In a moment of empathy I get a taste of how hard this must be for him. I can see his mind working, analyzing, formulating the questions that must be blasting his brain. Buying himself some time, he turns away to collect our drinks. When he hands me the tumbler I take it gratefully. With both hands I cup it, finding comfort in the sound of the jewel-like ice clinking against the facets of the glass. I press the rim against my lips, taking a big gulp, desperately hoping that a sip of the fiery spirits will take the edge off my crippling anxiety.
Sitting down on a wingback chair opposite me, Christian chugs his drink in one swift glug. After a beat he lifts the tumbler to the light with a frown, seeming surprised that it's empty. Setting it aside he directs his redoubtable focus to me. He leans forward with his elbows resting on his knees and his joined hands hanging casually between his legs. His eyes are brighter now, expectant but cautious, still haunted.
Tell him the truth, Ana, get us some closure my subconscious implores. It's the obvious thing to do but I'm drowning in uncertainty and no small measure of terror. I take another bolstering sip as I hunt for words to begin.
"I...., When...., You...." I shake my head, trying to order my wayward thoughts, but I can't seem to string together an organized sentence. My head is swimming, overrun with mingled feelings, all as murky as pond scum. I send a quick prayer for this to be a dream, but the intensity of what I feel tells me otherwise. Dropping my shamed head I watch the carpet pattern blur through my welling eyes.
"Ana?" I hear the despondency in his whispered question, but self-preservation keeps my gaze glued to the rug and unwilling to meet whatever I might find in his face.
I release a shuddering breath, steeling myself against sharing the crushing truth before I begin. "I found out I was pregnant with your child the day we moved Ray from Portland to the Seattle hospital. Dr. Greene, she ran into me and asked me why I'd missed four of her appointments." I risk a peek, curious to gauge his reaction. "You know, to get the shot again," I clarify. I feel my nails sinking into my palms, still angry with myself even now for being so careless.
"She took me to her office and made me do the test. When I saw the strip turn blue and her mouth turn down, I knew, I just knew that I would ruin your life with this responsibility." I squirm under his glower, but suddenly I'm keen to put forward my case. I did it for him, after all. "The responsibility of a constantly erring wife and a child you weren't ready to have was not something I could do to you." My face relights with shame and I watch my fiddling fingers to avoid looking at him. "I knew you would never abandon us because of your past, but I feared that you would only stay out of a sense of duty, eventually resenting me, maybe even the child."
Again I cast him a quick glimpse to measure his ire before resuming. "I couldn't even remember to get a stupid shot, after everything you did for me, gave up for me, changed for me. I knew I would make a terrible wife to someone like you." In my defense I finally find the courage to meet his gaze, to plead his understanding.
"Besides," my voice is low as I swallow the burn in the back of my throat, "I always knew that at some point you would tire of me, resenting me for forcing you into being something that you're not. I couldn't do that to you, I..." I falter in baring my soul, dry-swallowing again by reflex alone. "I loved you too much." As the words tumble out, I'm strangely unburdened from their weight.
My breath catches in my throat when I look up to see his reaction. What I read in his face is unexpected. It grips my heart, squeezing like a vise. His eyes are glimmering with a sheen of tears, and his face is stark, ashen. "So it was me," he grinds, bitterness twisting his mouth.
Cocking my head to one side, I gentle my expression. My whole being is aching to console him, but I don't understand. "What do you mean, it was you?"
