say.
“I mean,” he rubbed at a scar on the old wooden table, “I had to put some distance between us. Between you and me, but also between me and Anna.”
“Why, Brian? Why would you do that?”
He was up again, pacing. “Because I couldn’t stand watching the two of you play house,” he said, a sliver of anger returning to his voice. “The two of you belonged together, that was obvious, but that didn’t make it any easier to witness. It’s not easy, always being the odd man out. I thought if I left, if I settled into my own life, made my own marriage, instead of always intruding into yours….” He stopped, leaning his forehead against the wall. Behind the glass, a guard moved forward, but Brian waved him away. “It didn’t work, of course.” He turned to face me. “All it got me was a nasty divorce and a serious dent in my bank account.” He smiled a crooked smile. “And a lot of lonely days.”
Maybe I had known all those years that Brian’s words to Anna, though said in jest, were full of truth. I suppose I had. But I hadn’t realized the extent to which he’d had to fight against them, or the extent to which his feelings for Anna had shaped his life. I don’t know what I might have felt at that moment had our circumstances been normal. Jealousy? Anger? What I did feel was sorrow, for Brian, for Anna, for all of us.
“We have to take care of Peter,” is what I said to him. “I need you to help me get to Peter. He’s all that’s left of Anna.”
Chapter 13: November, 1999
There aren’t words in the English language sufficient to describe what Anna and I endured those next few years. We lost our first baby just after Anna’s second appointment with her doctor. “On the next visit,” the doctor had said, “we’ll listen to the heartbeat.” We were ecstatic. Anna called both of our mothers and told them to save the date. Our parents were as excited as we were, and Anna wanted to include not only her own mother, but mine. It was one of the many things I loved about Anna, that she so readily incorporated my mother into our lives. I was not always as thoughtful; luckily, Anna picked up my slack.
She called to invite them, but it was I who called to tell them it was not to be. The first few weeks of that pregnancy were very difficult for Anna. She was terribly sick, not just in the mornings but throughout the day. She was an adjunct professor at that time, teaching only a handful of classes each week while hoping to work her way up, and she told me she made it through each hour with a handful of loose crackers in her skirt pocket and a can of diet soda on the desk.
Even then, she was a trooper. Despite the sickness, despite the exhaustion, it was perhaps the happiest I’d ever seen her. “It’ll pass,” the doctor assured us at her first appointment when we asked about the symptoms. “Drink plenty of fluids and rest when you can. Come back in a couple of weeks, just to be safe, and we’ll see how you’re doing.”
To the doctor’s credit, the nausea had begun to abate by our second appointment. Anna looked much better, her cheeks had some color, and she was holding down food. The doctor gently felt her abdomen and declared all to be well. We had no reason to believe anything would go wrong before we returned at twelve weeks to hear the heartbeat.
It was a Friday night, and isn’t it strange how such details embed themselves into our memories? We retired early, Anna because she was tired, and I because I wanted to be with her. We joked about becoming boring, and concluded that was the natural progression for those about to become parents. We talked for a while in the darkness, batting around baby names and discussing the renovations needed to turn the nearest bedroom into a nursery. She asked me to rub her lower back, something she’d often asked, and I did so happily, already loving the changes in her body, determined to be as much a part of the experience as I
“I mean,” he rubbed at a scar on the old wooden table, “I had to put some distance between us. Between you and me, but also between me and Anna.”
“Why, Brian? Why would you do that?”
He was up again, pacing. “Because I couldn’t stand watching the two of you play house,” he said, a sliver of anger returning to his voice. “The two of you belonged together, that was obvious, but that didn’t make it any easier to witness. It’s not easy, always being the odd man out. I thought if I left, if I settled into my own life, made my own marriage, instead of always intruding into yours….” He stopped, leaning his forehead against the wall. Behind the glass, a guard moved forward, but Brian waved him away. “It didn’t work, of course.” He turned to face me. “All it got me was a nasty divorce and a serious dent in my bank account.” He smiled a crooked smile. “And a lot of lonely days.”
Maybe I had known all those years that Brian’s words to Anna, though said in jest, were full of truth. I suppose I had. But I hadn’t realized the extent to which he’d had to fight against them, or the extent to which his feelings for Anna had shaped his life. I don’t know what I might have felt at that moment had our circumstances been normal. Jealousy? Anger? What I did feel was sorrow, for Brian, for Anna, for all of us.
“We have to take care of Peter,” is what I said to him. “I need you to help me get to Peter. He’s all that’s left of Anna.”
Chapter 13: November, 1999
There aren’t words in the English language sufficient to describe what Anna and I endured those next few years. We lost our first baby just after Anna’s second appointment with her doctor. “On the next visit,” the doctor had said, “we’ll listen to the heartbeat.” We were ecstatic. Anna called both of our mothers and told them to save the date. Our parents were as excited as we were, and Anna wanted to include not only her own mother, but mine. It was one of the many things I loved about Anna, that she so readily incorporated my mother into our lives. I was not always as thoughtful; luckily, Anna picked up my slack.
She called to invite them, but it was I who called to tell them it was not to be. The first few weeks of that pregnancy were very difficult for Anna. She was terribly sick, not just in the mornings but throughout the day. She was an adjunct professor at that time, teaching only a handful of classes each week while hoping to work her way up, and she told me she made it through each hour with a handful of loose crackers in her skirt pocket and a can of diet soda on the desk.
Even then, she was a trooper. Despite the sickness, despite the exhaustion, it was perhaps the happiest I’d ever seen her. “It’ll pass,” the doctor assured us at her first appointment when we asked about the symptoms. “Drink plenty of fluids and rest when you can. Come back in a couple of weeks, just to be safe, and we’ll see how you’re doing.”
To the doctor’s credit, the nausea had begun to abate by our second appointment. Anna looked much better, her cheeks had some color, and she was holding down food. The doctor gently felt her abdomen and declared all to be well. We had no reason to believe anything would go wrong before we returned at twelve weeks to hear the heartbeat.
It was a Friday night, and isn’t it strange how such details embed themselves into our memories? We retired early, Anna because she was tired, and I because I wanted to be with her. We joked about becoming boring, and concluded that was the natural progression for those about to become parents. We talked for a while in the darkness, batting around baby names and discussing the renovations needed to turn the nearest bedroom into a nursery. She asked me to rub her lower back, something she’d often asked, and I did so happily, already loving the changes in her body, determined to be as much a part of the experience as I
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