We All Fall Down

Chapter 13

Rick

Patrice was in the psych ward for weeks. I had to hire someone else to help with John and purposely chose someone new to our small town. Someone who didn't know Patrice and her history. English was Delores's second language which was even better. Even if someone did tell her about the episodes my wife had, she probably wouldn't understand and that offered some relief.

She appeared to be a good fit, because John loved her and our house always smelled of fresh lemons. Between work and visiting Patrice, I needed all the help I could get.

Patrice had regular sessions with her therapist, and they worked on navigating the things that triggered her. They tried to tell me that she suffered from something much deeper than situational anxiety, but I wouldn't hear it. Patrice was more than her poor decisions. I visited her twice a week, but in the last days of the pregnancy, she seemed to be on a decline—lifeless and withdrawn. A vast shift from the progress I had seen. Dr. Shawl advised that this was normal considering all of the work they had done, coupled with the medications in her system.

It wasn't until we'd reached the end of her stay when the doctor brought me into a different room before I went to where my wife waited for me.

"Mr. Adams, this is Dr. Fawn. He's been overseeing your wife's pregnancy during her time here." Patrice's doctor gestured to his left to a man who looked as though he hadn't slept in months. Heavy bags hung under his gray eyes, the whites webbed with spidery vessels. His skin was a dull khaki color, and I fought the urge to cringe at the thought of him being in an intimate space with my wife.

I nodded from her psychiatrists' wide face and narrow shoulders and turned to the man who was in charge of my child. "Hello!" I smiled. Something felt wrong.

"Mr. Adams," Dr. Fawn began. "I need to discuss Patrice and the baby's condition with you, and how you would like to proceed."

His words rolled together, thrumming in my head. I asked to wait to make any decisions. They advised that I could take until the weekend, which was only three days away. Oh, Patrice. What mess have you gotten us in this time. I signed all the paperwork and left the office. I did not return until they called to confirm she was cleared to leave.

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Returning home had been difficult. I was tasked with relaying to everyone that although Patrice was well, quite well indeed, our baby was not coming home with us. Becky was kind enough to ensure no questions were asked, no gossip was to be spoken, and Patrice would receive the support and warm welcome she deserved. Losing her mind had gotten her labeled as a danger, a menace, while losing her child seemed to regain some sympathy.

Three years would go by and it was as if all the torment we'd faced together, never happened. For three years, that elephant in the room hid in the closet. People still knew it was there—of course they did—but the longer we went without any outbursts, the easier it became to ignore. She took John to the park, brought him on playdates, allowed Delores to teach her to bake a little. For three years, I watched my son grow and become interested in the world around him in new and intriguing ways.

I am not one to promote any form of mind-altering medications. I personally don't even like taking aspirin, but I have to admit seeing her more balanced than she'd been in ages was wonderful. And, although she still had no interest in sharing our room, she would slip in at night from time to time. I became instantly aroused at the sound of the door creaking open, knowing what was about to happen. Knowing she wanted me. The sound of her feet tip-toeing over to my bed, the feel of her body weight pressing down on her side of the mattress, the side I always leave open for her in hopes, one day, she will way to lay there permanently, all of it made my chest heave with desire.

It was clear, however the effects from being on the medication. We traded erratic mood swings for a good 20-pounds of weight gain which didn't bother me as much as it did her. But it appeared the more she put on, the more she desired me in a way she never had. One night when she climbed on top of me, I shuttered at the sight of her body draped in the silk nightie she wore. Her breasts full and drooping over my face, barely covered, as I reached a hand to tug a sleeve down to expose her. Patrice was magnificent at every size, in every way.

She whispered in my ear about how badly she wanted me, and the feel of her lips and breath against my skin alone, almost had me climax before we'd even begun. I ignored the smell of nicotine—she'd picked back up during her stay at the facility—rather focused on the hint of her shampoo and the sound she made as I ran my fingers lightly over her skin.

Those three years were heaven, and I have always thought of them fondly as the best years of my life. Because when it all came crashing down, I needed those memories to keep going.