I’m thrust from the memory, and my head snaps to Harriet, who stands in the bathtub, water sluicing down her naked body. Her eyes are wide, panicked almost.
“I’m here. I’m safe. We’re safe.” She reaches for me, but I can’t move. Fear pools at my feet, shackling me.
“I could’ve lost you both.”
Her frown deepens. “But you didn’t. Come here.”
The concrete immobilizing me cracks, and I stumble toward her until her wet palm meets my cheek. “Breathe, Warren.”
I’m half under the stream of warm water, drenching my already damp jeans and T-shirt. She takes my trembling hand and presses it to her stomach. “Do you feel this? That’s your baby. They’re fine.” Her hand flutters over my jaw. “This is me. I am fine. We are fine.”
Safe. Safe. Safe.
My eyes close. I’m supposed to be tending to her, not the other way around.
I feel her lips press to my shoulder. “Yes. We’re safe.”
We stand under the spray, the tempo of the shower and our synchronized breaths the only sounds, until Harriet removes herself and turns off the shower.
I’m at a loss about what to do next and simply watch her wrap a fluffy blue towel around her body. Concern etches across her face, and shame assaults me. She shouldn’t be worried yet thanks to the poor handle on my emotions, I’ve put it there.
She looks up at me, and water droplets cling to her lashes like dewdrops on blades of grass. I concentrate on her eyes as she works my sodden clothes from my body. I help her wrangle my jeans and boots free until I’m naked.
Maybe this isn’t real. I don’t feel in control of my body, and the idea of her caring for me is foreign.
It’s only when her melodic voice filters through the steam-filled room I realize this isn’t a dream. But it isn’t a nightmare either.
“There are clean clothes in the dryer. Why don’t you go get changed and make us both a bowl of cereal?”
“You’re hungry?” I should’ve asked her if she was hungry.
She smiles softly. “Always. I’ll be down soon.”
She senses the silent war raging inside me. “I’ll be okay for a few minutes. I promise.”
With no less than ten glances over my shoulder before I’m satisfied, the connection between my body and brain rewires. My limbs work robotically. I put on fresh clothes, start a fire, then wait on the sofa, a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios in each hand. One with milk, one without.
I’m not sure how much time passes before soft footsteps descend the wooden stairs, and she appears, fresh faced, hair damp, and smiling at me so brightly, it reduces the roaring fire to a measly flame. A white linen shirt hangs loosely from her shoulders, and a pair of blue jersey shorts peek out from under the hem. She’s forgone a bra, the gentle swell of her breasts and peaked nipples visible through the thin material and the last few buttons of the shirt are undone to reveal her baby bump.
She doesn’t say much, just thanks me for the cereal and starts eating. Her shoulder brushes mine each time she raises the spoon. The flames from the fire dance across her face, making her look ethereal.
“Eat. It’s getting soggy,” she instructs.
I do as she says, each bite flavorless and bland, but the longer we sit here, the quieter the voices get until they’re nothing but a hushed whisper.
FORTY-SIX
HARRIET
Warren’susual mask of choice is quiet indifference or stern protectiveness. Over the months, I’ve witnessed those masks slipping, giving way to a vulnerable side he so desperately tries to hide from the world.
Tonight, he was scared. His face was unrecognizable, painted in horror. Touch seemed to be the only comfort. I was scared. Adrenaline still pumped through my body from the accident, but a new fear took hold of me when he turned his stricken face to me in the bathroom. Physically, he stood in front of me; mentally, he was in a nightmare. The last time I saw the same expression was the night at his parent’s house.
He’s returned to me, to himself, but tension unfurls from his rigid body as we sit on the sofa. Our bowls are empty, and we don’t speak, both of us staring into the flickering flames.
What do I do next? What does he need? How can I stop whatever horrors he was replaying from returning? Which is when a little foot or fist takes a pop at my belly button.
“Oh! They’re kicking.” I grab Warren’s arm without thinking and press his hand to my stomach.
