Deanna Roy - Forever Loved

“We done here?” I asked the guy. “Because we’re about to have an official visitor.”

He grimaced and refused to acknowledge me, getting up painfully from the floor.

“Time’s a’wasting.” Mario pushed me to the door.

We were pulling out of the lot when we saw the lights flashing down the street.

“Hell, you could have fucked with him a whole extra minute,” Mario said. “You’re losing your edge.”

I stared out the window. If I was going to make any of this work with Corabelle, or with a kid, I had to do a major life overhaul.

The doctor leaned over me the next day, pressing the stethoscope in various positions on my chest. I’d cleared my parents out of the room, tired of their omnipresence, and snatching any excuse to get a little privacy.

He stood up. “I’ll wait on the X-rays to be sure, but you’re sounding pretty good.”

“So going home today?”

“Let’s look at those images first.”

“So not today.”

He patted my shoulder. “Probably not today.”

I flung myself back against the raised bed. “I haven’t even coughed in hours. The last suction came up pretty empty.”

“All good signs. But relapse is common when you’ve been as far down as you were. Let’s take some precautions.”

“I am never going swimming again.”

He laughed. “I hear you want to go to art therapy.”

“You going to let me out of the room?”

He tucked the tablet under his arm. “I’ll clear it. But if you do start expelling phlegm again, don’t go. For everyone’s safety. Deal?”

“Deal.”

The moment he left, my parents filed back in, resuming their positions.

“So,” Dad said. “Any ‘get out of jail free’ cards?”

“Not yet. They’re going to look at the X-ray.”

Mom pulled out her knitting again, something new, probably another endless throw.

“You know, you guys don’t have to stay here. I’m going to be fine. Dad, don’t you have to get back to work?”

“I’m allowed to take sick time for family.” He snapped open a newspaper. “This is better than work any day.”

I reached for my backpack even though I was caught up on all my reading. Gavin had brought the astronomy work home, but I had no idea what the assignments were for my lit classes. My e-mails to the profs had just gotten kind replies of “Get well.” I didn’t want to lose those credit hours, and I couldn’t even imagine the work that was piling up. I’d write them again today, tell them I was up for writing the papers, at least.

Yet another new nurse came in and introduced herself as Helen. “The good news is, you can take a shower today.”

I threw back the covers. “Really?”

She opened the bathroom door. “Don’t get chilled. Make sure the water is good and hot, and dry your hair immediately.”

I was already turning on the faucets. I didn’t even care about the industrial shampoos. I could do it again later with nicer stuff.

“Remember there’s a help cord if you need someone.”

I nodded and waited impatiently for her to leave.

I closed the door and stripped off the infernal cotton gown I was so sick of. The spray was delicious, pounding and hot. I washed my hair, then washed it again, finally starting to feel like the sand grit was really gone.

I wished for Gavin to be with me, pressing against my back, his arms around me. We’d only showered together once in this brief time we’d been back together, but it was seared into my memory. The water had gleamed on his arms, running in rivulets along the indentations of his biceps. I’d been mesmerized by their trailing paths, and turned in to him, to see all the other places the water would go.

He’d had droplets on his eyelashes, little diamonds that flew off when he shook his head. He’d taken my heavy wet hair in his hands and twisted it up, turning me around again so he could run a washcloth across my back.

His lips followed the path, skimming across my shoulders and coming up to my neck. He released my hair over the opposite shoulder so his hands could come around, kneading my breasts, slippery with soap.

I could feel him hot and hard against my back and pressed into his body. We had never gotten far in a shower when we were young, either afraid of being caught when I lived at home, or later, in our own apartment, refraining due to my girth from the baby, and my clumsiness. But this, I could see how it could work.

One of his hands slid along my belly and down below, toying with the folds. My knees started to waver, but his other arm came around my waist, holding me solidly against him. He found the little nub he was searching for, and began to work it in lazy circles. I reached out to steady myself against the tile wall as the world tilted.

The water splattered against my skin, heightening everything. He spread me wider, probing more deeply, and a mewling sound squeezed out of my throat. The steam rose off my body, and he moved faster, pressing his hips into my back with every stroke of his fingers. I felt a dam threatening to burst and leaned forward, wanting more of him, all of him.

I wasn’t sure what to do about the height difference when he lifted my thigh to prop one foot on the side of the tub. I understood now, bending over. He braced my other foot with his so I wouldn’t slip, then guided himself into me. He was shockingly hot, waiting on the edge as I wasn’t as slippery as he was used to, but then he was in, thick and throbbing.

I had to keep my eyes open or I lost all sense of space, up and down, just skin, water, steam, and the pressure of his body both behind and inside me. His rhythm was steady, easy, and languorous as he moved with strength and power, holding me up, keeping us balanced, and still, easing his fingers against the bud.

I wanted it harder, faster, not sure I could take it without collapsing but needing to try. I pressed my palm into the tile, bracing myself so I could push into him, two opposite forces, crashing together, again and again.

My thigh was starting to quiver, so he picked up the rhythm, his fingers fluttering with practiced intent. His breath sped up, puffing against my ear, and that confirmation that he was feeling it too charged through me in a flash. The muscles tightened around his fingers and the pleasure began to spread, first in small ripples, then blasting out. I let out a small cry, and Gavin worked faster, easing his fingers away, holding my hips, and then he was over the top, groaning into my hair, and the shattering of reality began to fall in sparkles, like the water glittering in the spray.

We breathed together for a moment, unwilling to break apart. He wrapped both arms around my waist, his cheek on my back. I remembered feeling in that moment that we had gotten everything back, all of it, all of us, and because of that, baby Finn was not really lost. As long as Gavin and I were together, the pieces of Finn we carried were able to connect, and even the passage of time would not diminish the strength of those memories.

In the hospital shower, I felt like I was on fire, and that the steam came not from the spray, but the heat of my body. I wanted to be well, to be with Gavin, hold on to him, hold him tightly to me as he went through this mess with that woman. She would not trick him, or take him, or cause him guilt or pain or grief.

I would not let him fall.

A volunteer in a bright white dress came for me a few hours later. “I hear you’re going to do some art!” she said, rolling a wheelchair up beside my bed.

I’d traded the hospital gown for my mother’s velour sweatpants and flowered T-shirt, wishing I’d told Gavin to get me some clothes during one of his rides over. She had tiny feet, so I still had the nubby socks, but I was getting out of the room, and that was good enough for me.

“I didn’t know I was getting chauffeured,” I said.

“This is a high-class operation,” the woman said. “I understand you need this, though.” She passed me a blue surgical mask.

“Really?”

“You can’t run around collecting everyone’s germs.”

I tucked the elastic behind my ears, already wanting to stay back. But I had to ask Tina about the test, and this was the best way to make sure my parents weren’t around.

They waved as we rolled out. “Go shopping!” I called back. “Have some fun!” And give me some time to myself again, I thought, as we trundled down the hallway. They were definitely a devoted pair. I tried to imagine sitting in a hospital all day for my child, then remembered, I had. For seven terrible days.

The very idea that I’d forgotten this brought my exuberance of being out of the room to a crash. It probably felt the same as the times someone would ask my mom how many children she had. When she popped out “Just the one,” too quickly, she often cried afterward, as if neglecting to mention all the babies she had lost was some great failure, a disloyalty that struck her heart.

Because of our town’s size, this rarely happened near home. Everyone knew her history. But I particularly remembered a trip to the Grand Canyon, standing on the edge of a flat rock and looking over the massive crater in the earth. Another family had come up, four unruly boys, and the father had asked my dad to take a picture of his brood.

The woman had been friendly enough, thanking us. “What I’d give to only have one again!” she exclaimed, snatching at the littlest son, who seemed determined to slide off the rock to a ledge a few feet below. “Take my advice and don’t have any more!”

My mom managed a weak “I won’t,” but after they were gone, she’d sat on a bench and cried for ten minutes, which seemed like forever when I was just six. I didn’t know then what had set her off, and my dad waited beside her, an arm over her shoulder, looking out over the canyon like the gash in the earth was minuscule compared to the hole in their lives.