By Her Touch

by Adriana Anders

  Clay almost dropped his glass. He almost stood up, almost stalked right out into the woods behind the house, away. But he didn’t. He held on; he listened.

  “Tomorrow, I’m supposed to have IUI. Intrauterine insemination. A very expensive procedure during which they insert the semen right into your cervix. It…ups the chances.” He watched her swig back her wine and fill her glass again. “He died ten years ago, and this month, his semen reaches its sell-by date. Labs won’t keep it longer than ten years. Well, some will, but we took the cut-rate option back then, assuming he’d survive the cancer, but now…”

  Another sigh, another long, deep look at the stars, and Clay followed an unexpected instinct—he stood, dragging his chair along the flagstones to where she sat, settling in beside her, giving her his warmth or presence or something. He hesitated before putting an arm around her, but once he did, her head settled into the crook of his armpit, and he didn’t regret it. How could he regret this feeling?

  “Now, I’m supposed to get…fertilized.” Christ. Clay stiffened and swallowed. “Like a barren piece of land or something. I’ve been prepping for it, so my body’s this hormonal, egg-making machine, my ovaries are like grapefruits inside me, I feel bruised, and here I am, such an idiot, having…having intercourse with you. At first, I thought my attraction to you was from the…the treatment. But I didn’t start ovulating until today. Right on schedule.”

  “We did use—”

  “That’s not the point, is it, Clay? I mean, yes, we used a condom. The fact that it broke is…” She stopped, eyes shut tight, and sucked in a shaky, painful-sounding breath before going on. “I loved Tom. He was the funniest, most sarcastic…” She sighed again, and this time, he could feel the weight of everything she carried with her. But he was jealous too, which made him feel like a complete ass.

  He tightened his arm, and she went on. “We froze his sperm right after we found out about the…cancer. We figured we’d have it. For later, you know, depending on how treatment affected his body? He signed the papers, and we went on, dealing with things. But…he didn’t. Get better. Well, he did, and then it got worse, and then…” She swallowed, hard. “Then suddenly, one day, he’s gone. And he’s left me all alone. All by myself.” Those last words, the way she said them, came out quiet but angry.

  “I’m sorry, George,” said Clay, feeling completely inadequate.

  “Oh, you don’t have to be. I mean, thank you. But…” She opened her eyes and turned her sad smile at him. It looked thin around the edges, but even sad, she was so fucking gorgeous it hurt. He cleared his throat but couldn’t seem to dislodge whatever stayed stuck in there. “I’ve spent the last ten years being sorry enough for both of us. Anyway, I forgot about Tom’s…Tom’s semen, until… Maybe a year or so later, I got this letter in the mail, addressed to him. That happened sometimes. I mean, it wasn’t like I’d sent out a notice to all the companies that send you junk mail, you know? Like, ‘My husband’s dead, so please don’t send him anything because it Breaks. My. Heart.’”

  Her voice reverberated through his chest, and Clay expected her to cry or something. But she didn’t. Despite the wet heat of the air around them, she sounded dry, her throat clicking as she swallowed. “Not to mention, we… I… God, I got so many bills. Medical bills, every month. Constantly. I paid what I could, selectively, you know? I threw them into the pile and didn’t look at the bills until they were yellow or red with these big Overdue stamps on the outside. So, at some point, I finally opened the one from the lab, thinking it was just another stupid company asking me to pay for something that hadn’t saved my husband’s life…but it wasn’t. It wasn’t. It took a while for it to sink in when I saw it, but I…I’ll never forget that. That moment of hope. I’d been such an idiot as a kid. Gotten pregnant, had an abortion. Then, Tom and I never got the chance, and I thought… I was sure it was my just deserts.”

  “How so?”

  “Punishment, you know? For ruining the one opportunity I’d had.”

  “How old were you?”

  “When I had the abortion?” He nodded. “Fifteen.”

  “Jesus, George. You still beating yourself up over that?”

  Even in the dark, Clay could see how big her eyes were when she turned them on him, how unnaturally bright and hollow. She didn’t answer.

  “Anyway, when that bill came, from the lab, I paid it right away, and then I…I slept with it.” She laughed, the sound a little bitter. “Under my pillow. For days, I think. Maybe longer. Okay, definitely longer. I talked to the lab and read the fine print, and apparently, he’d checked the box that said his sperm could be used posthumously.” After another pause, she went on. “This was for him. And for his parents. And me too, because I wanted a baby. I want a baby. I couldn’t afford it, with all the bills and then med school and…things kept getting in the way, and the time was never right. I kept putting it off. Career, house…chickens. I never felt ready, and then, a few months ago, the lab called and told me time was up, and I went right into treatment. I didn’t think about it. I just did it. You can’t take these things for granted, right?”

  “Could you still go in? For your IUI thing?”

  She seemed to consider. “I could. I could, but it might not be his baby. My body might already be… The baby could be…” The words spun between them. Yours. It could be yours.

  “Oh,” said Clay, his skin prickling. “Do you miss him?”

  “Miss him?” She seemed to consider. “Not anymore. Not really. I mean, I think about him, but I don’t like…talk to him or anything.”

  “Did you? Before?”

  “I might have. A time or two.”

  A dark shape flew by overhead, and Clay asked, breaking the intensity of the moment, “What are those things?”

  “What?”

  “The crazy dive-bombers.”

  “What? Oh…bats.”

  “Bats?”

  “Bats are good. They eat the bugs.”

  He watched the creatures swoop for a while, crisscrossing the night sky. He took in the tiny insects, flashing like scattered Christmas lights. It was weird how calm he felt in the face of all the sights and sounds. In the face of her news. Of her.

  “You’re the first one,” George said, lifting her head from the hollow of his arm.

  “Hmm?”

  “You’re the first man I’ve been with. Since Tom.”

  He managed a calm, “Oh,” but inside, things weren’t so smooth. Ten fucking years? he thought. And then other questions he couldn’t ask because he’d come off as a supreme asshole, but fuck if he didn’t want to know. How was I? How did I measure up?

  Instead, he sat there, let her lead.

  “And I feel, on so many levels, that I’ve betrayed him.” Her face, that perfect, calm, beautiful face was tortured when she met his eyes. “I’ve betrayed him.”

  “Should we…?” Clay swallowed, shame and nerves roiling in his gut like a hangover from the best sex of his life. “What do you want to do?”

  “I want to finish this bottle of wine and go to bed.” Her neck convulsed, pale and delicate against the dark, wooded backdrop. “Alone,” she finished, turning away. “I’m sorry.”

  Clay rose, slugged back the contents of his glass to cover the prick of actual tears. He stood there, towering above her but about as low and inconsequential as one of those empty bug shells he crunched with every footfall.

  Without a word, he turned and went back up to the house in just his socks. Weird how he hadn’t noticed those fucking shells on his way out here. He’d have to pick them off the cotton before putting on his boots. Every step, each crunch was like walking over his dead, hollow soul. Over and over again.

  After putting on his shoes, he waited for a while, inside this house that smelled so strongly of home now. Fifteen minutes passed, and he understood. She was done with him.


  They were done.

  Footsteps heavy, Clay made his way outside to his truck, which was still full of shit from the hardware store—materials for her house. He should unload it all, leave it here for whoever she found to finish the job, but he didn’t have the courage.

  He drove, blindly, winding up outside the ABC store, where he bought a bottle of vodka, taking his first swig before he’d left the parking lot. His course had been set for the motel, or maybe just to leave town or something, but instead he found his truck climbing—up, up, to that overlook that kept drawing him back.

  At the top, he backed up almost to the edge and sat on the tailgate, looking out over everything—over nothing.

  It was dark, bats swooping above, fireflies sparking up the night. Those things that had been magic not so long ago were ugly now.

  He pulled back more vodka, three or four big, long sips. The way he used to drink juice as a kid, racing his sister to the bottoms of their glasses. He’d always won those stupid contests.

  He tried his best to feel betrayed, but… Who the hell could blame her? He couldn’t, no matter how hard he tried.

  It wasn’t like she’d taken advantage of him. She’d been as messed up through the whole thing as he. Her perfect house, her homey life not a reflection of who she was, but of her absolution. Christ, they were screwed.

  The bugs and bats and even the twinkling lights of Blackwood below made him think of her face, her voice so clogged with pain, the way she’d sat in that big T-shirt…how she’d hunched into his body and made him think he could protect her, make it better. He couldn’t help picturing her pain.

  She’d had a lot to lose by taking up with him, from the beginning. It had been a huge risk for her, being with a patient. Being with someone like him.

  Jesus, he wondered, when was the last time someone took a risk for me?

  I’m the one who risks. I risked everything.

  For revenge.

  The word should have felt noble. Instead, it felt small.

  * * *

  Sleep didn’t come easily to George. She wished, more than anything, that she could have a long, hard cry, but tears remained elusive. Though she managed to close her eyes and lose herself in slumber, she awoke after less than an hour, almost expecting Clay to be there, waiting for her, needing her. Instead, she slept and woke, slept and woke, finally escaping to the bathroom only to face a puffy, sallow version of herself in the mirror—one she didn’t have much respect for.

  Being alone hadn’t been what she’d really wanted. But how could you ask a man to stay and hold you after you’d talked about the other man in your life? The one whose baby you planned on having? She couldn’t do that to Clay. She couldn’t lead him on when everything else in her life was focused on Tom and the guilt of what she’d so easily given up. Losing Tom and trying to get him back. Sleeping with that stupid bill under her pillow for all those months, like a lost piece of him, suddenly found. A second chance. No—a third.

  Rather than go back to bed, she decided to get up, call it a night, maybe head into the office early. Under the shower, she took inventory of the aches and pains she’d acquired in unfamiliar places—her lower back, her neck, her thighs…between her legs. With those reminders, it was impossible not to think about Clay and what they’d done together.

  The way he’d made her feel.

  And how do you think you made him feel, sending him away like that?

  Horrible, she imagined, her words a harrowing echo come to haunt her over and over as she tried to sleep.

  Alone, she’d said. I’m sorry. Alone… I’m sorry. Too bad it wasn’t what she wanted at all.

  19

  By the time George’s staff arrived at the clinic, she’d been there for hours, catching up on paperwork, reorganizing her office, and making pot after pot of fresh coffee until her hands shook like palsied leaves.

  Finally, with the beginning of the official workday, she could lose herself in patient visits and forget about the mistakes she’d made last night. Mistakes and bad decisions. No wonder George kept away from people. As soon as she got involved, everything went to crap.

  Self-sabotage?

  At about lunchtime, she decided to stop feeling sorry for herself, to quit regretting things it was too late to change.

  She’d just sat down with a box of rye crackers—the only edible thing left in her desk—when her office phone rang.

  “Yes, Cindy?”

  “I’ve got your mother-in-law on the line for you,” her receptionist said.

  George nearly slammed the phone down. No, no, no. Not today. Not now.

  With a deep, shaky breath, she answered, “Thanks, Cindy. Put her through.”

  “Georgette?” came Bonnie’s shaky voice.

  “Hi there, Bonnie.”

  “Just calling to check in, make sure all’s well.”

  “Yes. Yes, fine. Fine, fine,” she said, sounding ridiculous.

  “So, you’ve got the uh…procedure tonight. This evening, you said.”

  George swallowed, shut her eyes hard, wished for tears to wash the pain away. No, not the pain. The guilt.

  “Yes,” she said. “Tonight’s the night.”

  A few seconds of silence passed before Bonnie went on. “Well, I’m thinking of you. I’m sure you’ll… I’m certain that… Lord, what on earth is the right thing to say?”

  George let out a dry, huffed laugh. “Good question. I have no idea.”

  Another pause before Bonnie went on. “You don’t sound great, Georgette.”

  No response was possible. Breathing was about all she could manage.

  “I… Whatever happens, dear, whatever happens is fine with me. With us. It’s fine.”

  A lone tear dropped from George’s eye and ran along her nose to her mouth.

  She opened her mouth to talk, couldn’t find a sound, swallowed, and then tried again. Nothing.

  “All right, well, I hear they’re callin’ for rain tonight, George, so you’re—”

  She interrupted. “Thank you, Bonnie.” A big breath in, and then she went on. “Thank you.”

  George hung up, sat in her desk chair, stared at the framed mandala on her wall—a kaleidoscope of images—and waited for the rest of the tears to come. Nothing. Nothing at all.

  Her phone buzzed, and she picked it up. After a brief pause where she knew she was supposed to say something, her receptionist said, “Mrs. Johnson’s here for her annual.”

  “Yes” was all she could manage to say before hanging up, hand heavy on the phone.

  Whatever happens is fine with me. Bonnie’s words had sounded like platitudes, but were they? Were they really? George wasn’t sure anymore. She wasn’t sure of anything in life.

  My life.

  Those two words hit her like hard, little pebbles, right in the chest—in that hollowed-out place where she’d held on to Tom for all those years. When had it gotten so full?

  She scrabbled through the papers on her desk until she found the sticky note with the clinic’s number on it, sucked in a big breath, and dialed.

  “Charlottesville Regional Reproductive Medicine Clinic, this is Sherry.”

  “Sherry.” She cleared her throat. “Sherry, hello. Dr. George Hadley here.” Hard breaths, no doubt audible to the woman on the other side. “I’ve got an appointment tonight, and I’m afraid I need to cancel.”

  “Okay. When would you like to get back in to see us?”

  “I, uh…” Another audible swallow. “I’ll be in touch. You can go ahead and cancel the procedure.”

  “You got it, Doctor. Thanks for calling in! Have a great—”

  George hung up and sat back in her chair, wishing for something to drink, something strong, with some bite. Or some other pain, maybe. A slap. With fingers that were thick and awkward, she pinched her arm, needing sen
sation, anything, to bring her back to reality. A flash of Clay smacking her bottom had her nerve endings flaring. Shame and pain, it turned out, might just be her aphrodisiacs.

  And then it sank in: the importance of what she’d just done. For a while—too long, considering the patients sitting in the waiting room—George sat and let the pain and the sorrow and the regret wash over her.

  Over and over, Thomas Hadley had broken George’s heart. By getting sick and then better and then worse again. By treating her so carefully as he’d wasted away. And then, one day, she’d been dozing in the chair in his room when the infernal beeping had started…and he’d left her. Swift and easy. Gone.

  No, not just gone, because missing him hadn’t just been about losing something good in her life. From the day he’d shown up senior year, Tom had been her hero, her friend. He’d absolved her of the choices she’d made; he’d been her life.

  How much of this desire to have a baby, she wondered, was about Tom, and how much was regretting the abortion? How was it that, after all these years, last night, her face curved into Clay Navarro’s chest, had been the first time she’d admitted the correlation.

  I was too young to have a baby, too alone. She knew that, could admit today that she’d have been a horrible mother back then, but even so, the guilt hurt. It hurt to know that she could have had an eighteen-year-old today. Seeing Jessie with Gabe, a woman who’d managed somehow to survive teenage pregnancy, had brought home her shortcomings, compounded them, made it worse.

  After the guilt and the shame and the regret, Tom had come in and taught her to want to make the right decisions instead of always rebelling—he’d been the one who’d made sure she went to college, pushed her toward med school.

  Tom had taken her young, shattered heart, beaten raw by one tragedy after another, and he’d added to her. He’d made her whole, so when he died, it had been so much worse than if he’d never been there at all. He’d gone and taken it all away. At least that was how it had felt. Like he’d grafted a new heart onto hers and then ripped it out again.