could. We fell asleep spooning, me behind Anna with my arm around her, holding both of them close.
It was I who awakened. The night was a cool one, but I felt dampness against my thighs. I thought at first Anna must be too warm, sweating in her sleep; we joked that she’d become a living furnace since becoming pregnant. I moved away from her and pushed the comforter aside to cool her off. I squinted at the bedside clock, noted it was just past midnight, and reluctantly swung my legs off the bed and headed for the bathroom, cursing the beer I’d had before turning in.
As strange as it may sound, I didn’t immediately understand the meaning of the blood smeared across my crotch and thighs. It shames me to remember it now, but initially I thought it must have come from me; all sorts of ridiculous scenarios flew through my groggy mind until I realized I felt no pain, just the mild discomfort of a full bladder. When I finally comprehended, when I finally understood the source of the blood, I slammed the bathroom door open and literally leapt across the room to Anna, shaking her awake while simultaneously turning on the lamp on her nightstand.
A thousand times over the intervening years, I’ve wished I could relive that moment. It marked the beginning of a very difficult time for Anna and me; I’m not sure we ever fully recovered. Actually, I’m sure we didn’t.
If I could relive that moment, I’d lower myself onto the side of the bathtub and wait. I’d allow her a few more moments of happiness, and when I had to tell her, when I absolutely couldn’t wait any longer, I’d kneel in front of her and wake her gently. I’d smooth her hair from her face and kiss her cheeks and wrap my arms around her and tell her I loved her. I’d hold her close and tell her we had our whole lives, we had the whole world, and we had each other; that was all we really needed. But I didn’t know, so that’s not what I did.
When it was all over, when Anna was back home and her mother was in the kitchen puttering around making soup, I sat on the side of our bed and cried. Anna was sleeping, helped along by a prescription from the doctor. I cried for our baby, and I cried for me, but mostly I cried for Anna.
Later, when her mother had retired to our extra bedroom for the night and I held Anna close, she turned to me. “Phillip,” she said. “As awful as this is, as unfair and heartbreaking and terrible as it is, there’s something positive about it, too.”
I searched out her eyes in the darkness, waiting for her to continue.
“At least I know I can get pregnant, Phillip. If it happened once, it can happen again. At least I know we can.”
How I wish I’d told her then that we only needed each other.
Chapter 14: June 3, 2012—The Arrest
Brian and I sat silently as he digested all I’d told him. He’d been there less than an hour, but it seemed much longer. The guards outside the glass looked bored, and I wondered if the look was affected after so many years dealing with criminals, or if it was genuine. Perhaps, after witnessing countless stories of human tragedy, one becomes immune.
“You’re killing me, Phil,” he said after some time, and I looked away. He no longer paced; instead, he sat quietly across from me, seemingly resigned to hearing my tale whether he wanted to or not. I had never before seen that look on Brian’s face, not even when his marriage ended. I think he may have known then, or at least suspected, what was coming.
I’ve wondered since my arrest, during the months of my incarceration and through the long days of my trial, if I should have spared him. No doubt it was selfish of me to unburden myself at Brian’s expense, but as I’ve relived these events over the past year, I’ve come to understand that I was always selfish where Brian was concerned. I hadn’t meant to be; I hadn’t even realized I was, but in hindsight the truth is inescapable. While Anna and I, or perhaps
It was I who awakened. The night was a cool one, but I felt dampness against my thighs. I thought at first Anna must be too warm, sweating in her sleep; we joked that she’d become a living furnace since becoming pregnant. I moved away from her and pushed the comforter aside to cool her off. I squinted at the bedside clock, noted it was just past midnight, and reluctantly swung my legs off the bed and headed for the bathroom, cursing the beer I’d had before turning in.
As strange as it may sound, I didn’t immediately understand the meaning of the blood smeared across my crotch and thighs. It shames me to remember it now, but initially I thought it must have come from me; all sorts of ridiculous scenarios flew through my groggy mind until I realized I felt no pain, just the mild discomfort of a full bladder. When I finally comprehended, when I finally understood the source of the blood, I slammed the bathroom door open and literally leapt across the room to Anna, shaking her awake while simultaneously turning on the lamp on her nightstand.
A thousand times over the intervening years, I’ve wished I could relive that moment. It marked the beginning of a very difficult time for Anna and me; I’m not sure we ever fully recovered. Actually, I’m sure we didn’t.
If I could relive that moment, I’d lower myself onto the side of the bathtub and wait. I’d allow her a few more moments of happiness, and when I had to tell her, when I absolutely couldn’t wait any longer, I’d kneel in front of her and wake her gently. I’d smooth her hair from her face and kiss her cheeks and wrap my arms around her and tell her I loved her. I’d hold her close and tell her we had our whole lives, we had the whole world, and we had each other; that was all we really needed. But I didn’t know, so that’s not what I did.
When it was all over, when Anna was back home and her mother was in the kitchen puttering around making soup, I sat on the side of our bed and cried. Anna was sleeping, helped along by a prescription from the doctor. I cried for our baby, and I cried for me, but mostly I cried for Anna.
Later, when her mother had retired to our extra bedroom for the night and I held Anna close, she turned to me. “Phillip,” she said. “As awful as this is, as unfair and heartbreaking and terrible as it is, there’s something positive about it, too.”
I searched out her eyes in the darkness, waiting for her to continue.
“At least I know I can get pregnant, Phillip. If it happened once, it can happen again. At least I know we can.”
How I wish I’d told her then that we only needed each other.
Chapter 14: June 3, 2012—The Arrest
Brian and I sat silently as he digested all I’d told him. He’d been there less than an hour, but it seemed much longer. The guards outside the glass looked bored, and I wondered if the look was affected after so many years dealing with criminals, or if it was genuine. Perhaps, after witnessing countless stories of human tragedy, one becomes immune.
“You’re killing me, Phil,” he said after some time, and I looked away. He no longer paced; instead, he sat quietly across from me, seemingly resigned to hearing my tale whether he wanted to or not. I had never before seen that look on Brian’s face, not even when his marriage ended. I think he may have known then, or at least suspected, what was coming.
I’ve wondered since my arrest, during the months of my incarceration and through the long days of my trial, if I should have spared him. No doubt it was selfish of me to unburden myself at Brian’s expense, but as I’ve relived these events over the past year, I’ve come to understand that I was always selfish where Brian was concerned. I hadn’t meant to be; I hadn’t even realized I was, but in hindsight the truth is inescapable. While Anna and I, or perhaps
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