Tallulah

So there I was - trapped in something like a loveless marriage (but it just couldn't be, because somewhere in there, he still had to love me, even a little) - and in the same position I had sworn I would never find myself in. I was stronger than that, wasn't I? Or I used to be. When exactly had I given someone else permission to decide whether or not I was allowed to be happy?

I didn't tell him, didn't hint at it, didn't mention it at all - wanted to forget that it had all ever happened, but I couldn't, not when I had to throw out those prescriptions and cancel my appointments and explain that an accident had caused me to lose the baby. I didn't like to lie - still don't - but I'd still lie to protect him until I was blue in the face and it hurt because I knew he would never do the same for me.

It was then, during the weeks following the loss of the child, that I could finally sympathize with Katie and understand why it was she stayed with Trent. When I was younger, I didn't and frankly couldn't understand why she would stay with a man who was uneducated, rude, crass, and so abusive that he didn't care about berating her in front of her family or friends. She had gone to law school, for God's sake, passed her boards, and made pretty good money. Even if she was pregnant, she still could have left and settled herself somewhere on her own. What I didn't understand was that she loved him, really and honestly truly loved him, and when you love someone, you'll do the most stupid, terrible, unspeakable things for them, all because of something you feel inside and can't quite explain, because you like how their hair falls into their eyes or how they smile impishly, because you want to believe that they love you too and nothing is ever going to change that.

At least Katie could survive on her own, and at least she possessed a strength I simply didn't have. She had an education, money, her child, and the support of people she had met along the way. I didn't have any of that. I just had a terrible case of unrequited love and affection for someone who would much rather see me dead before showing me he cared.

I felt empty in a way that I hadn't felt before. The emptiness before was passing and vague and mostly because I was so damn lonely and had nothing to do with my time anymore. I felt empty because he probably didn't love me anymore, and the thought of that being a possibility made me cry long into the night, long after he had fallen asleep on his side of the bed, back turned to me. But now, that emptiness had multiplied and grown and gone on to find a life of its' own, taking up residence in an already cluttered and cramped heart. That baby (or babies, who knows?) was the product of love (or something) and it was the one thing I knew would love me no matter what I did and I loved it already. It was us and it was going to be beautiful and it was gone and nothing I could do would bring it back. The worst part was that I couldn't tell him.

I don't know why - he really did deserve to know and maybe if I had, we wouldn't find ourselves here now, but there's no point in dwelling on what didn't happen. Was I trying to protect him? Maybe. But from what? Knowing that he had done something very, very wrong? That he had killed an innocent child because he had one too many beers that night? The guilt would kill him - it was killing me, and I hadn't done anything - and I just couldn't have that.

So I said nothing, smiled blankly and shrugged when he asked me how I was feeling, tried not to throw up when he tried to touch me (I couldn't stand to be anywhere near him for almost two months following the incident, just because he made me feel sick), and waited until he left for the day or night before crying and curling up under all our blankets in bed.

A normal person would have called their family or friends. I couldn't.

I couldn't call my mother or my sisters - because I knew that they'd tell me to leave and I just couldn't. They'd tell Albert and Peter and everyone I ever knew and people would look at me and know and I just didn't want that. If I left him, it was going to be on my own terms, and I just couldn't leave. Not yet.

(Somewhere deep inside I wanted to convince myself that we were just going through a rough patch that all marriages went through at some point and that soon, we'd be okay. I'm still waiting for us to be okay.)

So there I stayed, stuck in an odd state of limbo, pretending to be happy when I was falling apart and smiling when all felt like doing was smashing all our pretty things to pieces. Addie didn't hit me again - but it wasn't like he had much opportunity to, since he was hardly ever home. We fought whenever he was home, though, and it was clear to almost everyone who spent two seconds with us how unhappy we were. But every once in a while, when I had finally thought I could leave, he'd do something, surprise me somehow, make my heart soften, make me unpack those bags he didn't even know I had and tell Momma my little visit would have to wait.

I didn't know what to do - everytime anyone back home asked me if I was okay and if we were alright, I just stayed silent and then told them I had to hang our sheets outside in the yard, or that dinner was burning, or that someone was at the door, or something. It's not like Addie ever threatened me, but I still felt this ridiculous urge to protect him that I couldn't wrap my head around. I knew, rationally, that it was unhealthy, that I really did love him too much, but I just couldn't let go. I was weak. (I'm not anymore.)

A small part of me still hoped we could be happy - that we could be a family with our children and a pretty home in the country side and so many wonderful things. I guess I stuck around because I was still foolishly chasing the ideal that somehow, if I hoped hard enough, we'd make it work. The problem was that we just couldn't. For a very, very long time, I blamed myself - I wasn't enough, it was my fault he had a bad day at work because I didn't iron his shirts properly or something, he was only mad becasue I didn't want to go out, me, me, me. It was all my fault and it was easier to blame myself than to place the blame where it honestly and truthfully lied - with the person I thought was the love of my life.

When we fought, it was bad. Something awful - he'd say the most terrible things and some days I'd rather he hit me before he told me that I wasn't the same girl he fell in love with, rather he pull my hair before he look at me with that disbelieving look only he could pull off so well. I could never find what to say - just stood there dumbly, mute as I tried not to cry because he hated seeing me cry. Even then, when he was screaming loud enough that I was almost positive our neighbors down the street could hear, I was trying to make him happy.

The worst argument, I think, was when we fought about children. We had it at least once every two weeks or so. He wanted children and I couldn't get pregnant again. (If only he knew.) It was probably the stress and the fact that I wasn't eating very much - I didn't want to get out of bed some days - coupled with the fact that I didn't want him to touch me anymore. At least not for a while, anyway. I guess he must have thought I was doing it on purpose, to spite him. He'd yell and rant and all I could do was stand there and try not to cry - I couldn't bring our baby into this world because of him, and I wouldn't willingly subject an innocent child to someone like him, someone who could fly off the handle at a moment's notice just because things weren't just the way he wanted them to be.

I felt powerless and hopeless and lost and sad and all I wanted to do was go home.

The problem was that Addie was my home, and that no matter what he did to me, I'd follow him blindly, even if it killed me.

Though I suppose it wasn't all bad. Not entirely.

When we were good, we were wonderful. There was no middle ground with Addie and I - everything always lied on two extremes and never in a comfortable medium, at least, not for very long. There were kisses and chocolates and flowers and presents just because, trips and parties and picnics and matinees, fairs and carnivals and trips to Coney Island when the weather was nice. And I thought that this time, yes, this time, it's going to last and we're going to be happy and he's going to love me again. (Of course, I don't need to tell you it never did. That's why we're here.)

His eyes would shine and he'd come home and he made feel like I was beautiful, at least for a little while, and that's all I wanted. It was during these times that I could make myself believe it when he told me he loved me, blamed the mean things he said on other things that were out of my control and turned them into trivial little nonsensical things. He loved me, and that's all that mattered.

It was during one of these lulls, these eyes in the middle of the terrible storm I called my love for him, that one of the best things ever happened to me, and it's this day and what happened two weeks after that bring us to where we find ourselves now. (Sort of.)

It was right before Christmas, one we spent with both our families - they made the trip up to New York because Addie insisted on us not traveling all the way down there, because a real Christmas had snow, trips to Rockefeller Center, hot chocolate, and other silly things that one could only find in the city during the holidays.

I was making dinner (our families were due any day and I had been trying to prepare just in case they caught us by surprise) and alone, like I normally was. Things had been relatively stable - the knowledge of our parents, and his mother, who never quite liked me, no matter how hard I tried to win her affection, coming to visit with the twins - had calmed him quite a bit, and he always liked Christmas. It was his favorite holiday.

Anyway, so there I am, making dinner - I still remember, macaroni and cheese cassarole, sweet potatoes, string beans ­- when Addie comes barelling in, tracking snow all around the living room as he tosses his things down and makes a mess, like he has the habit of doing. He was humming, which usually meant he was in a better mood than usual. He put a record on and I heard the sounds of him pouring himself a drink, like he usually did.

What I didn't hear was when he crept into the kitchen. He walked in and wrapped his arms around my waist, catching me by surprise - even though things were good, he wasn't as affectionate as he had been, say, two or three years before. Also, when he came home from work, he usually took a shower, threw on something comfortable, and dozed on the couch until dinner was ready, if it wasn't already. I stilled, almost dropping my wooden spoon into the pot of boiling water.

"Yes?" I half asked, confused. "Did you need something?"

"I just - I missed you today, that's all," he answered, pressing his lips to my neck. I almost shrugged him off, a reflex since that's what he usually did when he was still half asleep. What did he want now? "Did you have a good day?"

"I finished fixing the tree, but I couldn't find the star so you'll probably have to go up to the attic later. I guess it's been okay," I said lightly. "I'm trying to make dinner, so - "

"Dinner can wait, can't it?" He started tugging at the zipper on the side of my dress, smiling into my shoulder when I swatted at his hands.

"Do you want burnt cheese for dinner?" I asked, turning to look at him. "That can wait."

"It's not like I can't cook." He leaned against me firmly, turning the gas burners off one by one. "I make five star meals."

"Since when?"

"Since always," he laughed, taking the spoon out of my hand before setting it down on the counter.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Mmhm," he laughed, turning me around. "I promise I'll make you the best dinner you've ever had tonight. I swear it on my life." He held his right hand up, left hand pinning me to him. I tried not to smile. (He really could be pretty funny when he wanted to be.)

"Half-cooked steak and potatoes?" I raised an eyebrow, biting my lip. "Who can resist?"

"Hopefully, not you."

That was my problem - I couldn't resist him. I just loved him too much and that was my Achilles heel, because at the end of the day, no matter how much I wanted to leave and run away, my heart stubbornly dug its' heels and refused to let me go anywhere without him.

We did, ironically, actually eat steak and potatoes instead that night.

Christmas passed by without incident - everyone got what they wanted, his mother frowned and scowled at everything I did, and I put on the happy face I was so used to donning.

However, a day or so after New Years', when I realized I was late, yet again, I didn't know whether I wanted to scream or cry or just go back to bed. Knowing what had happened last time, I decided that it couldn't wait. They had these things at the drug store three blocks down, kits that could tell you if you were pregnant or not with relative accuracy. I'd still have to go to the doctor, but at least I'd know sooner.

I bought three, thinking that two out of three would do the trick - they were expensive, but it'd be worth it in the end. I couldn't take the tests for almost a week - too scared of knowing if I was or wasn't pregant. If I was, what would I do? Where would I go? I couldn't leave him, but I also couldn't live on the streets, and I wasn't, under any circumstances, letting him hurt the baby again. But if I wasn't, I wouldn't be able to take it. It'd probably kill me - I had all but convinced myself I was expecting and if I wasn't I didn't know what I'd do with myself.

The first one was positive, but since the small print on the bottom of the folded little paper with the instructions on it said that there was usually a risk of error, I opened the second box and took the test again. When I only saw the one little line instead of two, I felt my heart sinking in my chest. I sat on the edge of the tub and dabbed at my eyes with a tissue, trying not to cry but failing miserably. I wanted to hurry - he was going to be home any minute and I had no interest in letting him see me like this, but by the time I calmed down, he was already setting his things down in the living room.

"Lulu?" he asked, already climbing the stairs. "Anybody home?"

"Yeah," I replied, debating on whether or not I should throw out the tests. "I'll be down in a minute."

"Are you okay?" He knocked on the door and I cursed under my breath, washing my hands shakily. I stayed silent, staring at the unopened box sitting patiently on the edge of the sink. "Lulu?"

"I'll be out soon."

"Are you feeling okay?" Addie poked his head in the door and I shut the faucet, lips in a line as I dried my hands off the skirt of my dress. He walked into the already cramped bathroom and shut the door, leaning against it as he looked at me curiously. His gaze rested on the two sticks on the counter before looking up at me again. "Are you pregnant?" he murured quietly.

"I don't know." He thumbed the unopened box, almost frowning but not quite.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Because you wouldn't care.

"I just... I don't know. I'm probably not pregnant anyway." I took it from him and shot him a pointed look (something about squatting and peeing in front of him made me uneasy) until he turned around and faced the shower, grumbling something about how he was my husband and he's already seen everything anyway so it doesn't matter. After I finished, we set it on the counter to wait and sat on the lip of the tub. He kept looking at me, like that would make the time go quicker or something.

"Are you excited? I mean, we're not even trying, but if you are..." He smiled and leaned in but I turned my face, looking down at the linoleum beneath our feet. Did he really want the baby? Or was he just saying that. "Do you know how far along you are?"

"Two weeks, maybe." I rubbed my thumb against my wedding band nervously. "It's not like I write down every time we have sex, Addie."

He didn't say anything after that, just kept his hand over mine as we sat and waited. He was the one who got up to check the results - and sure enough, it was positive. Everything was a little dizzy after that. He hugged me and kissed me - he was happy, of course, and all I could do was smile weakly in response. I should have been happy too - I was young and healthy and having a baby with someone I loved, but said person didn't love me and I was bring an innocent child into a situation it didn't ask for.

So, after all his excitement bubbled down, after he called his parents and my parents too and made an appointment for the following day at the doctor's, I asked him if we could go home - and by home, I meant Birmingham, meant pretty lawns and clean air and freshness and people who would smile because they knew you and neighbors who you could borrow a cup of sugar from - for good. I told him it was because I wanted to raise our baby somewhere safe - which is partially true because New York City really was quite a dangerous place, even on our side of town - but, if we're being honest, the only reason I wanted to go back to Alabama was because I needed my family, missed them something fierce, and if I needed to leave him once and for good, I'd have somewhere to go, at least for a few nights. He agreed, of course - if I'd asked him for the moon at that very moment he would have found a way to give it to me, he was so excited.

How was I supposed to know it would only get worse once we went home?