Amelia or Carolina or Aria, something that sounded as musical as he’s sure she must be. She’s around two years old now – not that he’s seen her, but he knows when she was born and every year, it’s the anniversary of something that he knows he’ll never have. If only there was a way that he could find her, tell her all about how he wishes that he could have kept her. He can’t help but think that she’s going to grow up believing that her parents gave her away because they didn’t want her. But he wanted her; he always wanted her. And it kills him that he’ll never be able to tell her that.

Missy never wanted to get an ultrasound to find out what gender their child would be, but he made her. Thinking back, he supposes that he should have realized that Missy showed signs of not wanting the baby. She was extra horrible while she was pregnant, those times he can’t forget no matter how much he tries to.

She’s sitting in the middle of the sofa when he comes home, a very solemn and slightly terrified expression on her face. He can only answer her with a look of confusion, searching her blank face for answers that she’s preparing herself to give. Without saying a word, she pats the part of the couch next to her, motioning for him to sit down. He knows what this means, because this scenario has occurred before. Missy has news and it’s going to be bad, he can tell.

He keeps quiet until she’s ready to speak, because otherwise he knows that he’ll never get any useful information from her. All that he can hear are her steady breaths, her chest rising and falling in his peripherals.

“I’m pregnant,” she says in little more than a whisper, after what seems like decades. He certainly wasn’t expecting this, though he can’t help but feel that Missy’s reaction to this bit of news is less than happy. He knows that it will be tough, but a baby is the best thing he’s heard about in a great deal of time. A child to call him dad, someone to depend on him who isn’t an overgrown baby the way that Missy is (though he’d never say that out loud to her). A baby will be perfect, he’s already decided this.

“What should we do about it?” Missy wants to know, her hand finding his and squeezing it in a way that’s more for her own comfort than anything. He doesn’t even mind and he squeezes her hand right back, giving her the tiniest smile.

“Let’s keep it.”

“What? Don’t be ridiculous,” she shakes her head, though the idea is making her smile a bit now, too.

“Why is that so ridiculous?” he wonders, his fingers intertwining with Missy’s thin fingers, “Can’t you just imagine it? A little girl or a little boy, with your blonde curls and my dark eyes, running around, painting with you and laughing.” Perhaps he’s romanticizing things a little bit, but he can tell that Missy is already warming to the idea. She looks as though she’s thinking it over, but he knows that she’s already made up her mind.

“Fine. But we’re having a girl.”

+

He’s been sitting in the hard chair for at least an hour now, his back aching from discomfort and awkward positions as he watches her sleeping figure. She’s so peaceful while she sleeps, and still so beautiful despite how thin she’s gotten and how she’s been infested with sickness. It truly looks as though she’s being drained from the inside out by disease and it almost makes him want to cry. But he can’t cry anymore and once he realizes that it’s all because of her, he once again stares at her callously, simply waiting for her to wake up so that she can see how he has stuck around for all of these years, putting up with all of her.

Her eyes flutter open and when they rest on him, she gives him a small, sweetheart smile.

“You’re back,” she notes, her gaze never wavering as he leans forward in his plastic chair and rests his elbows on his knees.

“Of course I’m back,” he says with a heavy sigh, “I always come back.”

“I know you do. You’re so goddamn perfect, is why.”

She’s been calling him perfect all of these years, but what used to sound like love has been replaced by bitterness, as though she despises that he’s so perfect. She ignores how exhausted he looks, because she doesn’t want to have to take the blame for any negative alteration that she has inflicted upon him. His lips are cracked and dry, his eyes surrounded by purple circles, his face unshaven. He is disheveled – almost as disheveled as she is, and it helps her calm down knowing that he’s losing sleep over her. Knowing that though he makes of show of being fed up with her, there’s some part of him that still cares.

“Why’d you do it?” he asks suddenly, catching her off guard. She raises her thin eyebrows at him in question, not understanding what he’s asking her.

“Give our baby away,” he clarifies, “Why?”

She looks away from him, not wanting to answer his question because she knows that he won’t simply take her usual answer. Normally, she’d say it was because the two of them were too irresponsible to take care of a child, but they both know that that’s a lie. She may be too irresponsible, but he would have made a perfect father. She took that away from him, though, and she’s aware that he hasn’t forgiven her for it.

“Missy, please,” he begs and there’s a tired desperation to his voice, as though he simply wants all of this to be over, “I just want a straight answer.” Missy fidgets in her bed, uncomfortable with the truth but knowing that she’ll give into him. He has a way with her, though she doesn’t like admitting something like that, even in her mind.

“I…was jealous,” she mumbles, avoiding what she’s sure is a judgmental stare, “Babies change things. I didn’t want things to change between us and I knew that you would have loved her more than you loved me.” She hates admitting that she acted so selfishly, but he already knows that she’s a self-serving creature. He knows her too well, so this confession doesn’t surprise him.

He is silent for awhile and Missy knows enough not to say anything while he ponders his thoughts.

They could have been so happy with a baby. A little family, just the three of them. And maybe Missy would have gotten better.

Maybe she wouldn’t have given into her illness.

He wakes up to the sound of glass and porcelain shattering on the floor; immediately, he assumes that someone has broken into the loft, but as he rolls over in bed, he feels that Missy’s side is vacant and the bed sheets have been pulled back. A sigh escapes his lips as he glances over at the clock on the bedside table, which informs him that it’s just after four in the morning. He wants to go out to the kitchen, comfort Missy and feather her with kisses from head to toe, carry her bridal style back to their bed, and fall back asleep.

But he knows that it won’t be so easy.

Making his way down the hallway to the kitchen, he hears another sound of shattering glass, just as he rounds the corner of the kitchen to find Missy throwing plates on the ground and crying.

“Missy, what the hell are you doing, baby?” he asks her, his voice more strained and tired than outright angry. He never gets angry with Missy, no matter how often he wants to. She looks up from the ground where there are pieces of plates scattered across the linoleum; once her eyes find him, she only sobs harder. He crosses the kitchen, stopping before he reaches the glass on the ground, and looks down at Missy’s feet, which are bleeding from stepping on the broken pieces of porcelain.

“Baby, you can’t do these kinds of things,” he tells her softly, holding his hand out to her, “Come to the bathroom. Let’s wash your feet off.” She backs away from him, a venomous look in her glassy eyes as she glares at him.

“Don’t tell me what to do!” she snaps, “If I want to break some fucking plates, then I’ll break some fucking plates.”

“Go right ahead, honey, but then what will we eat our food off of?” he returns with a somewhat snarky comment, which only serves to drive her into pouty mode.

“I’m angry,” she declares, folding her arms across her chest so that they’re resting on her seven-months-pregnant stomach.

“Everybody gets angry, baby. It’s human nature.”

“I’m angry at you,” she clarifies, watching as he cocks his head to the side.

“Tell me what I did and I’ll fix it,” he offers, because he’s so fucking perfect.

“Why do you think things are so easy?” she hisses, “You can’t just fix things when they’re bad.”

“No,” he shrugs, “but I can try to do everything in my power to fix them. I don’t want you to be sad.”

“I’m not sad! I’m angry!” she yells at him, more tears streaming down her face in her fit of rage. He knows she’s just saying that; she’s not angry, because he knows she’s always sad.

“Let me help you,” he pleads, his hand still held out at arm’s length, waiting for Missy to simply grab a hold of it so that he can get her out of the midst of the porcelain ocean on the floor. It takes a few moments, but finally she takes his hand and he pulls her close to him, before he picks her up and cradles her close to his chest. Her frame is so small, despite her pregnant belly, and so it’s almost too easy for him to carry her from the kitchen to the bathroom. He sets her down on the counter while he goes to start running the bath water. While the bathtub fills up, he returns to her to help her out of her clothes.

His hands work their way up her shirt, pulling it up over her head and tossing it to the side. His eyes gaze across her naked torso, pregnant stomach and all. She’s always been drop-dead-gorgeous. Missy gives him an appreciative smile as his thumbs wipe away fresh tears that have fallen. She leans forward slowly and gives him a tiny peck on the lips, lingering near his face because she can’t bear to be away from him. He helps her wiggle out of her shorts and underwear, before picking her naked form back up and setting her in the warm bath water. She winces as the water hits the cuts on her feet, but he massages them and washes them gently, taking his time to ensure that he doesn’t hurt her too badly.

“Why are you so perfect?” she whispers, like always, between sniffles and shudders.

“I have to be perfect to keep up with you, baby,” he tells her, just like he always does.

A genuine smile hits her features, because he really is perfect.

“What’s in your pocket?” she wants to know, watching as his hand moves around in the pocket of his jacket. He feels a blush color his cheeks and he immediately wishes that he hadn’t brought along these stupid pictures. They’re only going to make her sad and upset, but he knows he can’t lie to her.

“Pictures,” is all he says.

“Pictures of what?”

He hesitates before he answers, his black eyes looking from his lap to where Missy sits upright in the hospital bed. She doesn’t look irritated or upset – simply curious. It makes him actually want to tell her about the pictures.

“Us,” he replies quietly, watching her reaction as she takes a deep breath and then, wonder of wonders, gives him a small smile.

“Can I…Can I see them?” she asks, almost thinking that he’ll say no. He has to admit that he’s somewhat taken aback; the reason that the photos were in the shoebox is because Missy had said that she never wanted to look at the past, because it made her sad. He obliges, but he does so cautiously, moving to sit beside her on the hospital bed and taking the pictures from his coat.

“I remember this,” she says as they look at the first picture, in which both of them are passed out on the couch in the living room of their loft apartment. He has a bottle of some unknown alcohol in one of his hands and she’s curled up against his chest, mouth open as she sleeps.

“I don’t remember it,” he replies, a tiny smile touching his lips.

“Well you had a lot more to drink than I did,” she points out, “Next picture.”

He does as he’s told and they go through all of the pictures that he brought, mulling over their thoughts about the past and laughing at some of the more ridiculous photos. He won’t admit it, but he’s almost having a nice time.

“We really were happy, weren’t we?” she says after a moment, her soft voice threatening to break. He glances over at her as a tear escapes her eyes; he pretends that he doesn’t see it, because he knows that this isn’t one of those times when she wants to be comforted.

“Yes,” he replies, just as softly as she spoke, “We really were.”