settle back against the cushions to wait for what promises to be an unforgettably heartbreaking performance.
Nate crosses the room to me, tugging the wig from his head and kneeling in front of me. When the lyrics of Always should’ve begun, I don’t hear Bon Jovi. I hear only the deep, scratchy voice of my husband as he sings each verse for me.
It’s all for me.
The pledge each word is meant to be takes on a whole new meaning as I stare into Nate’s green, green eyes. They shine with a love unlike anything I’ve ever known. Surely he must see the same thing when he looks at me. Surely he can see it. Surely he can see my heart in my eyes. It’s there. It beats only for him. And it will until it beats no more.
As the music begins to crescendo, Nate’s eyes fill with tears, tears I know mirror my own. As he sings to me of what he’d do for me, of the price he’d willingly pay, I take his face in my hands and I kiss him, silencing his pain the only way I know how—by taking it with my own.
I devour his words, swallowing them whole and making them a part of my soul. I ravage his mouth, memorizing the curve of his lips and the texture of his tongue. I consume his love, feeding on it like fuel to a starving engine.
Gently, but with an urgency neither of us deny and neither of us wants to, Nate pulls me to the floor and tears my clothes from my, bearing me, body and soul, to his hungry eyes and hungrier hands. We make love in that way that people who don’t have time or might get caught do—with utter desperation.
And when we lay spent in each other’s arms, Nate sings the rest of the song to me as my tears pepper the skin of his chest.
********
I wake with a start, confused for a moment by my surroundings. I recognize the entertainment center, but it’s sideways and why am I on the living room floor?
Then it all comes back to me in a rush and I smile, turning until I can see the face of my husband, who rests quietly behind me, probably listening to me breathe.
“I would say we should’ve taped that, but…” I laugh lightly, thinking of our ravenous lovemaking. That’s not something our daughter will ever be old enough to see, nor will she want to.
“Uh, I did tape it.”
I sit up and swivel to face him fully. He’s wearing a lazy grin that makes me want to start all over again with taking his clothes off, piece by piece. “What do you mean you did tape it?”
“You had your eyes closed, but I came in and set my phone up on the table so I could watch your reaction later.”
“Well, you’ll get to see more than my reaction.”
Of course, I’m not worried. There might have been a time when I’d have balked or been concerned with who might be able to hack in and see something like that, but those days are over. The few things I let take up valuable space in my life nowadays are either horrific worries or love.
There is no room for anything else.
Eighteen
Let’s Make It Baby
Lena
Spring comes early, something that both Nate and I embrace with unusual appreciation. It feels as though the heavens have bestowed yet another gift upon us, the weather clearing and warming so much so that I’m able to go outside and sit on our screened porch for a few hours each day.
Although the nausea and bloating haven’t increased, for which we are both exceedingly grateful, my energy has become nearly nonexistent. The signs of my disease still aren’t overly apparent in any other way, but in this manner, I know. I know what’s happening to me. This is more than just pregnancy-related fatigue. This is my body constantly fighting an invading foe.
And losing.
Still, when I wake each day, I’m glad I’m carrying my baby yet another step toward the goal. Bringing Helena Grace, a name which Nate insisted upon, into the world is the driving force in my life. Everything I eat, every step I take, every exhausting trip to the obstetrician, the oncologist, the herbalist, the internist, the chiropractor, it’s all done with one singular objective in mind—keeping the baby healthy.
I force myself to cram as many tasteless yet nutritious foods into my mouth as I can tolerate without throwing them