Anchor Me
Page 50
Just enough so that I know that I’m alive.
But I don’t.
Because right now even that seems like too much effort, and I move like a sleepwalker through the darkened room and back to bed.
We rarely close the blackout drapes, preferring to keep the door open to the balcony that looks out over the ocean. But today they are closed, rendering the room so dark I can barely see my hand.
Today?
Maybe it’s tonight. I don’t know. All I know is that I want to get sucked under again. I want Damien’s arms around me, and I want to drift away, falling far into a place where the pain and the loss can’t reach me.
And so I slide back into bed and mold my body to his. His arm drapes across my waist, and I hear him murmur my name. I don’t answer, and as soon as I close my eyes, sleep grabs me once again.
I don’t know how long I sleep, but I wake to the vague sound of movement in the house. A moment later there is a light tap at the door and beside me, Damien stirs, then lifts his head. “Come in.”
The door opens slowly, sending a triangle of light cutting across the room. Gregory, Damien’s longtime valet and overall house manager, steps inside. “I’m very sorry to disturb,” he says, his voice low, “but Mrs. Stark’s mother is here.”
I sit up, pulling the sheet up to my neck like a shield as Damien holds me tightly. “No,” I say. “I—I’m sorry. Can you tell her I’m not available?”
He nods solemnly. “Of course.”
He leaves, and the room returns to black.
“We don’t have to see her,” Damien says, stroking my shoulder. “But we should get up, sweetheart.”
“I know. But I can’t.” I close my eyes against the darkness in the room, and slide down into the darkness inside me. “Not yet.”
He says nothing, but a moment later I feel his lips brush my temple as his arm slides over my waist to pull me closer. And I lose myself in the safety of his embrace and hide from reality for just a little bit longer.
20
A day passes. Then another and another. I sleep, and I sleep, and I sleep some more. And each time I wake, Damien is there. Holding me. Watching over me.
I slide in and out of dreams, finding comfort in his presence. In the cool sheet against my hot skin. In the darkness that permeates the room, revealing nothing of the outside world, and hiding even time herself under a fake, permanent night.
But then my safe cocoon disappears, and I open my eyes to find a room bathed in light. A brisk ocean breeze is blowing in through the open patio door, Sunshine is bathing herself at the foot of the bed, and Damien is nowhere to be seen.
I have no idea what time it is—or what day it is, for that matter. My eyes ache from the unfamiliar light, and my head throbs in protest of a returning consciousness that is not entirely welcome.
Still, as much as I’d like to stay hidden, I know that it’s time to ease back into reality. To sit up. To put my feet on the floor. And then, finally, to walk out of this room.
I can do this, I think, and then I push myself upright. I sit on the edge of the bed and press my hand to my belly, then choke back a little sob because there is no child growing there anymore. And that’s so sad and horrible, but what makes it worse is the knowledge that there probably never will be. That I’ll never have Damien’s children. That the life I’d started to see spreading out before me has been shut down so brutally.
But it’s time to leave this bed. I don’t have to shed the sadness, but I need to start moving through the world.
I stand, feeling creaky after spending so many hours asleep, then head into the bathroom wearing the loose sweatpants and tank top in which Damien must have dressed me. I splash water on my face and generally try to come alive, and when I emerge, I notice my phone sitting on the table near the bedroom door.
I pause in the doorway as I scroll through my text messages—condolences from pretty much everyone I’ve met in my life, either in a text or sent by voice mail. I know I should reply, and I will. Soon.
Just not quite yet.
My stomach growls and I try to remember when I last ate. I have a vague memory of Damien bringing me soup, but I don’t know how long ago that was.
I put my phone back on the table, then head out of the bedroom and toward the kitchen, thinking that if I have an appetite that must be a sign that I’m healing.
I expect to see Damien in the third-floor sitting area, but it’s empty. Well, not empty. In fact, every flat surface is covered with flowers and plants and unopened boxes. I blink, staving off tears as the reason for these gifts stabs me straight in the heart. But I look at the cards as I pass. A pot of daisies from Jamie and Ryan. A beautiful climbing vine from Sylvia and Jackson. A spray of wildflowers from Evelyn. And a small bonsai garden on the pass-through bar that opens between the sitting area and the third-floor kitchen.
There is an unopened card with it, and I slide my finger under the flap, then pull out the thick cardstock. It’s from Damien’s father, Jeremiah, and there are only two words—I’m sorry. But whether he means about the miscarriage or all the trouble he’s caused for Damien and our marriage, I don’t know. Still, I appreciate the sentiment.
I head into the kitchen, and as I walk that direction, I hear Damien’s voice drifting up from the mezzanine below. He’s on the phone as if it were just another day. But, of course, it is another day, and I’m the one who is stuck. Who wants to just pull the blinds and go back to sleep and run away from it all.
Coffee, I think. And with a pang I remember that I can actually drink it now. Gallons and gallons if I want.
There’s a pot already brewed, and I pour myself a cup, then take a long, bitter swallow.
I put the cup down and open the drawer beneath the coffeemaker. It’s filled with kitchen knives, the ones with mismatched handles that aren’t pretty enough for the knife block that rests on the small island. I stand there, just looking down at those blades, and though I know I shouldn’t think it—though I definitely shouldn’t want it—I know that they will help.
“You’re up.” Damien’s voice is soft behind me, and I shove the drawer shut and turn to face him, certain that he can see my guilt. He comes to me, his eyes searching my face. But he doesn’t ask. Instead, he pulls me close, and I cling to him, and we stand that way in silence for what seems like forever.
But I don’t.
Because right now even that seems like too much effort, and I move like a sleepwalker through the darkened room and back to bed.
We rarely close the blackout drapes, preferring to keep the door open to the balcony that looks out over the ocean. But today they are closed, rendering the room so dark I can barely see my hand.
Today?
Maybe it’s tonight. I don’t know. All I know is that I want to get sucked under again. I want Damien’s arms around me, and I want to drift away, falling far into a place where the pain and the loss can’t reach me.
And so I slide back into bed and mold my body to his. His arm drapes across my waist, and I hear him murmur my name. I don’t answer, and as soon as I close my eyes, sleep grabs me once again.
I don’t know how long I sleep, but I wake to the vague sound of movement in the house. A moment later there is a light tap at the door and beside me, Damien stirs, then lifts his head. “Come in.”
The door opens slowly, sending a triangle of light cutting across the room. Gregory, Damien’s longtime valet and overall house manager, steps inside. “I’m very sorry to disturb,” he says, his voice low, “but Mrs. Stark’s mother is here.”
I sit up, pulling the sheet up to my neck like a shield as Damien holds me tightly. “No,” I say. “I—I’m sorry. Can you tell her I’m not available?”
He nods solemnly. “Of course.”
He leaves, and the room returns to black.
“We don’t have to see her,” Damien says, stroking my shoulder. “But we should get up, sweetheart.”
“I know. But I can’t.” I close my eyes against the darkness in the room, and slide down into the darkness inside me. “Not yet.”
He says nothing, but a moment later I feel his lips brush my temple as his arm slides over my waist to pull me closer. And I lose myself in the safety of his embrace and hide from reality for just a little bit longer.
20
A day passes. Then another and another. I sleep, and I sleep, and I sleep some more. And each time I wake, Damien is there. Holding me. Watching over me.
I slide in and out of dreams, finding comfort in his presence. In the cool sheet against my hot skin. In the darkness that permeates the room, revealing nothing of the outside world, and hiding even time herself under a fake, permanent night.
But then my safe cocoon disappears, and I open my eyes to find a room bathed in light. A brisk ocean breeze is blowing in through the open patio door, Sunshine is bathing herself at the foot of the bed, and Damien is nowhere to be seen.
I have no idea what time it is—or what day it is, for that matter. My eyes ache from the unfamiliar light, and my head throbs in protest of a returning consciousness that is not entirely welcome.
Still, as much as I’d like to stay hidden, I know that it’s time to ease back into reality. To sit up. To put my feet on the floor. And then, finally, to walk out of this room.
I can do this, I think, and then I push myself upright. I sit on the edge of the bed and press my hand to my belly, then choke back a little sob because there is no child growing there anymore. And that’s so sad and horrible, but what makes it worse is the knowledge that there probably never will be. That I’ll never have Damien’s children. That the life I’d started to see spreading out before me has been shut down so brutally.
But it’s time to leave this bed. I don’t have to shed the sadness, but I need to start moving through the world.
I stand, feeling creaky after spending so many hours asleep, then head into the bathroom wearing the loose sweatpants and tank top in which Damien must have dressed me. I splash water on my face and generally try to come alive, and when I emerge, I notice my phone sitting on the table near the bedroom door.
I pause in the doorway as I scroll through my text messages—condolences from pretty much everyone I’ve met in my life, either in a text or sent by voice mail. I know I should reply, and I will. Soon.
Just not quite yet.
My stomach growls and I try to remember when I last ate. I have a vague memory of Damien bringing me soup, but I don’t know how long ago that was.
I put my phone back on the table, then head out of the bedroom and toward the kitchen, thinking that if I have an appetite that must be a sign that I’m healing.
I expect to see Damien in the third-floor sitting area, but it’s empty. Well, not empty. In fact, every flat surface is covered with flowers and plants and unopened boxes. I blink, staving off tears as the reason for these gifts stabs me straight in the heart. But I look at the cards as I pass. A pot of daisies from Jamie and Ryan. A beautiful climbing vine from Sylvia and Jackson. A spray of wildflowers from Evelyn. And a small bonsai garden on the pass-through bar that opens between the sitting area and the third-floor kitchen.
There is an unopened card with it, and I slide my finger under the flap, then pull out the thick cardstock. It’s from Damien’s father, Jeremiah, and there are only two words—I’m sorry. But whether he means about the miscarriage or all the trouble he’s caused for Damien and our marriage, I don’t know. Still, I appreciate the sentiment.
I head into the kitchen, and as I walk that direction, I hear Damien’s voice drifting up from the mezzanine below. He’s on the phone as if it were just another day. But, of course, it is another day, and I’m the one who is stuck. Who wants to just pull the blinds and go back to sleep and run away from it all.
Coffee, I think. And with a pang I remember that I can actually drink it now. Gallons and gallons if I want.
There’s a pot already brewed, and I pour myself a cup, then take a long, bitter swallow.
I put the cup down and open the drawer beneath the coffeemaker. It’s filled with kitchen knives, the ones with mismatched handles that aren’t pretty enough for the knife block that rests on the small island. I stand there, just looking down at those blades, and though I know I shouldn’t think it—though I definitely shouldn’t want it—I know that they will help.
“You’re up.” Damien’s voice is soft behind me, and I shove the drawer shut and turn to face him, certain that he can see my guilt. He comes to me, his eyes searching my face. But he doesn’t ask. Instead, he pulls me close, and I cling to him, and we stand that way in silence for what seems like forever.
