by Renee Dyer
Dr. Wendell doesn’t look as calm as usual when he walks in. His smile is in place, but something is off—no, something was wrong on my MRI. I can feel it. Without thinking, I squeeze Nick’s hand. I feel his eyes on me, but I can’t look at him. I can’t move, swallow…damn, I’m not sure my heart can beat.
“How are you doing, Brenna?” Dr. Wendell asks.
“You tell me, Doc. You’re holding the answers in your hands.” My voice shakes and I hate my weakness.
He nods and takes a seat. I try not to tell him to hurry the hell up as he logs into his computer, but the wait is driving me insane. Tension invades the room so thick, it’s suffocating. Nick scoots closer to me and, together, we sit, our shoulders rubbing, praying for good news.
I should be used to my brain popping up in front of me by now, but I don’t think I’ll ever stop being shocked by the image, no matter how gray or blurry. It’s in my head. It’s not meant to be seen. Yet, here it is, and we’re about to discuss it like it’s neighborhood news. Everyone wants to know what’s going on, but no one wants to start the conversation.
“What are we looking at, Doc?” I ask, my impatience winning out.
“These here,” he points, “are the upper ventricles. They are small, showing they are closed. No signs of hydrocephalus.”
I slump into Nick, relief pouring through me. No hydrocephalus. Our prayers were answered.
He clicks to another image showing a side view of my brain. Instantly, I notice a large, lighter gray area I’ve never seen on my scans before. I jump from the chair, alerting Nick to my unease. “What the fuck is that?” I squeak, rushing to the screen and pointing. “Do I have a tumor?” My body starts to shake.
“No, Brenna,” he answers calmly. “You don’t have a tumor. There is a small fluid collection…”
“But you said I don’t have hydrocephalus anymore!” I shout.
“You don’t have hydrocephalus.”
“Then why do I have fluid?” I’m losing it, but I can’t stop. I can’t get sick again. No one in my life will survive it.
“There are many reasons it can happen, but there’s nothing we can do about it.”
“No more surgery?” Nick pipes in. So lost in the worry over being sick again, I had forgotten he was here.
“No, these fluid pockets typically dissipate on their own.”
“And if it doesn’t?” Nick counters. There’s anger in his tone, and I wonder what is going on in his head. What image of me is he seeing right now?
“It would depend on what’s happening. We would do a new neurological work up. I would look at her symptoms and go over all options with both of you.”
“Why don’t you go in and drain the fluid? Can you do that without putting her through another surgery? Why would you leave the fluid in there?” Nick fires his questions at Dr. Wendell, frantically.
“Draining the fluid increases her risk of infection as well as a repeat of hydrocephalus. I think the best thing to do is monitor Brenna and see if the collection dissipates on its own. I don’t want to put her through an unnecessary surgery that could cause her more issues.”
Nick stares him down, more questions blaring in his eyes. I’m done talking about this, hearing there’s a potential time bomb in my head. I don’t want to listen to them talk about anything else that could go wrong.
“Can I start physical therapy now?”
He stops talking and gives me an odd look. I’m not sure if he’s worried, impressed, or confused. It’s a simple enough question. He needs to shut his damn mouth, move his ass to the exam part of this visit, and tell me how I can get back to being me.
If this were a Rocky movie, my comeback song would be playing right now.
“Let’s look you over. Can you sit on the table, please?”
Nick flinches. He thinks I don’t notice, but it’s an instinct that’s developed with him recently. Every time I move, he anticipates me falling. I’ve repeatedly told him I feel more stable each day, but nothing assures him. The longer it goes on, the shorter my fuse gets. At some point, he has to stop treating me like I’m broken.
Dr. Wendell grabs a safety pin from his container and I tense. This is one of my least favorite parts of the exam. I don’t know anyone who would enjoy having someone poke them all over to see if each side of their body reacts to pain the same way. It’s weird because it doesn’t truly hurt that much. They’re quick pokes, and it doesn’t break the skin, but it’s repetitive—down the arms and hands, each side, cheeks, legs, and feet. It can be overwhelming at times.
He checks my strength through a series of small tests. “Squeeze my fingers. Don’t let me push your arms down. Don’t let me pull your arms forward. Point your toes to the floor. Push them up against my hands.” I feel like I’m back in school prepping for a test. Like a good student, I follow instructions, take my notes, and now I need to wait to see if I’ve passed.
When it comes time to check my range of motion, I worry. I can barely look side to side, and forget tilting my head back. I am getting better at looking straight ahead, but most of the time, I’m still looking at my feet. There’s no smile as he watches me slowly pivot my head from left to right. The calm I’ve come to expect from him is gone. He’s intently watching my every move, feeling the tension in my muscles.
“Would she have been like this if she didn’t have hydrocephalus?” Nick barks from across the room, his hands gripping the chair so tightly, his knuckles are white. I’m not sure what he saw while I was out of it, but I’m starting to see the effect it had on him. “If she wasn’t stuck in a ball, trying to escape her pain for weeks, would she be like this?” he hisses.
A knot forms in my throat. Nick is not a cruel man, and it kills me to see him so torn up. I hate that what happened to me is causing him to act out of character and lash out at another person. I hate more that I’m across the room and can’t pull him into my arms and comfort him. I pray Dr. Wendell has a good answer. I’m afraid of how Nick will react if he doesn’t.
“It appears the muscles seized up. It could be that they locked in that position because they were healing from the decompression surgery, but it could be…”
“Could be? COULD BE? Let me tell you what I think it is,” Nick shouts out, “your partners refused to see my wife even though I called constantly. She spent weeks with fluid on her brain. I watched her curled in a ball with her chin stuck to her chest. It had NOTHING to do with the healing from the decompression surgery. She never had a chance to heal because she was already getting sick. YOU missed it before YOU left. She told YOU about the waves. YOU said it was normal. YOU said she was fine. YOU left for vacation and left us in the hands of people who didn’t care what happened to her. Look what fucking happened. We almost lost her. All she wants is to get better. So instead of sitting here giving us could-have-beens, tell her how to get better.”
“I’m sorry, Nick.” Dr. Wendell’s calm is back and for the first time, it’s unsettling. “I understand how frustrated you must be.”
“You don’t understand anything.” Nick stands up and leaves the room.
I don’t know what to do. I want to follow him, but I want to get permission to start physical therapy, too. My love for him wins out. It always will. “Can you excuse me for one minute?”
“Of course.”
As I step down from the table, Nick peeks his head in the door. “I’ll be in the waiting room, babe. I just can’t be in here anymore.” He gives me a nod and closes the door, leaving an emptiness in his absence.
Dr. Wendell watches me walk and goes over how I’ve been feeling. Satisfied with my exam, he gives me a referral to PT. Other than the outburst from Nick, I’m thrilled with the how the appointment went. I want to celebrate. I’ve gone six weeks with no reoccurrence of hydrocephalus. No new hospitalizations. No new meds. And I get to start PT. I got permission to start taking walks, too. These are all wins.
But how do I approach Nick with this?
The walk to the car
is silent, Nick’s anger still palpable in this moment, I decide tonight is the night I’m going to bridge the gap that’s been growing between us. Now, I just need to figure out how to approach the subject.
Nick opens my door, waits until I’m settled, then closes me in with my thoughts. The heavy humph as he sits in the seat beside me tells me he still hasn’t let go of his anger. I want to reach out, grab his hand, but there’s a barrier between him and the rest of the world. It’s like he has a Stay the Fuck Away sign hanging around his neck and I choose to oblige. It gives me a few minutes to think through my plans.
Does is make me a horrible mother to see if Janice will keep Brady for the night? I know my little guy spent a lot of time away from us while I was sick, but if we can’t close this divide, I worry he’ll be spending a lot more time separated from us. The trees blur by my window as I contemplate how to tell Nick I want a night with just him. I worry he’ll think I’m being selfish. What if he says no? Should I take it as a sign he doesn’t want to work on us?
“Are you angry with me?”
His question takes me completely by surprise. My hand finds his thigh, needing to comfort him as I say, “Gosh no, Nick. How could you think I’d be angry at you for saying how you feel?”
He sighs and I can see the thoughts running rampant in his mind. He’s watching the road, but his eyes are moving all over, like he’s trying to avoid looking at me. What have these weeks done to him? “I still had no right to lose it like that.”
“You had EVERY right. Do not feel bad now. Do you hear me, Nick St. James?”
One hand falls from the steering wheel and wraps around my fingers as we fall into silence once more. This would be a good time to ask him about tonight, but I’m afraid. I can’t believe I’m feeling this way. I’ve never been scared of talking to Nick before. How did we get to this place?
“Nick,” I say hesitantly.
“Yeah, babe.”
“Would you think I’m an asshole if I asked your mom to keep Brady overnight tonight?” I hold my breath, waiting for him to answer.
“An asshole?” he asks.
“Well, yeah. He’s spent so much time away from us recently, but I think you and I need some time together now that I’m doing better. Just tonight. I need to show you I’m still me.”
“I know you’re still you, Bren.”
“Do you, Nick? You say that, but I don’t feel like you do.” I can’t look at him, afraid I’ve hurt his feelings. I wanted tonight to be a good thing, but now I worry I’ve said the wrong thing.
“It’s just been hard. I can’t explain what it was like. I’m trying.”
“I know. That’s why I think tonight would be good for us. If you don’t want to, I—”
“I think it’s a great idea. I’ll call my mom.” He squeezes my fingers, and it makes my heart dance.
Nick’s parents are more than happy to watch Brady. Janice says Bryce can’t wait to teach Brady how to throw a ball. He already has a variety of Nerfs ready for the little guy. It makes me giggle hearing Bryce try to defend himself, saying he needs all those balls because Brady will grow and as he does, he’ll have a ball to shove in his hands, no matter what size they are. We give our son extra long hugs and a few more kisses than normal before we head home.
It’s our first night together without Brady in months…well, that I remember, and I just want to go home. I don’t want to share Nick with anyone, and he doesn’t seem to mind. We stop at a local bakery, grab whoopee pies, hit up Domino’s for pizza, and shoot home for a night of movies and cuddling on the couch together.
The movie is a no brainer. Serendipity gets pulled from our stash and I get it started while Nick sets up dinner. IBC root beer and two slices of pineapple pizza grace my tray. My stomach grumbles in delight. Sitting cross-legged, I pull the tray as close to the couch as possible while the credits start to appear. Small appreciative moans fall from my lips and Nick laughs beside me. I forgot how great pizza tastes. This needs to become a weekly meal.
We laugh at the same moments, get sad together, want to slap the characters, and tell them to get their shit together. It doesn’t matter how many times we’ve seen this movie, we act like it’s the first time. It’s one of the greatest romantic comedies ever released and we’re always amazed when people we know haven’t heard of it.
Nick’s fingers wipe under my eyes. “That scene still gets you, huh?”
“How could it not? Every time I see that glove fly through the air…gah! I just know what’s about to happen. It’s the moment. It’s beautiful.”
“You’re beautiful.”
The air changes and my nerves kick in. We haven’t been intimate in months. I know that hunger in his eyes. I want to be what he wants, but I’m afraid to disappoint him.
“Want to get ready for bed?” he asks, a nervous smile crossing his lips.
All I can do is nod, my voice failing me. He grabs my hand, and together, we walk upstairs. Anxiety floods my system as we go through our nightly routine, every second bringing us closer to our bed. It feels weird to question whether I should be doing this, but we’ve barely kissed the last few weeks. This feels like taking a thousand giant steps at once. Are we ready for this?
Am I?
“Come with me,” Nick says, grabbing my hand again. My body starts to shake and I hope he can’t feel it. I try to breathe evenly as we walk into our room, but my breath speeds up when he turns to me and pulls his t-shirt over his head. Like a teenager about to lose her virginity, I let out a gasp. I want to crawl into the floor and escape my embarrassment, but he gives me that damn dimpled grin that melts my heart. I start to unwind.
Standing before me shirtless, Nick reaches for my sweater. There’s a slight hesitation in his movement, but his desire wins out. Slowly, he raises my top, taking in every inch of my ivory skin. His breathing becomes ragged. He’s as affected as I am, making me feel empowered. I reach for the stars, allowing him to pull the sweater from my arms.
The chill of the night dances across my skin and I revel in the sensation. Goose bumps tap along my exposed flesh, little teasers of what’s to come, every movement a new arousal.
When he drops to his knees, I’m sure my heart stops beating. My eyes don’t leave his as he unbuttons my jeans, lowers the zipper, and slowly pulls them down my thighs. He takes great care in removing them from each foot. My socks as well. He holds my other thigh tight, making sure I’m stable without making me feel weak, and placing kisses on my thighs.
Down to my bra and panties, he stands, his body flush with mine as he rises. Before I can get nervous again, he lifts me onto his hips. A small, “Oh,” escapes my lips as I wrap myself around him. Chest to chest, he carries me to the bed and gently lays me down, his body hovering above mine.
“You are so beautiful, Bren. I’ve missed you…this…us.”
I have no words, so I reach for him and pull his mouth to mine. The first touch of our mouths is tentative, exploring, but a few seconds in, we remember who we are. Tongues collide and heat explodes. His weight presses down, no worry over hurting me in his mind. We let go of the hurt and anger and let our kisses reconnect us.
My hands move into his hair, needing more—needing him to move faster. I grip handfuls, not sure what I want from him first.
“Shh, Bren. We have all night.”
I wasn’t aware of the whimpers I was letting out. His fingers trail up my sides, making me giggle. He lays back down, his lips coming back to mine as his hands continue in to my hair. Our bodies rub together, trying to connect through his jeans, the fabric coarse against my bare thighs.
Too much clothing.
I try getting to his pants, but I’m pinned beneath him. Maybe I can wiggle one arm between us. Nope. If I push on his chest a little, maybe he’ll let me sneak my hands down there. Uh-uh. Damn it. I want him as undressed as I am. After a few more seconds of frustrated thoughts, I yell at myself to get out of my head and back in the moment.
Nick is lyin
g frozen above me, hands locked behind my head, lips hovering above mine.
“Nick?”
“Oh shit,” he says, his voice haunted. “I touched it.”
“Touched what?” I ask, confused.
“Your scar.”
“And?” I don’t get what’s happening.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his breathing ragged. “It freaked me out for a second.” His body shakes, and I can see thoughts going through his eyes. Oh, hell no!
“Get off me.”
“Bren?”
“Get off ME!” I shove with all my strength. Not caring if I hurt myself, I shimmy out from underneath him. Before he can grab me, I run for the bathroom, and quickly lock the door. The tears start to fall as I slide to the floor.
I knew it. I saw his face the day the staples were removed. He was disgusted. I wanted to believe as I healed it would change how he felt, but it hasn’t. He’s freaked out by me. I freak him out.
I can’t do this.
“Bren.” Knocking sounds at the door and I can feel the reverberation in my back. “Brenna, please. I’m sorry.”
I can’t speak, the words choked off by the sobs wracking through my body. How can he possibly think I’ll open the door?
“Please, babe. Let me make this right. I love you.”
Anger rushes through me. I don’t have time to analyze why I’m so pissed off, but he’s about to hear a mouthful. “Go the fuck away, Nick. Don’t you get it? I don’t want you to make it better. I saw your face. I know what you think. How you feel. You’re disgusted by me. There is no making that better.” My words come out in a venomous rage. “I thought you would accept me, love me again over time, but you just proved that can’t happen. I’m scarred now. I’ll never be the woman you loved again.”
“That’s not true. Damn it, Brenna! Open this fucking door or I’ll break it down.” He continues to bang on the door, the thumps slamming into my back.
I don’t know why, but laughter bubbles out of me. It’s a deep, maniacal laughter. Why is he acting like he cares? “Do your worst,” I taunt. “Oh, wait, you already have.”
