Recovery

by Simmons, L. B.

  “Kyndall.” When she looks up at him, he takes her hand into his as he speaks. “Please, never, ever think that you shouldn’t have a picture of your daddy. Ever. He is, and always will be, your father. I want you to remember him always. You can wallpaper your room with his pictures if you want to.” Blake wraps his arms securely around her. Running his hand down her smooth, light brown hair, he adds, “You know, I was friends with your daddy. I think I might have a picture of us when we were kids. If I can find it, would you like to have it…for your room?”

  Excitedly, Kyndall releases him and nods her head, smile stretching all the way across her beautiful face. “My two favorite men in the world!” she exclaims. From the loving expression on his face, I can tell her words touch him deeply. He runs his hand down her hair one more time and gently strokes her cheek before standing up. “I’m flattered to be able to be with such great company. You know, your daddy loved you very much and I hope that you know that I love you too. You never have to worry about keeping his memory alive in our house. He was an amazing man and I’m honored to be able to follow in his footsteps in raising you girls.”

  As Kyndall moves to embrace him, I step back from the door and hurry towards the living room, not wanting to ruin this beautiful moment, for either of them.

  After a few seconds, I call for everyone to meet in the living room and we load up in the car. Blake drives, singing along with the girls to the radio. He says very little to me, I notice, and I’m still upset too. I know it’s probably just hormones, but I feel as though he’s attacking everything I do.

  The way I raise the girls.

  The way I lift boxes.

  The way I pick duct tape off of the floor.

  Once we arrive at the lake, I grab the blanket from the back of the Suburban and spread it on the ground. We just barely make it, but, hey…we make it.

  Taking a seat by Nycole, I watch Blake as he continues to stand, holding onto Kyndall’s hand with Rylie on his shoulders. As the fireworks start, Rylie gasps as they explode over her head. She and Blake point toward the sky and I watch the shimmering light reflecting off her face. Her eyes are almost as wide as her smile, and my heart warms knowing she’s so happy. Blake lifts Kyndall’s hand, pointing and guiding her eyes to a beautiful red, white and blue displays in the sky. When he drops it back down, she leans her head and places it on his forearm as she continues to look at the sky, beautiful eyes widened with excitement and joy.

  I glance over at Nycole sitting next to me and put my arm around her. Pressing her head down on my shoulder, I lay my cheek on her forehead as we watch in silence. Halfway through, I glance back up at Blake, who’s in almost as much awe as the girls. The look of wonderment in his eyes makes me grin. Pushing myself off the ground, I stand and move to his side, taking his hand into mine. He smiles, but something’s different. Something is looming between us, and I don’t like it, not one bit.

  Sadly, I have a gut feeling that like two pieces of flint rock, the tension filled shift between us tonight ignited a spark, lighting the fuse to our very own Morgan family firework show.

  One capable of blowing us completely apart.

  “Alex, please, let me help you with that,” Blake huffs at me after asking for what must be the twentieth time today. The clanking of the dishes as I stack them reminds me of the uncharacteristically quiet breakfast I just experienced. Well, not true. We’ve been having a lot of silent meals lately. The girls still have their stories and usual high-pitched banter, but there’s been an unusual lack of conversation between Blake and I.

  My brand new, unimproved husband. Brand new sucks.

  “I’ve got it. Don’t worry about it.” Grabbing the last plate, I throw the fork on top of it and set it on top of the others. I can tell he just rolled his eyes, but I don’t feel like fighting, so I ignore it.

  Grabbing the stack of plates off of our brand new kitchen table, I silently carry them into our brand new kitchen, in our brand new house. While I do, my mind’s bombarded with the same thought over and over. What the hell is his problem?

  Rinsing the dishes in our brand new sink, I find myself lost in my own thoughts. As the warm water cascades over them, removing all remnants of our tension loaded first meal of the day, Blake makes his way into the kitchen, setting the glasses of orange juice and milk right beside the sink. He leans against the counter, right next to me, and crosses his arms, staring at me the entire time. I can feel the green lasers being shot at my head and I fight the instinct to punch him.

  “What?” I ask, staring into the sink. As the eggs circle around the drain, my thoughts are drawn to our relationship. Circling around and around. Going nowhere.

  He continues his unyielding glare. I can feel my blood pressure rising, which isn’t a good sign. It’s been happening a lot lately. He continues to watch me for a couple of seconds before pushing himself off of the counter. “Nothing, Alex.” He forcefully runs his hand through his hair and lets out a deep sigh before walking out of the room without saying another word.

  What the hell is going on?

  What the hell has been going on?

  We had been one of those annoying perfect couples that I love to make fun of up until a month ago. But these last few weeks, something’s changed. I know it’s not the girls, or work, or the house. Blake seems only increasingly agitated at me. And he won’t talk to me about it.

  Welcome to my brand new life.

  I shake my head in frustration. I want to scream my head off. I want to run up to him, push him, shake him, smack him on the arm…whatever it takes to get him to talk to me. But, I don’t. I just let the frustration simmer in my heart, heating my nerves and raising my blood pressure.

  Letting out my own sigh, I finish rinsing off the dishes, and decide to leave them in the sink. I’m just too tired to put them in the dishwasher right now. I’ve been tired a lot lately, which is really weird considering I’m only eighteen weeks pregnant. None of my other pregnancies affected me this way. Wiping my fingers with the dishtowel, I throw it on the sink and move on to my next set of chores. I’m exhausted, but I have to get to them before the girls get home, or they’ll never get done. Resigning to this fact, I head off quickly, hoping to be able to squeeze in a nap afterwards.

  Swiping my hands along the top of my yoga pants, the only type of pants I seem to want to wear these days, I shuffle my way across the living room. Harlow’s getting really tired of these babies. She actually told me I couldn’t wear them to work anymore, even after I explained that I’d already bought at least ten pair. So, in an effort to make her happy, I traded up for a pair of baggy sweat pants. Now, I get to wear my trusty ol’ yoga pants to the office as much as I want.

  I laugh an evil laugh silently to myself. She’s so easy.

  Once I’m inside the laundry room, I raise my hand to flip on the light switch. Nothing happens. I try flipping it again, but still nothing. Shit.

  Well, I’m definitely not asking Blake to fix it. I’ll just have to take care of it later. Practically blind, I feel around for the basket. Once it’s located, I grab it off the washer and start on my clothes collecting journey.

  Slowly, I approach the one and only thing I hate about this house, well, except my new mute husband. My nemesis…the God awful stairs.

  This hate started when we moved into our brand new house, and it grows exponentially every day that I become more pregnant. With a whimper of detest, I place the basket under my arm and start the tedious climb. Once at the top, I take a second to catch my breath and continue on to the girls’ rooms. I really should start working out. Or...

  Walking into Nycole’s room, I turn on the light and as my eyes focus, I involuntarily cringe. I do it every single time I breach her living space. Words cannot express how much I hate the animal print patterns she used to decorate her entire room, but, I’m glad she finally has a room of her own. I know it makes her happy, so I’ll let her keep her horrendous zebra print walls, for now an
yway.

  I bend over and swipe her peace and love covered pajama pants and matching cami up from the leopard print rug.

  Or is it cheetah?

  Jaguar, maybe?

  Well, whatever the hell it is, I’m getting out of here ASAP before I’m caught in the middle of a stampede.

  Closing the door behind me, my feet instantly become tangled in the pajama trail that Kyndall so lovingly left for fear that I wouldn’t be able to find my way to her room. Leaning over to scoop them up, I laugh to myself. It’s not the location that’s the problem. It’s getting lost upon actual entry. I tend to keep her door closed at all times because her room also freaks me out. Whenever I open it, I feel like I’m looking into Carol Anne’s bedroom from Poltergeist, record playing protractor and all. It’s absolute chaos in there! Honestly, I’m scared I’ll get sucked in through the closet and have to go through that nasty membrane jelly crap in order to get out again.

  No thank you.

  I glance back down at the puppy and kitten covered pajamas under my feet, letting out another sigh. This is the only bad thing about having Tatum watch the girls. They get so excited that they tend to just spontaneously combust, leaving their clothes right where they stand. She called right after our silent breakfast this morning, offering to take them to the movies, and I was more than happy to oblige. Was being the operative word. Now I kind of feel like I’d rather have them here to buffer the overwhelming tension between Blake and me, but still, I am glad they’re getting their Tatum time. Ever since the wedding they’ve been inseparable on the weekends. She loves them and they love her.

  As I deposit Kyndall’s pants into the basket, my eyes make contact with Rylie’s door. The brand new one that has already been decorated with Crayola-colored hearts and smiley faces. I make the decision to skip her room altogether this morning. I don’t have the energy to clean up the tiaras, plastic shoes, wings, wands and anything else she keeps in the trunk that Blake gave her for her birthday. So, like any decent mother, I just pretend it doesn’t exist.

  Now finished with my clothing pick-up service—the tips suck by the way—I retrace my steps back down their hallway towards the stairs. At least the descent is easier. I cross back through the living room, snagging a couple of socks on the way and enter our bedroom, where I find Blake excitedly throwing on his black v-neck t-shirt over his faded jeans. I note, before his shirt covers it, the very sexy lines that define his hips. As I metaphorically wipe the drool from my mouth, I glance down at my white “Warning: I Pee When I Laugh” tank top. Harlow gave it to me as a reminder of my hopefully temporary state of incontinence.

  Oh, I have so many things planned for her pregnancy.

  I sure hope we’re not going anywhere because I plan on wearing this getup all day long. In public or private.

  Sliding his boots on, he looks up and smiles. What? Did I get sucked into Kyndall’s closet without knowing it and now reside in a parallel universe where Blake’s actually smiling again?

  He looks down at the basket full of clothes. “Need any help?”

  “Nope, I’m fine.” I signal to his boots. “What’s going on? Where are you going?”

  His face falls a bit before answering. “I have an errand to run. I’ll be back soon. What time are the girls getting back?”

  “They went to the noon movie, so probably around two-thirty-ish, I guess.” I narrow my eyes, still wondering where he’s going. Not that he sees me. He’s halfway down the hall already.

  “Cool. I’ll be back soon.” I barely hear him over the clanking of his boots on the wood floors.

  “Okay?” I ask because, number one, there’s no way he heard me over the front door shutting so why am I even saying it, and number two, I’m still questioning where he’s so eagerly going.

  After a few seconds of staring out the doorway, like an idiot, I let out a yawn. Maybe I’m dreaming. Maybe, I should just go back to sleep. Yes. Excellent plan, Alex.

  I sit down on our brand new bed, and lay back, watching the ceiling fan go around and around as I think and sigh. More circles.

  Where exactly did Blake and I get off of Loving Couple Road and turn on to Distant Marriage Avenue. I shut my eyes because I feel the tears coming. Damn hormones. I wipe the first tear as it escapes my eye, but after the tenth one, I just let them fall.

  After a long while, I manage to emotionally exhaust myself. Feeling myself drifting to sleep, the last thought on my mind is Blake and his arms around me, bringing me the reassuring comfort and peace that my mind and body long for.

  I wake to the blissful noise of my cell, dinging over and over again, reminding me that next week Blake and I head to Dr. Young’s office to find out if we’re having a boy or a girl. Normally, I’d jump up, smile, and set it to remind me again tomorrow.

  But not today.

  Today, my heart hurts and I can’t seem find it in me to conjure up one bit of excitement.

  I miss my husband.

  Stretching my arms above my head, I make sure my body is fully awake before hauling my ass off the bed. Finally, when I feel ready to stand, I grab the basket off the floor and open the bedroom door. My eyes immediately make contact with the reason for one of our latest arguments.

  Poking my head just barely into the room across from ours, I flip on the light and my chest aches at the barren sight before me. Crib, changing table, dresser…all still in their boxes. Stuffed animals, toys, clothes…still in store bags. Swatches of paint all over the wall. We have been at an outright standoff regarding the color of the baby’s room. He wants light yellow. Puke. I would prefer a darker color because I have serious issues with pastels for some reason. Always have, always will. Blake, however, is obviously very secure in his manhood, because he loves them.

  So, I put my foot down. And that’s where it ended.

  The subject has not been broached since and, obviously, neither has the room. Shaking my head, I back out. As the door closes, my eardrums are pummeled by the shrieking, squealing, laughing and, of course, arguing of my daughters.

  I enter the living room, just barely making out the tops of the girls’ heads over the brand new couches. As they’re excitedly jumping around on their knees, my eyes move to where Blake’s standing with Trace and Tatum, all watching the girls with smiles on their faces. Off in the distance I catch sight of Harlow, who’s also grinning from ear to ear, but when we make eye contact she quickly loses the grin, replacing it with an “Oh, shit” look.

  I set the basket down on the brand new end table and turn the corner to find out just what the hell is worth the “Oh, shit” grimace on my friend’s face. As soon as my toes hit the floor rug, my feet stall and I can move no further. Because right in front of me, my giggling children are playing tug-of-war with:

  A brand new puppy.

  Umm, no. This is unacceptable. When did I agree to this?

  This dog better be Harlow and Trace’s dry run at raising a child because I’m pretty sure we don’t have a puppy. Unless I’m still stuck in that damn parallel universe.

  I look to Harlow first, praying I’m right. “Yours?”

  No words, just wide eyes and the shaking of her head. Next, I turn to Tatum. “Yours?”

  She’s giving me the same response as Harlow, but follows it up with a giggle when she reads my shirt. I turn to Trace, but the man’s intelligent enough to shake his head no before I can ask the question. I can tell he’s stifling a wicked grin knowing his best friend’s about to get an ass chewing. A boyish charm fills his light blue eyes as he casts a glance to Blake.

  The puppy yips and I break my stare from Trace to see Rylie petting his tummy while the other two rub his ears. He looks up at me, paws in the air, and I swear he’s smiling. Actually, he is kind of cute but, unfortunately for him, I’m immune to cute.

  For right now at least.

  I tear my eyes from the golden ball of fur, seeking out the only possible person who could be responsible for this.


  As soon as my eyes find his, Blake throws his hands up proclaiming his innocence. “What?”

  My eyes triple in size. I’m sorry. Is it supposed to be an invisible dog? Am I not supposed to see it?

  “That!” I shout. The girls look up at me from the floor, all excitement disappearing from their faces.

  Harlow claps her hands together. “Alright girls, let’s go get some ice cream,” she says, grabbing her purse and keys off the couch. Trace and Tatum are nowhere to be found.

  Smart.

  “Can we bring the puppy, please?” Kyndall pleads. Harlow looks from me to the animal slobbering and shedding all over my rug, assessing the situation, and nods. “Yes, Kyndall. I think that would be best.”

  I watch them all scramble out of the living room and race out the door, puppy in tow. Looking back to Blake, I shift my weight and place my hand on my hip, still waiting for my answer. He looks just as pissed as I feel. I can see the blood rushing to his cheeks and feel my face heating as well.

  “What the hell, Alex?” My heart rate is increasing to an immeasurable BPM.

  “My dear,” I plaster a sugary smile on my face, “I don’t remember being consulted about bringing a puppy into this house. I know I’m pregnant and my brain is shrinking on a daily basis, but I would like to think I would have remembered that conversation.” Or at least I hope so.

  “No, you’re right. I didn’t ask you because it would have been pointless. You would’ve shot it down without even listening. Just like you do when I approach you with anything having to do with the girls. They need this, Alex.”

  What? I do not. Do I?

  And, for the record, I love puppies. Only evil people don’t like puppies and kittens. If he would have bothered to ask me, he would have known this. But I’m much too pissed right now to approach the problem in a civil manner.