Pixie reaches out and covers my joined hands with her small one. I feel a distinct throb where our skins meet. A thunder.
It sounds like heartbeats, only louder, more potent. More ferocious and significant than the thing inside my chest. I can’t stop looking at it. I can’t stop looking at where she’s touching me. After weeks, months. I’ve gotta memorize it. Memorize her soft and pale skin, how it feels like silk against mine. How even if the world was blowing up around me, I wouldn’t be able to look away from where she’s touching me.
Weeks ago, I would’ve grabbed onto her hand. I would’ve threaded our fingers together and held on tightly. Tighter than necessary because I wouldn’t have been able to control myself. Now, I only sit here without making a move. One thing I know for sure is that even if I drag her back with me, she won’t really be mine. Proximity has nothing to do with belongingness.
Then, she slides her palm between my joined hands, uncurling my fingers from each other. It’s fucking embarrassing how sweaty they are. Once my digits are free, she brings my hand closer to her body.
And before I can protest, she puts it on her stomach.
I visibly jolt. I’m touching her tummy. It’s not as flat as I thought it was. There’s a slight bump. A sign of life. A sign of my kid. Her body heat has doubled. The throb created by the touch of our hands was nothing compared to what I feel now.
This is huge. Bigger than anything else I’ve ever experienced. Pixie says that when she saw me, there was a big bang. Maybe somewhere up above, stars were colliding and new planets were being born.
This is it, I think. This is what a big bang sounds like, feels like.
“I… You… It’s…” I trail off, still watching my big palm, covering the expanse of her stomach.
“Well, you’re not going to feel anything, right now. I mean, there’s not much there yet. I won’t show until I’m in my fifth month, I think.”
I move my hand, tracing the fabric of her dress but somehow, also feeling the flesh underneath. “I feel everything.”
She nods, grinning. “Me too. I like to touch my belly and just feel. I even play your messages to our baby.”
I look up at her smiling face. “You do?”
“Yes, I want her to know her daddy’s voice, and what he’s doing every day. Remember how you used to leave me notes in my school locker? Your messages feel the same. I want her to know how every day her daddy goes to work in the morning and then, sketches in the evening. How her daddy’s the greatest artist I know. How, bit by bit, he’s falling in love with himself.”
I scoff. “Yeah, I don’t think that’s true. That ship sailed the moment I watched myself on screen.”
“Nothing’s permanent, Abel. Don’t you know that by now?”
“Feels permanent,” I mutter.
Pixie covers my hand with hers again, and presses it on her stomach, and I’m so dazed, so humbled that I almost come to my knees. “I told her that Mommy and Daddy are just taking some time apart. But they still love each other and they love her, too. More than anything. And I told her that for her, we’ll take baby steps because I know.”
“Know what?”
“That what happened wasn’t permanent. It took me a while to figure it out but I know that somehow, we’ll find our way back to ourselves and to each other. I have faith.”
Then, I can’t stop myself and I don’t want to. I slide down to my knees, cement hitting my bones, my palm still connected to where my daughter lies, inside my wife. Is there anything godlier than this? Is there anything more peaceful, more terrifying, more humbling than kneeling in front of the mother of your child?
If she wasn’t a goddess before, she is now. She has life inside her.
“I-I don’t know anything. About being a dad or anything like that,” I confess to her, again.
“Me neither.” She chuckles. “But, I hear they have books.”
“For her, I’ll read all the goddamned books there are.”
“I know.” She squeezes my hand. “But just so you know, we’ve been talking like it’s really a girl but we don’t know that yet.”
I look into the eyes of the only woman I’ve really loved, the only woman I will ever love, and tell her, “It’s a girl, and she’s gonna be like you. Bossy and innocent and giving, and brave. So fucking brave, she’ll blow everyone’s mind. Most of all, she’ll make a fool out of me and I’ll love every second of it.”
“Really?”
I nod. “I have faith.”
I’m not afraid of monsters.
I never was and I never will be. I always thought every monster has a story, and turns out, I was right.
The other day I was reading one of the books Abel brought home, and I found something interesting. A French philosopher once said that every man is born a blank slate. No one is either good or bad, not until they come in contact with other people. Only then, a man takes shape and becomes something, a monster or a god. Often times, both.
That’s the beauty of being a human. You can be whatever you want to be. You can be touched by things: anger, hate, envy, love, lust. You can forgive, forget, hold on, let go. You can do anything; there are endless possibilities.
And I figured something out: Abel Adams is not a god. He’s not a monster, either. He’s human. He is what others made him.
Everything that went wrong with us didn’t start when he took that job at the studio or when we became fascinated with the idea of a rebellion. It didn’t even start when he brought home the camera, blurring the lines between our fantasy and reality.
No.
It all started when a fourteen-year-old boy held the door open for our town’s gossip, Mrs. Weatherby, but she refused to even acknowledge him. It started when he was trying to make a friend because he was lonely. But my mom put him down. It started when people were cruel to him, and hardly anyone stepped in.
It started the moment he was conceived and they called him a monster baby.
Every action has an equal and opposite reaction, doesn’t it? So we reacted. For many people, we might be a couple of punk kids who were angry at the world and acting out. Who didn’t know what real life was.
People die every day. There are wars happening everywhere. What does it matter if our love was rejected? It’s no big deal. What does it matter if we were almost torn apart? We got out, didn’t we? We should have been happy. We should have thanked our lucky stars.
Yes, maybe we should have. Maybe we should have forgotten everything and moved on. But we didn’t. We chose to hold on to the hurt, the anger. We chose to hold on to our wounded love.
And if people die every day and wage war on each other, I’m glad we held on to the one pure thing in this world. I’m glad we held onto our love, gave into our emotions, rebelled.
I’m glad because we’re stronger for it. We lost all control and now we know what it feels like. We understand what it means to be angry. We understand that in the future, if we have to make a choice, we know to choose forgiveness.
We know to choose each other and ourselves, and this baby.
I put a hand on my swollen belly. Seven months along, I’m a whale these days. Nothing fits me. Nothing at all. I’m usually wearing this pink, fluffy bathrobe I found online and a maternity sunflower dress underneath. So damn comfortable.
I moved in with Abel a couple of months ago when I started falling sick a lot. Doctor said I needed my rest and Abel had been going out of his mind, watching me throw up after most of our dates, and not being able to stay the night with me.
Months ago, we talked about taking baby steps. I got this idea from Blu. And that was exactly what we were doing.
We were taking baby steps. We’d see each other every other day. He’d take me out when I was feeling up to it. But when I wasn’t, he’d cook for me. He’d stock my fridge and kitchen cabinets with saltines and crackers. He’d also label them because I lived in a shared apartment.
My Abel. He was thorough.
I also knew th
at every time he had to leave me and go back to the city, he was devastated. I was, too. In fact, that’s all I’d been for the past few months. Devastated and broken and heartsick. I never thought I’d leave Abel. I never thought I was capable of it.
But I guess, a mother is capable of anything. A mother is a goddess who can do anything to protect her child, including hurting herself.
I don’t think I have ever cried as much as I did in those months when I was apart from my husband. It wasn’t easy to wait for him. It wasn’t easy to listen to his voicemails, hear about his day and his accomplishments, and not tell him how proud I was.
But again, baby steps. Everything about our love story has always been fast and furious, filled with too much passion and intensity. We both needed a reprieve. We both needed pain-free moments.
When doctor said I might need to take it easy for a few days, I knew the time was right. It had been right for a while now.
So I broached the question, outside of the clinic, on the sidewalk. “So, uh, do you think I could, maybe, live with you for a while?”
“Yes,” he said before I even finished my question. Then, he blushed — my Abel blushed — and cleared his throat. “I mean, of course. For as long as you like.”
I bit my lips to stop my smile. “Okay. Thank you.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
At that, I couldn’t control myself and threw my arms around his neck and planted a hard kiss on his mouth. Oh, it was like coming home or finally, catching your breath after running for so, so long. That’s when we got the first snowfall of the season. I knew it was a good omen.
Since then, Abel has done everything he can to make our studio cozy and colorful. Yellow walls, orange throw pillows, sky-blue curtains. And books. So many books.
In a little corner, Abel has his easel set up. He still works the construction job but every day he gets better at his sketches. Soon, he’s going to be the biggest artist ever who won’t need a day job. At first, he’d only sketch my portraits and I can’t believe my face is up at some of the great galleries around town. But now, he also makes portraits of other people. Some of them are his friends from his work, and some are strangers that we see at the park, and are nice enough to sit for him.
I always knew Abel could never be invisible. His art won’t let him. His art won’t judge him, either, and neither will the people who love his sketches. For them, he’s simply Abel Adams, their favorite artist.
After I moved in, Abel was there for me when I called my parents. I thought it was time to put things to rest and make peace with what happened.
My dad was the one who picked up the phone. That voice. So familiar. A voice I’ve been hearing for the past eighteen years of my life. It must have been one of the very first voices I’d heard when I was born. What do you say to that voice? The words died in my throat. I couldn’t speak. Abel gathered me in his arms, rocking me as I dredged up my courage to say something, anything.
But my dad knew who it was because he said my name, softly. It sounded so anguished, and all I knew was I never wanted to hear that again.
“Dad?”
He sighed. “Are you okay?”
A sob escaped me and I nodded before I realized he couldn’t see me. So I cleared my throat and said, “Y-yes. I… I’m okay. How’s Mom? You?”
He didn’t say anything for the longest time and I thought he hung up on me. I burrowed my face in Abel’s chest, soaking his t-shirt with my tears, when Dad spoke, “You put us through a lot, Evie. Your mom’s been sick. She’s only now starting to get better, and I don’t want you upsetting her.”
His voice had completely changed, became harsher and maybe I should’ve been angry at that, angry that he still cared about my mom more than he cared about me, but I wasn’t. I was only sad.
“I just called to tell you something. I’m going to have a baby, Dad.” I swallowed. “I’m going to be a mom, a-and Abel’s gonna be a dad.”
I looked up at my husband, who had been like a warm rock up until now. His face was carved out of stone, his jaw was gritted. It was my turn to comfort him now, so I fisted his cross and gave him a soft smile.
“Do you, uh, need anything? Money or anything like that? Babies can be expensive and I’m willing to send you some, if you need it.”
At this Abel spoke, “We don’t need money from you, Mr. Hart. I’m sorry I should’ve told you I was here, as well.” He shook his head, leaning over the cell phone, letting his voice be heard clearly. “We only called because we wanted to let you know that you’ll be a grandfather soon. I don’t need money. I’m taking care of it. I’m taking care of my wife. And I wanted to let you know that I…” A sigh. “What happened that night, what you said to me? I was angry about that for a long time. Many times, I wanted to hurt you back, take my revenge. But I don’t feel that anymore. I think what you did was because of your daughter. I think you were afraid that I’d fuck her up or something. Believe me, I know that now. I know that if there were even a tiny bit of a possibility that someone might hurt my child, I’d probably do the same. But…”
He turned to me, looking into my eyes, as if he was talking to me as much as talking to my dad. “I want you to know that I’ll strive to be a good father. I don’t know much about it but I’m gonna learn, every single day of my life. I’m gonna protect my daughter and I’m gonna protect yours, too. If she’ll let me.”
We still hadn’t talked about our relationship and what we were going to do after this baby was born, but I wanted to tell him then. I wanted to tell him that I was ready to be his wife in all ways that mattered.
A few seconds later, we hung up because my dad asked us to never call here again. Yeah, that’s what he said when my husband was being the bigger person. I was so proud of Abel. I wanted to be angry at my dad, but I didn’t waste my energy on hating someone. When someone right in front of me, wanted my love more than anything in this world.
I can’t believe there was a time when I was so wrapped up in the past. In history. I can’t believe how afraid I was of history repeating itself, of me ending up like my parents.
Maybe history does repeat itself. But I have a theory. It only repeats itself because we give it too much power. We’re either too afraid of it, or too much in awe of it. We always look back and try to follow or defy examples. Instead, we should try to make one. Write our own story, our own legend rather than living someone else’s.
I didn’t tell Abel about my feelings that night because we still had some ground to cover. We still needed to visit his demons: his parents. And we did that. We visited the cemetery, the neighborhood where he lived. Abel showed me his childhood through buildings, street signs, traffic lights.
It was beautiful.
We even went to church for a Sunday Mass. We sat on the pew, holding hands, and listening to the priest talk about a topic close to our heart: forgiveness. I was angry at God, too. But I realized you get mad at the higher power when you don’t believe in yourself and the people around you. I had found faith again and on that day, I chose to let my anger at God go.
Besides, He gave me the strength to choose my path. That’s the biggest miracle to ask for: strength. So I can be my own miracle.
Now, it’s time to tell the man I love, the man I trust with my heart and soul, that I want to be his forever. In this life and the next, and the one after that. In all my lives, I want to be Abel’s Pixie.
I want us to be Abel and Evie again.
I walk to the dresser in one corner and open the first drawer. I bought something for Abel. Months ago, I wrote this piece about society and how it influences us. My boss at the bookstore where I used to work before things got really difficult with my pregnancy, Betty, read it and told me she had a friend who worked for a magazine. She insisted that I let her friend read it, and after some revisions, they printed my article in this month’s issue.
Isn’t that great? I’m a writer now. The money I made out of it isn’t too much but it was enough
to buy this: a camera.
And today, I’m going to give this camera to Abel.
The baby kicks in approval. We still don’t know if it’s a girl — we’re choosing to be surprised — but I have faith that it is a girl.
I hear the jangle of keys and I know Abel’s home. He dusts snow off his black coat and looks at me. A smile overcomes his face. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
He shuts the door, toes off his boots because he knows I hate it when he brings wet, snowy shoes any further into the apartment. “How was your day? Did you eat?”
“A little.”
“Threw up?”
“A little.”
“Damn it. I think I’m gonna try something else tonight.” He takes off his black-leather gloves and coat, and throws them on the kitchen counter. He sticks his head in the fridge, but is still talking, “So I talked to Frankie, you know the guy from work? Believe it or not, his wife is pregnant again. For the fifth time. Anyway, he told me about this soup he makes for her. She loves it and she can keep it down. Which is basically, what we want right now. So, I am gonna try that.”
Frankie is a nice guy, who loves to cook and Abel has been learning from him. Who knew my husband would learn to love cooking? It’s not as surprising, though. He loves doing things with his hands.
Putting the camera back in the drawer, I walk toward him. “Abel?”
From inside the fridge, he asks, “Yeah?”
I reach the kitchen counter and admire his butt. My husband has grown even more muscular in the past few months. It’s all the construction work, I think. He’s bigger, broader, tanner, even. I don’t know how I managed to stay away from him for so long. How I went without kissing him, touching him. Well, mostly, I’ve been sick because of the pregnancy, and we were taking things slow, but still.
“What would you feel if I told you that I wanna live here with you, forever?” I say it fast, like I want to get the words out but I also, don’t want him to really hear them.
Gods & Monsters Page 30
